Free Diamond Dust by Anita Desai

disappeared for five days one dreadful summer, and Mr Das was observed walking the dusty streets in the livid heat of June, hatless, abject, crying, 'Diamond! Diamond! Diamond!' over garden walls and down empty alleys, in the filthy outskirts of the marketplace, and even along the reeking canal where disease lurked and no sensible person strayed, they could only feel sorry for him. Even the children who had earlier taken up against Diamond—for very good reason, it should be added—came up to Mr Das as he stumbled along on his search mission, and offered, 'We'll help you, Uncle. We'll search for Diamond too, Uncle.' Unfortunately, when this band of juvenile detectives caught up with Diamond in the alley behind the Ambassador Hotel, they caught him
in flagrante delicto
and witnessed Mr Das's strenuous exertions to separate his pet from its partner, a poor, pale, pathetic creature who bore all the sorry marks of a rape victim. The children went home and reported it all to their families, in graphic detail. The parents' disapproval was so thick, and so stormy, it was weeks before the air cleared over Bharti Nagar. But it was nothing compared to the drama of Mrs Das's reaction: sari corner held over her nose, hand over her mouth, she stood up holding a rolled newspaper in her hand as weapon and refused to let the beast into the house till Mr Das had taken him around to the tap in the courtyard at the back, and washed, soaped, shampooed, rinsed, powdered, groomed and combed the creature into a semblance of a domestic pet.
    Mr Das bought stronger chains and collars for Diamond, took greater care to tie him up in the courtyard and lock every door, but when the season came—and only Diamond could sniff it in the air, no one else could predict it—there was no holding him back. His strength was as the strength of a demon, and he broke free, ripping off his collar, wrenching his chain, leaping over walls, and disappeared. In a way, the neighbours were relieved—no longer was the night air rent by that hideous howling as of wolves on the trail of their prey, and also there was the secret hope that this time the brute would not be found and not return. They hardened their hearts against the pitiful sight of Mr Das limping through the dust in search of his diamond, like some forlorn lover whose beloved has scorned him and departed with another, but who has not abandoned his bitter, desperate hope.

    The Lodi Gardens clique, at the end of their brisk early morning walks round the park, seated themselves in a row on—the bench in the shade of the big neem tree, and discussed Mr Das's disintegration.
    'The other day I had occasion to visit him at his office. I intended to invite him to a meeting of the Bharti Nagar Durga Puja Association—and found him talking on the phone, and it was clear he was apologising, whether for the lateness of some work done, or for mistakes made, I could not make out, but it was a nasty scene,' said C. P. Biswas.
    'His superior is that nasty fellow, Krishnaswamy, and he is nasty to everyone in the department.'
    'Maybe so, but when I questioned Das about it, he only held his head—and did not even answer my questions. He kept saying "Diamond is missing, I can't find Diamond." Now I did not say it, but the words that came to my mouth were: "Good riddance, Das, my congratulations.'"
    The apologist for Das clucked reprovingly, and commiseratingly, 'Tch, tch.'
    But one day, at dawn, Mr Das reappeared, holding a thinner, sorrier Diamond at the end of a leash while his own face beamed as ruddily as the sun rising above the dome of the Lodi tomb. He waved at his colleagues sitting in the shade. Diamond slouched at his heels: his last escapade had clearly left him exhausted, even jaded.
    'Ha!' remarked C. P. Biswas, crossing his arms over his chest. 'The prodigal has returned, I see. And is he repenting his misbehaviour?'
    'Oh, he is so sorry, so sorry—he is making up for it in his own sweet way.' Mr Das beamed,