Free How to Disappear by Duncan Fallowell

almost lively. My toreador jacket and yellow bell-bots, which had gone down well at the Delhi Film Festival, went down well here too. Dolores introduced us to Brigadier Abkar (‘an Armenian of the Calcutta shipping family’ she explained sotto voce; I wondered later if the name was ‘Akbar’ but was told ‘Definitely it’s Abkar’) whose own get-up was also quite snazzy. His bowtie bobbed, monocle flashed, and pale-blue eyes sparkled – he gave off such a terrific air of pleasure and screwed up his nose relishing our piquant use of language which was very modern to his ears. ‘Order a dry martini. They’re the best outside the Tollygunge,’ he advised with a touch of self-mockery. His wife was adorable too – her gutturals rolled into laughter as she said ‘We don’t know Bapsy Pavry but we know about her!’
    â€˜You do? She looked very beautiful in her photograph.’
    The Brigadier asked ‘Would she choose an ugly photograph for The Indian Yearbook ?’ and he burst into laughter like a puppy.
    I mentioned that my father had given me the address of a business contact of his who was a Parsi in Bombay and Richard said yes, that’s where they were based and generally they were successful middle-class types. ‘Originally the Parsis came from Persia,’ he said, ‘and had preserved their religion, Zoroastrianism, in pure form for three and a half thousand years. They worship fire and do not bury their dead but expose them on platforms for vultures to eat in a special place known as the Towers of Silence.’ Richard could be very informative when encouraged.
    â€˜This special place is on Malabar Hill,’ added the Brigadier, ‘and quite near a small reservoir. After a while people got fed up with the vultures as they flew away dropping putrid human meat into the reservoir. Complaints were made and now I believe some sort of chicken wire has been placed over the reservoir to catch the bits.’
    â€˜But some would still fall through,’ commented Sarah.
    â€˜Yes, I expect it would,’ twinkled the Brigadier, ‘but not so much.’
    The Abkars couldn’t stay for dinner – we tried to persuade them but they said the hour was too late. The dining-room was vaulted with black beams and set for a hundred. Fresh flowers were hopeful on every table but we were the only diners. Dolores said this was normal. We talked of language and I said ‘When the Indians call me Master I feel marvellous. I haven’t been Master since I was a boy.’
    It was true, that being called Master gave one a really pleasant feeling – not of racial or class or gender superiority, but of superiority full stop, the sweetest simplest kind of uplift, as though a quiet blush were suffusing one’s ego. It was flattery combined with a wish to be helpful. It’s so important to receive compliments and therefore no less important to pay them. Many people are embarrassed by the idea of paying compliments – which is dreadful. We all need these boosts along the way. I remember once calling an old tramp ‘sir’ and he went into a transformation under my very eyes. Some chemical was released in him which hadn’t been released maybe for years. And at a cocktail party in Mexico City the host said to me ‘The trouble with the English is that they are suspicious of compliments.’ He was right. The English tend to associate flattery with corruption, insincerity, and the lower forms of sexual seduction. They prefer charm. The trouble with charm is that only some people have it, whereas everyone can pay a compliment.
    Of other forms of address, Sarah recalled that a gang of hooligans driving along in a banger had shouted to us ‘Halloooo, my dears!’ and Dolores said that ‘my dear’ was a widespread term of familiarity in the Nilgiris, even among hooligans. Inkie’s adorable little son, in his