The small girl wanted ice cream, the boy wanted a samosa, the one-armed girl said she was happy with tea, and she sipped it shyly, snuggling next to me.
"We live just near," the old woman said and pointed out the window of the teashop. "Five minutes."
I glanced at the one-armed girl, who was smiling anxiously at me. Her sunken eyes were strangely yellow, like those of a nocturnal animal, and the skin of her good arm, pressed against mine, was very dry and hairy, suggesting malnutrition.
It was perfect, this secluded place, with the insinuating old woman who was, I was pretty sure, pimping these children. It was one of the pleasanter districts in Mumbai, and she must have had luck buttonholing foreigners like me or else she would not have been so confident. I wanted her to tell me what she had in mind—what activity, what price, what length of time, what sort of promises she'd make.
She had told me how near she lived; now she began telling me how clean it was, how private. "So quiet, sir. Very good building."
I had many questions. But what kept me from asking them was the flow of people into the teashop. The shop was a kind of snack bar, with plates of food in glass cases—buns and samosas and sandwiches. We were sitting near the entrance, and every person that entered—mostly men—stared hard at me. It was about six-thirty in the evening. I was the only foreigner in the place, and here I was, in a booth with a procuress and two sallow and debauched-looking children and a teenage whore.
I wanted to ask, How much? And, What's the story?
I started to ask them their names, but I realized that if I did that, the people around me would hear and instantly know what was up. I tried to pretend we were old friends.
"He's really hungry!" I said. "Want another ice cream?"
Three tough-featured young men walked past, then chose to sit in the booth opposite, where they could hear and see everything.
I cringed, thinking how I looked there. I wanted to say: I'm a traveler. I'm writing a book. I'm just asking questions. I have no designs on these young children!
"Let we go," the old woman said, perhaps realizing how awkward I felt.
I said, "Look, I'm going to be around for a week or so. I'm pretty busy right now. We can meet again."
"When?" the old woman said. "Where?"
"Anywhere," I said evasively.
"Tomorrow," she said. "What time?"
"Anytime. I'll find you—here," and I put down 200 rupees. "That's for the food." And I whispered, "I have to go."
"Mr. Paul!" the woman called out as I slipped past the booths. Now everyone was staring at me, thinking, He's a perv! And I hurried through the door, murmuring, "Get me out of here."
But for days afterwards, I kept thinking of the small children, the one-armed girl, how hungry they'd been, how they'd sucked at the tea and eaten with their heads down, in a concentrated and famished way, with animal delight. I did not see them again—I had looked. They'd probably found another foreigner.
***
KILLING TIME IN THE CHOR BAZAAR, the Thieves' Market, looking for reverse-glass paintings along Mutton Street, with its mainly Muslim dealers in glass and porcelain, silverware and lamps, I strayed into a narrow lane to look at some old coins and found a man who said he admired George Bush. Lingering and chatting, putting an antique dealer at ease, often had the effect of causing him to open drawers and cupboards and show me objects, not to sell them, but just for the interest, their curiosity value—an ancient piece of pottery, a glazed tile, a moonstone, a lime pot in the shape of a yoni, a monkey skull pendant from Nagaland, a human skull from Tibet.
"Look at this, from Persia," Rajendra, the dealer, said, taking the lid off a narrow box.
He showed me a foot-long dagger, silver inlaid with gold, inscribed with a Farsi poem and elaborately engraved, with a thick ivory handle. Uncapping the handle, Rajendra withdrew a smaller knife—an ivory-handled shiv, also traced with gold.
"Damascus blade. Very old. Very rare. Very costly."
One of the gorier bits of trivia regarding damascene blades was that after they were heated and worked they were quenched by being plunged into a living human, a man who died giving strength to the blade. I mentioned this to Rajendra.
"I know nothing about that, but..."He allowed the sunlight to dance on the details of the blade and the gold of the haft and the veins of ivory. "Pure gold. Ivory from whale."
"How much?"
"Crores! Crores! But not for sale," he said, and leaned closer, sounding angry. "I want to present it to the U.S. ambassador in Delhi. He can put it into a museum, or give it to President Bush, or sell it and give the money to the families of the American soldiers who died in Iraq."
"You want to give this dagger to Bush?"
"Bush is a great man." He wielded the dagger. "Bush was right! History will prove him right."
"Right about what?"
