Buku Turbulence by David Szalay
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Jual Buku
Turbulence by David Szalay

Author:David Szalay

Language: eng

Format: epub

Publisher: Random House

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Turbulence by David Szalay

8

SGN – BKK – DEL

THE FIRST THING Abhijit did, when he arrived back in Delhi on Monday afternoon, was look in on his father. He visited the old man every few days. It was important to him that he did that. The taxi stopped outside the house in Daryaganj. It was the house in which Abhijit had spent part of his childhood, and it was in a dilapidated state now. The turquoise tiles of the facade were falling off, leaving squares of rough cement. A broken window was patched up with plastic sheeting. The metal front door was openly rusting. The old man refused to spend money on maintenance, let alone renovation. Abhijit told the taxi driver to wait and walked through the sultry, particulate fug to the three steps, also shedding their tiles, that went up to the rusty door. He had his own key and he let himself in. Inside, he took off the surgical mask he was wearing. The walls of the narrow hall were lined with what seemed, in the dim light, to be school photos.

 

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Turbulence by David Szalay

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Turbulence by David Szalay

Author:David Szalay , Date: June 11, 2019

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Author:David Szalay

Language: eng

Format: epub

Publisher: Random House
8

SGN – BKK – DEL

THE FIRST THING Abhijit did, when he arrived back in Delhi on Monday afternoon, was look in on his father. He visited the old man every few days. It was important to him that he did that. The taxi stopped outside the house in Daryaganj. It was the house in which Abhijit had spent part of his childhood, and it was in a dilapidated state now. The turquoise tiles of the facade were falling off, leaving squares of rough cement. A broken window was patched up with plastic sheeting. The metal front door was openly rusting. The old man refused to spend money on maintenance, let alone renovation. Abhijit told the taxi driver to wait and walked through the sultry, particulate fug to the three steps, also shedding their tiles, that went up to the rusty door. He had his own key and he let himself in. Inside, he took off the surgical mask he was wearing. The walls of the narrow hall were lined with what seemed, in the dim light, to be school photos.

Anita was preparing the old man’s tiffin in the kitchen. Anita was the day nurse, a young woman from Kerala. Panting from the stairs, and still in his sweaty travelling outfit, a dark blue Adidas tracksuit, Abhijit asked her how his father was. She said he was fine. Then she said she needed to ask Abhijit for a favour. ‘Oh yes?’ Abhijit said, looking pleased to hear that, smiling at her. He put his hand on her shoulder and said, ‘What? Tell me.’

Her shoulder twitched and he withdrew his hand. He also more or less stopped smiling. She said, ‘I need to go away for a few days. If that’s possible.’

‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Why?’

Her sister’s house in Kochi, she told him, had been destroyed in a fire. She felt she was needed there.

‘I see,’ Abhijit said. ‘Well, let me think about it.’

She started to say something about how it was important that she went as soon as possible.

‘Let me think about it,’ Abhijit said. ‘You’re needed here as well. Is there any mail?’ She said there was, and went to get it, while he waited.

There were half a dozen letters, mostly about money in one way or another. Abhijit squeezed each of them with his fingers, as if feeling for something inside, and then put one of them in his pocket. The others he put in a drawer. Anita was still standing there. ‘Okay,’ Abhijit said. ‘I’ll see him now.’

The old man spent his days in the large room on the east side of the house. He was dressed, as usual, in a shalwar kameez and European-style slippers lined with worn-out, discoloured, odorous sheepskin. With his white moustache, he still looked distinguished, and slightly fierce, though there was also something fearful, something almost like suppressed panic, about the way he stared up from the wheelchair at Abhijit as his son stood over him and said, ‘How are you, pitajee?’

The old man made a shaky movement with his hands, the meaning of which was difficult to interpret.

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