He barely saw the rickshaws crammed with school children, or the camels bridled and loaded, or the veiled and laughing women flowing past. Through the dusty market and on up Fort Road he pressed the book close. He muttered to himself as he went. This time, please god, this time. Jora was charming in English and a ball-breaker in Hindi. He was short and fiery, and dressed like a rich Delhiwallah: a sharp grey suit, purple polo shirt, and small dark glasses that turned clear when he entered the lobby of his hotel. He’d had it built from honeyed sandstone like an old haveli. It was five storeys high, with twelve rooms, an open-air rooftop restaurant, and no guests. His nephew Raj, the tout, stood at the front desk with the day clerks, clustered mindlessly round a radio. They looked up with the faces of men short on sleep and pay. Jora didn’t care. They were all family. Without him they’d be hauling bricks in the villages.
