Murder in Old Bombay

Whatever I had expected, it was not this. Astonishment gave way to bitterness. I was a mixed breed, a bastard, not worthy of his daughter. Had I not seen that mix of pity and disapproval all my life? Indians did not tolerate the mingling of races any more than the English.

In polite circles, a man who was happy until then to shake my hand would hear my name...and pause. His shoulders would stiffen , and he might spot an acquaintance across the room, and need to meet him. Women who seemed perfectly gracious--as they heard my Indian surname, their eyes widen with understanding.

I'd seen death at Maiwand. Dying friends and dead Afghans. On the road to Khandahar....and Karachi. Each time is different, but to me the pain was the same. An ache twists inside when a friend's eyes plead, pleading that gives way to realization, that final contortion as the body fights to hold a soul already breaking free, tearing its way out.

Most things, I find, are temporary and pass into distant memory with the next great event. But this commentary drew blood to my face.

Secrets are like serpents, Jim. They grow in the dark. [Diana Framji, to Jim Agnihotri]

Joy was made of moments like this, each insignificant in itself, piled together into a monolith, immutable and strong, something to lean against when one's world went awry. [Jim Agnihotri]