The Moors Last Sigh

into history’s theatre on account of the lack of greater men. Once, indeed, there were giants on our stage; but at the fag-end of an age, Madam History must make do with what she can get. Jawaharlal, in these latter days, was just the name of a stuffed dog.

    Out of the goodness of my heart I approached my new ‘brother’ and proposed a getting-to-know-you lunch. Well, my dears, you should have heard the to-do. ‘Adam Zogoiby’ – I never could think of that name without putting it in quotes – went into a positive tizzy of social-climbing panic. Should we go Polynesian at the Oberoi Outrigger? No, no, it was only a buffet luncheon, and one did so appreciate a little fawning. Maybe just a bite at the Taj Sea Lounge? But, on second thoughts, too many old buffers reliving fading glories. How about the Sorryno? Close to home, and nice view, but darling, how to tolerate that old groucho of a proprietor? A quick businesslike in-and-out at an Irani joint – Bombay A I or Pyrke’s at Flora Fountain? No, we needed less noise, and to talk properly one must be able to linger . Chinese, then? – Yes, but impossible to choose between the Nanking and Kamling. The Village? All that fake-rustic themeing, baby: so passé. After a long, agitated soliloquy (I have given only edited highlights) he settled – or rather, ‘plumped’ – for the celebrated Continental cuisine at the Society. And, once there, toyed fashionably with a leaf.
    ‘Dimple! Simple! Pimple! So great to see you girls on speakers again. – Ah, bon-jaw, Kalidasa, my usual claret, silver-plate. – Now, then, Moor dear – it’s OK-fine with you if I call you “Moor”? OK-fine. Lovely . – Harish, howdy! Buying OTCEI, a little birdie told. Good move! Damn high quality equity paper, even if just now little-bit underdeveloped. – Moor, sorry, sorry. You have my absolute undivided , I swear. – Mon-sooar Frah-swah! Kissy-kissy! – O, just send us whatever you think, we place ourselves in your hands totally. Only no butter, no fried element, no fatty meat, no carbo-fest, and hold the aubergines. One has the figure to preserve, isn’t it? – Finally . Brother! What times we’ll have! What super maza , eh? P-H-U-N fun. Are you into nitespots? Forget Midnite-Confidential, Nineteen Hundred, Studio 29, Cavern. All over for them, baby. I just happen to be a founder investor in the new happening joint. We’re calling it W-3 for World Wide Web. Or maybe just The Web. Virtual-reality-meets-wet-sari DJs! Cyberpunk meets bhangra-muffin décor! And talent, yaar, on line, get me? The word is state-of-the-art. P-H-A-T fat.’
    And if I was a little stony of face, a little curmudgeonly, what of it? I felt entitled. I watched the non-stop cabaret, the seven-veils floor-show that was ‘Adam Zogoiby’, and watched him watching me. He understood soon enough that the Mr Cool act wasn’t playing, and switched into lower-voiced, conspiratorial mode. ‘Hey, brother, you have a pretty damn hot fighting history, or so I hear. Damn unusual for you Jew boys. I thought you were all book-nosed, four-eyed members of the international world-domination conspiracy.’
    That didn’t go down well either. I muttered something about the mercenary warrior-Jews who had done so much to establish the community’s presence on the Malabar coast, and he heard the icy note in my voice. ‘Hey, come on, bro, can’t you hear when you’re being kidded? Hey, this is me . – Madhu, Mehr, Ruchi, hi . Gee, too much to see you girls. Meet my big bhai. Listen, this is one crazy guy, one of you should snap him up. – Moor, men, what do you think? Just the absolute top runway and cover girls just now, bigger than our sadly deceased sister Ina, even. You know what? I think they went for you. Classy, classy dames.’
    On the subject of ‘Adam Zogoiby’, my mind was closing fast. Now he changed again, becoming businesslike, professional. ‘You should fix up your own financial position, you know. Our father, sad to say, is not a young man. I am presently finalising my personal needs in detailed discussions with his guys.’
    That did it. Something about Adam had been striking me as déjà vu , and now I saw what it was. His refusal to talk about his past, the fluidity of his changes of stride as he tried to bewitch and woo, the cold calculation of his moves: I had fallen for such an act once, though she had been a far greater practitioner of the chameleon arts than he, and made far less