A fresh coat of white paint failed to obscure the old cracks on the office walls where the ambassador sat behind his desk in all his fleshy bulk, his rough, ungainly hands wiping the sweat from his face with whatever was closest: a corner of his jacket, the report on our prospects for the oil deal, the photograph of his only daughter. Behind him, the map of India nailed to the wall still owned to a vestigial East Pakistan, and next to this, portraits of Gandhi, Indira, Nehru and Rao hung like long-forgotten family members.
I yawned. He told me I was promoted, eating as he talked, that my transfer was imminent, laid a samosa back on his plate, and grimaced. The effort made his stomach pulse lightly up and down. I thought of him naked, riding his sticklike wife, eating all the while.