the manner of his sitting and the angle at which he held his head (so familiar, and yet so startling to see it in the flesh). Her eyes (having drunk their temporary fill) wandered indifferently past the others at the table—the women, the men, the politician dividing his scattered attention between the cards and the conversation, Vidya-ma’s father standing by in benign hospitality—when she saw him.
Mr. Little Boy in Big Shirt.
He stood not three feet away from the film star, so close, staring at that great man with such a fixed intensity of purpose that Kamala became truly frightened. What ailed the boy? Had he lost all his senses? Had he sent his brains up into the sky on one of those rockets?
The landlord’s mother leaned forward. “Rama-rama!” she said. “He must have wanted to get close to him…. That is understandable, I myself would be tempted, but he should have concealed himself behind something. Foolish child! You must have been very angry.”
No, not then, said Kamala. I was simply scared.
No one paid him any attention—but Kamala knew that was a short-lived state of affairs. At any moment, Vidya-ma, or her father, or Anand-saar would spot Narayan, and there would be the reckoning. Shoutings. Shame. Perhaps an instant firing of his mother. Sure enough, Vidya-ma’s father said something to the politician—and started to turn around. Run, thought Kamala. Move. Go hide yourself. A great anger began in her, that Narayan should ruin all that day’s effort over a piece of foolishness.
But she was once again surprised. Vidya-ma’s father glanced at Narayan, who, as though waiting for a signal, stepped forward alertly. Vidya-ma’s father gave him some instruction, and Narayan hurried to the bar and returned bearing a drink on a tray. Vidya-ma’s father handed the drink to the politician. Narayan returned to his watchful post, three feet away.
“Ah, so Vidya-ma must have placed him there,” said the landlord’s mother approvingly. “That is good. Very good. He surely would not have been given such a magnificent responsibility if he had not behaved with the utmost credit to us all.”
“Yes,” said Kamala. “Vidya-ma asked him to be there.”
And in so saying, she knew she was not articulating the entire truth of the story. This business of waiting on the film star; of being positioned exclusively where none but he would have the pleasure of serving him; of having the film star wink at him and smile and call him by name, Narayan, as though they were childhood friends; of being treated to jocular exclamations of “good boy!”—was, in fact, a situation that Narayan had brought about himself, with a temerity that none of the older employees—no, not even Thangam—would have dared to muster.
Narayan had hung around his friend the barman until he saw the film star raise his head, as though seeking a waiter. Vidya-ma and her father had stepped away to look after some other guests, and Narayan, sensing opportunity, had wasted no time. He had simply precipitated himself in front of the film star.
“Sir,” he said, a little shyly, “what is your pleasure? How may I serve you?”
The film star, if a little amused by his underaged servitor, had not hesitated in asking for a glass of beer. After Narayan (ignoring the amused jibes of the barman) carried it to him, he did not return to his former place next to the soft drink bottles. He simply waited, three feet away from the film star, who, in no time at all it seemed, needed other things—a napkin, an ashtray, matches—and Narayan quickly provided all of these to him and to the politician and to the other players at that table.
And so, Vidya-ma returned from her hostessing rounds to find her most important guests being well looked after by the temporary-and-most-junior member of her staff. If she was startled by this, she did not show it. It had not occurred to her to provide a personal attendant to these guests, but the idea had merit. The film star was pleased. The politician was pleased. Her father was pleased. That was all that mattered.
“He is a good lad,” said the landlord’s mother. “So smart! Our Narayan.”
Her praise made it easier for Kamala to speak her burning desire. “He is smart, mother, and I would so much like him to go and study in a paid school … he would do so well … but the money they charge is so high!”
“Child,” said the landlord’s mother, after a moment of silence. “You fully