as she counted them: not enough love, not enough attention, not enough praise for her perfectly adequate beauty. Balaji changed all that. He looked at her as if her beauty were complete, and more importantly, as if it were a threat to him. Now, Isa looked back up from her hands to her face in her dressing-table mirror and saw herself through his eyes. She almost gasped with wonder.
* * *
When the time came for Balaji to meet Isa’s parents, she warned him in advance about her mother. Sibilla, knowing that her appearance often came as a surprise, wore her biggest boubou, swamping herself in its tented folds. But Balaji still exclaimed when Sibilla opened the door.
‘Miracle of miracles!’
Sibilla demurred with a smile, stepping back so he could come in, her long train of hair slithering on the parquet floor. Balaji, in a crisp white kurta, clasped his hands and gave an ambiguous roll of the head, then followed her into the sitting room. It was decorated with a few knick-knacks – a little Leaning Tower of Pisa, a troupe of carved wooden hippos – but its walls were practically tiled with framed photographs: the Colonel stoical in a safari suit before a white gush of water; Isa climbing a tree in her school uniform; the Colonel in a t-shirt pointing at a bird in a tree; Isa smiling wanly over a birthday cake. There were none of Sibilla, the photographer. A skittery Isa, in a plaid blouse and an old-fashioned denim skirt, was sitting on the settee across from her father in an armchair. Tea was laid out on a low coffee table but the Colonel had eschewed it for his usual mug of gin.
‘Welcome, Mr Patel,’ said the Colonel without getting up.
‘Oh, I am not Patel,’ Balaji said affably as he sat on the settee beside Isa. ‘That is just the name I inherited when I bought the shop.’
‘Papa, I told you,’ Isa seethed.
‘Okay-okay,’ Balaji placated with a smile. He was sweating profusely. ‘We can now clarify: my name is Balaji. Just Balaji. My family is from a town called Tirupati in the south-east of India.’
‘How interesting,’ Sibilla said cautiously.
Overexcited by her attention, Balaji turned to her and leaned forward. ‘I must tell you, mother-soon-to-be, you alone could feed the hungry scalp of Venkateswara!’
‘What is vinka—?’
‘In my town,’ said Balaji, ‘there is a temple called Tirumala. It sits in the seven hills – the seven heads of the serpent Adisesha – and it is dedicated to the Vishnu Lord Venkateswara—’
‘What does your pagan god have to do with my wife?’ asked the Colonel, waving his stein in Sibilla’s direction and sloshing gin over his trousers.
‘Sorry-sorry,’ said Balaji, sweat spritzing from his moustache. ‘Should have started earlier. Once upon a time long-long ago, Lord Venkateswara was struck in the head by a rock. A shepherd threw it or maybe some cruel kiddies. No matter. A princess, Neela Devi, saw the bald patch the rock left when it scarred him. And so in her pity for him, she cut off her own hair and planted it in his scalp.’
‘Planted it?’ the Colonel scoffed. ‘Like a garden?’
Balaji shrugged. ‘All we know is Princess Neela Devi gave her hair to Lord Venkateswara to cover the bald spot. And it was a great-great honour. Maybe she gave him a wig? That,’ he brightened, ‘is my line of business. Wigs-wigs-wigs. And I am still importing the hair from Tirupati.’
‘What do you mean?’ The Colonel was growing drunker and stupider, and because he knew it, angrier as well. ‘They sell hair at this,’ his fingers danced mockingly, ‘Titty-Putty temple?’
‘Tirupati is the town,’ said Balaji patiently. ‘Tirumala is the temple.’
‘Tiramisu, tiramoola, qualunque cosa.’ The Colonel waved his glass and gin rained over them again.
‘Well,’ said Balaji. ‘As you may conceive, Tirupati is positively brimming with hair.’ He explained that thousands of pilgrims went to Tirumala every day, inching along in winding queues to offer gifts to Lord Venkateswara. They gave their weight in money and jewels but mostly they gave their hair, through the practice known as tonsure. Devotees, young and old, crowded into the Kalyana Katta that dotted the hill below the temple to sit with bowed heads before barbers who shaved their heads and passed their hair on to the god. A young Balaji had picked up the trade from his father and quickly learned the importance of a sharp razor and a fearless arcing stroke from the base of the skull to