NOT EXACTLY SHANGRI – LA

ABOUT THIS BOOK

To Huma’s dismay, it appeared as if the subdued atmosphere had even infected Timothy Curtin, who sat there mute like the rest of them, with his eyes lowered. Feeling that she had somehow helped him on the previous evening to face the responsibilities that had brought him here, she hoped he would be able to stand up for himself now if any of the high officials turned nasty. She noticed that he was growing a beard, and the skin on his face was blotchy and peeling badly, evidently the result of sitting too long in the easily underestimated Kalapur sun. It all gave him a rather forlorn, out-of-place look – like a bashful dervish who had somehow strayed onto a government committee. South Asian governments, she reflected, were full of such incongruous types: poets who sat on revenue boards and mystic policeman.