A businessman’s personal life is marked by confusing sexuality in this Hindi novel from 1966

Nirmal Padmavat resembled one of those black idols of Greek warriors, while Prabhaschandra Niyogi emanated the essence of the white idols of Greek philosophers. Neither of them was modern, nor did they keep themselves up-to-date.

Nirmal was sitting in the drawing room when Niyogi, dressed in a white pajama and white silk kurta, white attire and a whiteness draped around his face, arrived. Nirmal stood up and smiled. His bright white teeth were shining. Niyogi, eschewing formalities, cut straight to the point, posing a direct question, “I received your cable from New York. You were there on the fourth day!”

“I only came yesterday. I will stay here from now. I had written to you…” Nirmal replied. Niyogi gazed at him sharply. He wanted to scrutinize Nirmal to ensure that the latter wasn’t pretending. There was a firmness in his voice and honesty in his eyes. He wasn’t sceptical; in fact, he believed and had faith in his own strength. “I haven’t read your letter … Tell me, what’s the matter?” he asked sweetly.

“You must not have found the time.”

“I don’t have time … Look, I have a 9 pm flight to Bombay. Whatever you want to say … What’s the matter?”

“I know you are going to...

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