Her Master's Voice Read Online Free

evening, dawn and dusk as the juncture times for sandhya meditation. He told how the Vedas sing of the half-light pair being like two boats coming to take the devote practitioner across. These two made the ideal times to recite the gayatri mantra. He made them all recite the mantra with him, even Sherry, and she tried her best to fix the gentle sounds in her mind.
    At last Papi’s assistant came to them in turn, bowing and presenting a photocopied sheet containing this week’s homework. Then Papi stood, pressed his palms together and bowed. The women returned the gesture and chanted “Thank you, Papi Bombar” as he left. Teri, a slim Malay girl, followed him into the office. She was the lucky one today.
    The chattering started immediately as the women got up and went for their clothes. Ranji took Sherry’s arms and called out “Girls, Girls! What do we think of Sherry this week?”
    Sherry hated this ritual. Once a week, ever since Papi had criticised her, Ranji called all the women to criticise her as well.
    “Her hair is too short!”
    “Yes, yes. I know that, Rossi,” said Ranji. “I cannot make it grow any faster, but what about her face?”
    “Better!” said one. “She is too thin,” said another voice. “Not enough having love with her husband, of course she is thin!” “It is true…” “Yes, look at Ranji…”
    “Stop, stop!” called Ranji. “You are like market women. Tell Sherry she is beginning to look beautiful. Look at her new rings!”
    “Yes, Sherry, soon your beauty will come.” “Soon, your hair will grow, Sherry.” “Yes, soon, but you must eat more and make more love.”
    None of the voices sounded malicious. They thought no more of criticising her than of telling her it was raining outside. Sherry shrugged her shoulders in frustration. She really did not know what they expected of her. She could no more be like Ranji than she could fly to the moon. She could not help it that Ranji was a woman , a real, fertile, voluptuous, pleasure-loving woman. Even as she started to hide her generous curves under her long shirt, she still looked as if she might tear her clothes off and run out into the tropical rain to grow food and babies under the coconut palms. She had the divine gift of creation, and Sherry did not.
    “Come on, Sherry. We will go for lunch and then we will buy you a new leotard and new earrings. No flute-playing today. I’m too busy and I couldn’t organise a flute. Tomorrow, I will call you on the telephone. Now we will eat lunch.”

 
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 3
     
     Tim scrambled through the railing in the dawn half-light to join the crew in the whaler. Raymond fired up the motor and the over-burdened boat slid out into the river. The air was still and a morning mist obscured the far bank. The nipa palms loomed larger and, alone in their sphere of mist, the journey to CampDua for breakfast seemed longer than normal. Tim went first to the radio room for the mail and came back with the program for the next operation. They would be busy today after all. He read it as he sat over breakfast in the crowded mess hall. PetroFrance wanted a big, slow acid job as soon as they could get ready. Mixing the acid would take them most of the day, and then tomorrow after breakfast they would start pumping, probably for seven or eight hours if the well proved as tight as most of them were on that side of the field. Oh well, he thought, it beats having a proper job.
    He nodded to the other expat workers on his table, and walked back to the jetty. Raymond sat waiting at the boat, together with a large box of packed lunches and another of canned drinks, two cokes each for the crew and a couple of beers for Tim. One of the fine things about working with Raymond was that he always seemed to know the daily plan before Tim did, and he felt confident enough to organise the necessaries. Working all day meant no time to come to the canteen for lunch, so he had asked the kitchen for packed