by Vikram Seth
‘Certainly,’ said Saeeda Bai. ‘But to do so you will have to change places with me and sit on my left. Then you can read a sentence in English and I can read its translation in Urdu. It will be like having a private tutor,’ she added, a slight smile forming on her lips.
The very nearness of Saeeda Bai in these last few minutes, delightful as it had been, now created a small problem for Maan. Before he got up to change places with her he had to make a slight adjustment to his clothing in order not to let her see how aroused he was. But when he sat down again it seemed to him that Saeeda Bai was more amused than ever. She’s a real sitam-zareef, he thought to himself—a tyrant with a smile.
‘So, Ustad Sahib, let’s begin our lesson,’ she said, raising an eyebrow.
‘Well,’ said Maan, not looking at her, but acutely conscious of her closeness. ‘The first item is an introduction by a certain James Cousins to Chughtai’s illustrations.’
‘Oh,’ said Saeeda Bai, ‘the first item from the Urdu side is an explanation by the artist himself of what he hoped to do by having this book printed.’
‘And,’ continued Maan, ‘my second item is a foreword by the poet Iqbal to the book as a whole.’
‘And mine,’ said Saeeda Bai, ‘is a long essay, again by Chughtai himself, on various matters, including his views on art.’
‘Look at this,’ said Maan, suddenly involved in what he was reading. ‘I’d forgotten what a pompous foreword Iqbal wrote. All he seems to talk about is his own books, not the one that he’s introducing. “In this book of mine I said this, in that book of mine I said that”—and only a few patronizing remarks about Chughtai and how young he is—’
He stopped indignantly.
‘Dagh Sahib,’ said Saeeda Bai, ‘you’re getting heated all right.’
They looked at each other, Maan thrown a little off balance by her directness. It seemed to him that she was trying to refrain from laughing outright. ‘Perhaps I should cool you down with a melancholy ghazal,’ continued Saeeda Bai.
‘Yes, why don’t you try?’ said Maan, remembering what she had once said about ghazals. ‘Let’s see what effect it has on me.’
‘Let me summon my musicians,’ said Saeeda Bai.
‘No,’ said Maan, placing his hand on hers. ‘Just you and the harmonium, that’ll be enough.’
‘At least the tabla player?’
‘I’ll keep the beat with my heart,’ said Maan.
With a slight inclination of the head—a gesture that made Maan’s heart almost skip a beat—Saeeda Bai acquiesced. ‘Would you be capable of standing up and getting it for me?’ she asked slyly.
‘Hmm,’ said Maan, but remained seated.
‘And I also see that your glass is empty,’ added Saeeda Bai.
Refusing this time to be embarrassed by anything, Maan got up. He fetched her the harmonium and himself another drink. Saeeda Bai hummed for a few seconds and said, ‘Yes, I know which one will do.’ She began to sing the enigmatic lines:
‘No grain of dust in the garden is wasted.
Even the path is like a lamp to the tulip’s stain.’
At the word ‘dagh’ Saeeda Bai shot Maan a quick and amused glance. The next couplet was fairly uneventful. But it was followed by:
‘The rose laughs at the activities of the nightingale—
What they call love is a defect of the mind.’
Maan, who knew these lines well, must have shown a very transparent dismay; for as soon as Saeeda Bai looked at him, she threw back her head and laughed with pleasure. The sight of her soft white throat exposed, her sudden, slightly husky laughter, and the piquancy of not knowing whether she was laughing with or at him made Maan completely forget himself. Before he knew it and despite the hindrance of the harmonium, he had leaned over and kissed her on the neck, and before she knew it she was responding.
‘Not now, not now, Dagh Sahib,’ she said, a little out of breath.
‘Now—now—’ said Maan.
‘Then we’d better go to the other room,’ said Saeeda Bai. ‘You are getting into the habit of interrupting my ghazals.’
‘When else have I interrupted your ghazals?’ asked Maan as she led him to her bedroom.
‘I’ll tell you some other time,’ said Saeeda Bai.
Part Three
3.1
Sunday breakfast at Pran’s house was usually a bit later than during the week. The Brahmpur Chronicle had arrived and Pran had his nose fixed in the Sunday Supplement. Savita sat to one side eating her toast and buttering Pran’s. Mrs Rupa Mehra came into the room and asked, in a worried tone, ‘Have you seen Lata anywhere?’
Pran shook his head behind his newspaper.
‘No, Ma,’ said Savita.
‘I hope she’s all right,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra anxiously. She looked around and said to Mateen: ‘Where’s the spice powder? I am always forgotten when you lay the table.’
‘Why wouldn’t she be all right, Ma?’ said Pran. ‘This is Brahmpur, not Calcutta.’
‘Calcutta’s very safe,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, defending the city of her only grandchild. ‘It may be a big city, but the people are very good. It’s quite safe for a girl to walk about at any time.’
‘Ma, you’re just homesick for Arun,’ said Savita. ‘Everyone knows who your favourite child is.’
‘I don’t have favourites,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.
The phone rang. ‘I’ll take it,’ said Pran casually. ‘It’s probably something to do with tonight’s debating contest. Why do I consent to organize all these wretched activities?’
‘For the looks of adoration in your students’ eyes,’ said Savita.
Pran picked up the phone. The other two continued with their breakfast. A sharp, exclamatory tone in Pran’s voice, however, told Savita that it was something serious. Pran looked shocked, and glanced worriedly at Mrs Rupa Mehra.
‘Ma—’ said Pran, but could say nothing further.
‘It’s about Lata,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, reading his face. ‘She’s had an accident.’
‘No—’ said Pran.
‘Thank God.’
‘She’s eloped—’ said Pran.
‘Oh my God,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.
‘With whom?’ asked Savita, transfixed, still holding a piece of toast in her hand.
‘—with Maan,’ said Pran, shaking his head slowly back and forth in disbelief. ‘How—’ he went on, but was temporarily unable to speak.
‘Oh my God,’ said Savita and her mother almost simultaneously.
For a few seconds there was stunned silence.
‘He phoned my father from the railway station,’ continued Pran, shaking his head. ‘Why didn’t he talk it over with me? I don’t see any objection to the match as such, except for Maan’s previous engagement—’
‘No objection—’ whispered Mrs Rupa Mehra in astonishment. Her nose had gone red and two tears had started helplessly down her cheeks. Her hands were clasped together as if in prayer.
‘Your brother—’ began Savita indignantly, ‘may think he is the cat’s whiskers, but how you can think that we—’
‘Oh my poor daughter, oh my poor daughter,’ wept Mrs Rupa Mehra.
The door opened, and Lata walked in.
‘Yes, Ma?’ said Lata. ‘Were you calling me?’ She looked at the dramatic tableau in surprise, and went over to comfort her mother. ‘Now what’s the matter?’ she asked, looking around the table. ‘Not the other medal, I hope.’
‘Say it isn’t true, say it isn’t true,’ cried Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘How could you think of doing this? And with Maan! How can you break my heart like this?’ A thought suddenly occurred to her. ‘But—it can’t be true. The railway station?’
‘I haven’t been to any station,’ said Lata. ‘What’s going on, Ma? Pran told me you were going to have a long session by yourselves about plans and prospects for me’—she frowned a little—‘and that it would only embarrass me to be here. He told me to come back late for breakfast. What have I d
one that has upset you all so much?’
Savita looked at Pran in angry astonishment; now, to her outrage, he simply yawned.
‘Those who aren’t conscious of the date,’ said Pran, tapping the head of the paper, ‘must take the consequences.’
It was the 1st of April.
Mrs Rupa Mehra had stopped weeping but was still bewildered. Savita looked at her husband and her sister in severe reproof and said, ‘Ma, this is Pran and Lata’s idea of an April Fool joke.’
‘Not mine,’ said Lata, beginning to understand what had happened in her absence. She began to laugh. Then she sat down and looked at the others. ‘Really, Pran,’ said Savita. She turned to her sister: ‘It’s not so funny, Lata.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘And at exam time—it will disturb your studies—and all this time and money will have gone down the drain. Don’t laugh.’
‘Cheer up, cheer up, everyone. Lata is still unmarried. God’s in his Heaven,’ Pran said unrepentantly, and hid behind his newspaper again. He too was laughing, but silently to himself. Savita and Mrs Rupa Mehra looked daggers at the Brahmpur Chronicle.
A sudden thought struck Savita. ‘I could have had a miscarriage,’ she said.
‘Oh, no,’ said Pran unconcernedly. ‘You’re robust. I’m the frail one. Besides, this was done entirely for your benefit: to liven up your Sunday morning. You’re always complaining about how dull Sunday is.’
‘Well, I prefer boredom to this. Aren’t you at least going to apologize to us?’
‘Of course,’ said Pran readily. Though he was not very happy with himself for having brought his mother-in-law to tears, he was delighted at the way the trick had come off. And Lata at least had enjoyed it. ‘Sorry, Ma. Sorry, darling.’
‘I should hope so. Say sorry to Lata too,’ Savita said.
‘Sorry, Lata,’ said Pran, laughing. ‘You must be hungry. Why don’t you order your egg?’
‘Though actually,’ continued Pran, undoing most of the goodwill he had salvaged, ‘I don’t see why I should apologize. I don’t enjoy these April fooleries. It’s because I’ve married into a westernized family that I decided, well, Pran, you have to keep your end up or they’ll think you are a peasant, and you’ll never be able to face Arun Mehra again.’
‘You can stop making snide remarks about my brother,’ said Savita. ‘You’ve been doing so ever since the wedding. Yours is equally vulnerable. More so, in fact.’
Pran considered this for a moment. People had begun talking about Maan.
‘Come on, darling, forgive me,’ he said with a little more genuine contrition in his voice. ‘What do I have to do to make up?’
‘Take us to see a film,’ Savita said immediately. ‘I want to see a Hindi film today—just to emphasize how westernized I am.’ Savita enjoyed Hindi movies (the more sentimental the better); she also knew that Pran, for the most part, detested them.
‘A Hindi film?’ said Pran. ‘I thought the strange tastes of expecting mothers extended only to food and drink.’
‘All right, that’s fixed then,’ said Savita. ‘Which one should we see?’
‘Sorry,’ said Pran, ‘impossible. There’s that debate this evening.’
‘A matinee then,’ said Savita, flicking the butter off the end of her toast in a decisive manner.
‘Oh, all right, all right, I suppose I’ve brought this upon myself,’ said Pran. He turned to the appropriate page in the newspaper. ‘How about this? Sangraam. At the Odeon. “Acclaimed by all—a greatest movie marvel. For adults only.” Ashok Kumar’s acting in it—he makes Ma’s heart beat faster.’
‘You’re teasing me,’ Mrs Rupa Mehra said, somewhat appeased. ‘But I do like his acting. Still, somehow, you know all these adult movies, I feel—’
‘All right,’ said Pran. ‘Next one. No—there’s no afternoon show for that. Um, um, here’s something that looks interesting. Kalé Badal. An epic of love and romance. Meena, Shyam, Gulab, Jeewan, et cetera, et cetera, even Baby Tabassum! Just right for you in your present condition,’ he added to Savita.
‘No,’ said Savita. ‘I don’t like any of the actors.’
‘This family is very particular,’ Pran said. ‘First they want a film, then they reject all the options.’
‘Keep reading,’ said Savita, rather sternly.
‘Yes, Memsahib,’ said Pran. ‘Well, then we have Hulchul. Great Gala Opening. Nargis—’
‘I like her,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘She has such expressive features—’
‘Daleep Kumar—’
‘Ah!’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.
‘Restrain yourself, Ma,’ said Pran. ‘—Sitara, Yaqub, K.N. Singh and Jeewan. “Great in story. Great in stars. Great in music. In 30 years of Indian films no picture like this.” Well?’
‘Where’s it showing?’
‘At the Majestic. “Renovated, luxuriously furnished and fitted with fresh air circulating device for cool comfort.”’
‘That sounds right in every way,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra with careful optimism, as if she were discussing a prospective match for Lata.
‘But wait!’ said Pran. ‘Here’s an ad that’s so big I missed it: it’s for Deedar. Showing in the, let’s see, in the equally well-appointed Manorma Talkies which also has a fresh air circulating device. Here’s what it says: “It’s a star-studded! Playing for 5th week. Punched with Lusty Songs & Romance To Warm Your Cockles. Nargis, Ashok Kumar—”’
He paused for the expected exclamation from his mother-in-law.
‘You are always teasing me, Pran,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra happily, all her tears forgotten.
‘“—Nimmi, Daleep Kumar—” (amazing luck, Ma) “—Yaqub, Baby Tabassum—” (we’ve hit the jackpot) “—Musical-Miracle songs which are sung in every street of the city. Acclaimed, Applauded, Admired by All. The only Picture for Families. A Storm of Movie. A Rainfall of Melody. Filmkar’s Deedar! Star-studded Gem amongst Pictures! No Greater Picture will come your Way for So Many Years.” Well, what do you say?’
He looked around him at three wondering faces. ‘Thunderstruck!’ said Pran approvingly. ‘Twice in one morning.’
3.2
That afternoon the four of them went to warm their cockles at Manorma Talkies. They bought the best tickets in the balcony section, high above the hoi polloi, and a bar of Cadbury’s chocolate of which Lata and Savita ate the major portion. Mrs Rupa Mehra was allowed one square despite her diabetes and Pran wanted no more than one. Pran and Lata were almost dry-eyed, Savita sniffed, and Mrs Rupa Mehra sobbed broken-heartedly. The film was indeed very sad, and the songs were sad too, and it was not clear whether it was the piteous fate of the blind singer or the tenderness of the love story that had most affected her. An entirely good time would have been had by all had it not been for a man a row or two behind them who, every time the blind Daleep Kumar appeared on the screen, burst into a horrific frenzy of weeping and once or twice even knocked his stick on the floor to indicate perhaps an outraged protest against Fate or the director. Eventually Pran could bear it no longer, turned around and exclaimed: ‘Sir, do you think you could refrain from knocking that—’
He stopped suddenly as he saw that the culprit was Mrs Rupa Mehra’s father. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said to Savita, ‘it’s your grandfather! I’m so sorry, Sir! Please don’t mind what I said, Sir. Ma is here as well, Sir, I mean Mrs Rupa Mehra. Terribly sorry. And Savita and Lata are here too. We do hope you will meet us after the film is over.’
By this time Pran himself was being shushed by others in the audience, and he turned back to the screen, shaking his head. The others were equally horror-struck. All this had no apparent effect on the emotions of Dr Kishen Chand Seth, who wept with as much clamour and energy through the last half hour of the movie as before.
‘How was it we didn’t meet during the interval?’ Pran asked himself. ‘And didn’t he notice us either? We were sitting in front of him.’ What Pran could not know was that Dr Kishen Chand Seth was impervious to any extr
aneous visual or auditory stimulus once he was involved in a film. As for the matter of the interval, that was—and was to remain—a mystery, especially since Dr Kishen Chand Seth and his wife Parvati had come together.
When the movie was over and they had been extruded out of the hall like the rest of the crowd, everyone met in the lobby. Dr Kishen Chand Seth was still streaming copious tears, the others were dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs.
Parvati and Mrs Rupa Mehra made a couple of brave but hopeless attempts to pretend liking for each other. Parvati was a strong, bony, rather hard-boiled woman of thirty-five. She had brown, sun-hardened skin, and an attitude towards the world that seemed to be an extension of her attitude to her more enfeebled patients: it was as if she had suddenly decided she was not going to empty anyone’s bedpans any more. She was wearing a georgette sari with what looked like pink pine cones printed all over it. Her lipstick, however, was not pink but orange.
Mrs Rupa Mehta, shrinking from this impressive vision, tried to explain why she had not been able to visit Parvati for her birthday.
‘How nice to meet you here, though,’ she added.
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ said Parvati. ‘I was saying to Kishy just the other day . . .’
But the rest of the sentence was lost on Mrs Rupa Mehra, who had never heard her seventy-year-old father referred to in terms of such odious triviality. ‘My husband’ was bad enough; but ‘Kishy’? She looked at him, but he seemed still to be locked in a globe of celluloid.
Dr Kishen Chand Seth emerged from this sentimental aura in a minute or two. ‘We must go home,’ he announced.
‘Please come over to our place for tea, and then go back,’ suggested Pran.
‘No, no, impossible, impossible today. Some other time. Yes. Tell your father we expect him for bridge tomorrow evening. At seven thirty sharp. Surgeon’s time, not politician’s.’
‘Oh,’ said Pran, smiling now, ‘I’d be glad to. I’m glad your misunderstanding has been sorted out.’
Dr Kishen Chand Seth realized with a start that of course it hadn’t. Under the filmy mist that had engulfed him—for in Deedar good friends had spoken bitter words to each other—he had forgotten about his falling out with Mahesh Kapoor. He looked at Pran with annoyance. Parvati came to a sudden decision.