6.7
THE reference to neem blossoms reminded Pran that he had not visited his mother in several days. Mrs Mahesh Kapoor had been even more badly affected this year by the pollen of the neem trees than she usually was. Some days she could hardly breathe. Even her husband, who treated all allergies as if they were wilfully inflicted by the victims upon themselves, was forced to take some notice of his wife. As for Pran, who knew from experience what it felt like to struggle for breath, he thought of his mother with a feeling of sad helplessness – and with some anger towards his father who insisted that she remain in town in order to manage the household.
‘Where should she go where there are no neem trees?’ Mahesh Kapoor had said. ‘Abroad?’
‘Well, Baoji, perhaps to the south somewhere – or to the hills.’
‘Don’t be unrealistic. Who will take care of her there? Or do you think I should give up my work?’
There was no obvious answer to this. Mahesh Kapoor had always been dismissive of other people’s illnesses and bodily pain, and had disappeared from town whenever his wife had been about to give birth. He could not stand ‘the mess and the fuss and so on’.
Lately, Mrs Mahesh Kapoor had been much exercised by one issue which seemed to aggravate her condition. This was Maan’s involvement with Saeeda Bai, and his loitering around in Brahmpur when he had work and other obligations in Banaras. When his fiancée’s family sent an indirect inquiry through a relative about fixing a date for the marriage, Mrs Mahesh Kapoor had begged Pran to speak to him. Pran had told her that he had very little control over his younger brother. ‘He only listens to Veena,’ he had said, ‘and even then he goes and does exactly as he pleases.’ But his mother had looked so unhappy that he had agreed to talk to Maan. He had, however, put it off now for several days.
‘Right,’ said Pran to himself. ‘I’ll talk to him today. And it’ll be a good opportunity to visit Prem Nivas.’
It was already too hot to walk, so they went by tonga. Savita sat smiling silently and – Pran thought – quite mysteriously. In fact she was merely pleased to be visiting her mother-in-law, whom she liked, and with whom she enjoyed discussing neem trees and vultures and lawns and lilies.
When they got to Prem Nivas they found that Maan was still asleep. Leaving Savita with Mrs Mahesh Kapoor, who looked a little better than before, Pran went off to wake his brother up. Maan was lying in his room with his face buried in his pillow. A ceiling fan was going round and round, but the room was still quite warm.
‘Get up! Get up!’ said Pran.
‘Oh!’ said Maan, trying to ward off the light of day.
‘Get up! I have to talk to you.’
‘What? Oh! Why? All right, let me wash my face.’
Maan got up, shook his head several times, examined his face in the mirror quite carefully, did a respectful adaab to himself when his brother was not watching and, after splashing some water upon himself, came back and lay down flat on the bed once more – but on his back.
‘Who’s told you to speak to me?’ said Maan. Then, remembering what he had been dreaming about, he said, regretfully: ‘I was having the most wonderful dream. I was walking near the Barsaat Mahal with a young woman – not so young really, but her face was unlined still –’
Pran started smiling. Maan looked a little hurt.
‘Aren’t you interested?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Well, why have you come, Bhai Sahib? Why don’t you sit down on the bed – it’s much more comfortable. Oh yes,’ he said, remembering: ‘you’ve come to speak to me. Who has put you up to it?’
‘Does someone have to have put me up to it?’
‘Yes. You never proffer brotherly advice as a rule, and I can tell from your face that I am in for some proffering. All right, all right, go ahead. It’s about Saeeda Bai, I suppose.’
‘You’re absolutely right.’
‘Well, what’s there to say?’ said Maan, with a sort of happy hangdog look. ‘I’m terribly in love with her. But I don’t know if she cares for me at all.’
‘Oh, you idiot,’ said Pran affectionately.
‘Don’t make fun of me. I can’t bear it. I’m feeling very low,’ said Maan, gradually convincing himself of his romantic depression. ‘But no one believes me. Even Firoz says –’
‘And he’s quite right. You’re feeling nothing of the kind. Now tell me, do you really think that that kind of person is capable of loving?’
‘Oh?’ asked Maan. ‘Why not?’