Perhaps there was also an element of vanity or prudence in having his wife, rather than his personal assistants, read him these debates. The Minister did not wish the world at large to know that he could not read Hindi. As it happened, his PAS knew that he could not, but they were fairly discreet, and the word did not get around.
Mrs Mahesh Kapoor read in a rather monotonous voice, a bit as if she were chanting the scriptures. The pallu of her sari covered her head and a part of her face, and she did not look directly at her husband. Her breath was a little short these days, so she had to pause from time to time, and Mahesh Kapoor would become quite impatient. ‘Yes, yes, go on, go on!’ he would say whenever there was a longish pause, and she, patient woman that she was, would do so without complaint.
From time to time – usually between one debate and another, or as she reached for a different volume – she would mention something entirely outside the political sphere that had been on her mind. Since her husband was always busy, this was one of the few opportunities she got to talk to him. One such matter was that Mahesh Kapoor had not met his old friend and bridge partner Dr Kishen Chand Seth for some time.
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ said her husband impatiently. ‘Go on, go on, yes, from page 303.’ Mrs Mahesh Kapoor, having tested the water and found it too warm, was quiet for a while.
At the second opening she saw, she mentioned that she would like to have the Ramcharitmanas recited in the house some day soon. It would be good for the house and family in general: for Pran’s job and health, for Maan, for Veena and Kedarnath and Bhaskar, for Savita’s forthcoming baby. The ideal time, the nine nights leading up to and including the birthday of Rama, had gone by, and both her samdhins had been disappointed that she had not been able to persuade her husband to allow the recitation. At that time she could understand that he had been preoccupied with a number of things, but surely now –
She was interrupted abruptly. Mahesh Kapoor, pointing his finger at the volume of debates, exclaimed: ‘Oh, fortunate one –’ (fortunate to have married him, that is) ‘– first recite the scriptures that I’ve asked you to recite.’
‘But you promised that –’
‘Enough of this. You three mothers-in-law can plot as much as you like, but I can’t allow it in Prem Nivas. I have a secular image – and in a town like this where everyone is beating the drum of religion, I am not going to join in with the shehnai. Anyway, I don’t believe in this chanting and hypocrisy – and all this fasting by saffron-clad heroes who want to ban cow slaughter and revive the Somnath Temple and the Shiva Temple and God knows what else.’
‘The President of India himself will be going to Somnath to help inaugurate the new temple there –’
‘Let the President of India do what he likes,’ said Mahesh Kapoor sharply. ‘Rajendra Babu does not have to win an election or face the Assembly. I do.’
Mrs Mahesh Kapoor waited for the next hiatus in the debates before venturing: ‘I know that the nine nights of Ramnavami have gone, but the nine nights of Dussehra are still to come. If you think that in October –’
In her eagerness to convince her husband, she had begun to gasp a little.
‘Calm down, calm down,’ said Mahesh Kapoor, relenting slightly. ‘We’ll see all about that in due course.’
Even if the door was not exactly ajar, it had not been slammed shut, reflected Mrs Mahesh Kapoor. She retired from this subject with a sense that something, however slight, had been gained. She believed – though she would not have voiced the belief – that her husband was quite wrong-headed in divesting himself of the religious rites and ceremonies that gave meaning to life and donning the drab robes of his new religion of secularism.
At the next pause Mrs Mahesh Kapoor murmured tentatively: ‘I have had a letter.’
Mahesh Kapoor clicked his tongue impatiently, dragged once again from his own thoughts down into the trivial vortices of domesticity. ‘All right, all right, what is it that you want to talk about? Who is this letter from? What disaster am I in for?’ He was used to the fact that his wife led these piecemeal conversations step by step and subject by subject from the most innocuous to the most troubling.
‘It is from the Banaras people,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor.
‘Hmmh!’ said Mahesh Kapoor.
‘They send their best wishes to everyone,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor.
‘Yes, yes, yes! Get to the point. They realize no doubt that our son is too good for their daughter and want to call the whole thing off.’
Sometimes wisdom lies in not taking an ironical remark as ironical. Mrs Mahesh Kapoor said: ‘No, quite the opposite. They want to fix the date as quickly as possible – and I don’t know what to reply. If you read between the lines it seems that they even have some idea about well, about “that”. Why else would they be so concerned?’