It struck him that possibly, but only just possibly, he may have found in Ishaq that disciple whom he had looked for now for years – someone to whom he could pass on his art, someone who, unlike his own frog-voiced son, loved music with a passion, who had a grounding in performance, whose voice was not displeasing, whose sense of pitch and ornament was exceptional, and who had that additional element of indefinable expressivity, even when he copied his own phrases, which was the soul of music. But originality in composition – did he possess that – or at least the germ of such originality? Only time would tell – months, perhaps years, of time.
‘Come again tomorrow, but at seven in the morning,’ said the Ustad, dismissing him. Ishaq Khan nodded slowly, then stood up to leave.
Part Seven
7.1
LATA saw the envelope on the salver. Arun’s servant had brought the mail in just before breakfast and laid it on the dining table. As soon as she saw the letter she took in her breath sharply. She even glanced around the dining room. No one else had yet entered. Breakfast was an erratic meal in this household.
Lata knew Kabir’s handwriting from the note that he had scribbled to her during the meeting of the Brahmpur Poetry Society. She had not expected him to write to her, and could not think how he had obtained her address in Calcutta. She had not wanted him to write. She did not want to hear from him or about him. Now that she looked back she saw that she had been happy before she had met him: anxious about her exams perhaps, worried about a few small differences she may have had with her mother or a friend, troubled about this constant talk of finding a suitable boy for her, but not miserable as she had been during this so-called holiday so suddenly enforced by her mother.
There was a paper-knife on the salver. Lata picked it up, then stood undecided. Her mother might come in at any moment, and – as she usually did – ask Lata whom the letter was from and what it said. She put the knife down and picked the letter up.
Arun entered. He was wearing a red-and-black striped tie over his starched white shirt, and was carrying his jacket in one hand and holding the Statesman in the other. He draped the jacket across the back of his chair, folded the newspaper to give him convenient access to the crossword, greeted Lata affectionately, and riffled through the post.
Lata wandered into the small drawing room that adjoined the dining room, got out a large volume on Egyptian mythology that no one ever read, and inserted her envelope in it. Then she returned to the dining room and sat down, humming to herself in Raag Todi. Arun frowned. Lata stopped. The servant brought her a fried egg.
Arun began whistling ‘Three Coins in a Fountain’ to himself. He had already solved several clues of the crossword puzzle while in the bathroom, and he filled in a few more at the breakfast table. Now he opened some of his mail, glanced through it and said: ‘When is that damned fool going to bring me my bloody egg? I shall be late.’
He reached out for a piece of toast, and buttered it.
Varun entered. He was wearing the torn kurta-pyjama that he had obviously been sleeping in. ‘Good morning. Good morning,’ he said. He sounded uncertain, almost guilty. Then he sat down. When Hanif, the servant-cum-cook, came in with Arun’s egg, he ordered his own. He first asked for an omelette, then decided on a scrambled egg. Meanwhile he took a piece of toast from the rack and buttered it.
‘You might think of using the butter-knife,’ growled Arun from the head of the table.
Varun had extracted butter from the butter-dish with his own knife to butter his toast. He accepted the rebuke in silence.
‘Did you hear me?’
‘Yes, Arun Bhai.’
‘Then you would do well to acknowledge my remark with a word or at the very least a nod.’
‘Yes.’
‘There is a purpose to table manners, you know.’
Varun grimaced. Lata glanced sympathetically in his direction.
‘Not everyone enjoys seeing the butter encrusted with crumbs from your toast.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Varun, driven to impatience. It was a feeble protest, and it was dealt with promptly.
Arun put down his knife and fork, looked at him, and waited.
‘All right, Arun Bhai,’ said Varun meekly.
He had been undecided as to whether to have marmalade or honey, but now decided on marmalade, since negotiating with the honey spoon was bound to bring reproof down on his head. As he spread the marmalade, he looked across at Lata, and they exchanged smiles. Lata’s was a halfsmile, very typical of her these days. Varun’s was rather a twisted smile, as if he was not sure whether to be happy or despairing. It was the kind of smile that drove his elder brother mad and convinced him that Varun was a hopeless case. Varun had just got a Second in his mathematics B.A., and when he told his family the result, it was with exactly this kind of smile.