A Suitable Boy(202)

Arun, who considered it too hot for a jacket, was wearing a stylish cummerbund instead – a maroon monochrome sash with a shimmering pattern through the weave – and a matching bow-tie. He was talking rather gravely to Jock Mackay, a cheerful bachelor in his mid-forties who was one of the directors of the managing agency of McKibbin & Ross.

Meenakshi was dressed in a striking orange French chiffon sari and an electric blue backless choli tied on around her neck and waist with narrow cloth bands. Her midriff was gloriously exposed, around her long and fragrant neck was clasped a Jaipur enamel choker in blue and orange with matching bracelets on her arms, her already considerable height was enhanced by stiletto heels and a tall bun, large earrings dangled deliciously below her chin, the orange tika on her forehead was as huge as her eyes, and most striking and ornamental of all was her devastating smile.

She advanced towards Amit, exuding a fragrance of Shocking Schiaparelli.

But before Amit could greet her, he was accosted by a middle-aged, accusing woman with large, popping eyes whom he did not recognize. She said to him: ‘I loved your last book but I can’t say I understood it.’ She waited for a response.

‘Oh - well, thank you,’ said Amit.

‘Surely that’s not all you’re going to say?’ said the woman, disappointed. ‘I thought poets were more articulate. I’m an old friend of your mother’s though we haven’t met for many years,’ she added, irrelevantly. ‘We go back to Shantiniketan.’

‘Ah, I see,’ said Amit. Although he did not much care for this woman, he did not move away. He felt he ought to say something.

‘Well, I’m not so much of a poet now. I’m writing a novel,’ he said.

‘But that’s no excuse at all,’ said the woman. Then she added: ‘Tell me, what is it about? Or is that a trade secret of the famous Amit Chatterji?’

‘No, no, not really,’ said Amit, who hated to talk about his current work.

‘It’s about a moneylender at the time of the Bengal Famine. As you know, my mother’s family comes from East Bengal –’

‘How wonderful that you should want to write about your own country,’ said the woman. ‘Especially after winning all those prizes abroad. Tell me, are you in India a lot?’

Amit noticed that both his sisters were standing near him now and listening in.

‘Oh yes, well, now that I‘ve returned I am here most of the time. I’m, well, in and out –’

‘In and out,’ repeated the woman wonderingly.

‘Back and forth,’ said Meenakshi helpfully.

‘Off and on,’ said Kakoli, who was incapable of restraint.

The woman frowned.

‘To and fro,’ said Meenakshi.

‘Here and there,’ said Kakoli.

She and Meenakshi started giggling. Then they waved to someone at the far side of the huge room, and instantly disappeared.

Amit smiled apologetically. But the woman was looking at him angrily. Were the young Chatterjis trying to make fun of her?

She said to Amit: ‘I am quite sick of reading about you.’

Amit said mildly: ‘Mmm. Yes.’

‘And of hearing about you.’

‘If I weren’t me,’ said Amit, ‘I would be pretty sick of hearing about myself.’

The woman frowned. Then, recovering, she said: ‘I think my drink’s finished.’

She noticed her husband hovering nearby, and handed him her empty glass, which was stained with crimson lipstick around the rim. ‘But tell me, how do you write?’

‘Do you mean -’ began Amit.

‘I mean, is it inspiration? Or is it hard work?’

‘Well,’ said Amit, ‘without inspiration one can’t –’

‘I knew, I just knew it was inspiration. But without being married, how did you write that poem about the young bride?’

She sounded disapproving.

Amit looked thoughtful, and said: ‘I just –’

‘And tell me,’ continued the woman, ‘does it take you long to think of a book? I’m dying to read your new book.’

‘So am I,’ said Amit.

‘I have some good ideas for books,’ said the woman. ‘When I was in Shantiniketan, the influence of Gurudeb on me was very deep… you know – our own Rabindranath…’

Amit said, ‘Ah.’

‘It could not take you long, I know… but the writing itself must be so difficult. I could never be a writer. I don’t have the gift. It is a gift from God.’

‘Yes, it seems to come –’

‘I once wrote poetry,’ said the woman. ‘In English, like you. Though I have an aunt who writes Bengali poetry. She was a true disciple of Robi Babu. Does your poetry rhyme?’