A Suitable Boy(230)

‘I’m afraid he doesn’t like me much,’ continued Patricia Cox sadly.

‘He’s probably afraid of you,’ said Meenakshi perceptively.

‘Of me?’ Patricia Cox found this difficult to believe.

During the next race, Arun found it impossible to concentrate on the track. While everyone else around him was (with some restraint) cheering on the horses, his eyes, as if of their own accord, strayed downwards. Beyond the path from the paddock to the track was the exclusive (and exclusively European) Tollygunge Club where, now that the rain had stopped, a few members were having tea on the lawn and watching the races at leisure. And here, where Arun was sitting as a guest of the Coxes, was the balancing social pinnacle of the members’ enclosure.

But in between the two, in the two-rupee enclosure, stood Arun’s brother, sandwiched between his two disreputable companions, and so caught up in the excitement of the next race that he had forgotten his traumatic meeting of a few minutes ago and was jumping up and down, red in the face and screaming words that were unintelligible from this distance but were almost certainly the name of the horse on which he had laid, if not his bet, his heart. He looked almost, but not quite, unrecognizable.

Arun’s nostrils quivered slightly and after a few seconds he looked away. He told himself that he had better start being his brother’s keeper – for that beast, once out of its cage, could do no end of damage to the equilibrium of the universe.





7.26


MRS RUPA MEHRA and Lata were continuing their conversation. From Varun and the IAS they had moved on to Savita and the baby. Though not yet a reality, in Mrs Rupa Mehra’s mind the baby was already a professor or a judge. Needless to say, it was a boy.

‘I have had no news from my daughter for a week. I am very upset with her,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. When she was with Lata, Mrs Rupa Mehra referred to Savita as ‘my daughter’, and vice versa.

‘She’s fine, Ma,’ said Lata reassuringly. ‘Or you would certainly have heard.’

‘And to be expecting in this heat!’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, implying that Savita should have timed it better. ‘You were also born in the monsoon,’ she told Lata. ‘You were a very difficult birth,’ she added, and her eyes glistened with emotion.

Lata had heard about her own difficult birth a hundred times before. Sometimes when her mother was angry with her she flung this fact at her accusingly. At other times, when she was feeling especially fond of her, she mentioned it as a reminder of how precious to her Lata had always been. Lata had also heard a number of times about the tenacious grip she had as a baby.

‘And poor Pran. I hear it has not yet rained in Brahmpur,’ continued Mrs Rupa Mehra.

‘It has, Ma, a little.’

‘Not proper rain – just a droplet or two here and there. It is still so dusty, and terrible for his asthma.’

Lata said: ‘Ma, you shouldn’t worry about him. Savita keeps a careful eye on him, and so does his mother.’ She knew, however, that it was no use. Mrs Rupa Mehra thrived on worrying. One of the marvellous by-products of Savita’s marriage was a whole new family to worry about.

‘But his mother herself is not well,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra triumphantly. ‘And, talking of which, I have been feeling like visiting my homoeopath.’

If Arun had been present, he would have told his mother that all homoeopaths were charlatans. Lata merely said: ‘But do those little white pills do you any good, Ma? I think it’s all faith-healing.’

‘What is wrong with faith?’ asked Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘In your generation no one believes in anything.’

Lata did not defend her generation.

‘Except in having a good time and staying out till four in the morning,’ added Mrs Rupa Mehra.

Lata, to her own surprise, laughed.

‘What is it?’ her mother demanded. ‘Why are you laughing? You weren’t laughing two days ago.’

‘Nothing. Ma, I was just laughing, that’s all. Can’t I laugh once in a while?’ She had stopped laughing, though, having suddenly thought of Kabir.

Mrs Rupa Mehra ignored the general point, and homed in on the particular. ‘But you were laughing for some reason. There must be a reason. You can tell your mother.’

‘Ma, I’m not a baby, I’m allowed to have my own thoughts.’

‘For me, you will always be my baby.’

‘Even when I’m sixty?’

Mrs Rupa Mehra looked at her daughter in surprise. Although she had just visualized Savita’s unborn child as a judge, she had never visualized Lata as a woman of sixty. She attempted to now, but the thought was too daunting. Luckily, another intervened.