‘God will have taken me away long before then,’ she sighed. ‘And it is only when I am dead and gone and you see my empty chair that you will appreciate me. Now you are hiding everything from me, as if you don’t trust me.’
Lata reflected, painfully, that she did not in fact trust her mother to understand much of what she felt. She thought of Kabir’s letter, which she had transferred from the book on Egyptian mythology to a writing pad at the bottom of her suitcase. Where had he got her address from? How often did he think of her? She thought again of the flippant tone of his letter and felt a rush of anger.
Perhaps it wasn’t really flippant, though, she said to herself. And perhaps he had been right in suggesting that she hadn’t given him much of a chance to explain himself. She thought of their last meeting – it seemed very long ago – and of her own behaviour: it had bordered on the hysterical. But for her it had been her whole life and for him probably no more than a pleasant early-morning outing. He clearly had not expected the intensity of her outburst. Perhaps, Lata admitted, perhaps he could not have been expected to expect it.
As it was, her heart ached for him. It was him and not her brother whom she had, in her imagination, been dancing with last night. And she had dreamed about him in her sleep this morning, strangely enough reciting his letter to her in a declamation contest for which she was one of the judges.
‘So why were you laughing?’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.
Lata said: ‘I was thinking about Bishwanath Bhaduri and his ridiculous comments last night at Firpos.’
‘But he is covenanted,’ her mother pointed out.
‘He told me I was more beautiful than Savita, and that my hair was like a river.’
‘You are quite pretty when you put your mind to it, darling,’ said her mother reassuringly. ‘But your hair was in a bun, wasn’t it?’
Lata nodded and yawned. It was past noon. Except when studying for her exams, she rarely felt so sleepy so late in the day. Meenakshi was the one who usually yawned – yawned with decided elegance whenever it suited the occasion.
‘Where’s Varun?’ Lata asked. ‘I was supposed to look through the Gazette with him – it’s got details about the IAS exams. Do you think he’s gone to the races too?’
‘You are always saying things to upset me, Lata,’ exclaimed Mrs Rupa Mehra with sudden indignation. ‘I have so many troubles, and then you say things like this. Races. No one cares about my troubles, they are always thinking about their own.’
‘What troubles, Ma?’ said Lata unsympathetically. ‘You are well taken care of, and everyone who knows you loves you.’
Mrs Rupa Mehra looked at Lata sternly. Savita would never have asked such a brutal question. In fact, it was more in the nature of a comment or even judgment than a question. Sometimes, she said to herself, I don’t understand Lata at all.
‘I have plenty of troubles,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra in a decided manner. ‘You know them as well as I do. Look at Meenakshi and how she handles the child. And Varun and his studies – what will happen to him – smoking and drinking and gambling and all that? And you don’t get married – isn’t that a trouble? And Savita, expecting. And Pran with his illness. And Pran’s brother: doing all those things and people talking about it all over Brahmpur. And Meenakshi’s sister – people are talking about her also. Do you think I don’t have to listen to these things from people? Just yesterday Purobi Ray was gossiping about Kuku. So these are my troubles, and now you’ve upset me even more. And I am a widow with diabetes,’ she added, almost as an afterthought. ‘Isn’t that a trouble?’
Lata admitted that the last would count as a true trouble.
‘And Arun shouts, which is very bad for my blood pressure. And today Hanif has taken a day off, so I am expected to do everything myself, even make tea.’
‘I’ll make it for you, Ma,’ said Lata. ‘Would you like some now?’
‘No, darling, you’re yawning, you go and rest,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, suddenly accommodating. By offering to make tea, Lata had as good as made it for her.
‘I don’t want to rest, Ma,’ said Lata.
‘Then why are you yawning, darling?’
‘Probably because I’ve slept too much. Would you like some tea?’
‘Not if it’s too much trouble.’
Lata went to the kitchen. She had been brought up by her mother ‘not to give trouble but to take trouble’. After her father’s death, they had lived for a number of years in the house – and therefore in a sense on the charity, however graciously bestowed – of friends, so it was natural that Mrs Rupa Mehra should have been concerned about giving trouble either directly or because of her children. A great deal in the personality of all four children could be traced to these years. The sense of uncertainty and the consciousness of obligation to others outside the family had had its effect on them. Savita had been affected least of all, it seemed; but then with Savita one sometimes got the impression that her kindness and gentleness had come to her as a baby, and that no circumstances of mere environment could have greatly altered them.