A Suitable Boy(241)

So the next day at Amit’s house they sat down to a traditional Bengali meal, unlike the party fare of the previous week. Amit assumed that Lata had eaten this sort of food before. But when she saw a small helping of karela and rice – and nothing else – in front of her, she appeared so surprised that he had to tell her that there were other courses coming.

It was odd, thought Amit, that she shouldn’t have known. Before Arun and Meenakshi had got married, though he himself had been in England, he knew that the Mehras had been invited once or twice to the Chatterjis’. But perhaps it hadn’t been to this sort of meal.

Lunch had begun a little late. They had waited for Dr Ila Chattopadhyay, but had eventually decided to eat because the children were hungry. Amit’s uncle Mr Ganguly was an extremely taciturn man whose energies went entirely into eating. His jowls worked vigorously, swiftly, almost twice a second, and only occasionally pausing, while his mild, bland, bovine eyes looked at his hosts and fellow-guests who were doing the talking. His wife was a fat, highly emotional woman who wore a great deal of sindoor in her hair and had a very large bindi of equally brilliant red in the middle of her forehead. She was a shocking gossip and in between extracting fine fishbones from her large paan-stained mouth she impaled the reputations of all her neighbours and any of her relatives who were not present. Embezzlement, drunkenness, gangsterism, incest: whatever could be stated was stated and whatever could not be was implied. Mrs Chatterji was shocked, pretended to be even more shocked than she was, and enjoyed her company greatly. The only thing that worried her was what Mrs Ganguly would say about their family – especially about Kuku – once she had left the house.

For Kuku was behaving as freely as she always did, encouraged by Tapan and Amit. Soon Dr Ila Chattopadhyay turned up (‘I am such a stupid woman, I always forget lunch timings. Am I late? Stupid question. Hello. Hello. Hello. Oh, you again? Lalita? Lata? I never remember names’) and things became even more boisterous.

Bahadur announced that there was a phone call for Kakoli.

‘Tell whoever it is that Kuku will take it after lunch,’ said her father.

‘Oh, Baba!’ Kuku turned a liquid gaze on her father.

‘Who is it?’ Mr justice Chatterji asked Bahadur.

‘That German Sahib.’

Mrs Ganguly’s intelligent, pig-like eyes darted from face to face.

‘Oh, Baba, it’s Hans. I must go.’ The ‘Hans’ was pleadingly elongated.

Mr Justice Chatterji nodded slightly, and Kuku leapt up and ran to the phone.

When Kakoli returned to the table, everyone except the children turned towards her. The children were consuming large quantities of tomato chutney, and their mother was not even reproving them, so keen was she to hear what Kuku was going to say.

But Kuku had turned from love to food. ‘Oh, gulab-jamun,’ she said, imitating Biswas Babu, ‘and the chumchum! And mishti doi. Oh – the bhery mhemory makesh my shallybhery juishes to phlow.’

‘Kuku.’ Mr Justice Chatterji was seriously displeased.

‘Sorry, Baba. Sorry. Sorry. Let me join in the gossip. What were you talking about in my absence?’

‘Have a sandesh, Kuku,’ said her mother.

‘So, Dipankar,’ said Dr Ila Chattopadhyay. ‘Have you changed your subject yet?’

‘I can’t, Ila Kaki,’ said Dipankar.

‘Why not? The sooner you make the move the better. There isn’t a single decent human being I know who is an economist. Why can’t you change?’

‘Because I’ve already graduated’

‘Oh!’ Dr Ila Chattopadhyay appeared temporarily floored. ‘And what are you going to do with yourself?’

‘I’ll decide in a week or two. I’ll think things out when I’m at the Pul Mela. It’ll be a time for appraising myself in the spiritual and intellectual context.’

Dr Ila Chattopadhyay, breaking a sandesh in half, said: ‘Really, Lata, have you ever heard such unconvincing prevarication? I’ve never understood what “the spiritual context” means. Spiritual matters are an utter waste of time. I’d rather spend my time listening to the kind of gossip your aunt purveys and that your mother pretends to suffer through than go to something like the Pul Mela. Isn’t it very dirty?’ she turned to Dipankar. ‘All those millions of pilgrims crowded along a strip of sand just under the Brahmpur Fort? And doing – doing everything there.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Dipankar. ‘I’ve never been. But it’s supposed to be well organized. They even have a District Magistrate allocated especially for the great Pul Mela every sixth year. This year’s a sixth year, so bathing is especially auspicious.’