‘One quick war, and Bengal will be united once again.’
This was considered so stupid that no one responded.
For a few minutes there was contented silence.
‘Did you read that article where Netaji’s air-crash death was contradicted? It appeared two days ago –’
‘Well, if he’s alive, he’s not doing much to prove it.’
‘Naturally he has to lie low.’
‘Why? The British have gone.’
‘Ah – but he has worse enemies among those left behind.’
‘Who?’
‘Nehru – and all the others,’ ended the proponent darkly if lamely.
‘I suppose you think Hitler is alive as well?’ This elicited a chuckle all around.
‘When is your Amit Babu getting married?’ asked someone of Biswas Babu after a pause. ‘All Calcutta is waiting.’
‘Let Calcutta wait,’ said Biswas Babu and returned to his newspaper.
‘It is your responsibility to do something – “by hooks and by crooks” as they say in English.’
‘I have done enough,’ said Biswas Babu with stylized weariness. ‘He’s a good boy, but a dreamer.’
‘A good boy – but a dreamer! Oh, let’s have that son-in-law joke again,’ said someone to Biswas Babu and the burra babu.
‘No, no –’ they both demurred. But they were easily enough prevailed upon by the others to act it out. Both of them enjoyed acting, and this skit was only a few lines long. They had acted it half a dozen times before, and to the same audience; the adda, normally so torpid, was given to occasional theatricality.
The burra babu walked around the room, examining the produce in a fish market. Suddenly he saw his old friend. ‘Ah, ah, Biswas Babu,’ he exclaimed joyfully.
‘Yes, yes, borro babu – it has been a long time,’ said Biswas Babu, shaking out his umbrella.
‘Congratulations on your daughter’s engagement, Biswas Babu. A good boy?’
Biswas Babu nodded his head vigorously. ‘He’s a good boy. Very decent. Well, he eats an onion or two sometimes, but that’s all.’
The burra babu, clearly shocked, exclaimed: ‘What? Does he eat onions every day?’
‘Oh no! Not every day. Far from it. Only when he has had a few drinks.’
‘But drinking! Surely he doesn’t drink often.’
‘Oh no!’ said Biswas Babu. ‘By no means. Only when he’s with women of an evening…’
‘But women – what! – and does this happen regularly?’
‘Oh no!’ exclaimed Biswas Babu. ‘He can’t afford to visit prostitutes so often. His father is a retired pimp, and destitute, and the boy can only sponge off him once in a while.’
The adda greeted this performance with cheers and laughter. It whetted their appetite for the play they would be going to see later in the evening at a local North Calcutta venue – the Star Theatre. The tea soon came in, together with a few delicious lobongolotikas and other sweets prepared by Biswas Babu’s daughter-in-law; and for a few minutes everyone fell appreciatively silent except for a few tongue-clicks and comments of enjoyment.
7.39
DIPANKAR sat on the little rug in his room with Cuddles on his lap, and dispensed advice to his troubled siblings.
Whereas no one dared to interrupt Amit while he was working, or for fear that he might be working, on his immortal prose or verse, it was open season on Dipankar’s time and energy.
They came in for specific advice, or sometimes just to talk. There was something pleasantly and zanily earnest about Dipankar which was very reassuring.
Although Dipankar was utterly indecisive in his own life – or perhaps for that very reason – he was quite good at throwing out useful suggestions into the lives of others.
Meenakshi dropped in first with a question about whether it was possible to love more than one person – ‘utterly, desperately, and truly’. Dipankar talked the matter over with her in strictly unspecific terms, and came to the conclusion that it certainly was possible. The ideal, of course, was to love everyone in the universe equally, he said. Meenakshi was far from convinced of this but felt much better for having talked it over.
Kuku came in next with a specific problem. What was she to do with Hans? He couldn’t bear Bengali food, he was a worse philistine even than Arun, who refused to eat fish-heads, even the most delicious bits, the eyes. Hans had not taken to fried neem leaves (he found them too bitter, just imagine, said Kuku), and she did not know if she could really love a man who didn’t like neem leaves. More importantly, did he really love her? Hans might have to be discarded yet, for all his Schubert and Schmerz.