The fourth to visit Dipankar’s clinic was Tapan.
Cuddles at once jumped out of Dipankar’s lap and onto Tapan’s. Whenever Tapan’s trunk was packed for him to go to school, Cuddles would become almost desperate, would sit on the trunk to prevent its removal, and would be inconsolably ferocious for a week afterwards.
Tapan stroked Cuddles’ head and looked at the shiny black triangle formed by his eyes and nose.
‘We’ll never shoot you, Cuddles,’ he promised. ‘Your eyes have no whites at all.’
Cuddles wagged his bristly tail in wholehearted approval.
Tapan looked a bit troubled and seemed to want to talk about something, but wasn’t very articulate about what he wanted to say. Dipankar let him ramble on for a bit. After a while Tapan noticed a book about famous battles on Dipankar’s topmost shelf, and asked to borrow it. Dipankar looked at the dusty book in astonishment – it was a remnant of his unenlightened days – and got it down.
‘Keep it,’ he told Tapan.
‘Are you sure, Dipankar Da?’ asked Tapan gratefully.
‘Sure?’ asked Dipankar, beginning to wonder whether such a book would really be good for Tapan to keep. ‘Well, I’m not really sure. When you’ve read it, bring it back, and we’ll decide what to do with it then… or later.’
Finally, just as he was about to begin meditating, Amit wandered by. He had been writing all day and looked tired.
‘Are you certain I’m not disturbing you?’ he asked.
‘No, Dada, not at all.’
‘You’re quite certain?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because I wanted to discuss something with you – something that it’s quite impossible to discuss with Meenakshi or Kuku.’
‘I know, Dada. Yes, she’s quite nice.’
‘Dipankar!’
‘Yes – unaffected,’ said Dipankar, looking like an umpire indicating a batsman out; ‘intelligent,’ he continued, like Churchill signalling victory; ‘attractive –’, he went on, now representing the trident of Shiva; ‘Chatterji-compatible,’ he murmured, like the Grande Dame emphasizing the four aims of life; ‘and Beastly to Bish,’ he added finally, in the stance of a benevolent Buddha.
‘Beastly to Bish?’ asked Amit.
‘So Meenakshi told me a little while ago, Dada. Apparently, Arun was quite put out and refuses to introduce her to anyone else. Arun’s mother is distraught, Lata is secretly elated, and – oh yes – Meenakshi – who thinks there’s nothing wrong with Bish except that he’s insufferable – is taking Lata’s side. And incidentally, Dada, Biswas Babu, who has heard of her, thinks she is just my type! Did you tell him about her?’ asked Dipankar unblinkingly.
‘No,’ said Amit, frowning. ‘I didn’t. Perhaps Kuku did – the chatterbox. What a gossip you are, Dipankar, don’t you do any work at all? I wish you’d do what Baba says, and get a proper job and handle all these wretched family finances. It would kill both me and my novel if I had to. Anyway, she’s not your type in the least, and you know it. Go and find your own Ideal.’
‘Anything for you, Dada,’ said Dipankar sweetly, and lowered his right hand in gentle blessing.
7.40
MANGOES arrived for Mrs Rupa Mehra from Brahmpur one afternoon, and her eyes gleamed. She had had enough of the langra mango in Calcutta, which (though it was acceptable) did not remind her of her childhood. What she longed for was the delicate, delectable dussehri, and the season for dussehris was, she had thought, over. Savita had sent her a dozen by parcel post a few days earlier, but when the parcel had arrived, apart from three squashed mangoes at the top, there were only stones underneath. Clearly someone in the Post Office had intercepted them. Mrs Rupa Mehra had been as distressed by the wickedness of man as by her own sense of deprivation. She had given up hope of dussehris for this season. And who knows if I’ll be alive next year? she thought to herself dramatically – and somewhat unreasonably, since she was still several years short of fifty. But now here was another parcel with two dozen dussehris, ripe but not over-ripe, and even cool to the touch.
‘Who brought them?’ Mrs Rupa Mehra asked Hanif. ‘The postman?’
‘No, Memsahib. A man.’
‘What did he look like? Where was he from?’ .
‘He was just a man, Memsahib. But he gave me this letter for you.’
Mrs Rupa Mehra looked at Hanif severely. ‘You should have given it to me at once. All right. Bring me a plate and a sharp knife, and wash two mangoes.’ Mrs Rupa Mehra pressed and sniffed a few and selected two. ‘These two.’