‘Famous! All he does is sit in his father’s house and stare out of the upstairs window. A young man should do a job and earn his living.’ Mrs Rupa Mehra enjoyed the poetry of Patience Strong, Wilhelmina Stitch, and various other writers, but that the creation of it involved any activity – or necessary inactivity – she found incomprehensible. ‘Lata has been seeing far too much of him.’
‘You’re not saying that there’s a chance –’ laughed Kalpana, looking at Mrs Rupa Mehra’s expression. ‘Well, Ma, at least let him write a couple of poems to Lata.’
‘I am not saying anything and I am not speculating,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, upset by the thought of the developments in Calcutta. ‘I am tired now. Why must I run from city to city? I think I must have eaten too much, and I have forgotten to rake my homoeopathic medicine.’ She got up, turned to speak again, thought better of it, and picked up her big black bag.
‘Goodnight, Ma,’ said Kalpana. ‘I’ve put a jug of water by your bed. If there’s anything you want, please tell me – Ovaltine or Horlicks or anything. And I’ll get in touch with Haresh tomorrow.’
‘No, darling, you must rest now. It’s very late, and you are not very well.’
‘Actually, Ma, I’m feeling a lot better than I felt earlier today. Haresh and Lata – Lata and Haresh. Well, no harm trying.’
But the next morning, Kalpana Gaur was not feeling at all well, and spent the day listless and yawning. And the day after, when she sent a message to Neel Darvaza, she found that Haresh Khanna had already returned to Kanpur.
9.5
IN THE TRAIN from Calcutta to Kanpur Lata had plenty of time to wonder about her sudden summons. The telegram from Mrs Rupa Mehra had been cryptic, as the best telegrams are, and had required her to come to Kanpur in two days’ time.
It was a day journey, though a long one. Arun had got up early to drop her at Howrah Station. Howrah Bridge was uncrowded. When they got to the station with its familiar smell of smoke, urine and fish, Arun made sure she was well-settled in her ladies’ compartment.
‘What’ll you read on the way?’
‘Emma.’
Not like our saloons, is it?’
No,’ said Lata with a smile.
I’ve telegrammed Brahmpur, so Pran ought to be at the station. Maybe Savita too. Look out for them.’
‘All right, Arun Bhai.’
‘Now, be good. It won’t be the same without you at home. Aparna will be much more difficult.’
‘I’ll write… and, Arun Bhai, when you reply, please type.’
Arun laughed, then yawned.
The train departed on time. Lata was happy once again to see the green and moist country-side of Bengal, which she loved – with its palms and banana-trees, emerald fields of rice and village ponds. After a while, however, the landscape changed into a dry and hilly tract with small ravines over which the train clanked in a different voice.
The land became drier still as they moved westwards into the plains. Dusty fields and poor villages passed by between the telegraph poles and furlong markers. The heat was intense, and Lata’s mind began to wander. She would have been happy to stay in Calcutta for the rest of her holidays, but her mother sometimes took it into her head to insist on companionship for her Rail-Pilgrimages – usually when she felt ill or lonely somewhere along the route. She wondered which it was this time.
The other women in her compartment were shy with each other at first, and only talked to those they were travelling with, but as time passed, through the catalysis of a rather charming baby, they established a web of conversation. Young men from their families stopped by to enquire whether everything was all right when the train halted at a station, brought cups of tea in earthenware cups, and replenished the earthenware pitchers with water, for the day was getting even hotter, and the fans functioned only about half the time.
A woman in a burqa, having established which direction was west, rolled out a small prayer-rug and began to pray.
Lata thought of Kabir, and she felt both miserable and – in a curious way that she could not understand – happy. She loved him still – it was pointless to pretend otherwise. Had Calcutta had any effect at all in diminishing what she felt for him? Certainly, his letter had not given her any great hope of the strength of his feelings for her. Was there anything at all to be said for loving and not being loved equally in return? She didn’t think so. Why, then, did she smile when she thought of him?
Lata read her Emma, and was grateful to be able to. If she had been travelling with her mother, they would have formed the central node in the conversational web, and everyone in the compartment would by now have heard about Bentsen Pryce, Lata’s brilliance in her studies, the details of Mrs Rupa Mehra’s rheumatism, her false teeth and former beauty, the saloon-sheltered glory of her late husband’s inspection tours, the harshness of fate, and the wisdom of acceptance and resignation.