‘Yes, Baoji,’ said Maan obediently.
‘What did I say?’ demanded his father.
‘About marriage, Baoji,’ said Maan.
‘What about marriage?’
Maan was nonplussed.
‘Don’t you listen?’ demanded Mahesh Kapoor, wanting to twist Maan’s ear. ‘You are as bad as the clerks in the Revenue Department. You were not paying attention, you were waving at Firoz.’
Maan looked a little shamefaced. He knew what his father thought of him. But he had been enjoying himself until a couple of minutes ago, and it was just like Baoji to come and puncture his light spirits.
‘So that’s all fixed up,’ continued his father. ‘Don’t tell me later that I didn’t warn you. And don’t get that weak-willed woman, your mother, to change her mind and come telling me that you aren’t yet ready to take on the responsibilities of a man.’
‘No, Baoji,’ said Maan, getting the drift of things and I looking a trifle glum.
‘We chose well for Veena, we have chosen well for Pran; and you are not to complain about our choice of a bride for you.’
Maan said nothing. He was wondering how to repair the puncture. He had a bottle of Scotch upstairs in his room, and perhaps he and Firoz could escape for a few minutes before the ceremony – or even during it – for refreshment.
His father paused to smile brusquely at a few wellwishers, then turned to Maan again.
‘I don’t want to have to waste any more time with you today. God knows I have enough to do as it is. What has happened to Pran and that girl, what’s her name? It’s getting late. They were supposed to come out from opposite ends of the house and meet here for the jaymala five minutes ago.’
‘Savita,’ prompted Maan.
‘Yes, yes,’ said his father impatiently. ‘Savita. Your superstitious mother will start panicking if they miss the correct configuration of the stars. Go and calm her down. Go! Do some good.
And Mahesh Kapoor went back to his own duties as a host. He frowned impatiently at one of the officiating priests, who smiled weakly back. He narrowly avoided being butted in the stomach and knocked over by three children, offspring of his rural relatives, who were careering joyfully around the garden as if it were a field of stubble. And he greeted, before he had walked ten steps, a professor of literature (who could be useful for Pran’s career two influential members of the state legislature from the Congress Party (who might well agree to back him in his perennial power-struggle with the Home Minister); a judge, the very last Englishman to remain on the bench of the Brahmpur High Court after Independence; and his old friend the Nawab Sahib of Baitar, one of the largest landowners in the state.
1.3
LATA, who had heard a part of Maan’s conversation with his father, could not help smiling to herself as she walked past.
‘I see you’re enjoying yourself,’ said Maan to her in English.
His conversation with his father had been in Hindi, hers with her mother in English. Maan spoke both well.
Lata was struck shy, as she sometimes was with strangers, especially those who smiled as boldly as Maan. Let him do the smiling for both of us, she thought.
‘Yes,’ she said simply, her eyes resting on his face for just a second. Aparna tugged at her hand.
‘Well, now, we‘re almost family,’ said Maan, perhaps sensing her awkwardness. ‘A few minutes more, and the ceremonies will start.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Lata, looking up at him again more confidently. She paused and frowned. ‘My mother’s concerned that they won’t start on time.’
‘So is my father,’ said Maan.
Lata began smiling again, but when Maan asked her why she shook her head.
‘Well,’ said Maan, flicking a rose-petal off his beautiful tight white achkan, ‘you’re not laughing at me, are you?’
‘I’m not laughing at all,’ said Lata.
‘Smiling, I meant.’
‘No, not at you,’ said Lata. ‘At myself.’
‘That’s very mysterious,’ said Maan. His good-natured face melted into an expression of exaggerated perplexity.
‘It’ll have to remain so, I’m afraid,’ said Lata, almost laughing now. ‘Aparna here wants her ice-cream, and I must supply it.’
‘Try the pistachio ice-cream,’ suggested Maan. His eyes followed her pink sari for a few seconds. Good-looking girl – in a way, he thought again. Pink’s the wrong colour for her complexion, though. She should be dressed in deep green or dark blue … like that woman there. His attention veered to a new object of contemplation.
A few seconds later Lata bumped into her best friend, Malati, a medical student who shared her room at the student hostel. Malati was very outgoing and never lost her tongue with strangers. Strangers, however, blinking into her lovely green eyes, sometimes lost their tongues with her.