And indeed, there were several photographs of his wife on the wall or in small frames here and there. She was a physically attractive woman (as was her daughter) and Mr Sahgal was something of an amateur photographer. He pointed out one or two to Lata; Lata couldn’t help thinking that the poses were a little – she tried to think of a word – ‘film-starrish’. There were also a couple of pictures of Kiran, the daughter, who was about Lata’s age and was studying at Lucknow University. Kiran was tall and pale and quite attractive; but she was abrupt in her movements, and had agitated eyes.
‘And now you will be embarking on the journey of life,’ said Mr Sahgal to Lata. He leaned forward slightly, and spilt a little tea. His wife rushed to mop it up.
‘Mausaji, I don’t want to embark on any journey without checking the ticket first,’ said Lata, trying to make light of his remark, but annoyed that her mother had presumed to talk about such matters to them.
Mrs Rupa Mehra did not consider her mention of Haresh to be an act of presumption, but, on the contrary, of consideration. Mr and Mrs Sahgal were simply being told that they would not have to trawl their nets through the khatri community of Lucknow for Lata’s sake – which they would otherwise certainly have been required to do.
At this point the feeble-minded son, Pushkar, who was a couple of years younger than Lata, began to sing to himself and rock slightly to and fro.
‘What is the matter, son?’ asked his father gently.
‘I want to marry Lata Didi,’ said Pushkar.
Mr Sahgal shrugged apologetically towards Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘He is like this sometimes,’ he said. ‘Come, Pushkar – let us go and make something with your Meccano set.’ They left the room.
Lata suddenly felt a peculiar sense of unease, which seemed to reach back to the memory of an earlier visit to Lucknow. But it was so unspecific that she could not recall what had caused it. She felt she needed to be by herself, to get out of the house, to go for a walk.
‘I’ll take a walk to the old British Residency,’ she said. ‘It’s cooler now, and it’s only a few minutes away.’
‘But you haven’t eaten even one samosa yet,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.
‘Ma, I’m not hungry. But I do want to go for a walk.’
‘You can’t go by yourself,’ saidher mother firmly. ‘This isn’t Brahmpur. Wait till Mausaji comes back, maybe he’ll go with you.’
‘I’ll go with Lata,’ said Kiran quickly.
‘That’s very sweet of you, Kiran,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘But don’t dawdle. When girls get together they talk for hours without noticing the time go by.’
‘We’ll be back by dark,’ said Kiran. ‘Don’t worry, Rupa Masi.’
9.15
THERE were a few clouds in the eastern sky, greyish, but not rain-bearing. The road to the Residency past the fine red-brick building of the Lucknow Chief Court – now the Lucknow Bench of the Allahabad High Court – was uncrowded. This was where Mr Sahgal practised. Kiran and Lata hardly talked at all, and this suited Lata.
Though Lata had been to Lucknow twice before – once when she was nine, when her father was alive, once when she was about fourteen, after his death – and had stayed each time with the Sahgals, she had never visited the ruined Residency. It was in fact a mere fifteen minutes’ walk from the Sahgals’ house near Kaiserbagh. What she remembered about her two previous stays were not the historical monuments of Lucknow but the fresh, home-made white butter Mrs Sahgal served; and for some reason she recalled being given a whole bunch of grapes for breakfast. She also remembered how friendly Kiran had been on her first trip, and how unfriendly – even resentful – she had been on the second. By then it was clear that all was not well with her brother, and perhaps she had envied Lata her two brothers, noisy, affectionate, and normal. But you have your father, Lata had thought, and I have lost mine. Why do you dislike me? Lata was glad that Kiran was at last trying to restore the friendship; she only wished that she herself were better placed today to reciprocate.
For today she had no wish at all to talk to Kiran or anyone – least of all to Mrs Rupa Mehra. She wanted to be by herself – to think about her life, and what was happening to it, to her. Or perhaps not even to think about it – to be distracted, rather, by something so far and past and grand that it would limit the scope of her own elations and distresses. She had felt something of that spirit in the Park Street Cemetery that day in the pouring rain. It was that spirit of distance that she was trying to recapture.