A Suitable Boy(307)

‘Yes.’

‘I wish I could visit you in Brahmpur. But Savita’s house, I hear, is so small, not like my father’s luxury hotel.’ She spoke the last words bitterly.

‘You must come, Kiran. You can easily stay with us for a week – or more. Your term starts fifteen days after ours. And we’ll get to know each other better.’

Again Kiran’s silence grew almost guilty. She did not even respond aloud to what Lata had said.

Lata was relieved to see her mother again. Mrs Rupa Mehra ticked them off for taking such a long time to return. To Lata’s ears the familiar reprimands were like music.

‘You must tell me –’ Mrs Rupa Mehra began.

‘Ma, first we went along the road past the Chief Court, and then we got to the Residency. At the foot of the Residency was an obelisk which commemorated the officers and sepoys who had remained loyal to the British. Three squirrels sat at the base of –’

‘Lata!’

‘Yes, Ma?’

‘You are behaving very badly. All I wanted to know was –’

‘Everything.’

Mrs Rupa Mehra frowned, then turned to her cousin.

‘Do you have the same trouble with Kiran?’ she asked.

‘Oh, no,’ said Mrs Sahgal. ‘Kiran is a very good girl. It is all due to Sahgal Sahib. Sahgal Sahib is always talking to her and giving her advice. There could be no father like him. Even when clients are waiting… But Lata is a good girl too.’

‘No,’ said Lata, laughing. ‘Unfortunately I am a bad girl. Ma, what will you do if I do get married and move away? Whom will you be able to tick off?’

‘I will tick you off just the same,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.

Mr Sahgal had entered meanwhile, and, having heard the last part of the conversation, said in a calm, avuncular voice: ‘Lata, you are not a bad girl, I know. I have heard all about your results and we are very proud of you. Sometime soon we must have a long talk about the future.’

Kiran stood up. ‘I am going to talk to Pushkar,’ she said.

‘Sit down,’ said Mr Sahgal, in the same calm voice.

Kiran, white-faced, sat down.

Mr Sahgal’s eyes wandered around the room.

‘Shall I put on the gramophone?’ asked his wife.

‘Do you have any hobbies?’ said Mr Sahgal to Lata.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘She has begun to sing classical music very beautifully. And she is a real bookworm.’

‘I enjoy photography,’ said Mr Sahgal. ‘When I was in England studying law, I began to take an interest in it.’

‘The albums?’ asked Mrs Sahgal, breathless with the possibility of being of service to him.

‘Yes.’

She laid them on the table before him. Mr Sahgal started showing them photographs of his English landladies and their daughters, other girls he had known there, then a few Indian photographs, followed by pages and pages of his wife and daughter, sometimes in poses that Lata found distasteful. In one, Mrs Sahgal had bent forward, and one of her breasts was almost spilling out of her blouse. Mr Sahgal carried on an explanation, gentle and measured, of the art of photography, about composition and exposure, grain and gloss, contrast and depth of field.

Lata glanced at her mother. Mrs Rupa Mehra was looking at the photographs with puzzled interest. Mrs Sahgal’s face was flushed with pride. Kiran was sitting rigid, as if she had been taken ill. Again she was biting the base of her thumb in that unusual and disturbing gesture. When she noticed Lata’s gaze on her, she looked at her with a mixture of shame and hatred.

After dinner Lata went straight to her room. She felt an acute sense of unease, and was glad they were leaving Lucknow the next day. Her mother, on the other hand, was thinking of postponing their departure, since both Mr and Mrs Sahgal were very keen that they stay on for a few days.

‘What is this?’ Mrs Sahgal had said at dinner. ‘You come for one day, and then you disappear for a year. Is this the way a sister should behave?’

‘I want to stay, Maya,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘But Lata’s term begins so soon. Otherwise we would have been very happy to stay with you and Sahgal Sahib. Next time we will stay longer.’

Pushkar had held his peace throughout dinner. He could just about feed himself with help from his father. Mr Sahgal had looked very tired by the end of the meal. He had then put Pushkar to bed.

Returning to the drawing room, he had wished everyone good-night and gone immediately to his room at the near end of the long corridor. His wife’s room was opposite his. Then came the guest rooms, and finally, at the far end of the corridor, Pushkar’s and Kiran’s rooms. Since Pushkar was fond of a huge grandfather clock – a family heirloom – Mr Sahgal had installed it just outside his room. Sometimes Pushkar would sing out the chimes. He had even learned to wind it up himself.