9.16
LATA lay awake for a while. It was the height of summer, so there was only a sheet by way of covering. The fan was on, but there was no need yet for a mosquito net. The chimes on the quarter-hour were soft, but when the clock struck eleven, then midnight, it resounded along the corridor. Lata read a little by the weak light at her bedside, but the events of the last two days swam between her and the pages. Finally she put out the light and closed her eyes, and dreamed, half-awake, of Kabir.
Slow footsteps padded down the carpeted corridor. When they stopped outside her door, she sat up, startled. They were not her mother’s footsteps. The door opened, and she saw the silhouette of a man against the dim light in the corridor. It was Mr Sahgal.
Lata turned on the light. Mr Sahgal stood blinking mildly, shaking his head, protecting his eyes with his hand even from the weak light of the bedside lamp. He was dressed in a brown dressing-gown tied with a brown rope with tassels. He looked very tired.
Lata looked at him in dismay and astonishment. ‘Are you all right, Mausaji?’ she asked. ‘Are you ill?’
‘No, not ill. But I have been working late. That is why – and I saw your light was on. But then you put it off. You are an intelligent girl – a great reader.’
He looked around the room, stroking his short-trimmed beard. He was quite a large man. In a thoughtful voice he said: ‘There is no chair here. I must speak to Maya about it.’ He sat himself down at the edge of the bed. ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked Lata. ‘Everything is all right, isn’t it? The pillows and everything? I remember when you were a little girl you used to like grapes. You were very young. And it is the season for them now. Pushkar also likes grapes. Poor boy.’
Lata tried to pull the sheet closer to cover herself better, but Mr Sahgal was sitting on one corner of it.
‘You are very good to Pushkar, Mausaji,’ she said, wondering what she could do or what conversation she could make. She could hear and feel her heart beating.
‘You see,’ said Mr Sahgal in a calm voice, his hands clutching the tassels of the band of his dressing-gown, ‘Living here there is no hope for him. In England they have special schools, special…’ He paused, looking at Lata’s face and neck. ‘That boy, Haresh – he was in England? Maybe he also has photos of his landladies?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Lata, thinking of Mr Sahgal’s suggestive photographs and trying to check her rising fear. ‘Mausaji, I am very sleepy, I have to go tomorrow –’
‘But you are leaving in the evening. We must have our talk now. You see there is no one to talk to in Lucknow. Now in Calcutta – or even Delhi – but I cannot leave Lucknow. My practice, you see.’
‘Yes,’ said Lata. '
‘It would also not be good for Kiran. She already sees bad boys, reads bad books. I have to stop these habits. My wife is a saint, she does not see these things.’ He was explaining things gently to Lata, and Lata was nodding mechanically.
‘My wife is a saint,’ he repeated. ‘Every morning she does puja for an hour. She will do anything for me. Whatever food I want, she cooks with her own hands. She is like Sita – a perfect wife. If I want her to dance naked for me she will dance. She wants nothing for herself. She only wants Kiran to get married. But I feel that Kiran should complete her education – till then what is wrong with living at home? Once, a boy came to the house – actually to the house. I told him to get out – to get out!’ Mr Sahgal no longer looked tired but livid, though his voice was still low. Then he calmed down, and continued in a tone of explanation: ‘But who will marry Kiran when sometimes, you know, Pushkar makes such frightening noises. Sometimes I sense his rage. You don’t mind my confiding like this in you? Kiran is a good friend of yours, I know. You must also tell me about yourself, your plans…’ He sniffed in an appraising way. ‘That is the eau-de-Cologne your mother uses. Kiran never uses eau-de-Cologne. Natural things are best.’
Lata stared at him. Her mouth had become completely dry.
‘But I buy saris for her whenever I go to Delhi,’ continued Mr Sahgal. ‘During the War, society ladies used to wear saris with broad borders; even brocades and tissues. Before she became a widow I once saw your mother wearing her wedding tissue sari. But now all that has gone. Embroidery is considered so vulgar.’
As an afterthought he added: ‘Shall I buy you a sari?’
‘No - no -’ said Lata.
‘Georgette drapes better than chiffon, don’t you think?’
Lata gave no answer.