She took a walk, scattered some peanuts to the monkeys on the cliff, and was the centre of their approving attention for a while. During the Pul Mela the monkeys had been royally feasted, but now it was back to normal lean times; and very few people paused to consider their welfare.
Having performed a generous action, Lata felt she could think more clearly. Kabir had once before waited for her in vain at the Brahmpur Literary Society. He had even had to eat some of Mrs Nowrojee’s cake, Lata felt she could not inflict such an experience on him again. She wrote him a short note:
Dear Kabir,
I have got your note, but will not be going to the Nowrojees’ this Friday. I got your letter too when I was in Calcutta. It made me think over and remember everything. I am not annoyed with you in any way; please do not think so. But I feel that there is no purpose at all in our writing or meeting. There would be a lot of pain and very little point.
Lata
After reading over her note three times, and wondering whether to rewrite it without the last sentence, Lata became impatient with herself and posted it as it was.
She did visit Prem Nivas that day, and was relieved to discover that Kabir was not visiting Bhaskar at the time.
A couple of days after the Monsoon Term began, Malati and Lata went to the auditions for Twelfth Night. A nervous young philosophy teacher with a lively interest in the theatre was directing the Annual Day play this year. The auditions – it was the day for female auditions – took place not in the university auditorium but in the staff room of the Philosophy Department. It was five o’clock in the afternoon. About fifteen girls were gathered there, chattering nervously in knots, or just looking at Mr Barua with fascinated anxiety. Lata recognized several girls from the English Department, a couple even from her year, but none whom she knew very well. Malati had come along with her in order to ensure that she didn’t back out at the last moment. ‘I’ll audition as well, if you want.’
‘But don’t you have some of your practicals in the afternoon?’ asked Lata. ‘If you get a part and have to rehearse –’
‘I won’t get a part,’ said Malati firmly.
Mr Barua made the girls stand up one by one and read various passages from the play. There were only three female parts and, besides, Mr Barua had not decided definitely that the part of Viola would go to a girl, so the competition was severe. Mr Barua read every role – male or female – other than the one that the auditioner was reading, and he read them so well, discarding entirely the nervousness of his ordinary manner, that many of the girls in the audience, and one or two who were auditioning, started giggling.
Mr Barua first made them read Viola’s part beginning: ‘Good madam, let me see your face.’ Then, depending upon what they made of it, he asked them to read something else, either from Olivia’s role or from Maria’s, but only in Lata’s case from both. Some girls read in a singsong voice or had some other irksome trait of speech; Mr Barua, reverting to his nervous manner, cut them off with: ‘Good, thank you, thank you very much, that was good, very good, very good indeed, I have an excellent idea now, well, good, good –’ until the girl who was reading got the idea, and (in a couple of cases, tearfully) returned to her chair.
After the auditions, Mr Barua said to Lata, within the hearing of a couple of other girls: ‘That was well read, Miss Mehra, I’m surprised I haven’t seen you on, well, on stage before.’ Overcome by embarrassment he turned to gather his papers.
Lata was delighted with the nervous compliment. Malati told her that she had better prepare Mrs Rupa Mehra for the fact that she was bound to get a part.
‘Oh, I’m not bound to get a part at all,’ said Lata.
‘Make sure that Pran’s in the room when you bring up the subject,’ said Malati.
Pran, Savita, Mrs Rupa Mehra, and Lata were sitting together after dinner that night when Lata said: ‘Pran, what do you think of Mr Barua?’
Pran paused in his reading. ‘The philosophy lecturer?’
‘Yes – he’s doing the Annual Day play this year, and I wanted to know whether you think he’ll direct it well.’
‘Mm, yes,’ said Pran. ‘I’d heard he was doing it. Twelfth Night or As You Like It or something. Makes a good contrast to Julius Caesar. He’s very good – he’s very good as an actor as well, you know,’ continued Pran. ‘But they say he’s rather poor as a lecturer.’
After a moment’s pause Lata said: ‘It’s Twelfth Night. I went to the auditions, and it’s possible I might get a part in it, so I thought I’d better be forewarned about things.’