A Suitable Boy(433)

Dr Kishen Chand Seth’s idea of an ideal afternoon of bridge was furious, ruthless play combined with continuous conversation; and his idea of entertaining conversation was a series of small shocks and explosions.

When he was most delighted, he actually cackled. And it was a cackle that preceded the following remark: ‘Two spades. Hm, hm, hmm, now, Minister – ex-Minister, I should say – you are taking as long to bid as it must have taken you to decide to resign.’

Mahesh Kapoor frowned in concentration. ‘What? Pass.’

‘Or as long as it took him to frame the Zamindari Act, wouldn’t you say, Nawab Sahib? He was always a slow bidder; let’s hope he takes his time gobbling up your estates. But there’s no reason for you to bid so slowly.’

The Nawab Sahib, somewhat distracted, said, ‘Three hearts.’

‘But I forget,’ said Dr Kishen Chand Seth, turning to the left. ‘You won’t be doing that any longer. Who will, I wonder. Agarwal? Could he handle both Revenue and Home?’

Mr Mahesh Kapoor sat up a little more stiffly, but said nothing. He held his cards in a slightly tighter grip. He thought for a moment of reminding his host that it had been L.N. Agarwal himself who had issued the order for requisitioning cars. But he held his tongue.

‘No, er, no bid,’ said Dr Durrani.

Dr Kishen Chand Seth, having seen three of his squibs fizzle out, sent up a fourth. ‘It’s a portfolio that requires someone responsible, and who else is there in the Cabinet as competent as Agarwal? Now, what shall I bid? What shall I bid? Three spades. Good. But I must say he did a good job teaching those students a lesson. In my day, medical students stuck to their Anatomy and did not make cadavers of themselves. Three spades. Yes, what’s your bid, now, Kapoor Sahib?’

Mahesh Kapoor looked across at his partner, and thought of the student who had restored his grandson to him. Dr Durrani seemed to be going through a struggle with himself. ‘Well, er, do you, well, consider that the lathi charge was, um, justified?’ he asked, scrunching his eyes up. There was as much disapproval in his voice as it was ever capable of holding, which wasn’t much. He had expressed only the mildest verbal disapproval when his wife had tried to destroy a large part of his life’s work by tearing up his mathematical papers.

‘Oh, but I do, I do –’ cried Dr Kishen Chand Seth with relish. ‘One must be cruel only to be kind. The surgeon’s knife; we doctors learn that at an early age. But you are a doctor too, of course. A doctor of a kind. Not yet a professor, but no doubt that will come. You should ask Professor Mishra there what it takes to rise to such a height.’

By such means did Dr Kishen Chand Seth knit the two tables together into a web of distracting conversation. His own game thrived upon the stimulus that this turmoil provided. Most of the others were used to him through acquaintance, and tried not to get provoked. But anyone else who was present and attempting to play in the bridge room at that time would have been tempted to complain to the committee, had Dr Kishen Chand Seth himself not been a member of it. Since he was one of the oldest members of the Subzipore Club and since he believed in terrorizing everyone else before they could complain even mildly about him, his odd behaviour escaped its normal consequences.

When he saw the dummy’s hand, Dr Kishen Chand Seth almost had a fit. After he had played the hand, he and the Nawab Sahib were one trick down, and Dr Seth turned roundly on his partner. ‘Good heavens, Nawab Sahib, with such a poor hand, how did you go on to bid three hearts? We had no chance of making nine tricks.’

‘You could have had hearts.’

Dr Kishen Chand Seth bristled with rage. ‘If I had hearts, partner, I would have bid the suit earlier,’ he almost shouted. ‘If you didn’t have spades, you should have shut up – the bidding. This is what happens when you turn your back on your religion and play cards with infidels.’

The Nawab Sahib told himself, as he often had before, that he would never respond to one of Dr Kishen Chand Seth’s invitations in the future.

‘Now, now, Kishy,’ said Parvati mildly, glancing across from the other table.

‘Sorry – sorry –’ said Dr Kishen Chand Seth. ‘I – well – well, whose turn is it to deal? Ah, yes, drinks. What will everyone have to drink?’ And he clicked out the small wood and brass extension located immediately to his right in the table; it contained an ashtray and a coaster. ‘First the ladies. Gin for the ladies?’

Mrs O.P. Mishra cast a terrified look at her husband. Parvati Seth, catching the look, said, ‘Kishy!’ rather sharply.