13.17
WHAT with the activity surrounding Pran’s illness and the baby’s arrival, Lata’s own reticence and Malati’s protective presence at rehearsals, Lata and Kabir had merely exchanged Shakespeare’s lines, and none of their own, for the last few days. Lata longed to tell him how much she sympathized with him about his mother, but did not know how to do so without eliciting an intensity of feeling on both sides that she feared would shake her – and probably him – too painfully. So she said nothing. But Mr Barua noticed that Olivia was kinder to Malvolio than he thought the script merited, and he tried to correct her.
‘Now, Miss Mehra, do try that again. “O you are sick of self-love, Malvolio –” ’
Lata cleared her throat for a second attempt. ‘O you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite –’
‘No, no, Miss Mehra – like this: “O you are sick –” and so on. Slightly sharp, slightly tired. You are irritated by Malvolio. It is he who is mooning over you.’
Lata tried to think of how angry she had been when she saw Kabir at the first rehearsal. She began once more: ‘O you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon-bullets –’
‘Ah, yes, much better, much better. But you seem rather too annoyed. Tone it down, Miss Mehra, if you would, tone it down a little. That way, when he seems to be really mad later on, even offensive, you’ll have an unused range of emotions that you can bring into play. Do you see what I mean?’
‘Yes, yes I think I do, Mr Barua.’
Kakoli and Meenakshi had been chatting to Malati for a while, but she suddenly disappeared. ‘My cue,’ she explained, and bounced into the wings to come on as Maria.
‘What do you think, Kuku?’ said Meenakshi.
‘I think she has a soft spot for that Malvolio chap.’
‘Malati assured us she hadn’t,’ said Meenakshi. ‘She even called him a cad. Seemed a strange word to use. A cad.’
‘I think he’s delicious. He looks so broad-shouldered and soulful. I wish he’d shoot a cannon-bullet at me. Or his bird-bolt.’
‘Really, Kuku, you have no decency at all,’ said Meenakshi.
‘Lata has certainly opened up since she was in Calcutta,’ said Kakoli thoughtfully. ‘If Amit is to stand a chance, he can’t continue to lie low –’
‘The early worm catches the bird,’ said Meenakshi.
Kakoli giggled.
Mr Barua turned around in annoyance. ‘Er, would the two young ladies at the back –’
‘But it’s so amusing – the lines, I mean – under your direction,’ said Kakoli with brazen sweetness. Some of the boys laughed, and Mr Barua turned around, blushing.
But after a few minutes of foolery by Sir Toby, both Kakoli and Meenakshi got bored, and left.
That evening, the two sisters went to the hospital. They spent a few seconds with Pran, whom they found unattractive and negligible – ‘I knew it the minute I saw him at the wedding,’ said Meenakshi – and most of their time upstairs in Savita’s room. Meenakshi advised Savita about her feeding times. Savita listened carefully, thinking about other matters. Lots of other people came in, and the room became as crowded as a concert. Meenakshi and Kakoli, pheasants among the Brahmpur pigeons, looked around them with unfeigned contempt, especially at the Rudhia relatives and Mrs Mahesh Kapoor. Some of these people were incapable of speaking English. And the way they dressed!
Mrs Mahesh Kapoor for her part could not believe that these two shamelessly bare-waisted and bold-mouthed girls were the sisters of that nice boy Dipankar, who was so simple in his dress, amiable in his manners, and spiritual in his tastes. She was upset that Maan appeared to be hovering fascinatedly nearby. Kuku was looking at him with liquid eyes. Meenakshi’s eyes held a look of come-hither disdain which was as challenging as Kuku’s was appealing. Perhaps because she did not understand much English, Mrs Mahesh Kapoor was able more keenly to observe the unobvious undercurrents of hostility and attraction, contempt and admiration, tenderness and indifference that tied together the twenty or so people talking non-stop in this room.
Meenakshi was telling a story, punctuated by her bell-like laugh, about her own pregnancy. ‘It had to be Dr Evans, of course. Dr Matthew Evans. Really, if one has to have a baby in Calcutta, there’s no other choice. Such a charming man. Absolutely the best gynaecologist in Calcutta. He has such a nice way with his patients.’