Veena’s mouth began to tremble. It was the phrase Kedarnath was fond of using when he went away on his interminable sales trips.
There was no comfort for the old lady to be found in Veena’s face. ‘Why didn’t you stop him? Why didn’t Maan stop him?’ she cried. She was furious at her husband for this selfish and irresponsible heroism. Did she and Bhaskar and his mother not exist for him?
‘Maan was on the roof,’ said the old lady.
Now Bhaskar came down the stairs. Something had obviously been troubling him for a while.
‘Why did Firoz Maama have so much blood all over him?’ he demanded. ‘Did Maan Maama beat him up? He said he didn’t. But he was holding the lathi.’
‘Be quiet, Bhaskar,’ said Veena in a desperate voice. ‘Go upstairs at once. Go upstairs and back to bed. Everything’s all right. I’m here if you need me.’ She gave him a hug.
Bhaskar wanted to know exactly what the matter was. ‘Nothing,’ said Veena. ‘I have to prepare some food – don’t get in my way.’ She knew that if Maan got to know about what had happened he would immediately go out to look for his brother-in-law and would put himself at very grievous risk. Kedarnath at least did know exactly where the Hindu areas ended. But she was tormented with anxiety for him. Before Bhaskar had come down she had been on the verge of going out herself. Now she just waited – the most difficult thing of all.
She quickly heated some food for Maan and Firoz, and took it up, pausing on the stairs in order to appear calm.
Maan smiled when he saw her.
‘It’s quite warm,’ said Maan. ‘We’ll sleep together on the roof. Just give us a mattress and a light quilt, and we’ll be fine. Firoz will need a wash, and I could do with one too. Is something wrong?’
Veena shook her head. ‘He almost gets killed, then asks me if something is wrong.’
She took a light quilt out of a trunk, and shook out from its folds the dried neem leaves that she used to preserve winter clothing from pests.
‘Sometimes the night flowers on the roof attract insects,’ she warned them.
‘We’ll be fine,’ said Firoz. ‘I am so grateful to you.’
Veena shook her head. ‘Sleep well,’ she said.
Kedarnath returned home five minutes before curfew. Veena wept, and refused to speak to him. She buried her face in his scarred hands.
For an hour or so Maan and Firoz remained awake. It felt as if the world was trembling beneath them. The distant sound of gunfire had died down, probably as a result of the imposition of curfew, but the glow from the fires, especially to the west, continued through the night.
15.15
ON Sharad Purnima, the brightest night of the year, Pran and Savita hired a boat and went up the Ganga to look at the Barsaat Mahal. Curfew had been lifted that morning. Mrs Rupa Mehra had advised them not to go, but Savita said that no one could set fire to the river.
‘And it isn’t good for Pran’s asthma either,’ added Mrs Rupa Mehra, who believed that he should be confined to his bed and his rocking-chair, and not over-exert himself.
Pran had in fact slowly recovered from the worst of his illness. He was still not able to play cricket, but had built up his strength by walking, at first only around the garden, then a few hundred yards, and finally around campus or along the Ganga. He had avoided the incendiary festivities of Dussehra, and would have to avoid the firecrackers of Divali. But his trouble had not recurred in its acute form, and he had for the most part not allowed it to interfere with his academic work. Some days, when he was feeling weaker, he sat and lectured. His students were protective of him, and even his overworked colleagues on the disciplinary committee tried to relieve him of whatever duties they could.
Tonight, in particular, he felt much better. He reflected on Maan and Firoz’s providential escape – and indeed Kedarnath’s as well – and was inclined to minimize his own problems.
‘Don’t worry, Ma,’ he reassured his mother-in-law. ‘If anything, the river air will do me good. It’s still quite warm.’
‘Well, it won’t be warm on the river. You should take a shawl each. Or a blanket,’ grumbled Mrs Rupa Mehra.
After a pause, she said to Lata: ‘Why are you looking like that? Do you have a headache?’
‘No, Ma, I don’t, please let me read.’
She had been thinking: thank God Maan is safe.
‘What are you reading?’ persisted her mother.
‘Ma!’
‘Bye, Lata, bye, Ma,’ said Pran. ‘Keep your knitting needles out of Uma’s clutches.’
Mrs Rupa Mehra made a sound that was almost a grunt. She believed that one shouldn’t mention such unspeakable dangers. She was knitting booties for the baby in the expectation of colder weather.