‘Amit?’ .
‘No, the other one – the holy man who was fond of Scotch.’
‘Dipankar.’
‘Yes, that’s it… At any rate, you’ll meet him when we go to Calcutta in December,’ said Pran.
‘But I’ve already met him,’ Savita pointed out. ‘At the Pul Mela, most recently.’
‘I meant Haresh. You can appraise him at your leisure.’
‘But you were just talking about Dipankar.’
‘Was I, dear?’
‘Really, Pran, I wish you would keep track of your conversation. It’s very confusing. I’m sure this isn’t how you lecture.’
‘I lecture rather well,’ said Pran, ‘even if I say so myself. But don’t take my word for it. Ask Malati.’
‘I have no intention of asking Malati how you lecture. The last time she listened to you, you were so overcome you fainted away.’
The boatman was getting tired of holding his boat steady against the current. ‘Do you want to talk or to watch the Barsaat Mahal?’ he asked. ‘You’re paying me good money to come here.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Pran vaguely.
‘You should have come here three nights ago,’ said the boatman – ‘there were fires burning all along there. Beautiful it looked, and you couldn’t smell it here on the Ganga. And the next day lots of corpses at the ghat there. Too many for one ghat to handle. The municipality has been planning another burning ghat for years now but they’ll never get down to deciding where.’
‘Why?’ Pran couldn’t resist asking.
‘If it’s on the Brahmpur side it’ll face north like this one. Of course, by rights it should face south, in the direction of Yama. But that would put it on the other shore, and they’d have to ferry the bodies – and the passengers – across.’
‘They. You mean you.’
‘I suppose so. I wouldn’t complain.’
For a while Pran and Savita looked at the Barsaat Mahal, lit in the full light of the full moon. Beautiful by itself, its reflection at night made it look lovelier than ever. The moon shivered gently in the water. The boatman said nothing further.
Another boat passed them. For some reason Pran shuddered.
‘What’s the matter, darling?’
‘Nothing.’
Savita took a small coin out of her purse and put it in Pran’s hand.
‘Well, what I was thinking was how peaceful it all looks.’
Savita nodded to herself in the darkness. Pran suddenly realized she was crying.
‘What’s the matter, darling? What have I said?’
‘Nothing. I’m so happy. I’m just happy.’
‘How strange you are,’ said Pran, stroking her hair.
The boatman released his pole and, guided only casually by him, the boat began to move downstream again. Quietly they moved down the calm and sacred river that had come down to earth so that its waters might flow over the ashes of those long dead, and that would continue to flow long after the human race had, through hatred and knowledge, burned itself out.
15.16
FOR the last few weeks Mahesh Kapoor had been in two minds – two uncertain and troubled minds – about whether to go back to the Congress Party. He, who was so full of definite, often dismissive, opinion, had found himself lost in a dust-storm of indecision.
Too many factors were whirling around in his head and each time they came to rest they formed a new configuration.
What the Chief Minister had said to him in his garden; what the Nawab Sahib had said to him at the Fort; the visit to Prem Nivas of the seceder from U.P. who had rejoined the Congress; Baba’s advice in Debaria; Nehru’s coup; Rafi Sahib’s circuitous return to the fold; his own beloved legislation which he wanted to make sure did not merely moulder on the statute-books; irritat- ingly enough, even his wife’s unspoken but palpable view of the whole matter: all these told him to go back to the party that, until his slow but thorough disillusionment, had unquestionably been his home.
Things had doubtless changed greatly since that disillusionment. And yet, when he thought about it deeply, how much had really changed? Could he belong in a party that contained – could he bear to belong to a government that might possibly be run by – the likes of the present Home Minister? The list of Congress candidates that was being drawn up in the state did nothing to dispel his disillusionment. Nor, after his talk with his old Parliamentary Secretary, could he honestly claim to himself that he sensed in Nehru any new surge of decisiveness. Nehru could not even ensure the passage of his favourite bill through Parliament. Compromise and muddle had reigned, and compromise and muddle would reign.