A Suitable Boy(571)

‘And I’m not even properly dressed – my sari’s all crushed! Oh, Asha Di, how sweet of you to come – how sweet of Arun to have invited you – and I had no idea, none!’ she exclaimed.

Asha Di was the mother, as it happened, of one of Arun’s old flames, and Meenakshi insisted on telling her how domesticated Arun had become. ‘Why, he spends half his evenings on the floor, doing jigsaw puzzles with Aparna.’

A wonderful time was had by all. Mrs Rupa Mehra ate more chocolate cake than her doctor would have advised. Arun told her that he had tried to get her some roses on the way home but had not succeeded.

When the guests had left, Mrs Rupa Mehra began opening her gifts. Arun, meanwhile, with only a word to Meenakshi, drove off in the Austin to try to locate the flower-seller again.

But when she opened the gift from Arun and Meenakshi she burst into injured tears. It was a very expensive japanese lacquer box, which someone had given Meenakshi, and which Meenakshi had once, within earshot of her mother-in-law, described as being ‘utterly ugly, but I suppose I can always give it away’.

Mrs Rupa Mehra had retreated from the drawing room and was sitting on her bed in the small bedroom with a hunted expression on her face.

‘What’s the matter, Ma?’ said Varun.

‘But the box is beautiful, Ma,’ said Savita.

‘You can keep the lacquer box, I don’t care,’ sobbed Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘I don’t care whether I have the flowers or not, I know what he was feeling, what love he has for me, you can say anything you like, but I know. You can say anything you like, now you all go away, I want to be by myself.’

They looked at her with incredulity – it was as if Garbo had decided to join the Pul Mela.

‘Oh, Ma’s just being difficult. Arun treats her much better than he treats me,’ said Meenakshi.

‘But, Ma –’ said Lata.

‘You also, go now. I know him, he is like his father. For all his tempers, his tantrums, his blow-ups, his fussiness, he has a big heart. But Meenakshi, for all her style, her thankyous, her goodbyes, her elegant laughter, her lacquer boxes, her Ballygunge Chatterjis, doesn’t care for anyone. And least of all for me.’

‘That’s right, Ma –’ said Meenakshi. ‘If at first you don’t succeed, cry, cry again.’

‘Impossible! she thought to herself, and walked out of the bedroom.

‘But, Ma –’ said Savita, turning the box around in her hands.

Mrs Rupa Mehra shook her head.

Slowly, with puzzled looks, her children filed out.

Mrs Rupa Mehra started weeping again and hardly noticed or cared. No one understood her, none of her children, no one, not even Lata. She wanted never to see another birthday. Why had her husband gone and died when she had loved him so much? No one would ever hold her again as a man holds a woman, no one would cheer her up as one cheers up a child, her husband was eight years dead, and soon he would be eighteen years dead, and soon twenty-eight.

She had wanted to have some fun in life when she was young. But her mother had died and she had had to take care of the younger children. Her father had always been impossible. She had had a few happy years of married life, and then Raghubir had died. Life had pressed in on her, a widow with too many encumbrances.

She was seized with anger against her late husband, who used to bring her an armful of red roses every birthday, and against fate, and against God. Where is there justice in this world, she said, when I have to observe our birthdays and our anniversary each year in loneliness that even my children can’t understand? Take me soon from this horrible world, she prayed. Just let me see this stupid Lata married and Varun settled in a job, and my first grandson, and then I can die happily.





16.3


DIPANKAR stepped out of his hut in the garden after having meditated for an hour or so. He had come to a decision about the next step in his life. This decision was irrevocable unless he changed his mind.

The old gardener and the short, dark, cheerful young fellow who assisted him were at work among the roses. Dipankar stopped to talk to them, and heard disturbing complaints. The driver’s ten-year-old son had been at his destruction again; he had lopped the heads off a few of the chrysanthemums that were still blooming against the creeper-covered fence which hid the servants’ quarters. Dipankar, for all his non-violence and meditation, felt like cuffing the boy. It was so pointless and idiotic. Speaking to the boy’s father had done no good. The driver had merely looked resentful. The fact was that the mother ruled the roost, and let the boy do what he wanted.

Cuddles bounded towards Dipankar, barking hoarsely. Dipankar, though his mind was on other matters, threw him a stick. Back bounded Cuddles, demanding affection: he was a strange dog, murderous and loving by turns. A bedraggled myna tried to dive-bomb Cuddles; Cuddles appeared to take this in his stride.