A Suitable Boy(634)

Uma grasped the paper and drew a handful of it towards herself. Varun tried to disengage her clasp. She latched onto one of his fingers.

‘Did you bet on the winner?’ asked Pran.

‘No,’ said Varun glumly. ‘Need you ask? Everyone else has all the luck. My horse came in fourth, after Orcades and Fair Ray.’

‘What peculiar names,’ said Lata.

‘Orcades is one of the Orient Line boats,’ said Meenakshi lazily. ‘I am so looking forward to going to England. I shall visit Amit’s college at Oxford. And marry a duke.’

Aparna straightened her head. She wondered what a duke was.

Mrs Rupa Mehra did not care for Meenakshi’s brand of idiocy. Her hardworking elder son was slaving himself to the bone to support the family, and in his absence his empty-headed wife was making jokes in poor taste. She was a bad influence on Lata.

‘You’re married already,’ Mrs Rupa Mehra pointed out.

‘Oh, yes, silly me,’ said Meenakshi. She sighed. ‘How I wish something exciting would happen. Nothing ever happens anywhere. And I was so looking forward to something happening in 1952.’

‘Well, it’s a leap year,’ said Pran encouragingly.

Varun had reached the end of the racing results and turned to another inside page. Suddenly he exclaimed ‘My God!’ in such a shocked tone that everyone turned towards him.

‘Pran, your brother’s been arrested.’

Pran’s first instinct was to consider this another joke in dubious taste, but there was something in Varun’s voice that made him reach for the paper. Uma tried to grab it on the way, but Savita held her off. As Pran read the few lines dated ‘Brahmpur. January 5’ his face grew taut.

‘What is it?’ said Savita, Lata and Mrs Rupa Mehra almost simultaneously. Even Meenakshi raised a languid head in surprise.

Pran shook his head from side to side in agitation. He quickly and silently read about the attack on Firoz – and that he was still in critical condition. The news was worse than he could possibly have imagined. But no telephone call or telegram had come from Brahmpur to inform him or warn him or summon him. Perhaps his father was still campaigning in his constituency. No, thought Pran. He would have heard within hours and rushed back to Brahmpur. Or perhaps he had tried to get through by phone to Calcutta and failed.

‘We will have to leave for Brahmpur immediately,’ he said to Savita.

‘But what on earth has happened, darling?’ asked Savita, very alarmed. ‘They haven’t really arrested Maan? And what for? What does it say?’

Pran read the few lines out aloud, hit his forehead with the palm of his hand and said: ‘The idiot – the poor, unthinking, crazy idiot! Poor Ammaji. Baoji has always said –’ He stopped. ‘Ma, Lata – you should both remain here –’

‘Of course not, Pran,’ said Lata, very concerned. ‘We were due to return in a couple of days anyway. We’ll all travel together. How terrible. Poor Maan – I’m sure there’s an explanation – he couldn’t have done it. There must be –’

Mrs Rupa Mehra, thinking first of Mrs Mahesh Kapoor and then of the Nawab Sahib, felt tears start to her eyes. But tears, she knew, were not helpful, and she controlled herself with an effort.

‘We’ll go directly to the station,’ said Pran, ‘and try to get a ticket on the Brahmpur Mail. We only have an hour-and-a-half to pack.’

Uma burst into a happy and meaningless chant. Meenakshi volunteered to hold her while they packed, and to call Arun at the office.





17.21


WHEN Firoz came round from the effect of the anaesthesia, his father was asleep. He was at first uncertain where he was – then he moved, and a stab of terrible pain pierced his side. He noticed the tube in his arm. He turned his head to the right. There was a khaki clad policeman with a notebook beside him, asleep in a chair. The light of a dim lamp fell on his dreaming face.

Firoz bit his lip, and tried to understand this pain, this room, and why he was here. There had been a fight – Maan had had a knife – he had been stabbed. Tasneem came into it somewhere. Someone had covered him with a shawl. His walking-stick had been slippery with blood. Then a tonga had reared out of the mist. Everything else was dark.

But the sight of his father’s face disturbed him greatly. He could not understand why. There had been something said by someone – what it was he could not for the moment remember – something about his father. His memory of what had happened was like the map of an unexplored continent – the edges were clearer than the core. Yet there was something at that core that he shrank away from even as he approached it. Thinking was an effort, and he kept lapsing into a quiet darkness and emerging once again into the present.