He released her hand.
‘Ah, Malvolio’s revenge –’ said Mr Barua, coming up to them. ‘Why have you made Olivia cry?’ he asked Kabir.
‘I haven’t made her cry,’ said Kabir. ‘No one has an obligation to cry. Any crying of hers is purely voluntary.’
And with that he left.
18.4
LATA, refusing to explain anything to Mr Barua, went to wash her face. She did not return to the room until she felt that it would not be obvious that she had been in tears. But the crowd had thinned, and Pran and Amit were ready to take their leave.
Amit was staying at the home of Mr Maitra, the retired Superintendent of Police; but he was having dinner with Pran, Savita, Mrs Rupa Mehra, Lata, Malati and Maan.
Though Maan, out on bail, was living once again at Prem Nivas, he could not bear to take his meals there. The polls were over, and his father had returned to Brahmpur. He was an angry and grieving man – and wanted Maan with him all the time. He did not know what would happen to his son once a proper charge-sheet was delivered. Everything was collapsing about Mahesh Kapoor’s ears. He hoped that he might at least retain his power in politics. But if he did not succeed even in winning his own seat, he knew how drastically this would weaken his following.
Not being a Minister, he had no immediate activity to lose himself in. Some days he received visitors, on other days, he sat and looked out at the garden, saying nothing. The servants knew that he did not wish to be disturbed. Veena would bring him tea. The counting of the vote for his constituency was due to take place a few days from now; he would go to Rudhia for the day. By the evening of the 6th of February he would know if he had won or lost.
Maan was riding in a tonga to Pran’s house for dinner when he saw Malati Trivedi walking along. He greeted her. She said hello, then suddenly looked awkward.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Maan. ‘I haven’t been convicted yet. And Pran says you’re having dinner with us. Get in.’
Malati, feeling ashamed of her hesitancy, did get in, and they rode towards the university together, not saying much for two such outgoing people.
Maan had met three of the Chatterjis – Meenakshi, Kakoli and Dipankar – at various times. He remembered Meenakshi most of all: she had stood out at Pran’s wedding – and had made even a hospital room appear a glamorous backdrop for her own dramatic presence. He now looked forward to meeting their brother, whom Lata had mentioned to him during her jail visit. Amit greeted him in a sympathetic and curious manner.
Maan looked worn and knew it. Sometimes he still couldn’t believe where he had been; at other times he couldn’t believe that he was, at least for a while, free again.
‘We hardly meet these days,’ said Lata, who had not been able to concentrate on conversation for the last hour.
Maan began to laugh. ‘No, we hardly do,’ he said.
Malati could see that something was the matter with Lata. She attributed it to the presence of the Poet. Malati had been keen to examine this contender for Lata’s hand. She decided that Amit was not very impressive: he was bent on making small talk. The Cobbler, who (as Malati had been told) had got angry when called mean, had shown far more spirit – even if, she decided, of a rather zany kind.
Malati did not know that Amit, especially after reading his poems or writing a serious one, would often switch into an entirely different mood: cynical and sometimes trivializing. He had been leached of any pretence at profundity. Though no Kuku-couplets flapped away like freed pigeons from his mouth this evening, he began to talk in a light-hearted manner about elected politicians and the way they subverted the system by winning favours for themselves and their families. Mrs Rupa Mehra, who switched off whenever the talk turned to politics, had gone into the other room to put Uma to bed.
‘Mr Maitra, with whom I’m staying, has been explaining to me his prescription for Utopia,’ said Amit. ‘The country should be run by only children – unmarried only children – whose parents are dead. At any rate, he says, all Ministers should be childless.’
Noticing that no one was taking up the subject, Amit continued: ‘Otherwise, of course, they’re bound to try to get their children out of whatever scrapes they’ve got themselves into.’ He stopped, suddenly realizing what he was saying.
Since everyone was looking at him without speaking, he quickly added: ‘Of course, Ila Kaki says it isn’t just in politics that this sort of thing happens – academia is just as bad – full of – how does she put it? – “sordid nepotisms and antagonisms”. It sounds just like the literary world.’