Once home, Professor Mishra phoned his informant.
‘What is the matter, Badri Nath?’ he said impatiently. ‘Why have you not got in touch with me?’
‘Because of George the Sixth, of course.’
‘What are you talking about? George the Sixth is dead. Don’t you listen to the news?’
‘Well, there you are.’ There was a cackle at the other end.
‘I can’t get any sense out of you, Badri Nath ji. Yes, I have heard you. George the Sixth is dead. I know that. I heard it on the news, and all the flags are at half-mast. But what does that have to do with me?’
‘They’ve stopped the counting.’
‘They can’t do that!’ exclaimed Professor Mishra. This was madness.
‘Yes – they can. They began the counting late – I think the DM’s jeep broke down – so they didn’t finish it by midnight. And at midnight they suspended the counting. All over the country. As a mark of respect.’ The thought struck Badri Nath as droll, and he cackled again.
It did not strike Professor Mishra as being in the least droll. The former King-Emperor of India had no business dying at a time like this.
‘How far did they get in the counting?’ he asked.
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out,’ said Badri Nath.
‘Well, find out, please. And tell me the trend.’
‘What trend?’
‘Can’t you at least tell me who’s ahead in the race?’
‘There’s no ahead or behind in this, Mishraji. They don’t count the vote polling station by polling station. They count all the boxes of the first candidate first, and then go on down the line.’
‘Oh.’ Professor Mishra’s head had begun to throb.
‘Don’t worry, though – he’s lost. Take it from me. All my sources say so. I guarantee it,’ said Badri Nath.
Professor Mishra wanted with all his heart to believe him. But some gnawing little doubt prompted him to say: ‘Please call me at four o’clock at the Vice-Chancellor’s office. His number is 623. I must know what is happening before we begin our discussion of the candidates.’
‘Who would have thought it!’ said Badri Nath, laughing. ‘The English still run our lives.’
Professor Mishra put down the phone. ‘Where is my lunch?’ he said coldly to his wife.
‘You said that you –’ she began, then saw the look on his face. ‘I’ll just get something ready,’ she said.
18.10
PRAN’S interview was scheduled for the early afternoon. The Vice-Chancellor asked him the usual questions about the relevance of teaching English in India. Professor Jaikumar asked him a careful question about Scrutiny and F.R. Leavis. Professor Mishra asked tenderly after his health and fussed about the onerous burdens of academia. The old history professor who was the Chancellor’s nominee said nothing at all.
It was with Dr Ila Chattopadhyay that Pran got along really well. She drew him out on the subject of The Winter’s Tale, one of Pran’s favourite plays, and they both got carried away, talking freely of the implausibilities of the plot, the difficulties of imagining, let alone performing, some of the scenes, and the absurd and deeply moving climax. They both thought it should be on every syllabus. They agreed with each other violently and disagreed with each other pleasurably. At one point Dr Chattopadhyay told him outright that he was talking nonsense, and Professor Mishra’s troubled face wreathed itself in a smile. But even if she thought that the point Pran had just made was nonsense, it was obviously very stimulating nonsense; her attention was entirely engaged in rebutting it.
Pran’s interview – or, rather, his conversation with her – lasted twice as long as the time allotted to him. But, as Dr Chattopadhyay remarked, some of the other candidates had been disposed of in five minutes, and she looked forward to other candidates of Pran’s calibre.
By four o’clock the interviews were over, and they broke off for a short tea-break. The peon who brought in the tea was not deferential to anyone except the Vice-Chancellor. This irked Professor Mishra, whose afternoon tea was usually sweetened by a little cringing.
‘You are looking very pensive, Professor Mishra,’ said Professor Jaikumar.
‘Pensive?’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘Well, I was wondering why it was that Indian academics publish so little. So few of our candidates have worthwhile publications to their name. Dr Chattopadhyay, of course, is a remarkable exception. Many moons ago, my dear lady,’ – he turned towards her – ‘I remember how impressed I was by reading your work on the Metaphysicals. That was long before I sat on the committee which –’