But to Mrs Mahesh Kapoor’s great if quiet delight and to the frustration of her various more imposing competitors, who could not understand what she had over them by way of resources or expertise or foreign seeds, the garden at Prem Nivas had won numerous prizes in the Flower Show year after year; and this year would win the First Prize as well, for the first and, needless to say, the last time.
18.16
ON the front wall of Pran’s house, the yellow jasmine had begun to bloom. Inside, Mrs Rupa Mehra muttered, ‘Plain, purl, plain, purl, Where’s Lata?’
‘She’s gone out to buy a book,’ said Savita.
‘Which book?’
‘I don’t think she knows yet. A novel, probably.’
‘She shouldn’t be reading novels but studying for her exams.’
This was, as it happened, what the bookseller was telling Lata at almost the same moment. Luckily for his business, students rarely took his advice.
He reached out for the book with one hand, and extracted wax from his ear with the other.
‘I’ve studied enough, Balwantji,’ said Lata. ‘I’m tired of my studies. In fact, I’m tired of everything,’ she ended dramatically.
‘You look just like Nargis when you say that,’ said Balwant.
‘I am afraid I only have a five-rupee note.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Balwant. ‘Where is your friend Malatiji?’ he continued. ‘I never see her these days.’
‘That’s because she’s not wasting her time buying novels,’ said Lata. ‘She’s studying hard. I hardly see her myself.’
Kabir entered the shop, looking quite cheerful. He noticed Lata and stopped.
The whole of their last meeting flashed before Lata’s eyes – and, immediately afterwards, their first meeting in the bookstore. They looked at each other for a few seconds before Lata broke the silence with a hello.
‘Hello,’ replied Kabir. ‘I see you’re on your way out.’ Here was another meeting brought about by coincidence, and to be governed, no doubt, by awkwardness.
‘Yes,’ said Lata. ‘I came in to buy a Wodehouse, but I’ve bought myself a Jane Austen instead.’
‘I’d like you to have a coffee with me at the Blue Danube.’ It was a statement more than a request.
‘I have to get back,’ said Lata. ‘I told Savita I’d be back in an hour.’
‘Savita can wait. I was going to buy a book, but that too can wait.’
‘Which book?’ asked Lata.
‘What does it matter? replied Kabir. ‘I don’t know. I was just going to browse. Not in Poetry or Mathematics, though,’ he added.
‘All right,’ said Lata recklessly.
‘Good. The cake will be better, at least. Of course, I don’t know what excuse you’ll make if someone you know walks in.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Lata.
‘Good.’
The Blue Danube was just a couple of hundred yards along Nabiganj. They sat down and placed their orders.
Neither spoke. Finally Lata said: ‘Good news about the cricket.’
‘Excellent.’ India had just won the fifth Test Match against England in Madras by an innings and eight runs, and no one could quite believe it.
After a while the coffee came. Stirring it slowly, Kabir said: ‘Were you serious?’
‘About what?’
‘You are writing to this man?’
‘Yes.’
‘How serious is it?’
‘Ma wants me to marry him.’
Kabir said nothing, but looked down at his right hand as it kept stirring the coffee.
‘Aren’t you going to say something?’ she asked him.
He shrugged.
‘Do you hate me?’ asked Lata. ‘Don’t you care whom I marry?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’ Kabir sounded disgusted with her. ‘And please stop those tears. They won’t improve your coffee or my appetite.’ For again, though she was half unconscious of them, tears had slowly filled Lata’s eyes and were falling down her cheeks one by one. She did not try to wipe them away, nor did she take her eyes off Kabir’s face. She did not care what the waiters or anyone else thought. Or even he, for that matter.
He continued to stir his coffee with a troubled look.
‘I know of two mixed marriages –’ he began.
‘Ours wouldn’t work. No one else will let it work. And now I can’t even trust myself.’
‘Then why are you sitting here with me?’ he said.
‘I don’t know.’
‘And why are you crying?’
Lata said nothing.
‘My handkerchief is dirty,’ said Kabir. ‘If you haven’t brought a handkerchief, use that napkin.’