A Suitable Boy(69)

‘But wait!’ said Pran, ‘Here’s an ad that’s so big I missed it: it’s for Deedar. Showing in the, let’s see, in the equally well-appointed Manorma Talkies which also has a fresh air circulating device. Here’s what it says: “It’s a star-studded! Playing for 5th week. Punched with Lusty Songs & Romance To Warm Your Cockles. Nargis, Ashok Kumar –” ’

He paused for the expected exclamation from his mother-in-law.

‘You are always teasing me, Pran,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra happily, all her tears forgotten.

‘“– Nimmi, Daleep Kumar –” (amazing luck, Ma) “– Yaqub, Baby Tabassum –” (we’ve hit the jackpot) “– Musical-Miracle songs which are sung in every street of the city. Acclaimed, Applauded, Admired by All. The only Picture for Families. A Storm of Movie. A Rainfall of Melody. Filmkar’s Deedar! Star-studded Gem amongst Pictures! No Greater Picture will come your Way for So Many Years.” Well, what do you say?’

He looked around him at three wondering faces. ‘Thunderstruck!’ said Pran approvingly. ‘Twice in one morning.’





3.2


THAT afternoon the four of them went to warm their cockles at Manorma Talkies. They bought the best tickets in the balcony section, high above the hoi polloi, and a bar of Cadbury’s chocolate of which Lata and Savita ate the major portion. Mrs Rupa Mehra was allowed one square despite her diabetes and Pran wanted no more than one. Pran and Lata were almost dry-eyed, Savita sniffed, and Mrs Rupa Mehra sobbed broken-heartedly. The film was indeed very sad, and the songs were sad too, and it was not clear whether it was the piteous fate of the blind singer or the tenderness of the love story that had most affected her. An entirely good time would have been had by all had it not been for a man a row or two behind them who, every time the blind Daleep Kumar appeared on the screen, burst into a horrific frenzy of weeping and once or twice even knocked his stick on the floor to indicate perhaps an outraged protest against Fate or the director. Eventually Pran could bear it no longer, turned around and exclaimed: ‘Sir, do you think you could refrain from knocking that –’

He stopped suddenly as he saw that the culprit was Mrs Rupa Mehra’s father. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said to Savita, ‘it’s your grandfather! I’m so sorry, Sir! Please don’t mind what I said, Sir. Ma is here as well, Sir, I mean Mrs Rupa Mehra. Terribly sorry. And Savita and Lata are here too. We do hope you will meet us after the film is over.’

By this time Pran himself was being shushed by others in the audience, and he turned back to the screen, shaking his head. The others were equally horror-struck. All this had no apparent effect on the emotions of Dr Kishen Chand Seth, who wept with as much clamour and energy through the last half-hour of the movie as before.

‘How was it we didn’t meet during the interval?’ Pran asked himself. ‘And didn’t he notice us either? We were sitting in front of him.’ What Pran could not know was that Dr Kishen Chand Seth was impervious to any extraneous visual or auditory stimulus once he was involved in a film. As for the matter of the interval, that was – and was to remain – a mystery, especially since Dr Kishen Chand Seth and his wife Parvati had come together.

When the movie was over and they had been extruded out of the hall like the rest of the crowd, everyone met in the lobby. Dr Kishen Chand Seth was still streaming copious tears, the others were dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs.

Parvati and Mrs Rupa Mehra made a couple of brave but hopeless attempts to pretend liking for each other. Parvati was a strong, bony, rather hard-boiled woman of thirty-five. She had brown, sun-hardened skin, and an attitude towards the world that seemed to be an extension of her attitude to her more enfeebled patients: it was as if she had suddenly decided she was not going to empty anyone’s bedpans any more. She was wearing a georgette sari with what looked like pink pine-cones printed all over it. Her lipstick, however, was not pink but orange.

Mrs Rupa Mehra, shrinking from this impressive vision, tried to explain why she had not been able to visit Parvati for her birthday.

‘How nice to meet you here, though,’ she added.

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ said Parvati. ‘I was saying to Kishy just the other day…’

But the rest of the sentence was lost on Mrs Rupa Mehra, who had never heard her seventy-year-old father referred to in terms of such odious triviality. ‘My husband’ was bad enough; but ‘Kishy’? She looked at him, but he seemed still to be locked in a globe of celluloid.

Dr Kishen Chand Seth emerged from this sentimental aura in a minute or two. ‘We must go home,’ he announced.