‘Please come over to our place for tea, and then go back,’ suggested Pran.
‘No, no, impossible, impossible today. Some other time. Yes. Tell your father we expect him for bridge tomorrow evening. At seven-thirty sharp. Surgeon’s time, not politician’s.’
‘Oh,’ said Pran, smiling now, ‘I’d be glad to. I’m glad your misunderstanding has been sorted out.’
Dr Kishen Chand Seth realized with a start that of course it hadn’t. Under the filmy mist that had engulfed him – for in Deedar good friends had spoken bitter words to each other – he had forgotten about his falling out with Mahesh Kapoor. He looked at Pran with annoyance. Parvati came to a sudden decision.
‘Yes, it’s been sorted out in my husband’s mind. Please tell him we look forward to seeing him.’ She looked at Dr Seth for confirmation; he gave a disgusted grunt, but thought it best to let things be. Suddenly his attention shifted.
‘When?’ he demanded, indicating Savita’s stomach with the handle of his cane.
‘August or September, that’s what we’ve been told,’ said Pran, rather vaguely, as if afraid that Dr Kishen Chand Seth might decide to take over things again.
Dr Kishen Chand Seth turned to Lata. ‘Why aren’t you married yet? Don’t you like my radiologist?’ he asked her.
Lata looked at him and tried to hide her amazement. Her cheeks burned.
‘You haven’t introduced her to the radiologist yet,’ Mrs Rupa Mehra interposed quickly. ‘And now it is almost time for her exams.’
‘What radiologist?’ asked Lata. ‘It’s still the 1st of April. Is that it?’
‘Yes, the radiologist. Call me tomorrow,’ said Dr Kishen Chand Seth to his daughter. ‘Remind me, Parvati. Now we must go. I must see this film again next week. So sad,’ he added approvingly.
On the way to his grey Buick Dr Kishen Chand Seth noticed a wrongly parked car. He yelled at the policeman on duty at the busy intersection. The policeman, who recognized the terrifying Dr Seth, as did most of the forces of order and disorder in Brahmpur, left the traffic to fend for itself, came over promptly, and took down the number of the car. A beggar limped alongside and asked for a couple of pice. Dr Kishen Chand Seth looked at him in fury and gave him a brutal whack on the leg with his stick. He and Parvati got into the car and the policeman cleared the traffic for them.
3.3
‘NO talking, please,’ said the invigilator.
‘I was just borrowing a ruler, Sir.’
‘If you have to do that, do it through me.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
The boy sat down and applied himself once more to the question-paper in front of him.
A fly buzzed against the window-pane of the examination hall. Outside the window the red crown of a gul-mohur tree could be seen below the stone steps. The fans whirled slowly around. Row after row of heads, row after row of hands, drop after drop of ink, words and yet more words. Someone got up to have a drink of water from the earthenware pitcher near the exit. Someone leaned back against his chair and sighed.
Lata had stopped writing about half an hour ago, and had been staring at her paper sightlessly since. She was trembling. She could not think of the questions at all. She was breathing deeply and the sweat stood out on her forehead. Neither of the girls on either side of her noticed. Who were they? She didn’t recognize them from the English lectures.
What do these questions mean? she asked herself. And how was I managing to answer them just a little while ago? Do Shakespeare’s tragic heroes deserve their fates? Does anyone deserve her fate? She looked around again. What is the matter with me, I who am so good at taking exams? I don’t have a headache, I don’t have a period, what is my excuse? What will Ma say –
An image of her bedroom in Pran’s house came to her mind. In it she saw her mother’s three suitcases, filled with most of what she owned in the world. Standard appendages of her Annual Rail-Pilgrimage, they lay in a corner, with her large handbag resting like a self-confident black swan upon them. Nearby lay a small square dark green copy of the Bhagavad Gita and a glass that contained her false teeth. She had worn them ever since a car accident ten years ago.
What would my father have thought? wondered Lata – with his brilliant record – his gold medals – how can I fail him like this? It was in April that he died. Gul-mohurs were in bloom then too… I must concentrate. I must concentrate. Something has happened to me and I must not panic. I must relax and things will be all right again.
She fell into a reverie once more. The fly buzzed in a steady drone.
‘No humming. Please be silent.’