A Suitable Boy(701)

Meenakshi and Kakoli, noticing the notorious Maan, swept up in a shimmer of chiffon, and even Mahesh Kapoor was not unhappy at the diversion they provided. Before they got there, however, Maan – who had just noticed Professor Mishra prowling vastly in the vicinity – had made good his disappearance.

When they heard that Firoz and Imtiaz were twins, Meenakshi and Kakoli were delighted.

‘If I have twins,’ said Kuku, ‘I shall call them Prabodhini and Shayani. Then one can sleep while the other is awake.’

‘How very silly, Kuku,’ said Meenakshi. ‘You’ll never get any sleep yourself that way. And they won’t ever get to know each other. Tell me, which of you is the elder?’

‘I am,’ said Imtiaz.

‘No, you’re not,’ said Meenakshi.

‘I assure you, Mrs Mehra, I am. Ask my father here.’

‘He wouldn’t know,’ said Meenakshi. ‘A very nice man, who gave me a lovely little lacquer box, once told me that, according to the Japanese, the baby who comes out second is the elder, because he proves his courtesy and maturity by allowing his younger brother to emerge first.’

‘Mrs Mehra,’ said Firoz, laughing, ‘I can never thank you enough.’

‘Oh, do call me Meenakshi. Charming idea, isn’t it? Now if I have twins I shall call them Etah and Etawah! Or Kumbh and Karan. Or Bentsen and Pryce. Or something quite unforgettable. Etawah Mehra – how exquisitely exotic. Where has Aparna got to? And tell me, who are those two foreigners there, talking to Arun and Hans?’ She stretched her long neck lazily and pointed with the red-nail-polished finger of a delicately hennaed hand.

‘They are from the local Praha factory,’ said Mahesh Kapoor.

‘Oh, how dreadful!’ exclaimed Kuku. ‘They’re probably discussing the German invasion of Czechoslovakia. Or is it the communists? I must separate them at once. Or at least listen to what they’re saying. I’m so desperately bored. Nothing ever happens in Brahmpur. Come, Meenakshi. And we haven’t yet given Ma and Luts our heart-deep congratulations. Not that they deserve them. How stupid of her not to marry Amit. Now he’ll never marry anyone, I’m sure, and he’ll become as grouchy as Cuddles. But of course, they could always have a torrid affair,’ she added hopefully.

And in a flash of flesh the Chatterjis of the backless cholis were gone.





19.13


‘SHE’s married the wrong man,’ said Malati to her mother. ‘And it’s breaking my heart.’

‘Malati,’ said her mother, ‘everyone must make their own mistakes. Why are you sure it is a mistake?’

‘It is, it is, I know it!’ said Malati passionately. ‘And she’ll find out soon enough.’ She was determined to get Lata to at least write a letter to Kabir. Surely Haresh, with the simpering Simran in his shady background, would have to accept that as reasonable.

‘Malati,’ said her mother calmly, ‘don’t make mischief in someone else’s marriage. Get married yourself. What happened to the five boys whose father you met in Nainital?’

But Malati was looking across the crowd at Varun, who was smiling rather weakly and adoringly at Kalpana Gaur.

‘Would you like me to marry an IAS officer?’ she asked her mother. ‘The most sweet and weak-willed and idiotic one I’ve ever met?’

‘I want you to marry someone with character,’ said her mother. ‘Someone like your father. Someone whom you cannot push around. And that’s what you want as well.’

Mrs Rupa Mehra too was staring at Kalpana Gaur and Varun in amazement. Surely not! – surely not! – she thought. Kalpana, who was like a daughter to her: how could she have battened onto her poor son? Could I be imagining things, she wondered? But Varun was so.guileless – or, rather, so ineffectual even when he tried to be guileful – that the symptoms of his infatuation were unmistakable.

How and when could this have happened?

‘Yes, yes, thank you, thank you,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra impatiently to someone who was congratulating her.

What could be done to prevent such a disaster? Kalpana was years older than Varun, and – even if she was like a daughter to her – Mrs Rupa Mehra had no intention of having her as a daughter-in-law.

But now Malati (‘that girl who makes nothing but mischief’) had gone up to Varun, and was looking deeply, deeply with her peerless green eyes into his own. Varun’s jaw had dropped slightly and he appeared to be stammering.

Leaving Lata and Haresh to fend for themselves, Mrs Rupa Mehra marched up to Varun.

‘Hello, Ma,’ said Kalpana Gaur. ‘Many congratulations. What a lovely wedding. And I can’t help feeling responsible for it, in a way.’