‘I’m not stopping you,’ he said.
Lata looked at him and sighed: ‘We can’t stand here.’
Kabir refused to be affected by all these can’ts and couldn’ts.
‘Well, let’s stand somewhere else, then. Let’s go for a walk in Curzon Park.’
‘Oh no,’ said Lata. Half the world walked in Curzon Park.
‘Where then?’
They walked to the banyan trees on the slope leading down to the sands by the river. Kabir chained his bike to a tree at the top of the path. The monkeys were nowhere to be seen. Through the scarcely moving leaves of the gnarled trees they looked out at the Ganges. The wide brown river glinted in the sunlight. Neither said anything. Lata sat down on the upraised root, and Kabir followed.
‘How beautiful it is here,’ she said.
Kabir nodded. There was a bitterness about his mouth. If he had spoken, it would have been reflected in his voice.
Though Malati had warned her sternly off him, Lata just wanted to be with him for some time. She felt that if he were now to get up and go, she would try to dissuade him. Even if they were not talking, even in his present mood, she wanted to sit here with him.
Kabir was looking out over the river. With sudden eagerness, as if he had forgotten his grimness of a moment ago, he said: ‘Let’s go boating.’
Lata thought of Windermere, the lake near the High Court where they sometimes had department parties. Friends hired boats there and went out boating together. On Saturdays it was full of married couples and their children.
‘Everyone goes to Windermere,’ Lata said. ‘Someone will recognize us.’
‘I didn’t mean Windermere. I meant up the Ganges. It always amazes me that people go sailing or boating on that foolish lake when they have the greatest river in the world at their doorstep. We’ll go up the Ganges to the Barsaat Mahal. It’s a wonderful sight by night. We’ll get a boatman to keep the boat still in midstream, and you’ll see it reflected by moonlight.’ He turned to her.
Lata could not bear to look at him.
Kabir could not understand why she was so aloof and depressed. Nor could he understand why he had so suddenly fallen out of favour.
‘Why are you so distant? Is it something to do with me?’ he asked. ‘Have I said something?’
Lata shook her head.
‘Have I done something then?’
For some reason the thought of him running that impossible four runs came to her mind. She shook her head again.
‘You’ll forget about all this in five years,’ she said.
‘What sort of answer is that?’ said Kabir, alarmed.
‘It’s what you said to me once.’
‘Did I?’ Kabir was surprised.
‘Yes, on the bench, when you were rescuing me. I really can’t come with you, Kabir, I really can’t,’ said Lata with sudden vehemence. ‘You should know better than to ask me to come boating with you at midnight.’ Ah, here was that blessed anger.
Kabir was about to respond in kind, but stopped himself. He paused, then said with surprising quietness: ‘I won’t tell you that I live from our one meeting to the next. You probably know that. It doesn’t have to be by moonlight. Dawn is fine. If you’re concerned about other people, don’t worry. No one will see us; no one we’re likely to know goes out in a boat at dawn. Bring a friend along. Bring ten friends along if you like. I just wanted to show you the Barsaat Mahal reflected in the water. If your mood has nothing to do with me, you must come.’
‘Dawn –’ said Lata, thinking aloud. ‘There’s no harm in dawn.’
‘Harm?’ Kabir looked at her incredulously. ‘Don’t you trust me?’
Lata said nothing. Kabir went on: ‘Don’t you care for me at all?’
She was silent.
‘Listen,’ said Kabir. ‘If anyone asks you, it was just an educational trip. By daylight. With a friend, or as many friends as you wish to bring. I’ll tell you the history of the Barsaat Mahal. The Nawab Sahib of Baitar has given me access to his library, and I’ve found out quite a few surprising facts about the place. You’ll be the students. I’1l be the guide: “a young history student, I can’t remember his name now – he came with us and pointed out the spots of historical interest – provided quite a passable commentary – really quite a nice chap.” ’
Lata smiled ruefully.
Feeling that he had almost broken through some unseen defence, Kabir said: ‘I’ll see you and your friends here at this very spot on Monday morning at six sharp. Wear a sweater; there’ll be a river breeze.’ He burst into Makhijanian doggerel: