Kabir was smiling. He put his arm around her shoulder and, instead of protesting, she let it remain. It seemed to be in the right place.
‘Why aren’t you saying anything?’ she said.
‘I was just hoping that you’d go on talking. It’s unusual to hear you talking about yourself. I sometimes think I don’t know the first thing about you. Who is this Malati, for instance?’
‘The first thing?’ said Lata, recalling a shred of conversation she’d had with Malati. ‘Even after all the inquiries you’ve instituted?’
‘Yes,’ said Kabir. ‘Tell me about yourself’
‘That’s not much use as a request. Be more specific. Where should I begin?’
‘Oh, anywhere. Begin at the beginning, go on until you reach the end and then stop.’
‘Well,’ said Lata, ‘it’s before breakfast, so you’ll have to hear at least six impossible things!’
‘Good,’ said Kabir, laughing.
‘Except that my life probably doesn’t contain six impossible things. It’s quite humdrum.’
‘Begin with the family,’ said Kabir.
Lata began to talk about her family – her much-beloved father, who seemed even now to cast a protective aura over her, not least significantly in the shape of a grey sweater; her mother, with her Gita, water-works, and affectionate volubility; Arun and Meenakshi and Aparna and Varun in Calcutta; and of course Savita and Pran and the baby-to-be. She talked freely, even moving a little closer to Kabir. Strangely enough, for one who was sometimes so unsure of herself, she did not at all doubt his affection.
The Fort and the sands had gone past, as had the cremation ghat and a glimpse of the temples of Old Brahmpur and the minarets of the Alamgiri Mosque. Now as they came round a gentle bend in the river they saw before them the delicate white structure of the Barsaat Mahal; at first from an angle, and then, gradually, full face.
The water was not clear, but it was quite calm and its surface was like murky glass. The boatman moved into mid-stream as he rowed. Then he settled the boat dead centre – in line with the vertical axis of symmetry of the Barsaat Mahal – and plunged the long pole that he had earlier fetched from the opposite bank deep into the middle of the river. It hit the bottom, and the boat was still.
‘Now sit and watch for five minutes,’ said the boatman. ‘This is a sight you will never forget in your lives.’
Indeed it was, and neither of them was to forget it. The Barsaat Mahal, site of statesmanship and intrigue, love and dissolute enjoyment, glory and slow decay, was transligured into something of abstract and final beauty. Above its sheer river-wall it rose, its reflection in the water almost perfect, almost unrippled. They were in a stretch of the river where even the sounds of the old town were dim. For a few minutes they said nothing at all.
3.14
AFTER a little while, without as such being told to, the boatman pulled his pole out of the mud at the bottom of the river. He continued to row upstream, past the Barsaat Mahal. The river narrowed slightly because of a spit of sand jutting almost into mid-stream from the opposite bank. The chimneys of a shoe factory, a tannery and a flour mill came into view. Kabir stretched and yawned, releasing Lata’s shoulder.
‘Now l’ll turn around and we’ll drift past it,’ said the boatman.
Kabir nodded.
‘This is where the easy part begins for me,’ said the boatman, turning the boat around. ‘It’s good it’s not too hot yet.’ Steering with an occasional stroke of the oar, he let the boat drift downstream on the current.
‘Lots of suicides from that place there,’ he commented cheerfully, pointing at the sheer drop from the Barsaat Mahal to the water. ‘There was one last week. The hotter the weather, the crazier people get. Crazy people, crazy people.’ He gestured along the shore. Clearly, in his mind, the perpetually land-bound could never be quite sane.
As they passed the Barsaat Mahal again, Kabir took a small booklet entitled Diamond Guide to Brahmpur out of his pocket. He read out the following to Lata:
Although Fatima Jaan was only third wife of Nawab Khushwaqt still it was to her that he made the nobile edifice of Barsaat Mahal. Her femine grace, dignity of heart and wit proved so powerful that Nawab Khushwaqt’s all affections were soon transferred to his new bride, their Impassionate love made them inseparatable companions both in the palaces as well as in the court. To her he built Barsaat Mahal, miracle of marble filligral work, for their life and pleasures.
Once she also accompanied him in the campaign. At that time she gave birth to a weakly son and unfortunately, due to some disorder in the system, she looked despairingly at her lord. At this, the Nawab was shocked too much. His heart was sank with grief and face grew much too pale… Alas! On the day of 23 April, 1735, Fatima Jaan closed her eyes at a shortage of 33 before her broken-hearted lover.