The river flowed due east at this point, and the risen sun was reflected in its surface far beyond the university. A marigold garland floated in the water. Pyres were burning at the cremation ghat. From the Fort came the shouted commands of parade. As they drifted downstream they once more heard the ceaseless sounds of the washermen and the occasional braying of their donkeys.
The boat reached the steps. Kabir offered the boatman two rupees.
He nobly refused it. ‘We came to an understanding beforehand. Next time you’ll look out for me,’ he said.
When the boat stopped moving Lata felt a pang of regret. She thought of what Kabir had said about swimming or tobogganing – about the ease conferred by a new element, a different physical motion. The movement of the boat, their feeling of freedom and distance from the world would soon, she felt, disperse. But when Kabir helped her ashore, she did not pull away, and they walked hand in hand along the edge of the river towards the banyan grove and the minor shrine. They did not say much.
It was more difficult to climb up the path than to walk down it in her slippers, but he helped pull her up. He might be gentle, she thought, but he is certainly strong. It struck her as amazing that they had hardly talked about the university, their exams, cricket, teachers, plans, the world immediately above the cliffs. She blessed the qualms of Hema’s Taiji.
They sat on the twisted root of the twin banyan trees. Lata was at a loss as to what to say. She heard herself saying: ‘Kabir, are you interested in politics?’
He looked at her in amazement at the unexpected question, then simply said, ‘No,’ and kissed her.
Her heart turned over completely. She responded to his kiss – without thinking anything out – but with a sense of amazement at herself – that she could be so reckless and happy.
When the kiss was over, Lata suddenly began thinking again, and more furiously than ever.
‘I love you,’ said Kabir. When she was silent, he said: ‘Well, aren’t you going to say anything?’
‘Oh, I love you too,’ said Lata, stating a fact that was completely obvious to her and therefore should have been obvious to him. ‘But it’s pointless to say so, so take it back.’
Kabir started. But before he could say anything, Lata said: ‘Kabir, why didn’t you tell me your last name?’
‘It’s Durrani.’
‘I know.’ Hearing him say it so casually brought all the cares of the world back on her head.
‘You know?’ Kabir was surprised. ‘But I remember that at the concert you refused to exchange last names with me.’
Lata smiled; his memory was quite selective. Then she grew serious again. ‘You’re Muslim,’ she said quietly.
‘Yes, yes, but why is all this so important to you? Is that why you’ve been so strange and distant sometimes?’ There was a humorous light in his eyes.
‘Important?’ It was Lata’s turn to be amazed. ‘It’s all-important. Don’t you know what it means in my family?’ Was he deliberately refusing to see difficulties, she wondered, or did he truly believe that it made no difference?
Kabir held her hand and said, ‘You love me. And I love you. That’s all that matters.’
Lata persisted: ‘Doesn’t your father care?’
‘No. Unlike many Muslim families, I suppose we were sheltered during Partition – and before. He hardly thinks of anything except his parameters and perimeters. And an equation is the same whether it’s written in red or green ink. I don’t see why we have to talk about this.’
Lata tied her grey sweater around her waist, and they walked to the top of the path. They agreed to meet again in three days at the same place at the same time. Kabir was going to be occupied for a couple of days doing some work for his father. He unchained his bike and – looking quickly around – kissed her again. When he was about to cycle off, she said to him: ‘Have you kissed anyone else?’
‘What was that?’ He looked amused.
She was looking at his face; she didn’t repeat the question.
‘Do you mean ever?’ he asked. ‘No. I don’t think so. Not seriously.’
And he rode off.
3.15
LATER that day, Mrs Rupa Mehra was sitting with her daughters, embroidering a tiny handkerchief with a rose for the baby. White was a sexually neutral colour, but white-on-white was too drab for Mrs Rupa Mehra’s tastes, and so she decided on yellow. After her beloved granddaughter Aparna, she wanted – and had predicted – a grandson. She would have embroidered the handkerchief in blue, except that this would certainly have invited Fate to change the sex of the child in the womb.