When the final term ended, Maneck came home to discover what had been decided for him and protested vehemently. The second betrayal was not received with a slow ache, as the first one had been. It exploded inside him.
“You promised that when I got my S.S.C. I could work with you! You said you wanted me to take over the family business!”
“Calm down — you will, you will,” said Mr. Kohlah, mustering more conviction than he felt. “This is just in case. You see, in the past it was easier to plan for the future. Nowadays, things are more complicated, too much uncertainty.”
“It’s a waste of time,” said Maneck. He was sure that his father was doing this to be rid of him — to be rid of his interference in the General Store, as though he were a rival. “If you want me to learn a trade or something, I can become a mechanic at Madanlal’s Garage. In the valley. Why do I have to go so far away?”
Mr. Kohlah made his mournful face. Brigadier Grewal laughed good-humouredly. “Young man, if you are planning a second line of defence, make sure it’s a strong one. Or don’t bother.”
The family friends said Maneck was a very lucky fellow, and should be grateful for the opportunity. “At your age, we would have been thrilled to spend a year in the most modern, most cosmopolitan city in the whole country.”
So Maneck was enrolled in the college, and preparations were made for his departure. A new suitcase was purchased. His clothes were sorted through, and tickets booked for the various legs of the journey.
“Don’t worry,” said his mother. “Everything will be all right when you come back after a year. Daddy is just concerned about your future. All these changes — they have happened too fast for him. He should be calmer in a year’s time.”
She began to assemble the items he would take with him in boxes. Fearful of forgetting something, she frequently consulted the suggested checklist in the college handbook. She kept opening and shutting the suitcase, taking things out and putting them back in, counting and rearranging. The woman who effortlessly managed the General Store’s merchandise began going to pieces over her son’s packing.
Time and again, she asked for her husband’s advice. “Farokh, how many towels shall I include? Do you think Maneck will need his good trousers, the grey gabardine ones? How much soap and toothpaste, Farokh? And which medicines shall I pack?”
His answer was always the same: “Don’t bother me with silly things. You decide.” He refused even to come near the growing pile of clothes and personal effects, as though denying its existence. If he had to pass by the open suitcase on the table in the upstairs passage, he would avert his eye.
Mrs. Kohlah understood perfectly well the meaning of her husband’s behaviour. She had assumed that inviting him to share in the planning and packing might help him, make it easier for him to get through the days that were causing so much pain to all of them.
After his brusque responses, she preferred to leave him alone. In any case, she was the stronger of the two when it came to coping with such matters, though neither of them had experienced this long a separation from Maneck. Distance was a dangerous thing, she knew. Distance changed people. Look at her own case — she could never return now to live with her family in the city. And just going to boarding school had made Maneck shun the good-morning hug that he had never missed, ever, not even on days when he was sick, when he came down so lovingly, put his arms around her, then went back to bed. What else would he shun after this separation? Already he was getting more solitary, harder to talk to and share things with, always looking so depressed. How much more would he change? What things would the city do to her son? Was she losing him now forever?
Musing and worrying, in the midst of serving customers, she wandered absentmindedly from the shop to Maneck’s boxes. Mr. Kohlah sensed something amiss upstairs, shut off the soft-drink machines in midflow and came bounding up the cellar steps to apologize to the lingering clientele.
He curbed his annoyance that morning. The next time it happened, however, he burst out, “Aban! What emergency are you attending to in the bedroom, may I ask?”
Sarcasm was difficult for him, and rare, so it surprised him and hurt her. But she refused to be drawn into an argument, answering mildly, “I remembered something very important. Had to check it right away.”
“Your mania will drive us crazy. Please understand once and for all — if you forget something we can always mail a parcel.”
But the things she was concerned about could not be contained or sent in parcels, and attempts to explain them also went frustratingly awry, the words coming out all wrong. “You don’t take an interest in Maneck’s packing, you don’t want the responsibility. And then you say things like mania and crazy to me? Don’t you fear for him? What has happened to your feelings?”
Despite his own confused anger, Mr. Kohlah understood the meaning of his wife’s behaviour. A week after this exchange, he was awakened in the night by her rising to leave the room. The clock had finished striking twelve a few minutes ago. He pretended to be asleep. He heard the swish and rustle of her feet as she felt about for her slippers. When she had shut the door behind her, he rose softly and followed.
The floorboards felt cold to his bare feet. He padded down the dark passage and, rounding the corner, saw her standing before the suitcase. He retreated a step. She stood motionless, her head bent, her hands immersed in Maneck’s clothes. When the cloud-hidden moon emerged, the silver light illuminated her face. An owl hooted, and he was glad that he had stayed silent, had followed her secretly like this, to see her so beautiful, so absorbed, as she stood there, embodying their years together, their three lives fused in her being, vivid in her face and in her eyes.
The owl hooted again. The moonlight wavered, hesitating, letting a cloud slide across. Her hands stirred within Maneck’s suitcase. The dogs on the porch barked — at what ghost?
Farokh Kohlah heard the ticking of the clock, and then the single bong of twelve-fifteen. He felt grateful to the night for giving him this opportunity, this vision by moonlight. He returned to bed, and did not disturb her when she slid under the sheet minutes later.
The time for last-minute instructions had arrived. More or less repeating the advice given all along, after Maneck’s going away had first become reality, his parents cautioned him against mixing at college with those who gambled or drank or smoked. They told him to be careful with his money, and to cultivate a healthy scepticism, for people were very different in the city. “All your life here, we never once discouraged your friendly nature. Whether your companions were rich or poor, and whatever caste or religion — those differences were not important. But now you are facing the most crucial difference of all, by leaving here for the city. You must be very, very careful.”
Mr. Kohlah was planning to accompany his son on the bus ride into the valley, and then by auto-rickshaw to the railway station. But the part-time assistant who had promised to arrive early to take over the morning chores did not show up. So Maneck started off alone on the long day-and-a-half trip to the city.
“Be sure to get a coolie at the station,” said his father. “Don’t try to carry everything yourself. And fix the amount before he touches the luggage. Three rupees should be enough.”
“Aren’t you going to hug him?” said Mrs. Kohlah, exasperated, as the two shook hands.