‘Well, I do like classical music,’ began Lata tentatively, waiting for Dr Ila Chattopadhyay to pronounce that she was completely misguided. ‘Ustad Majeed Khan’s performances of raags like Darbari, for instance. . ’
Amit, without waiting for Lata to finish her sentence, stepped swiftly in to draw Dr Ila Chattopadhyay’s fire.
‘So do I, so do I,’ he said. ‘I’ve always felt that the performance of a raag resembles a novel — or at least the kind of novel I’m attempting to write. You know,’ he continued, extemporizing as he went along, ‘first you take one note and explore it for a while, then another to discover its possibilities, then perhaps you get to the dominant, and pause for a bit, and it’s only gradually that the phrases begin to form and the tabla joins in with the beat. . and then the more brilliant improvisations and diversions begin, with the main theme returning from time to time, and finally it all speeds up, and the excitement increases to a climax.’
Dr Ila Chattopadhyay was looking at him in astonishment. ‘What utter nonsense,’ she said to Amit. ‘You’re getting to be as fluffy as Dipankar. Don’t pay any attention to him, Lata,’ continued the author of Metaphysical Causality. ‘He’s just a writer, he knows nothing at all about literature. Nonsense always makes me hungry, I must get some food at once. At least the family serves dinner at a sensible hour. “Two florets of rice” indeed!’ And, shaking her grey locks emphatically, she made for the buffet table.
Amit offered to bring some food on a plate to his grandfather, and the old man acquiesced. He sat down in a comfortable armchair, and Amit and Lata went towards the buffet. On the way, a pretty young woman detached herself from Kakoli’s giggling, gossiping group, and came up to Amit.
‘Don’t you remember me?’ she asked. ‘We met at the Sarkars’.’
Amit, trying to work out when and at which Sarkars’ they might have met, frowned and smiled simultaneously.
The girl looked at him reproachfully. ‘We had a long conversation,’ she said.
‘Ah.’
‘About Bankim Babu’s attitude towards the British, and how it affected the form as opposed to the content of his writing.’
Amit thought: Oh God! Aloud he said: ‘Yes. . yes. . ’
Lata, though she felt sorry for both Amit and the girl, could not help smiling. She was glad she had come to the party after all.
The girl persisted: ‘Don’t you remember?’
Amit suddenly became voluble. ‘I am so forgetful—’ he said; ‘—and forgettable,’ he added quickly, ‘that I sometimes wonder if I ever existed. Nothing I’ve ever done seems to have happened. . ’
The girl nodded. ‘I know just what you mean,’ she said. But she soon wandered away a little sadly.
Amit frowned.
Lata, who could tell that he was feeling bad for having made the girl feel bad, said:
‘Your responsibilities don’t end with having written your books, it seems.’
‘What?’ said Amit, as if noticing her for the first time. ‘Oh yes, oh yes, that’s certainly true. Here, Lata. Have a plate.’
7.10
Although Amit was not too conscientious about his general duties as a host, he tried to make sure that Lata at least was not left stranded during the evening. Varun (who might otherwise have kept her company) had not come to the party; he preferred his Shamshu friends. Meenakshi (who was fond of Lata and normally would have escorted her around) was talking to her parents during a brief respite in their hostly duties, describing the events in the kitchen yesterday afternoon with the Mugh cook and in the drawing room yesterday evening with the Coxes. She had had the Coxes invited this evening as well because she thought it might be good for Arun.
‘But she’s a drab little thing,’ said Meenakshi. ‘Her clothes look as if they’ve been bought off the hook.’
‘She didn’t look all that drab when she introduced herself,’ said her father.
Meenakshi looked around the room casually and started slightly. Patricia Cox was wearing a beautiful green silk dress with a pearl necklace. Her gold-brown hair was short and, under the light of the chandelier, curiously radiant. This was not the mousy Patricia Cox of yesterday. Meenakshi’s expression was not ecstatic.
‘I hope things are well with you, Meenakshi,’ said Mrs Chatterji, reverting for a moment to Bengali.
‘Wonderfully well, Mago,’ replied Meenakshi in English. ‘I’m so much in love.’
This brought an anxious frown to Mrs Chatterji’s face.
‘We’re so worried about Kakoli,’ she said.
‘We?’ said Mr Justice Chatterji. ‘Well, I suppose that’s right.’
‘Your father doesn’t take things seriously enough. First it was that boy at Calcutta University, the, you know, the—’
‘The commie,’ said Mr Justice Chatterji benevolently.
‘Then it was the boy with the deformed hand and the strange sense of humour, what was his name?’
‘Tapan.’
‘Yes, what an unfortunate coincidence.’ Mrs Chatterji glanced at the bar where her own Tapan was still on duty. Poor baby. She must tell him to go to bed soon. Had he had time to snatch a bite to eat?
‘And now?’ asked Meenakshi, looking over at the corner where Kakoli and her friends were nattering and chattering away.
‘Now,’ said her mother, ‘it’s a foreigner. Well, I may as well tell you, it’s that German fellow there.’
‘He’s very good-looking,’ said Meenakshi, who noticed important things first. ‘Why hasn’t Kakoli told me?’
‘She’s quite secretive these days,’ said her mother.
‘On the contrary, she’s very open,’ said Mr Justice Chatterji.
‘It’s the same thing,’ said Mrs Chatterji. ‘We hear about so many friends and special friends that we never really know who the real one is. If indeed there is one at all.’
‘Well, dear,’ said Mr Justice Chatterji to his wife, ‘you worried about the commie and that came to nothing, and about the boy with the hand, and that came to nothing. So why worry? Look at Arun’s mother there, she’s always smiling, she never worries about anything.’
‘Baba,’ said Meenakshi, ‘that’s simply not true, she’s the biggest worrier of all. She worries about everything — no matter how trivial.’
‘Is that so?’ said her father with interest.
‘Anyway,’ continued Meenakshi, ‘how do you know that there is any romantic interest between them?’
‘He keeps inviting her to all these diplomatic functions,’ said her mother. ‘He’s a Second Secretary at the German Consulate General. He even pretends to like Rabindrasangeet. It’s too much.’
‘Darling, you’re not being quite fair,’ said Mr Justice Chatterji. ‘Kakoli too has suddenly evinced an interest in playing the piano parts of Schubert songs. If we’re lucky, we may even hear an impromptu recital tonight.’
‘She says he has a lovely baritone voice, and it makes her swoon. She will completely ruin her reputation,’ said Mrs Chatterji.
‘What’s his name?’ asked Meenakshi.
‘Hans,’ said Mrs Chatterji.
‘Just Hans?’
‘Hans something. Really, Meenakshi, it’s too upsetting. If he’s not serious, it’ll break her heart. And if she marries him she’ll leave India and we’ll never see her again.’