Kakoli had left instructions that she was to be woken up at seven. She had to make a phone call to Hans after he came back from his morning ride. How he managed to wake up at five — like Dipankar — and do all these vigorous things on a horse she did not know. But she felt that he must have great strength of will.
Kakoli was deeply attached to the telephone, and monopolized it shamelessly — as she did the car. Often she would burble on for forty-five minutes on end and her father sometimes found it impossible to get through to his house from the High Court or the Calcutta Club. There were fewer than ten thousand telephones in the whole of Calcutta, so a second phone would have been an unimaginable luxury. Ever since Kakoli had had an extension installed in her room, however, the unimaginable had begun to appear to him almost reasonable.
Since it had been a late night, the old servant Bahadur, who usually performed the difficult task of waking the unwilling Kuku and placating her with milk, had been told to sleep late. Amit had therefore taken on the duty of waking his sister.
He knocked gently on her door. There was no response. He opened the door. Light was streaming through the window on to Kakoli’s bed. She was sleeping diagonally across the bed with her arm thrown across her eyes. Her pretty, round face was covered with dried Lacto Calamine, which, like papaya pulp, she used to improve her complexion.
Amit said, ‘Kuku, wake up. It’s seven o’clock.’
Kakoli continued to sleep soundly.
‘Wake up, Kuku.’
Kakoli stirred slightly, then said what sounded like ‘choo-moo’. It was a sound of complaint.
After about five minutes of trying to get her to wake up, first by gentle words and then by a gentle shake or two of the shoulders, and being rewarded with nothing but ‘choo-moo’, Amit threw a pillow rather ungently over her head.
Kakoli bestirred herself enough to say: ‘Take a lesson from Bahadur. Wake people up nicely.’
Amit said, ‘I don’t have the practice. He has probably had to stand around your bed ten thousand times murmuring, “Kuku Baby, wake up; wake up, Baby Memsahib,” for twenty minutes while you do your “choo-moo”.’
‘Ungh,’ said Kakoli.
‘Open your eyes at least,’ said Amit. ‘Otherwise you’ll just roll over and go back to sleep.’ After a pause he added, ‘Kuku Baby.’
‘Ungh,’ said Kakoli irritably. She opened both her eyes a fraction, however.
‘Do you want your teddy bear? Your telephone? A glass of milk?’ said Amit.
‘Milk.’
‘How many glasses?’
‘A glass of milk.’
‘All right.’
Amit went off to fetch her a glass of milk.
When he returned he found that she was sitting on the bed, with the telephone receiver in one hand and Cuddles tucked under the other arm. She was treating Cuddles to a stream of Chatterji chatter.
‘Oh you beastie,’ she was saying: ‘oh you beastly beastie — oh you ghastly, beastly beastie.’ She stroked his head with the telephone receiver. ‘Oh you vastly ghastly mostly beastly beastie.’ She paid no attention to Amit.
‘Do shut up, Kuku, and take your milk,’ said Amit irritably. ‘I have other things to do than wait on you, you know.’
This remark struck Kakoli with novel force. She was well practised in the art of being helpless when there were helpful people around.
‘Or do you want me to drink it for you as well?’ added Amit gratuitously.
‘Go bite Amit,’ Kakoli instructed Cuddles. Cuddles did not comply.
‘Shall I set it down here, Madam?’
‘Yes, do.’ Kakoli ignored the sarcasm.
‘Will that be all, Madam?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes what?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘I was going to ask for a good-morning kiss, but that Lacto Calamine looks so disgusting I think I’ll defer it.’
Kakoli surveyed Amit severely. ‘You are a horrible, insensitive person,’ she informed him. ‘I don’t know why women swoooooon over your poetry.’
‘That’s because my poetry is so sensitive,’ said Amit.
‘I pity the girl who marries you. I reeeeeally pity her.’
‘And I pity the man who marries you. I reeeeeeally pity him. By the way, was that my future brother-in-law you were going to call? The nutcracker?’
‘The nutcracker?’
Amit held out his right hand as if shaking it with an invisible man. Slowly his mouth opened in shock and agony.
‘Do go away, Amit, you’ve spoilt my mood completely,’ said Kakoli.
‘What there was to spoil,’ said Amit.
‘When I say anything about the women you’re interested in you get very peeved.’
‘Like who? Jane Austen?’
‘May I make my phone call in peace and privacy?’
‘Yes, yes, Kuku Baby,’ said Amit, succeeding in being both sarcastic and placatory, ‘I’m just going, I’m just going. See you at breakfast.’
7.16
The Chatterji family at breakfast presented a scene of cordial conflict. It was an intelligent family where everyone thought of everyone else as an idiot. Some people thought the Chatterjis obnoxious because they appeared to enjoy each other’s company even more than the company of others. But if they had dropped by at the Chatterjis’ for breakfast and seen them bickering, they would probably have disliked them less.
Mr Justice Chatterji sat at the head of the table. Though small in size, short-sighted, and fairly absent-minded, he was a man of some dignity. He inspired respect in court and a sort of obedience even in his eccentric family. He didn’t like to talk more than was necessary.
‘Anyone who likes mixed fruit jam is a lunatic,’ said Amit.
‘Are you calling me a lunatic?’ asked Kakoli.
‘No, of course not, Kuku, I’m working from general principles. Please pass me the butter.’
‘You can reach for it yourself,’ said Kuku.
‘Now, now, Kuku,’ murmured Mrs Chatterji.
‘I can’t,’ protested Amit. ‘My hand’s been crushed.’
Tapan laughed. Kakoli gave him a black look, then began to look glum in preparation for a request.
‘I need the car today, Baba,’ said Kuku after a few seconds. ‘I have to go out. I need it for the whole day.’
‘But Baba,’ said Tapan, ‘I’m spending the day with Pankaj.’
‘I really must go to Hamilton’s this morning to get the silver inkstand back,’ said Mrs Chatterji.
Mr Justice Chatterji raised his eyebrows. ‘Amit?’ he asked.
‘No bid,’ said Amit.
Dipankar, who also declined transport, wondered aloud why Kuku was looking so wistful. Kuku frowned.
Amit and Tapan promptly began an antiphonal chant.
‘We look before and after, and pine for what is—’
‘NOT!’
‘Our sincerest laughter with some pain is—’
‘FROT!’
‘Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest—’
‘THOT!’ cried Tapan jubilantly, for he hero-worshipped Amit.
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ said Mrs Chatterji comfortingly; ‘everything will come out all right in the end.’
‘You don’t have any idea what I was thinking of,’ countered Kakoli.
‘You mean who,’ said Tapan.
‘You be quiet, you amoeba,’ said Kakoli.
‘He seemed a nice enough chap,’ ventured Dipankar.
‘Oh no, he’s just a glamdip,’ countered Amit.
‘Glamdip? Glamdip? Have I missed something?’ asked their father.
Mrs Chatterji looked equally mystified. ‘Yes, what is a glamdip, darling?’ she asked Amit.