After classes, Lata and Malati, both dressed casually in their usual salwaar-kameez, went to Nabiganj to wander around and have a cup of coffee at the Blue Danube coffee house. This activity, known to university students as ‘ganjing’, they could afford to indulge in about once a week. As they passed the Imperial Book Depot, they were drawn magnetically in. Each wandered off to her favourite shelves and subjects. Malati headed straight for the novels, Lata went for poetry. On the way, however, she paused by the science shelves, not because she understood much science, but, rather, because she did not. Whenever she opened a scientific book and saw whole paragraphs of incomprehensible words and symbols, she felt a sense of wonder at the great territories of learning that lay beyond her — the sum of so many noble and purposive attempts to make objective sense of the world. She enjoyed the feeling; it suited her serious moods; and this afternoon she was feeling serious. She picked up a random book and read a random paragraph:
It follows from De Moivre’s formula that zn = rn (cos n + i sin n). Thus, if we allow complex number z to describe a circle of radius r about the origin, zn will describe n complete times a circle of radius rn as z describes its circle once. We also recall that r, the modulus of z, written |z|, gives the distance of z from O, and that if z′=x′+iy′, then |z — z′| is the distance between z and z′. With these preliminaries we may proceed to the proof of the theorem.
What exactly it was that pleased her in these sentences she did not know, but they conveyed weight, comfort, inevitability. Her mind strayed to Varun and his mathematical studies. She hoped that her brief words to him the day after the wedding had done him some good. She should have written to him more often to bolster his courage, but with exams coming up she had very little time for anything. It was at the insistence of Malati — who was even busier than she was — that she had gone ganjing at all.
She read the paragraph again, looking serious. ‘We also recall’ and ‘with these preliminaries’ drew her into a compact with the author of these verities and mysteries. The words were assured, and therefore reassuring: things were what they were even in this uncertain world, and she could proceed from there.
She smiled to herself now not aware of her surroundings. Still holding the book, she looked up. And this was how a young man, who had been standing not far from her, was included, unintentionally, in her smile. He was pleasantly startled, and smiled back at her. Lata frowned at him and looked down at the page again. But she could not concentrate on it, and after a few moments, replaced it on the shelf before making her way to Poetry.
Lata, whatever she thought of love itself, liked love poetry. ‘Maud’ was one of her favourite poems. She began to flip through a volume of Tennyson.
The tall young man, who had (Lata noticed) slightly wavy black hair and very good, rather aquiline, looks, seemed to be as interested in poetry as in mathematics, because a few minutes later Lata was aware that he had shifted his attention to the poetry shelves, and was glancing through the anthologies. Lata felt that his eyes were on her from time to time. This annoyed her and she did not look up. When, despite herself, she did, she noticed him innocently immersed in his reading. She could not resist glancing at the cover of his book. It was a Penguin: Contemporary Verse. He now looked up, and the tables were turned. Before she could glance down again, he said: ‘It’s unusual for someone to be interested in both poetry and mathematics.’
‘Is that so?’ said Lata severely.
‘Courant and Robbins — it’s an excellent work.’
‘Oh?’ said Lata. Then, realizing that the young man was referring to the mathematics book she had picked randomly off the shelf, she said, ‘Is it?’ by way of closure.
But the young man was eager to continue the conversation.
‘My father says so,’ he went on. ‘Not as a text but as a broad introduction to various, well, facets of the subject. He teaches maths at the university.’
Lata looked around to see if Malati was listening. But Malati was intent on her browsing in the front of the shop. Nor was anyone else eavesdropping; the shop was not busy at this time of year — or this time of day.
‘Actually, I’m not interested in mathematics,’ said Lata with an air of finality. The young man looked a little downcast before he rallied and confided, genially: ‘You know, nor am I. I’m a history student myself.’
Lata was amazed at his determination and, looking straight at him, said, ‘I must go now. My friend is waiting for me.’ Even as she was saying this, however, she could not help noticing how sensitive, even vulnerable, this wavy-haired young man looked. This appeared to contradict his determined, bold behaviour in speaking to an unknown, unintroduced, girl in a bookshop.
‘I’m sorry, I suppose I’ve been disturbing you?’ he apologized, as if reading her thoughts.
‘No,’ said Lata. She was about to go to the front of the shop when he added quickly, with a nervous smile, ‘In that case, may I ask you your name?’
‘Lata,’ said Lata shortly, though she didn’t see the logic of ‘in that case’.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me mine?’ asked the young man, his smile broadening amiably.
‘No,’ said Lata, quite kindly, and rejoined Malati, who had a couple of paperback novels in her hand.
‘Who’s he?’ whispered Malati conspiratorially.
‘Just someone,’ said Lata, glancing back a bit anxiously. ‘I don’t know. He just came up to me and began a conversation. Hurry up. Let’s go. I’m feeling hungry. And thirsty. It’s hot in here.’
The man at the counter was looking at Lata and Malati with the energetic friendliness he showered on regular customers. The little finger of his left hand was searching for wax in the crevices of his ear. He shook his head with reproving benevolence and said in Hindi to Malati:
‘Exams are coming up, Malatiji, and you are still buying novels? Twelve annas plus one rupee four annas makes two rupees altogether. I should not allow this. You are like daughters to me.’
‘Balwantji, you would go out of business if we did not read your novels. We are sacrificing our examination results at the altar of your prosperity,’ said Malati.
‘I’m not,’ said Lata. The young man must have disappeared behind a bookshelf, because she couldn’t see him anywhere.
‘Good girl, good girl,’ said Balwant, possibly referring to both of them.
‘Actually, we were going to get some coffee and came into your shop unplanned,’ said Malati, ‘so I didn’t bring—’ She left the sentence unfinished and flung a winning smile at Balwant.
‘No, no, that is not necessary — you can give it later,’ said Balwant. He and his brother extended terms of easy credit to many students. When asked whether this wasn’t bad for business, they would reply that they had never lost money trusting anyone who bought books. And, certainly, they were doing very well for themselves. They reminded Lata of the priests of a well-endowed temple. The reverence with which the brothers treated their books supported the analogy.
‘Since you suddenly feel famished, we are going straight to the Blue Danube,’ said Malati decisively once they were outside the shop. ‘And there you will tell me exactly what happened between that Cad and you.’