for him and he has courage,
he is fit for immortality.
Nothing of nonbeing comes to be,
nor does being cease to exist;
the boundary between these two
is seen by men who see reality.
Indestructible is this presence
that pervades all this;
no one can destroy
this unchanging reality. . ’
But it was not the all-pervading essence of reality that clutched at Mrs Rupa Mehra’s consciousness but the loved particularities that she had lost or that were losable. What body was her husband in now? If he was born again in human form would she even recognize him if he passed by her in the street? What did it mean when they said of the sacrament of marriage that they would be bound together for seven lives? If they had no memory of who they had been, what use was such knowledge? For all she knew, this last marriage might have been her seventh one. Emotion made her literal; she longed for tangible assurance. The soothing Sanskrit of the small, green, cloth-bound volume passed through her lips, but, while it gave her peace — tears rarely came to her eyes while she was reciting the Gita — it answered none of her questions. And while ancient wisdom so often proved unconsoling, photography, that cruel modern art, helped to ensure that even the image of her husband’s face would not grow dim with time.
9.2
Meanwhile, Kalpana tried her best to ferret out likely prospects for Lata. In all she found seven, which was not bad at such short notice. Three were friends or acquaintances, three were friends or acquaintances of friends or acquaintances, and one was the friend of a friend of a friend.
The first, a lively and friendly young man, had been with her at university, and had acted with her in plays. He was rejected by Mrs Rupa Mehra as being too rich. ‘You know our circumstances, Kalpana,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.
‘But he is sure not to want a dowry. He’s very flush,’ said Kalpana.
‘They are far too well-to-do,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra with decision. ‘There’s no point talking about it. Even their normal expectations for the wedding will be too high. We’ll have to feed a thousand people. Of those, probably seven hundred will be guests from their side. And we’ll have to put them up, and give all the women saris.’
‘But he’s a good boy,’ persisted Kalpana, ‘at least look at him.’
Her flu had improved, and she was as energetic as ever.
Mrs Rupa Mehra shook her head. ‘If I liked him it would only upset me. He may be good, but he lives with his whole family. Lata will always be compared with the other daughters-in-law — she’ll be the poor relation. I won’t have it. She won’t be happy.’
And so the first prospect was excluded.
The second, whom they went to see, spoke good English and seemed a sober fellow. But he was too tall. He would tower over Lata. He would not do. ‘If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra to Kalpana, though she herself had begun to feel disheartened.
The third boy was also problematic.
‘Too dark, too dark,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.
‘But Meenakshi—’ began Kalpana Gaur.
‘Don’t talk to me about Meenakshi,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra in a tone that brooked no argument.
‘Ma, let Lata decide what she thinks of him.’
‘I will not have black grandchildren,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.
‘You said exactly that when Arun got married — and see how fond you are of Aparna. And she isn’t even dark—’
Mrs Rupa Mehra said: ‘Aparna is different.’ After a pause she thought of something else. ‘The exception proves the rule,’ she added.
Kalpana Gaur said: ‘Lata isn’t all that fair herself.’
‘All the more reason,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. What this meant was unclear; what was clear was that her mind had been made up.
The fourth prospect was the son of a jeweller who had a prosperous shop in Connaught Circus. Within five minutes of their meeting his parents mentioned a dowry of two lakh rupees. Mrs Rupa Mehra stared at Kalpana in astonishment.
When they got out of the house, Kalpana said: ‘Honestly, Ma, I didn’t know they were like that. I don’t even know the boy myself. A friend simply told me that they had a son for whom they were seeking a bride. I’d never have put you through all that if I’d known.’
‘If my husband was alive,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, still smarting, ‘he might have been Chairman of the Railway Board, and we’d never have to lower our heads before anyone, certainly not people like these.’
The fifth candidate, though decent enough, could not speak English properly. Try, try again.
The sixth was wanting — harmless, quite pleasant, but slightly deficient. He smiled innocently throughout the interview which Mrs Rupa Mehra conducted with his parents.
Mrs Rupa Mehra, thinking of Robert Bruce and the spider, was convinced that the seventh man would be the one for her daughter.
The seventh, however, had whisky on his breath and his uncertain laugh reminded her uncomfortably of Varun.
Mrs Rupa Mehra was deeply discouraged and, having exhausted her contacts in Delhi, decided that Kanpur, Lucknow, and Banaras (in each of which she or her late husband had relatives) would have to be dredged before she returned to try her luck in Brahmpur (where, however, lurked the undesirable Kabir). But what if Kanpur, Lucknow, and Banaras proved equally fruitless?
By now Kalpana had suffered a relapse and fallen quite seriously ill (though the doctors were puzzled about the diagnosis; she had stopped sneezing, but seemed to be weak and sleepy all the time). Mrs Rupa Mehra decided to spend a few days nursing her before she left Delhi for the rest of her slightly premature Annual Trans-India Rail Pilgrimage.
9.3
One evening, a rather short but energetic young man appeared at the door and was greeted by Mr Gaur.
‘Good evening, Mr Gaur — I wonder if you remember me. I’m Haresh Khanna.’
‘Oh, yes?’ said Mr Gaur.
‘I knew Kalpana at St Stephen’s. We studied English together.’
‘Weren’t you the one who went to England to study physics or something? I don’t think I’ve seen you in years.’
‘Shoes.’
‘Oh. Shoes. I see.’
‘Is Kalpana in?’
‘Well, yes — but she isn’t very well.’ Mr Gaur pointed his stick at the tonga, which had a suitcase on it together with a briefcase and a bedding roll. ‘Were you thinking of staying here?’ he asked, rather alarmed.
‘No — no — not at all. My father lives near Neel Darvaza. I’ve come straight from the station. I work in Cawnpore. I thought I’d drop by and see Kalpana before I went to Baoji’s house. But if she isn’t well. . What is the matter? Nothing serious, I hope?’ Haresh smiled, and his eyes disappeared.
Mr Gaur frowned at him for a few seconds, then spoke.
‘The doctors can’t agree. But she keeps yawning. Health is the most precious possession, young man.’ (He had forgotten Haresh’s name.) ‘Don’t forget that.’ He paused. ‘Well, come in.’
Even though her father had been surprised by his sudden, unannounced arrival, Kalpana, when she entered the drawing room, could not have been more happy than to see Haresh. They had corresponded off and on for a year or so after they left college, but time and distance had taken their toll, and the crush she had had on him had slowly faded. Then had come her unhappy affair and broken engagement. Haresh had heard of this through friends, and he told himself that the next time he was in Delhi he would go over and say hello.