‘How could she have done that?’ she asked. Savita’s fierce defensiveness towards those whom she loved was masked by her gentle nature. She was independent-spirited but in such a low key that only those who knew her very well got any sense that her life and desires were not entirely determined by the easy drift of circumstance. She held her mother close and said, ‘I am amazed at Meenakshi. I will make sure that nothing happens to the other medal. Daddy’s memory is worth a great deal more than her small-minded whims. Don’t cry, Ma. I’ll send a letter off immediately. Or if you want we can write one together.’
‘No, no.’ Mrs Rupa Mehra looked down sadly at her empty cup.
When Lata returned and heard the news, she too was shocked. She had been her father’s darling and had loved looking at his academic medals; indeed she had been very unhappy when they had been given to Meenakshi. What could they mean to her, Lata had wondered, compared to what they would mean to his daughters? She was now most unpleasantly being proved right. She was angry too with Arun who, she felt, had permitted this sorry business by his consent or indulgence and who now made light of the event in his fatuously casual letter. His brutal little attempts to shock or tease his mother made Lata fume. As to his suggestion that she go to Calcutta and cooperate in his introductions — Lata decided that that would be the last thing in the world she would do.
Pran returned late from his first meeting of the student welfare committee to a household that was clearly not itself, but he was too exhausted to inquire immediately what the matter was. He sat in his favourite chair — a rocking chair requisitioned from Prem Nivas — and read for a few minutes. After a while he asked Savita if she wanted to go for a walk, and during the course of it he was briefed on the crisis. He asked Savita whether he could look over the letter she had written to Meenakshi. It was not that he lacked faith in his wife’s judgement — quite the contrary. But he hoped that he, not being a Mehra and therefore less taut with a sense of injury, might be of help in preventing irretrievable words from exacerbating irretrievable acts. Family quarrels, whether over property or sentiment, were bitter things; their prevention was almost a public duty.
Savita was happy to show him the letter. Pran looked it over, nodding from time to time. ‘This is fine,’ he said rather gravely, as if approving a student’s essay. ‘Diplomatic but deadly! Soft steel,’ he added in a different tone. He looked at his wife with an expression of amused curiosity. ‘Well, I’ll see it goes off tomorrow.’
Malati came over later. Lata filled her in about the medal. Malati described some experiments that they had been required to perform at the medical college, and Mrs Rupa Mehra was sufficiently disgusted to be distracted — at least for a while.
Savita noticed for the first time over dinner that Malati had a crush on her husband. It was evident in the way the girl looked at him over the soup and avoided looking at him over the main course. Savita was not at all annoyed. She assumed that but to know Pran was to love him; Malati’s affection was both natural and harmless. Pran, it was clear, was unaware of this; he was talking about the play that he had put on for Annual Day the previous year: Julius Caesar—a typical university choice (Pran was saying) since so few parents wanted their daughters to act on stage. . but, on the other hand, the themes of violence, patriotism and a change of regime had given it a freshness in the present historical context that it would not otherwise have had.
The obtuseness of intelligent men, thought Savita with a smile, is half of what makes them lovable. She closed her eyes for a second to say a prayer for his health and her own and that of her unborn child.
Part Two
2.1
On the morning of Holi, Maan woke up smiling. He drank not just one but several glasses of thandai laced with bhang and was soon as high as a kite. He felt the ceiling floating down towards him — or was it he who was floating up towards it? As if in a mist he saw his friends Firoz and Imtiaz together with the Nawab Sahib arrive at Prem Nivas to greet the family. He went forward to wish them a happy Holi. But all he could manage was a continuous stream of laughter. They smeared his face with colour and he went on laughing. They sat him down in a corner and he continued laughing until the tears rolled down his cheeks. The ceiling had now floated away entirely, and it was the walls that were pulsing in and out in an immensely puzzling way. Suddenly he got up and put his arms around Firoz and Imtiaz and made for the door, pushing them along with him.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Firoz.
‘To Pran’s,’ Maan replied. ‘I have to play Holi with my sister-in-law.’ He grabbed a couple of packets of coloured powder and put them in the pocket of his kurta.
‘You’d better not drive your father’s car in this state,’ Firoz said.
‘Oh, we’ll take a tonga, a tonga,’ Maan said, waving his arms around, and then embracing Firoz. ‘But first drink some thandai. It’s got an amazing kick.’
They were lucky. There weren’t many tongas out this morning, but one trotted up just as they got on to Cornwallis Road. The horse was nervous as he passed the crowds of stained and shouting merrymakers on the way to the university. They paid the tonga-wallah double his regular fare and smeared his forehead pink and that of his horse green for good measure. When Pran saw them dismounting he went up and welcomed them into the garden. Just outside the door on the verandah of the house was a large bathtub filled with pink colour and several foot-long copper syringes. Pran’s kurta and pyjama were soaked and his face and hair smeared with yellow and pink powder.
‘Where’s my bhabhi?’ shouted Maan.
‘I’m not coming out—’ said Savita from inside.
‘That’s fine,’ shouted Maan, ‘we’ll come in.’
‘Oh no you won’t,’ said Savita. ‘Not unless you’ve brought me a sari.’
‘You’ll get your sari, what I want now is my pound of flesh,’ Maan said.
‘Very funny,’ said Savita. ‘You can play Holi as much as you like with my husband, but promise me you’ll only put a bit of colour on me.’
‘Yes, yes, I promise! Just a smidgeon, no more, of powder — and then a bit on your pretty little sister’s face — and I’ll be satisfied — until next year.’
Savita opened the door cautiously. She was wearing an old and faded salwaar-kameez and looked lovely: laughing and cautious, half-poised for flight.
Maan held the packet of pink powder in his left hand. He now smeared a bit on his sister-in-law’s forehead. She reached into the packet to do the same to him.
‘—and a little bit on each cheek—’ Maan continued as he smeared more powder on her face.
‘Good, that’s fine,’ said Savita. ‘Very good. Happy Holi!’
‘—and a little bit here—’ said Maan, rubbing more on her neck and shoulders and back, holding her firmly and fondling her a bit as she struggled to get away.
‘You’re a real ruffian, I’ll never trust you again,’ said Savita. ‘Please let me go, please stop it, no, Maan, please — not in my condition. . ’
‘So I’m a ruffian, am I?’ said Maan, reaching for a mug and dipping it in the tub.
‘No, no, no—’ said Savita. ‘I didn’t mean it. Pran, please help me,’ said Savita, half laughing and half crying. Mrs Rupa Mehra was peeping in alarm through the window. ‘No wet colour, Maan, please—’ cried Savita, her voice rising to a scream.