‘Anyway, Ma, there’s a good chance that I won’t get the part,’ said Lata. ‘Let’s ask the baby,’ she added, placing her hand on Savita’s stomach.
The litany, ‘Olivia, Maria, Viola, nothing,’ was recited slowly several times over, and the fourth time around the baby obliged with a sharp kick on the word ‘nothing’.
12.6
Two or three days later, however, Lata received a note assigning her the part of Olivia and asking her to attend the first rehearsal on Thursday afternoon at three thirty. She rushed off in high excitement towards the women’s hostel, only to meet Malati on the way. Malati had been given the part of Maria. Both of them were equally pleased and astonished.
The first rehearsal was to be merely a reading-through of the play. Again it was not necessary to book the auditorium; a classroom was sufficient. Lata and Malati decided to celebrate by having a preparatory ice-cream at the Blue Danube, and arrived at the classroom in high spirits, just five minutes before the reading was due to begin.
There were about a dozen boys, and only one girl, presumably Viola. She was sitting apart from them, contemplating the empty blackboard.
Also sitting apart from the main knot of actors, and not participating at all in the general air of masculine excitement when the two girls walked in, was Kabir.
At first Lata’s heart leapt up when she saw him; then she told Malati to stay where she was. She was going over to talk to him.
His behaviour was too casual to be anything but deliberate. Clearly, he had been expecting her. This was intolerable.
‘Who are you?’ she said, anger below the low level of her voice.
He was taken aback, both by the tone and by the question. He looked rather guilty.
‘Malvolio,’ he said, then added: ‘Madam.’ But he remained seated.
‘You never told me you had the least interest in amateur dramatics,’ said Lata.
‘Nor did you tell me,’ was his reply.
‘I was not interested until a few days ago, when Malati dragged me to the audition,’ said Lata, shortly.
‘And my interest dates to about the same time,’ said Kabir with an attempt at a smile. ‘I heard that you did very well at the auditions.’
Lata could see it all now. Somehow or other he had discovered that she had a good chance of getting a part, and he had decided to attend the auditions for male parts. It was precisely to get away from him that she had undertaken to act in the first place.
‘I suppose you instituted the usual inquiries,’ said Lata.
‘No, I heard about it by chance. I haven’t been following you around.’
‘And so—’
‘Why does there have to be a “so” to it?’ said Kabir, innocently. ‘I just happen to like the lines of the play.’ And he quoted with an easy and unselfconscious air:
‘There is no woman’s sides
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion
As love doth give my heart: no woman’s heart
So big to hold so much; they lack retention.
Alas, their love may be called appetite,—
No motion of the liver, but the palate,—
That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest as much: make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me
And that I owe Olivia.’
Lata felt her face burning. After a while she said: ‘You’re reciting someone else’s lines, I’m afraid. Those weren’t written for you.’ She paused, then added: ‘But you know them rather too well.’
‘I learned them — and a good deal more besides — the night before the auditions,’ said Kabir. ‘I hardly slept! I was determined to get the part of the Duke. But I had to settle for Malvolio. I hope that doesn’t mean anything by way of my fate. I got your note. I keep hoping we’ll meet at Prem Nivas or somewhere—’
To her own surprise Lata found herself laughing. ‘You’re mad, absolutely mad,’ she said.
She had turned away, but as she turned back towards him she noticed the last flicker of what was a look of real pain on his face.
‘I was only joking,’ said Lata.
‘Well,’ said Kabir, making light of it, ‘some are born mad, some achieve madness, and some have madness thrust upon them.’
Lata was tempted to ask him which of the three categories he thought he belonged to. But instead she said: ‘So you do know Malvolio’s role as well.’
‘Oh, those lines,’ said Kabir. ‘Everyone knows those lines. Just poor Malvolio playing the fool.’
‘Why aren’t you playing cricket or something else instead?’ said Lata.
‘What? In the Monsoon Term?’
But Mr Barua, who had arrived a few minutes ago, waved an imaginary baton towards the student who was to play the Duke, and said: ‘All right, well, then, now, “If music be. .”, all right? Good.’ And the reading began.
As Lata listened, she got drawn into the other world. It was a while before her first entrance. And when she began reading, she lost herself in the language. Soon she became Olivia. She survived her first exchange with Malvolio. Later she laughed with the rest at Malati’s rendering of Maria. The girl who played Viola too was excellent, and Lata enjoyed falling in love with her. There was even a slight resemblance between Viola and the boy who was to play her brother. Mr Barua had done his casting well.
From time to time, however, Lata, emerging from the play, remembered where she was. She avoided looking at Kabir as much as she could, and only once did she feel that his eyes were on her. She felt certain that he would wish to talk to her afterwards, and she was glad that Malati and she had both got parts. One passage caused her particular difficulty, and Mr Barua had to coax her through it.
Olivia: Why, how dost thou, man? What is the matter with thee?
Malvolio: Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs. It did come to his hands, and commands shall be executed. I think we do know the sweet Roman hand.
Mr Barua [puzzled at the pause, and looking at Lata in expectation]: Yes, yes, good?
Olivia: Wilt—
Mr Barua: Wilt? Yes, wilt thou. . good, excellent, keep on going, Miss Mehra, you’re doing very well.
Olivia: Wilt thou—
Mr Barua: Wilt thou? Yes, yes!
Olivia: Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio?
Mr Barua [holding up one hand to still the guffaws, and waving at the dumbstruck Kabir with his imaginary baton]: How now, Malvolio?
Malvolio: To bed? Ay, sweetheart; and I’ll come to thee.
Everyone, other than the two actors and Mr Barua, joined in the laughter that followed. Even Malati. Et tu, thought Lata.
The clown recited, rather than sang, the song at the end of the play, and Lata, catching Malati’s eye and avoiding Kabir’s, left quickly afterwards. It was not yet dark. But she need not have feared that he would ask her out that evening. It was Thursday, and he had another obligation.
12.7
When Kabir got to his uncle’s house, it was dark. He parked his bicycle and knocked. His aunt opened the door. The house, single-storeyed and sprawling, was not well lit. Kabir often remembered playing with his cousins in the large back-garden in his childhood, but for the last several years the house had appeared to him almost to be haunted. It was on Thursday evenings that he usually visited it now.
‘How is she today?’ he asked his aunt.