Here was another reason for going to Brahmpur; she would prepare the ground when she got there. Of course there was no question of mentioning her plan to Amit; he would have hit the roof in so far as he was capable of it. Sometimes she wished he would hit the roof. Surely poets should be more passionate than Amit was. But she could certainly imagine him saying acidly: ‘Do your own wooing, Meenakshi darling, and let me do mine.’ No, she had better not mention anything to Amit.
Kakoli, however, when she came to visit Sunny Park late one afternoon, was let into the plot, and was delighted. She considered Lata to be quiet but nice, with sudden surprising sparks here and there to leaven things. Amit appeared to like her, but he was incapable of doing anything determined for himself, being content simply to contemplate things and let the years roll on. Kakoli felt that Lata and Amit were well matched but that each needed prodding. She rolled off a Kakoli-couplet to consecrate their match:
‘Luscious Lata, born to be
Lady Lata Chatterji.’
She was rewarded by the tinkle of Meenakshi’s laughter, and the return of her service:
‘Luscious Lata, is it hard
Being wife of famous bard?’
Kakoli, giggling, volleyed the ball low across the net:
‘Oh, so hard it is in rhyme:
Loving, doving, all the time.’
And Meenakshi continued the rally:
‘Kissing, missing, every day,
Cuddling, muddling all the way.’
Kakoli, suddenly remembering that she had left Cuddles tied up to her bedpost, told Meenakshi she had to go home immediately. ‘But why don’t both of us go to Brahmpur together?’ she suggested. ‘To the provinces,’ she added airily.
‘Why not?’ said Meenakshi. ‘We could chaperone each other. But wouldn’t you miss Hans?’
‘We need only go for a week. It’ll be good for him to miss me. It’ll be well worth the pain of my missing him.’
‘And Cuddles? It really is very tiresome of Dipankar not to say when he’s coming back. He’s been gone for years, and now that he’s run out of postcards, we’ll never hear from him.’
‘It’s just typical of him. Well, Amit can be Cuddles’ keeper.’
When Mrs Chatterji heard of the trip, she was more concerned with Kakoli missing classes than missing Hans.
‘Oh, Ma,’ wailed Kakoli, ‘don’t be such a bore. Weren’t you ever young? Didn’t you ever want to flee from the chains of life? I have excellent attendance at college, and a week won’t make any difference. We can always get a doctor to certify that I’ve been ill. With a wasting sickness.’ She quoted two snowy lines from Winterreise about the Inn that represented Death. ‘Or malaria,’ she continued. ‘Look, there’s a mosquito.’
‘We will do no such thing,’ said Mr Justice Chatterji, looking up from his book.
But Kakoli, while conceding this point, wore her parents down on the general question of the Brahmpur jaunt. ‘Meenakshi needs me to accompany her. Arun’s too busy with work. The family needs us,’ she pleaded. ‘Babies are so complicated. Every pair of hands helps. And Lata’s such a nice girl, her company will improve me. Ask Amit if she isn’t nice. And improving.’
‘Oh shut up, Kuku, leave me to Keats,’ said Amit.
‘Kuku, Keats, Kuku, Keats,’ said Kakoli, sitting down at the piano. ‘What shall I play for you, Amit? La-La-Liebestraum?’
Amit fixed her with a Look.
But Kakoli rippled on:
‘Amit lying on his bed,
Dreams of Lata in his head.
Weeping, weeping on his sheets,
Cannot concentrate on Keats.’
‘You are by far the stupidest girl I know,’ said Amit. ‘But why do you advertise your stupidity?’
‘Perhaps because I am stupid!’ said Kakoli, and giggled at her idiotic answer. ‘But don’t you like her — a teeeeny weeeeny bit? A soupcon? A little? A tittle?’
Amit got up to go to his room, but not before another Kakoli-couplet had been shot at him.
‘Kuku-clock chimes out her name.
Poet fleeing, red with shame.’
‘Really, Kuku!’ said her mother. ‘There are limits.’ She turned to her husband. ‘You never say anything to her. You never set any limits. You never stop her from doing anything. You always give in. What is a father for?’
‘To say no at first,’ said Mr Justice Chatterji.
13.15
Most of the Brahmpur news had already got through to Calcutta via the informative letters of Mrs Rupa Mehra. But her last letter had been overtaken by the telegram. So when Meenakshi and Kakoli got to Brahmpur with every intention of plonking themselves and their baggage down at Pran’s doorstep, they were shocked to find that he wasn’t there at all, but ill in hospital. With Savita in hospital herself, and Lata and her mother fussing about with Pran and Savita, it was clear that Meenakshi and Kuku could not be put up and fussed over in the style to which they were accustomed.
Meenakshi found it hard to believe that the Kapoors had timed their affairs so badly as to have husband and wife bedridden at the same time.
Kakoli was more sympathetic, accepting the fact that baby and bronchii could not confer in advance. ‘Why don’t we stay at Pran’s father’s place, what is it called, Prem Nivas?’ she asked.
‘That’s impossible,’ responded Meenakshi. ‘The mother doesn’t even speak English. And they won’t have western-style toilets — just those dreadful holes in the ground.’
‘Well, what are we to do?’
‘Kuku, how about that old dodderer whose address Baba gave us?’
‘But who wants to stay with someone who’s full of senile reminiscences?’
‘Well, where is it?’
‘He gave it to you. It must be in your bag,’ said Kakoli.
‘No, Kuku, he gave it to you,’ said Meenakshi.
‘I’m quite sure he didn’t,’ said Kakoli. ‘Do check.’
‘Well — oh, yes, here it is. Maybe it’s on that. Yes, it is: Mr and Mrs Maitra. Let’s land on them.’
‘Let’s see the baby first.’
‘What about our luggage?’
So Meenakshi and Kakoli freshened up, changed into a mauve and a red cotton sari respectively, ordered Mateen to provide them with a fortifying breakfast, and set off in a tonga for Civil Lines. Meenakshi was astonished that it was so difficult to hail a taxi in Brahmpur, and shuddered every time the horse farted.
Meenakshi and Kakoli quickly imposed themselves on Mr and Mrs Maitra and then rushed off, waving from the back of the tonga, towards the hospital.
‘Well, they claim that they’re Chatterji’s daughters,’ said the old policeman. ‘His children seem to be very restless. What was the name of that other boy, their son?’
Mrs Maitra, who was scandalized by the fact that she could see almost four inches of their waists, shook her head and wondered what Calcutta had come to. Her own son’s letters did not contain any mention of waistlines.
‘When will they be back for lunch?’
‘They didn’t say.’
‘Well, since they are our guests, we should wait for them. But I get so hungry by noon,’ said old Mr Maitra. ‘And then I have to tell my beads for two hours, and if I begin late, that puts everything out. We’d also better get some more fish.’
‘We’ll wait till one, and then eat,’ said his wife. ‘If they can’t come, they’ll telephone us.’
And so the two considerate old people accommodated themselves to the two young women, who had no intention of eating with them, and to whom the thought of a telephone call would certainly not occur.
Mrs Rupa Mehra was transporting the baby from Pran’s room to Savita’s when she saw the mauve Meenakshi and the crimson Kakoli bearing down upon her along the corridor. She all but dropped the baby.