‘Isn’t there something livelier in Brahmpur?’ asked Kakoli.
‘Well, there’s the Blue Danube café on Nabiganj. And the Red Fox. And the movies, though the English ones are a couple of years out of date. And the bookstores—’ Even as she spoke, Lata realized how dreary Brahmpur must seem to the ladies of Calcutta. ‘I’m really sorry, I have to run now. My lecture.’
And Kuku was left wondering at Lata’s enthusiasm for her studies.
13.17
What with the activity surrounding Pran’s illness and the baby’s arrival, Lata’s own reticence and Malati’s protective presence at rehearsals, Lata and Kabir had merely exchanged Shakespeare’s lines, and none of their own, for the last few days. Lata longed to tell him how much she sympathized with him about his mother, but did not know how to do so without eliciting an intensity of feeling on both sides that she feared would shake her — and probably him — too painfully. So she said nothing. But Mr Barua noticed that Olivia was kinder to Malvolio than he thought the script merited, and he tried to correct her.
‘Now, Miss Mehra, do try that again. “O you are sick of self-love, Malvolio—”’
Lata cleared her throat for a second attempt. ‘O you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite—’
‘No, no, Miss Mehra like this: “O you are sick—” and so on. Slightly sharp, slightly tired. You are irritated by Malvolio. It is he who is mooning over you.’
Lata tried to think of how angry she had been when she saw Kabir at the first rehearsal. She began once more:
‘O you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon-bullets—’
‘Ah, yes, much better, much better. But you seem rather too annoyed. Tone it down, Miss Mehra, if you would, tone it down a little. That way, when he seems to be really mad later on, even offensive, you’ll have an unused range of emotions that you can bring into play. Do you see what I mean?’
‘Yes, yes I think I do, Mr Barua.’
Kakoli and Meenakshi had been chatting to Malati for a while, but she suddenly disappeared. ‘My cue,’ she explained, and bounced into the wings to come on as Maria.
‘What do you think, Kuku?’ said Meenakshi.
‘I think she has a soft spot for that Malvolio chap.’
‘Malati assured us she hadn’t,’ said Meenakshi. ‘She even called him a cad. Seemed a strange word to use. A cad.’
‘I think he’s delicious. He looks so broad-shouldered and soulful. I wish he’d shoot a cannon-bullet at me. Or his bird-bolt.’
‘Really, Kuku, you have no decency at all,’ said Meenakshi.
‘Lata has certainly opened up since she was in Calcutta,’ said Kakoli thoughtfully. ‘If Amit is to stand a chance, he can’t continue to lie low—’
‘The early worm catches the bird,’ said Meenakshi.
Kakoli giggled.
Mr Barua turned around in annoyance.
‘Er, would the two young ladies at the back—’
‘But it’s so amusing — the lines, I mean — under your direction,’ said Kakoli with brazen sweetness. Some of the boys laughed, and Mr Barua turned around, blushing.
But after a few minutes of foolery by Sir Toby, both Kakoli and Meenakshi got bored, and left.
That evening, the two sisters went to the hospital. They spent a few seconds with Pran, whom they found unattractive and negligible—‘I knew it the minute I saw him at the wedding,’ said Meenakshi — and most of their time upstairs in Savita’s room. Meenakshi advised Savita about her feeding times. Savita listened carefully, thinking about other matters. Lots of other people came in, and the room became as crowded as a concert. Meenakshi and Kakoli, pheasants among the Brahmpur pigeons, looked around them with unfeigned contempt, especially at the Rudhia relatives and Mrs Mahesh Kapoor. Some of these people were incapable of speaking English. And the way they dressed!
Mrs Mahesh Kapoor for her part could not believe that these two shamelessly bare-waisted and bold-mouthed girls were the sisters of that nice boy Dipankar, who was so simple in his dress, amiable in his manners, and spiritual in his tastes. She was upset that Maan appeared to be hovering fascinatedly nearby. Kuku was looking at him with liquid eyes. Meenakshi’s eyes held a look of come-hither disdain which was as challenging as Kuku’s was appealing. Perhaps because she did not understand much English, Mrs Mahesh Kapoor was able more keenly to observe the unobvious undercurrents of hostility and attraction, contempt and admiration, tenderness and indifference that tied together the twenty or so people talking non-stop in this room.
Meenakshi was telling a story, punctuated by her bell-like laugh, about her own pregnancy. ‘It had to be Dr Evans, of course. Dr Matthew Evans. Really, if one has to have a baby in Calcutta, there’s no other choice. Such a charming man. Absolutely the best gynaecologist in Calcutta. He has such a nice way with his patients.’
‘Oh, Meenakshi, you’re only saying that because he flirts with his patients shamelessly,’ interrupted Kakoli. ‘He pats them on their bottoms.’
‘Well, he certainly cheers them up,’ said Meenakshi. ‘That’s part of his bedside manner.’
Kakoli giggled. Mrs Rupa Mehra looked at Mr Mahesh Kapoor, who seemed to be going through a paroxysm of self-control.
‘Of course he’s terribly terribly expensive — his fee for Aparna was 750 rupees. But even Ma, who’s so penny-pinching, agrees he was worth every paisa. Don’t you, Ma?’
Mrs Rupa Mehra did not agree, but did not say so. When Dr Evans had heard that Meenakshi was in labour, he had merely said, as if sighting the Armada: ‘Tell her to hold on. I’m finishing my game of golf.’
Meenakshi was continuing. ‘The Irwin Nursing Home is spotless. And there’s a nursery too. The mother isn’t exhausted by having the baby with her all the time in a cot, yelling and needing its nappy changed. It’s just brought to her at feeding times. And they’re strict about the number of visitors there.’ Meenakshi looked rather pointedly at the riff-raff from Rudhia.
Mrs Rupa Mehra was too embarrassed by Meenakshi’s behaviour to say anything.
Mr Mahesh Kapoor said: ‘Mrs Mehra, this is very fascinating, but—’
‘Do you think so?’ said Meenakshi. ‘I do think childbirth is so — so ennobling.’
‘Ennobling?’ said Kuku, astonished.
Savita was beginning to look pale.
‘Well, don’t you think one shouldn’t miss out on the whole thing?’ Meenakshi hadn’t thought so when she had actually been pregnant.
‘I don’t know,’ said Kakoli. ‘I’m not pregnant — yet.’
Maan laughed, and Mr Mahesh Kapoor almost choked.
‘Kakoli!’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra in a warning voice.
‘But not everyone knows when they’re pregnant,’ continued Kakoli. ‘Remember Brigadier Guha’s wife in Kashmir? She didn’t go through the ennobling experience.’
Meenakshi laughed at the memory.
‘What about her?’ said Maan.
‘Well—’ began Meenakshi.
‘She was—’ began Kakoli simultaneously.
‘You tell it,’ said Meenakshi.
‘No, you tell it,’ said Kakoli.
‘All right,’ said Meenakshi. ‘She was playing hockey in Kashmir, where she’d gone for a holiday to celebrate her fortieth birthday. She fell down, and got hurt, and had to return to Calcutta. When she got back, she began to feel shooting pains every few minutes. They called the doctor—’
‘Dr Evans,’ added Kakoli.
‘No, Kuku, Dr Evans came later, this was another one. So she said, “Doctor, what is this?” And he said, “You’re going to have a baby. We’ve got to get you to the nursing home at once.”’