There was a long pause between this letter and Haresh’s next one, and Lata felt that her triple refusal must have hurt him too much. She discussed with Malati the question of which of the three refusals had upset Haresh the most, and their discussion of this helped her make light of the matter.
13.22
One day, when Kabir had acted particularly well, Lata told Malati: ‘I’m going to tell him afterwards how good I thought his acting was. It’s the only way to break the ice.’
Malati said: ‘Lata, don’t be foolish, it won’t be breaking the ice, it’ll be releasing the steam. Just leave well enough alone.’
But after the rehearsal was over, when the three of them, among others, were milling around outside the auditorium, Kabir came up to Lata and said: ‘Could you give this to Bhaskar? My father thought he might find it interesting.’ It was a kite with an unusual shape: a sort of lozenge with streamers behind it.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Lata, a little uneasily. ‘But you know he’s no longer at Prem Nivas. He’s gone back to his parents’ house in Misri Mandi.’
‘I hope it’s not too much trouble—’
‘No, it isn’t, Kabir — it isn’t at all — we can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for him.’
Both of them were silent. Malati hung around for a while, thinking that Lata might be grateful if she interposed herself into any intense conversation that Kabir might start. But after a glance or two at Lata, she judged that Lata would be happier if she could talk to him by herself. So she took her leave of both of them — though Kabir had not, in fact, greeted her.
‘Why have you been avoiding me?’ said Kabir to Lata in a low voice the moment Malati had gone.
Lata shook her head, unable to look at his face. But there was no avoiding a conversation that would not be in the least casual.
‘What do you expect?’ she said.
‘Are you still angry with me — about that?’
‘No — I’m getting used to it. Today you acted very well.’
‘I don’t mean the play,’ said Kabir. ‘I meant our last real meeting.’
‘Oh, that—’
‘Yes, that.’ He was determined to have it out, it seemed.
‘I don’t know — so much has happened since then.’
‘Nothing has happened except a vacation.’
‘I meant, I’ve thought so much about things—’
‘Do you think I haven’t?’ he said.
‘Kabir, please — what I meant was that I’ve thought about us as well.’
‘And no doubt you still think I was unreasonable.’ Kabir sounded slightly amused.
Lata looked at his face, then turned away. She didn’t say anything.
‘Let’s take a walk,’ said Kabir. ‘At least it’ll give us something to do in our silences.’
‘All right,’ said Lata, shaking her head.
They walked along the path that led from the auditorium to the centre of the campus — towards the jacaranda grove, and beyond that, to the cricket nets.
‘Do I deserve an answer?’ asked Kabir.
‘It was I who was unreasonable,’ said Lata after a while.
This took the wind out of Kabir’s sails. He looked at her in astonishment as she continued:
‘You were quite right. I was being unfair and unreasonable and everything else you said. It’s not possible — it never was — but not because of time and careers and studies and other practical things.’
‘Why then?’ said Kabir.
‘Because of my family,’ said Lata. ‘However much they irritate me and constrain me, I can’t give them up. I know that now. So much has happened. I can’t give up my mother—’
Lata halted, thinking of what effect this last remark might have on Kabir, but decided that she had to explain herself now or never.
‘I just see how much she cares about everything and how she would be affected by this,’ she said.
‘By this!’ said Kabir. ‘You mean, by you and me.’
‘Kabir, do you know of any mixed marriages that have worked out?’ said Lata. But even as she said it she thought that perhaps she had gone too far. Kabir had never explicitly mentioned marriage — he wanted to be with her, to be close to her — but marriage? Perhaps he had implied it when he had asked her to wait for a year or two — when he had mentioned his plans for future study, for the Foreign Service, for Cambridge. But now he didn’t retreat from the word.
‘Do you know of any that haven’t?’ he said.
‘I don’t know of any at all in our family,’ said Lata.
‘Unmixed marriages aren’t always ideal either.’
‘I know, Kabir; I’ve heard—’ said Lata, miserably, and with such sympathy that Kabir understood that she was referring to his mother.
He stopped, and said:
‘Does that also have something to do with it?’
‘I can’t say—’ said Lata. ‘I don’t know — I’m sure my mother would be affected by that as well.’
‘So what you are saying is that my heredity and my religion are insuperable factors — and it doesn’t matter if you care for me or not.’
‘Don’t put it like that, Kabir,’ cried Lata. ‘That’s not how I feel.’
‘But it’s the basis on which you’re acting.’
Lata was unable to reply.
‘Don’t you care for me?’ asked Kabir.
‘I do, I do—’
‘Then why didn’t you write? Why don’t you talk to me—’
‘Just because of that—’ she said, completely overcome.
‘Will you always love me? Because I know I will—’
‘Oh, please stop, Kabir — I can’t take this—’ she cried. What she might just as well have said was that she was trying to convince herself as much as him that their feelings were nothing but futile.
He would not allow her to do this, however.
‘But why should we stop meeting?’ he persisted.
‘Meeting? Kabir, you don’t see the point. Where would it lead to?’
‘Does it have to lead to something?’ he said. ‘Can’t we just spend time together?’ After a pause: ‘Do you “mistrust my intentions”?’
Lata remembered their kisses in a daze of unhappiness. So intense was the memory that she half mistrusted her own intentions. ‘No,’ she said, more quietly, ‘but wouldn’t it all just be miserable?’
She realized that his questions were leading to further questions on her own part and in her own mind, and that every one of these caused a further knot in the huge tangle. Her heart ached for him, but everything told her that it had to come to nothing. She had wanted to tell him that she was writing to someone else, but she could not bring herself to do so now because of the pain she knew it would cause him.
They were passing by the steps outside the examination hall. Kabir looked up at them and frowned. The light was low, and the trees and benches below were casting long shadows on the grass.
‘So what do we do?’ he said, his mouth set in an attempt at decisiveness.
‘I don’t know,’ said Lata. ‘We have to spend some time together now, in a way, at least on stage. At least for another month. We’ve trapped ourselves into it.’
‘Can’t you wait for another year?’ he said with sudden desperation.
‘What will change?’ she said despondently, and walked off the path, away from him, towards a bench. She was almost too tired to think — emotionally exhausted, exhausted from watching over the baby, exhausted from the effort of acting — and she sat down on the bench, her head resting on her arms. She was too tired even for tears.
It was the same bench under the gulmohur tree on which she had sat after the exam. He didn’t know what to make of this. Should he console her again? Was she even conscious of where she was sitting? She looked so forlorn that he wanted more than anything to put his arms around her. He could sense how close she was to tears.