Meanwhile, the guests themselves were on their way. Meenakshi was quite looking forward to it all. After the yawn that was Brahmpur it was good to be back in Calcutta. Aparna had become a little more placid by spending a few days with her grandmother Mrs Chatterji (which is where she had been parked this evening as well); and even the shiftless Varun (who was also out this evening) was a welcome homecoming sight after the Brahmpur baby smells and the Rudhia relatives and the doddering Maitras.
This evening was to be a grand one: tea with the Khandelwals; two cocktail parties to follow (at at least one of which she was bound to meet Billy — what would he say, she wondered, when she laughingly told him her news?); then dinner and dancing. She was curious about the Khandelwals, with their grand house and six dogs and five cars, and she was very interested in meeting the upstart cobbler who had designs on Luts.
The lawns and flowers of the Praha Residency were more than impressive, even for a season when almost nothing bloomed. Mrs Khandelwal, who was an obsessive woman, would have thought nothing of transplanting Kew to Calcutta if it had suited her ends.
Haresh was back in his jacket by the time he was introduced to the tall young gentleman and his elegant wife, both of whom appeared to be appraising him from a height that was not merely literal. The moment he heard his host’s words—‘Arun Mehra — from Bentsen Pryce’—he realized why. So this was Lata’s Calcutta brother.
‘Very pleased to meet you,’ said Haresh, shaking Arun’s hand in perhaps too firm a grip. This was his first real meeting with a brown sahib. They had never been a part of his life. When he had lived for a while in Patiala he had often wondered why people made such a fuss about the young man from Imperial Tobacco or Shell or some other foreign firm who was based in the town or travelling through, not realizing that for a mere trader such a member of the comprador classes was a man important beyond his years; he could dispense and revoke agencies, he could make or break one’s fortune. He invariably travelled around in a car with a chauffeur, and a car with a chauffeur in a small town was a great thing.
Arun for his part was thinking: short; a bit brash; something about his manner of dressing that’s a bit flashy; has too good an opinion of himself.
But they all sat down to tea, and the opening moves of the conversation were made by the women. Meenakshi noticed that the Rosenthal service in white and gold too perfectly matched her hostess’s sari. Typical of these people! she thought. They try too hard.
She looked around the room for something to praise. She couldn’t very well praise the heavy furniture, most of which was in rather overdone taste, but there was a Japanese painting that she quite liked: two birds and a bit of calligraphy.
‘That’s a lovely painting, Mrs Khandelwal,’ said Meenakshi. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘From Japan. Mr Khandelwal went on a trip there—’
‘From Indonesia,’ said Mr Khandelwal. It had been given to him by a Japanese businessman at a conference in Djakarta that he had attended on behalf of Praha India.
Mrs Khandelwal flashed her eyes at him, and he quailed.
‘I know what you got and when,’ said Mrs Khandelwal.
‘Yes, yes—’ said her husband in rather a worried tone.
‘Nice furniture!’ said Haresh, in the belief that this was the kind of small talk that needed to be made.
Meenakshi looked at him and forbore from comment.
But Mrs Khandelwal gazed at him with her sweetest, most charming expression. He had provided her with an opportunity to say what she had been waiting to say. ‘Do you think so?’ she asked Haresh. ‘It has been done by Kamdar’s — Kamdar’s of Bombay. Half our rooms are decorated by them.’
Meenakshi looked at the heavy corner settee — in dark, solid wood with dark-blue upholstery. ‘If you like this sort of thing, you can always get it in Calcutta,’ she said. ‘There’s the Chowringhee Sales Bureau, for instance, for old-fashioned furniture. And if you want something more modern in style, there’s always Mozoomdar. It’s a little less’—she paused for a word—‘a little less ponderous. But it depends on your taste. These pakoras are delicious,’ she added by way of compensation, helping herself to another one.
Her bright laugh tinkled across the china, though there was nothing very obviously humorous in her previous remarks.
‘Oh, but I think,’ said Mrs Khandelwal, oozing charm, ‘I do think that the quality of workmanship and the quality of wood at Kamdar’s is unbeatable.’
And the quality of distance, thought Meenakshi. If you lived in Bombay, you’d be importing your furniture from Calcutta. Aloud she said: ‘Well, Kamdar’s is Kamdar’s, of course.’
‘Do have some more tea, Mrs Mehra,’ said Mrs Khandelwal, pouring it out herself.
She was exquisitely charming, and believed in winning people over — including women. Though she suffered from some insecurity because of her past background, she was never aggressive with them. It was only where sweetness didn’t work that she gave vent to fury.
Mr Khandelwal appeared to be getting impatient. After a little while he excused himself to get a breath of fresh air. He came back a minute or two later, smelling of cardamoms and looking happier.
Mrs Khandelwal viewed him with suspicion when he returned, but he looked completely innocent.
Suddenly, without warning, three large Alsatians bounded into the room, barking frenetically. Haresh was bewildered and almost spilled his tea. Arun jumped up. Khandelwal was perplexed; he wondered how they could have got in. Only the two women remained cool. Meenakshi was used to the vicious Cuddles and was fond of dogs. And Mrs Khandelwal turned on them in a low, commanding hiss:
‘Sit down! Down, Cassius, down — down — Crystal — down, Jalebi!’
The three dogs sat down in a line, trembling and silent. Each of them knew that if they disobeyed, Mrs Khandelwal would have thought nothing of whipping them unmercifully there and then.
‘See—’ said Mrs Khandelwal, ‘see how sweet he is, my Cassius, look at him, my little pet — how unhappy he looks. He didn’t mean to disturb anyone.’
‘Well,’ said Arun, ‘I’m afraid my wife is in rather a — a—well, a delicate state, and these sudden shocks—’
Mrs Khandelwal, horrified, turned on her husband. ‘Mr Khandelwal,’ she said in a tone of absolute authority, ‘do you know what you have done? Do you have any idea?’
‘No,’ said Mr Khandelwal in fear and trembling.
‘You have left the door open. That is how these three beasts have entered. Take them out at once and close the door.’
Having dispatched the dogs and her husband, she turned — dripping concern — towards Meenakshi.
‘My poor Mrs Mehra, I cannot apologize enough. Have another pakora. Have two. You must build up your strength.’
‘Excellent tea, Mrs Khandelwal,’ said Haresh bravely.
‘Do have another cup. We get our own blend directly from Darjeeling,’ said Mrs Khandelwal.
13.31
There was a pause, and now Haresh decided to beard the lion.
‘You must be Lata’s brother,’ he said to Arun. ‘How is Lata?’
‘Very well,’ said Arun.
‘And your mother?’