Billy’s face expressed relief. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ he said.
‘So it will have to be Wednesday.’
‘I can’t!’ pleaded Billy. Then he became annoyed. ‘Why did you get me away from my friends?’ he said. ‘Shireen will begin to suspect me.’
‘She will not,’ said Meenakshi gaily. ‘But it’s good your back’s turned to her at the moment. If she saw you looking so angry, she certainly would. And indignation doesn’t suit you. In fact nothing suits you. Only your birthday suit. Don’t blush, Billy, or I shall be forced to kiss you passionately an hour before your New Year kiss is due. Wednesday then. Don’t evade your irresponsibilities.’
Billy was horribly unhappy, but he didn’t know what to do.
‘Did you watch the Test match today?’ asked Meenakshi, changing the subject. Poor Billy, he looked so dejected.
‘What do you think?’ said Billy, cheering up at the memory. India had not done too badly, having managed to get England out for 342 in the first innings.
‘So you’ll be there tomorrow?’ Meenakshi said.
‘Oh, yes. I’m looking forward to seeing what Hazare will do with their bowling. The MCC have sent a second-rate team out to India, and I’ll be happy to see them taught a lesson. Well, it’ll be a pleasant way to spend New Year’s Day.’
‘Arun has a few tickets,’ said Meenakshi. ‘I think I’ll go and watch the match tomorrow.’
‘But you aren’t interested in cricket—’ protested Billy.
‘Ah — there’s another woman waving at you,’ said Meenakshi. ‘You haven’t been seeing other women, have you?’
‘Meenakshi!’ said Billy, so deeply shocked that Meenakshi was forced to believe him.
‘Well, I’m glad you’re still faithful. Faithfully unfaithful,’ said Meenakshi. ‘Or unfaithfully faithful. No, it’s me she’s waving at. Should I deliver you back to Shireen?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Billy mutedly.
16.18
Varun and Lata were talking to Dr Ila Chattopadhyay in another part of the room. Dr Ila Chattopadhyay enjoyed the company of all sorts of people — and the fact that they were young did not count against them in her view. In fact this was one of her strengths as a teacher of English. Another was her devastating braininess. Dr Ila Chattopadhyay was as crazy and opinionated with her students as with her colleagues. Indeed, she respected her students more than her colleagues. They were, she thought, much more intellectually innocent, and much more intellectually honest.
Lata wondered what she was doing at this party: was she also chaperoning someone? If so, she was performing her duties laxly. At the moment she was entirely absorbed in conversation with Varun.
‘No, no,’ she was saying, ‘don’t join the IAS — it’s just another one of those Brown Sahib professions, and you’ll turn into a variant of your odious brother.’
‘But what should I do?’ Varun was saying. ‘I’m not good for anything.’
‘Write a book! Pull a rickshaw! Live! Don’t make excuses,’ said Dr Ila Chattopadhyay with hectic enthusiasm, shaking her grey hair vigorously. ‘Renounce the world like Dipankar. No, he’s joined a bank, hasn’t he? How did you do in your exams anyway?’ she added.
‘Terribly!’ said Varun.
‘I don’t think you’ve done so badly,’ said Lata. ‘I always think I’ve done worse than I actually have. It’s a Mehra trait.’
‘No, I really have done terribly,’ said Varun, pulling a morose face and gulping down his whisky. ‘I’m sure I’ve failed. I shall certainly not be called for the interview.’
Dr Ila Chattopadhyay said: ‘Don’t worry. It could be far worse. A good friend of mine has just had her daughter die of TB.’
Lata looked at Ila Chattopadhyay in amazement. Next she’ll say: ‘Now don’t worry. Just think — it could be far worse. A sister of mine has just had her two-year-old triplets decapitated by her alcoholic husband.’
‘You have the most extraordinary expression on your face,’ said Amit, who had joined them.
‘Oh, Amit! Hello,’ said Lata. It was good to see him.
‘What were you thinking of?’
‘Nothing — nothing at all.’
Dr Ila Chattopadhyay was telling Varun about the idiocy of Calcutta University in making Hindi a compulsory subject at the B.A. level. Amit joined the discussion for a bit. He sensed that Lata’s thoughts were still quite far away. He wanted to talk to her a little about her poem. But he was accosted by a woman who said: ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Well, here I am,’ said Amit.
‘My name is Baby,’ said the woman, who looked about forty.
‘Well, mine is Amit.’
‘I know that, I know that, everyone knows that,’ said the woman. ‘Are you trying to impress me with your modesty?’ She was in a quarrelsome mood.
‘No,’ said Amit.
‘I love your books, especially The Fever Tree. I think of it all night. I mean The Fever Bird. You look smaller than your photographs. You must be very leggy.’
‘What do you do?’ asked Amit, not knowing what to make of her last few words.
‘I like you,’ said the lady decisively. ‘I know whom I like. Visit me in Bombay. Everyone knows me. Just ask for Baby.’
‘All right,’ said Amit. He had no plans to go to Bombay.
Bishwanath Bhaduri came over to say hello to Amit. He ignored Lata almost completely. He even ignored the predatory Baby. He was in raptures about some new woman, whom he pointed out: someone who was dressed in black and silver.
‘One feels she has such a beautiful soul,’ said Bish.
‘Repeat that,’ said Amit.
Bishwanath Bhaduri drew back. ‘One doesn’t say such things in order to repeat them,’ he said.
‘Ah, but one doesn’t get to hear such things very often.’
‘You’ll use it for your novel. One shouldn’t, you know.’
‘Why shouldn’t one?’
‘It’s just Calcutta chit-chat.’
‘It’s not chit-chat — it’s poetic; very poetic; suspiciously so.’
‘You’re making fun of me,’ said Bishwanath Bhaduri. He looked around. ‘One needs a drink,’ he murmured.
‘One needs to escape,’ said Amit quietly to Lata. ‘Two need to.’
‘I can’t. I have a chaperone.’
‘Who?’
Lata’s eyes indicated Varun. He was talking to a couple of young men, who were clinging to his words.
‘I think we can give him the slip,’ said Amit. ‘I’ll show you the lights on Park Street.’
As they walked behind Varun they heard him say: ‘Marywallace, of course, for the Gatwick; and Simile for the Hopeful. I have no idea about the Hazra. And for the Beresford Cup it’s best to go for My Lady Jean. . ’
They eluded him with ease and walked down the stairs, laughing.
16.19
Amit hailed a taxi.
‘Park Street,’ said Amit.
‘Why not Bombay?’ asked Lata, laughing. ‘To meet Baby.’
‘She is a thorn in my neck,’ said Amit, shaking his knees together rapidly.
‘In your neck?’
‘As Biswas Babu would say.’
Lata laughed. ‘How is he?’ she asked. ‘Everyone talks about him, but I’ve never met him.’
‘He’s been telling me to get married — to produce, he hopes, a fourth generation of Chatterji judge. I suggested that Aparna was half a Chatterji and might easily rise to the bench, given her precocity. He said that that was a different kettle of tea.’
‘But his advice ran off your back like duck’s water.’