‘Exactly so.’
They had been driving along Chowringhee, parts of which were lit up — especially the larger stores, the Grand Hotel, and Firpo’s. Now they were at the crossing of Park Street. Here, a large reindeer complete with Santa and sleigh was illuminated by large coloured bulbs. Several people were strolling along the side of Chowringhee adjacent to the Maidan, enjoying the festive atmosphere. As the taxi turned into Park Street, Lata was taken aback by its unaccustomed brilliance. On both sides, multicoloured strings of lights and brightly coloured festoons of crêpe hung from the fronts of shops and restaurants: Flury’s, Kwality, Peiping, Magnolia. It was lovely, and Lata turned to Amit with delight and gratitude. When they got to the tall Christmas tree by the petrol pump she said:
‘Electricity growing on trees.’
‘What was that?’ said Amit.
‘Oh, that’s Ma. “Turn off the lights. Electricity doesn’t grow on trees.”’
Amit laughed. ‘It’s very nice to see you again,’ he said.
‘I feel the same way,’ said Lata. ‘Mutatis mutandis.’
Amit looked at her in surprise. ‘The last time I heard that was at the Inns of Court.’
‘Oh,’ said Lata, smiling. ‘I must have picked it up from Savita. She’s always cooing such phrases to the baby.’
‘By the way, what were you thinking of when I interrupted you and Varun?’ asked Amit.
Lata told him about Dr Ila Chattopadhyay’s remark.
Amit nodded, then said: ‘About your poem.’
‘Yes?’ Lata grew tense. What was he going to say about it?
‘I sometimes feel that it’s a consolation in times of deep grief to know that the world, by and large, does not care.’
Lata was quiet. It was an odd sentiment, though a relevant one. After a while she said: ‘Did you like it?’
‘Yes,’ said Amit. ‘As a poem.’ He recited a couple of lines.
‘The cemetery’s on this street, isn’t it?’ said Lata.
‘Yes.’
‘Very different from the other end.’
‘Very.’
‘That was a curious sort of spiral pillar on Rose Aylmer’s tomb.’
‘Do you want to see it by night?’
‘No! It would be strange, seeing all those stars. A night of memories and of sighs.’
‘I should have pointed them out to you by day,’ said Amit.
‘Pointed what out?’
‘The stars.’
‘By day?’
‘Well, yes. I can tell you roughly where the various stars are by day. Why not? They’re still in the sky. The sun only blinds us to them. It’s midnight. May I?’
And before she could protest, Amit had kissed her.
She was so surprised she didn’t know what to say. She was also a bit annoyed.
‘Happy New Year,’ said Amit.
‘Happy New Year,’ she answered, hiding her annoyance. She had, after all, conspired to evade her chaperone. ‘You didn’t plan this, did you?’
‘Of course not. Do you want me to deliver you back to Varun? Or should we take a walk by the Victoria Memorial?’
‘Neither. I’m feeling tired. I’d like to go to sleep.’ After a pause she said: ‘1952: how new it seems. As if each digit were polished.’
‘A leap year.’
‘I’d better go back to the party. Varun really will panic if he finds me gone.’
‘I’ll drop you back home, then go back to the party myself to tell Varun. How’s that?’
Lata smiled to think of Varun’s expression when he realized his charge had flown.
‘All right. Thank you, Amit.’
‘You aren’t annoyed with me? New Year’s licence. I couldn’t help it.’
‘So long as you don’t claim poetic licence the next time.’
Amit laughed, and good relations were restored.
But why don’t I feel anything? she asked herself. She did know that Amit was fond of her, but her chief emotion at the kiss was still astonishment.
She was home in a few minutes. Mrs Rupa Mehra had not yet returned. When she did come back half an hour later she found Lata asleep. Lata appeared restless — her head was turning from side to side on her pillow.
She was dreaming — of a kiss — but it was of Kabir that she was dreaming, the one who was absent, the one who above all others she should not meet, the most unsuitable boy of them all.
16.20
1952: the fresh and brilliant digits impressed themselves upon Pran’s eye as he opened the morning newspaper. All the past grew veiled by the first of January, and all the future glistened ahead of him, emerging mysteriously from its grubby chrysalis. He thought about his heart and his child and Bhaskar’s close brush with death, the mixed gifts of the previous year. And he wondered whether the coming year would bring him his readership — and a new brother-in-law — and possibly even see his father sworn in as the Chief Minister of Purva Pradesh. The last was by no means impossible. As for Maan, surely he would have to settle down sooner or later.
Although no one other than himself and Mrs Rupa Mehra was awake at six o’clock, there was a sudden storm of activity at seven. The time allowed in the two bathrooms was strictly rationed, and everyone was completely ready — and even breakfasted — by eight thirty. The women had decided to spend the day at the Chatterjis’—perhaps they would go on to do a bit of shopping as well. Even Meenakshi, who at first appeared eager to come to the cricket match, decided against it at the last moment.
Amit and Dipankar arrived in the Humber at nine, and Arun, Varun and Pran went off with them to Eden Gardens to watch the third day of the Third Test. Just outside the stadium they met Haresh, as previously arranged, and the six of them made their way to the tier where their seats were located.
It was a wonderful morning. There was a clear blue sky, and dew still glistened on the outfield. Eden Gardens, with its emerald grass and surrounding trees, its huge scoreboard and new Ranji Stadium block, was a magnificent sight. It was packed solid, but luckily one of Arun’s English colleagues at Bentsen Pryce, who had bought a bunch of season tickets for his family, was out sightseeing, and had offered his seats to Arun for the day. They were placed just next to the pavilion section, where VIPs and members of the Cricket Association of Bengal sat, and they had a fine view of the field.
India’s opening batsmen were still at the crease. Since India had scored 418 and 485 in two previous innings in the series, and since England were all out for 342 in their first innings, there was a good chance that the hosts would be able to make something of the match. The Calcutta crowd — more knowledgeable and appreciative than any other in India — was looking forward to it with eager anticipation.
The chatter, which increased between overs, was reduced, but not quite to silence, every time the bowler came in to bowl. Leadbeater opened the bowling to Roy with a maiden, and Ridgway supported the attack from the other end, bowling to Mankad. Then, for the next over, instead of continuing with Leadbeater, the English skipper Howard brought Statham on.
This provoked a good deal of discussion among the group of six. Everyone started speculating as to why Leadbeater had been brought on for a single over. Amit alone said that it meant nothing at all. Perhaps, because Indian time was several hours ahead of England, Leadbeater had wanted to bowl the first English ball of 1952 and Howard had let him.
‘Really, Amit,’ said Pran with a laugh. ‘Cricket isn’t governed by poetical whims of that kind.’
‘A pity,’ said Amit. ‘Reading old reports by Cardus always makes me think that it’s just a variant of poetry — in six-line stanzas.’
‘I wonder where Billy is,’ said Arun in rather a hangover-ish voice. ‘Can’t see him anywhere.’