‘It’s not that,’ said Kabir. ‘It’s just that I’m with friends — they’ve invited me — and it’s my last day in town. I’d better not. But I’m very honoured to meet you. And — well — you’re sure you wouldn’t take it amiss if you were invited to Brahmpur? It wouldn’t interfere too much with your writing?’
‘No,’ said Amit mildly. ‘Not Brahmpur. Just write to my publishers. It’ll be forwarded to me.’
The game was continuing, a little more steadily than before. It would soon be lunchtime. No more wickets had fallen, which was a blessing, but India was still in perilous straits.
‘It’s a real pity about Hazare. His form seems to have deserted him after that knock on the head in Bombay,’ said Amit.
‘Well,’ said Kabir, ‘you can’t blame him entirely. Ridgway’s bouncers can be vicious — and he’d scored a century, after all. He was pretty badly stunned. I don’t think he should have been forced back out from the pavilion by the Chairman of Selectors. It’s demeaning for a skipper to be ordered back — and bad for morale all around.’ He went on, almost in a dream: ‘I suppose Hazare is indecisive — it took him fifteen minutes to decide whether to bat or to field in the last Test. But, well, I’m discovering that I’m quite indecisive myself, so I sympathize. I’ve been thinking of visiting someone ever since I arrived in Calcutta, but I can’t. I find I just can’t. I don’t know what kind of bowling I’d have to face,’ he added with a rather bitter laugh. ‘They say he’s lost his nerve, and I think I’ve lost mine!’ Kabir’s remarks were not addressed to anyone in particular, but Amit felt — for no very good reason — a strong sense of sympathy for him.
Had Amit identified him as the ‘Akbar from As You Like It’ of Meenakshi’s imaginative description, he may not have felt quite so sympathetic.
16.21
Pran did not question either Amit or Haresh about their meeting with Kabir. He waited for one or the other of them to mention that Kabir knew or had heard of either him or Arun; but since neither name had come up in their conversation, there was nothing as such to tell. He breathed a sigh of relief. Clearly Kabir would not be visiting Sunny Park and upsetting well-laid plans.
After a quick lunch of sandwiches and coffee the group of six — still dazed by India’s sudden collapse and not optimistic about the afternoon’s play — dispersed in cars and taxis. They had to thread their way through huge crowds that had begun to gather on the Maidan to hear Pandit Nehru speak. The Prime Minister — or, in this role, the President of Congress — was on one of his lightning election tours. Just the previous day he had spoken at Kharagpur, Asansol, Burdwan, Chinsurah and Serampore; and just before that he had been canvassing in Assam.
Varun asked to be put down near the smaller — but equally eager — crowds surrounding the racetrack, and started to look around for his friends. After a while he began to wonder whether he shouldn’t listen to Nehru’s speech instead. But after a brief struggle, My Lady Jean and Windy Wold defeated Freedom Fighter by several lengths. I can always read about it in the newspapers, he told himself.
Haresh had meanwhile gone to visit distant relatives whom his foster-father had told him to look up in Calcutta. So involved had he been with production in Prahapore that he hadn’t found the time to do so; but now he had a couple of hours to spare. When he got to his relatives’ place he found them all glued to the radio listening to the cricket commentary. They tried to be hospitable, but their minds were clearly elsewhere. Haresh too joined them by the radio.
India was 257 for 6 at close of play. Disgrace at least had been miraculously averted.
Haresh was therefore in a good mood when he arrived at Sunny Park in time for tea. He was introduced to Aparna, whom he tried to humour and who treated him distantly as a result, and to Uma, who gave him an undiscriminating smile which delighted him.
‘Are you being polite, Haresh?’ asked Savita warmly. ‘You’re not eating anything at all. Politeness doesn’t pay in this family. Pass the pastries, Arun.’
‘I must apologize,’ said Arun to Haresh. ‘I should have mentioned it this morning but it slipped my mind entirely. Meenakshi and I will be out for dinner tonight.’
‘Oh,’ said Haresh, puzzled. He glanced at Mrs Rupa Mehra. She was looking flushed and upset.
‘Yes. Well, we were invited three weeks ago, and couldn’t cancel it at the last moment. But Ma and the rest will be here, of course. And Varun will do the honours. Both Meenakshi and I were looking forward to it, needless to say, but when we got home from Prahapore that day, we looked at our diary and — well, there it is.’
‘We feel awful,’ said Meenakshi gaily. ‘Do have a cheese straw.’
‘Thank you,’ said Haresh, a little dampened. But after a few minutes he bounced back. Lata at least looked pleased to see him. She was indeed wearing a pink sari. Either that or she was very cruel! Today he’d certainly get a chance to talk to her. And Savita, he felt, was kind and warm and encouraging. Perhaps it was no bad thing that Arun wouldn’t be there for dinner, though it would be odd to sit down at his table — and that too for the first time — in his host’s absence. Haresh could feel muted pulses of antagonism emanating from his direction, and to some extent from the darkly radiant Meenakshi too, and he would not have felt entirely relaxed in their company. But it was certainly an odd response to the hospitality he had offered them.
Varun was looking unusually cheerful. He had won eight rupees at the races.
‘Well, we didn’t do so badly after all,’ said Haresh to him.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘After this morning, I mean.’
‘Oh, yes, cricket. What was the closing score?’ asked Varun, who had got up.
‘257 for 6,’ said Pran, astonished that Varun hadn’t been following it.
‘Hmm,’ said Varun, and went over to the gramophone.
‘Don’t!’ thundered Arun.
‘Don’t what, Arun Bhai?’
‘Don’t put on that damn machine. Unless you want me to box your two intoxicated ears.’
Varun recoiled with murderous timidity. Haresh looked startled at the exchange between the brothers. Varun had hardly said a thing that day in Prahapore.
‘Aparna likes it,’ he said in a resentful tone, not daring to look at Arun. ‘And so does Uma.’ Unlikely though this was, it was true. Savita, whenever she found that legal Latin did not put Uma to sleep, would sing this song to her while rocking her to and fro.
‘I do not care who likes what,’ said Arun, his face reddening. ‘You will turn it off. And at once.’
‘I haven’t turned it on in the first place,’ said Varun in creeping triumph.
Lata hurriedly asked Haresh the first question that came into her head: ‘Have you seen Deedar?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Haresh. ‘Thrice. Once by myself, once with friends in Delhi, and once with Simran’s sister in Lucknow.’
There was silence for a few seconds.
‘You must have enjoyed the film,’ said Lata.
‘Yes,’ said Haresh. ‘I like films. When I was in Middlehampton I sometimes saw two films a day. I didn’t see any plays though,’ he added rather gratuitously.
‘No — I wouldn’t have thought so,’ said Arun. ‘I mean — there’s so little opportunity, as you once said. Well, if you’ll excuse us, we’ll get ready.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘You get ready. And we have a few things to do. Savita has to put the baby to bed and I have a few New Year’s letters to write, and Pran — Pran—’