Dr Ila Chattopadhyay would present no problem; she was beholden to Professor Mishra. He had sat on the committee that had made her a university reader some years ago, and he had immediately afterwards and on numerous subsequent occasions emphasized to her how instrumental he had been in the process. He had praised her work on Donne with great unctuousness and assiduity. He was certain that she would be compliant. When her train arrived at Brahmpur Station he was there to meet her and escort her to the Brahmpur University guest house.
On the way he tried to veer the conversation prematurely around to the next day’s business. But Dr Ila Chattopadhyay did not appear to be at all keen to discuss the various candidates beforehand, which disappointed Professor Mishra. ‘Why don’t we wait till the interviews?’ she suggested.
‘Quite so, quite so, dear lady, that is just what I would have suggested myself. But the background — I was sure you would appreciate being informed about — ah, here we are.’
‘I am so exhausted,’ said Dr Ila Chattopadhyay, looking around. ‘What a horrible place.’
There should have been nothing exceptionally horrible about the room to one who had been to such places often before, but it was indeed fairly depressing, Professor Mishra had to agree. The university guest house was a dark series of rooms connected by a corridor. Instead of carpets there was coir matting, and the tables were too low to write at. A bed, two chairs, a few lights that did not work well, a tap that was over-generous with water even when turned off, and a flush that was miserly with it even when tugged violently: these were some of the appurtenances. As if to compensate for this, there was a great deal of dingy and unnecessary lace hanging everywhere: on the windows, on the lampshades, on the backs of the chairs.
‘Mrs Mishra and I would be delighted if you would come for dinner to our place,’ murmured Professor Mishra. ‘The facilities for dining here are, well, adequate at best.’
‘I’ve eaten,’ said Dr Ila Chattopadhyay, shaking her head vigorously. ‘And I’m really exhausted. I need to take an aspirin and go straight to bed. I’ll be on that wretched committee tomorrow, don’t worry.’
Professor Mishra went off, rather perturbed by Dr Ila Chattopadhyay’s extraordinary attitude.
If it had not been open to misconstruction he would have invited her to stay at his house. When Professor Jaikumar arrived, he did precisely that.
‘This is extremely — infinitely kind,’ said Professor Jaikumar.
Professor Mishra winced, as he almost invariably did when talking to his colleague. Professor Jaikumar had prefixed a ‘y’ to both adverbs. The Mask of Yenarchy! thought Professor Mishra.
‘Not at all, not at all,’ he assured his guest blandly. ‘You are the repository of the future stability of our department, and the least we can do is to make you welcome.’
‘Yes, welcome, welcome,’ said Mrs Mishra meekly and rapidly, doing namaste.
‘I am sure you have looked through the candidates’ applications and so on,’ said Professor Mishra jovially.
Professor Jaikumar looked very slightly surprised. ‘Yes, indeed,’ he said.
‘Well, if I may just indicate a couple of lines of thought that might smoothen the process tomorrow and make everyone’s task easier—’ began Professor Mishra. ‘A sort of foretaste, as it were, of the proceedings. Merely to save time and bother. I know you have to catch the seven o’clock train tomorrow night.’
Professor Jaikumar said nothing. Courtesy and propriety struggled in his breast. Professor Mishra took his silence for acquiescence, and continued. Professor Jaikumar nodded from time to time but continued to say nothing.
‘So—’ said Professor Mishra finally.
‘Thank you, thank you, most helpful,’ said Professor Jaikumar. ‘Now I am forewarned and forearmed for the interviews.’ Professor Mishra flinched at the last word. ‘Yes — most helpful,’ continued Professor Jaikumar in a non-committal manner. ‘Now I must do a little puja.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Professor Mishra was taken aback by this sudden piety. He hoped it was not a purificatory rite.
18.9
A little before eleven the next morning the committee gathered in the glum-panelled and well-appointed office of the Vice-Chancellor. The Registrar was present too, though not as a participant. A few of the candidates were already waiting in the anteroom outside. After some tea and biscuits and cashew nuts and a little casual social chit-chat, the Vice-Chancellor looked at his watch and nodded at the Registrar. The first candidate was brought in.
Professor Mishra had not been feeling entirely happy about the way preliminary matters were going. Apart from Dr Ila Chattopadhyay, who had continued in her abrupt vein this morning, there was something else that was bothering him. He did not yet know for certain what had happened to Pran’s father. He knew that for some reason the counting had not finished by the time of the local news bulletin on the radio the previous evening, for if it had, the name of the winning candidate would have been announced. But that was all he knew, and he had not been able to get in touch with his own informant. He had left instructions at home that he was to be called as soon as any news on the matter was received. Any excuse would do; and if necessary the information could be noted down, sealed in an envelope, and sent in to him. There would be nothing unusual in this. The Vice-Chancellor himself, who was — and took pride in being seen to be — a busy man, was forever interrupting committee meetings by taking telephone calls, and indeed sometimes signing letters that peons brought in.
The interviews went on. The clear February sunlight pouring through the window helped dissipate the grand but dampening atmosphere of the office. The interviewees — thirteen men and two women, all of them lecturers, were, for the most part, treated not as colleagues but as supplicants by the Vice-Chancellor; the nephew of the Chief Minister, on the other hand, was treated with excessive deference by both him and Professor Mishra. Every so often a telephone call would interrupt the proceedings. At one point Dr Ila Chattopadhyay found it necessary to say:
‘Vice-Chancellor, can’t you take your phone off the hook?’
The Vice-Chancellor looked absolutely amazed.
‘My dear lady,’ said Professor Mishra.
‘We have travelled a very considerable distance to be here,’ said Dr Ila Chattopadhyay. ‘At least two of us have. These selection committees are a duty, not a pleasure. I haven’t seen one decent candidate so far. We are due to go back tonight, but I’m not sure we will be able to at this rate. I do not see why our torment should be further prolonged by these endless interruptions.’
Her outburst had its effect. For the next hour, the Vice-Chancellor told whoever called that he was in the middle of an urgent meeting.
Lunch was served in a room adjoining the Vice-Chancellor’s office, and a little academic gossip was exchanged. Professor Mishra begged leave to go home. One of his sons was not very well, he said. Professor Jaikumar looked a little surprised.
Once home, Professor Mishra phoned his informant.
‘What is the matter, Badri Nath?’ he said impatiently. ‘Why have you not got in touch with me?’
‘Because of George the Sixth, of course.’
‘What are you talking about? George the Sixth is dead. Don’t you listen to the news?’
‘Well, there you are.’ There was a cackle at the other end.
‘I can’t get any sense out of you, Badri Nath ji. Yes, I have heard you. George the Sixth is dead. I know that. I heard it on the news, and all the flags are at half-mast. But what does that have to do with me?’