‘You are mad — absolutely mad. How could you do it?’
‘Don’t be like my mother—“O my poor Lata, O my poor Lata!”’
‘Was that her reaction? I thought she was keen on Haresh,’ said Malati. ‘Trust you to do just what Mummy says. But I won’t have it, Lata, you can’t ruin your life like this.’
‘I’m not ruining my life,’ said Lata heatedly. ‘And yes, that might well be her reaction. She’s taken against Haresh for some reason. And Arun’s been against him from the beginning. But no, Mummy didn’t say. In fact, Mummy doesn’t even know. You’re the first person I’m telling, and you shouldn’t be trying to make me feel miserable.’
‘I should. I should. I hope you feel really miserable,’ said Malati, her eyes flashing green fire. ‘Then perhaps you’ll see some sense and undo what you’ve done. You love Kabir, and you must marry him.’
‘There’s no must about it. Go and marry him yourself,’ said Lata, her cheeks red. ‘No — don’t! Don’t! I’ll never forgive you. Please don’t talk about Kabir, Malu, please.’
‘You’re going to regret it bitterly,’ said Malati. ‘I’m telling you that.’
‘Well, that’s my look-out,’ said Lata, struggling to control herself.
‘Why didn’t you ask me before you decided?’ demanded Malati. ‘Whom did you consult? Or did you just make up your silly mind by yourself?’
‘I consulted my monkeys,’ said Lata calmly.
Malati had the strong urge to slap Lata for making stupid jokes at such a time.
‘And a book of poetry,’ added Lata.
‘Poetry!’ said Malati with contempt. ‘Poetry has been your complete undoing. You have too good a brain to waste on English literature. No, perhaps you don’t, after all.’
‘You were the first person to tell me to give him up,’ said Lata. ‘You told me. Or have you forgotten all that?’
‘I changed my mind,’ said Malati. ‘You know I did. I was wrong, terribly wrong. Look at the danger caused to the world by that sort of attitude—’
‘Why do you think I’m giving him up?’ asked Lata, turning towards her friend.
‘Because he’s Muslim.’
Lata didn’t answer for a while. Then she said:
‘It’s not that. It’s not just that. There isn’t any single reason.’
Malati gave a disgusted snort at this pathetic prevarication.
Lata sighed. ‘Malati, I can’t describe it — my feelings for him are so confused. I’m not myself when I’m with him. I ask myself who is this — this jealous, obsessed woman who can’t get a man out of her head — why should I make myself suffer like this? I know that it’ll always be like this if I’m with him.’
‘Oh, Lata — don’t be blind—’ exclaimed Malati. ‘It shows how passionately you love him—’
‘I don’t want to,’ cried Lata, ‘I don’t want to. If that’s what passion means, I don’t want it. Look at what passion has done to the family. Maan’s broken, his mother’s dead, his father’s in despair. When I thought that Kabir was seeing someone else, what I remember feeling was enough to make me hate passion. Passionately and forever.’
‘It’s my fault,’ said Malati bitterly, shaking her head from side to side. ‘I wish to God I’d never written that letter to Calcutta. And you’re going to wish the same.’
‘It isn’t, Malati. And I’m not. Thank God you did.’
Malati looked at Lata with sick unhappiness. ‘You just don’t realize what you’re throwing away, Lata. You’re choosing the wrong man. Stay unmarried for a while. Take your time to make up your mind again. Or simply remain unmarried — it’s not so tragic.’
Lata was silent. On the side that Malati could not see, she let a handful of sand pass through her fingers.
‘What about that other chap?’ said Malati. ‘That poet, Amit? How has he put himself out of the running?’
Lata smiled at the thought of Amit. ‘Well, he wouldn’t be my undoing, as you put it, but I don’t see myself as his wife at all. We’re too alike. His moods veer and oscillate as wildly as mine. Can you imagine the lives of our poor children? And if his mind’s on a book I don’t know if he’ll have any time for me. Sensitive people are usually very insensitive — I should know. As a matter of fact, he’s just proposed to me.’
Malati looked shocked and angry.
‘You never tell me anything!’
‘Everything happened all of a sudden yesterday,’ said Lata, fishing Amit’s acrostic out of the pocket of her kameez. ‘I brought this along, since you usually like to see the documents in the case.’
Malati read it in silence, then said: ‘I’d marry anyone who wrote me this.’
‘Well, he’s still available,’ laughed Lata. ‘And I won’t veto that marriage.’ She put her arm around Malati’s shoulder before continuing: ‘For me, marrying Amit would be madness. Quite apart from everything else, I get more than enough of my brother Arun. To live five minutes away from him would be the ultimate lunacy!’
‘You could live somewhere else.’
‘Oh no—’ said Lata, picturing Amit in his room overlooking the laburnum in bloom. ‘He’s a poet and a novelist. He wants things laid on for him. Meals, hot water, a running household, a dog, a lawn, a Muse. And why not? After all, he did write “The Fever Bird”! But he won’t be able to write if he has to fend for himself away from his family. Anyway, you seem to be happy with anyone but Haresh. Why? Why are you so dead-set against him?’
‘Because I see nothing, nothing, nothing at all in common between you two,’ said Malati. ‘And it’s completely obvious you don’t love him. Have you thought this thing through, Lata, or are you just making up your mind in a sort of trance? Like that nun business that Ma keeps talking about. Think. Do you like the idea of sharing your possessions with this man? Of making love with him? Does he attract you? Can you cope with the things that irritate you about him — Cawnpore and paan and all that? Please, please, Lata, don’t be stupid. Use your brains. What about this Simran woman — doesn’t that bother you? And what do you want to do with yourself after your marriage — or are you just content to be a housewife in a walled compound full of Czechs?’
‘Do you think I haven’t thought about any of this?’ said Lata, removing her arm, annoyed once more. ‘Or that I haven’t tried to visualize what life will be like with him? It’ll be interesting, I think. Haresh is practical, he’s forceful, he isn’t cynical. He gets things done and he helps people without making a fuss about it. He’s helped Kedarnath and Veena a great deal.’
‘So what?. . Will he let you teach?’
‘Yes, he will.’
‘Have you asked him?’ pressed Malati.
‘No. That’s not the best idea,’ said Lata. ‘But I’m sure of it. I think I know him well enough by now. He hates to see anyone’s talent wasted. He encourages them. And he’s really concerned about people — about me, about Maan, about Savita and her studies, about Bhaskar—’
‘—who, incidentally, is alive today only because of Kabir,’ Malati could not resist interposing.
‘I don’t deny it.’ Lata sighed deeply, and looked at the warm sands all around.
For a while neither said anything. Then Malati spoke.
‘But what has he done, Lata?’ she said quietly. ‘What has he done that is wrong — that he should be treated like this? He loves you and he never deserved to be doubted. Is it fair? Just think, is it fair?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Lata slowly, looking over towards the far shore. ‘No, it isn’t, I suppose. But life isn’t always a question of justice, is it? What is that line? — “Use every man after his desert, and who should ’scape whipping?” But it’s true the other way around as well. Use every man after his desert and you’ll become a complete emotional bankrupt.’