Pran took some dry pink and green powder and smeared a little on his daughter’s forehead, but that was all. It was her first Holi, and he blessed her for her unawareness of all the darkness and sadness that existed in the world.
Lata tried to study, but she was unable to. Her heart was full, as much with Maan and the deep sorrow of his family as with her own forthcoming marriage. Mrs Rupa Mehra, when she heard of Lata’s unilateral action in writing to Haresh, was both furious and delighted. Lata had passed on Haresh’s message of love for her mother and his words of regret before she had broken the real news. Torn between hugging her daughter to her bosom and giving her at least one tight slap for not having consulted her, Mrs Rupa Mehra burst into tears.
Needless to say, there was no question of the wedding taking place in Prem Nivas. Given Arun’s views on Haresh, Lata had refused to get married from Sunny Park either. The Chatterji house at Ballygunge was impossible for several reasons. That only left Dr Kishen Chand Seth’s house.
Had Dr Kishen Chand Seth been in Mrs Rupa Mehra’s position, he would certainly have slapped Lata. After all, he had slapped Mrs Rupa Mehra when Arun was a year old because he thought she wasn’t controlling the baby properly. He had never had any truck with incompetence or insubordination. He now bluntly refused to countenance, let alone assist, the marriage of a granddaughter in which he had not been consulted from the beginning. He told Mrs Rupa Mehra that his house was not a hotel or a dharamshala, and that she would have to look elsewhere.
‘And that is that,’ he added.
Mrs Rupa Mehra threatened to kill herself.
‘Yes, yes, do so,’ said her father impatiently. He knew that she loved life too much, especially when she could be justifiably miserable.
‘And I will never see you again,’ she added. ‘Never in all my life. Say goodbye to me,’ she sobbed, ‘for this is the last time you will see your daughter.’ With that she flung herself weeping into his arms.
Dr Kishen Chand Seth staggered back and nearly dropped his stick. Carried away by her emotion and by the greater realism of this threat, he too started sobbing violently, and pounded his stick several times on the floor to give vent to his feelings. Very soon it was all settled.
‘I hope Parvati does not mind,’ gasped Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘She is so good — so good—’
‘If she does, I will get rid of her,’ cried Dr Kishen Chand Seth. ‘A wife one can divorce — but one’s children — never!’ These words — which it seemed to him he had heard somewhere before — sent him into a renewed paroxysm of weeping.
When Parvati came back from shopping a few minutes later, holding out a pair of pink high-heeled shoes and saying, ‘Kishy darling, look at what I’ve bought from Lovely,’ her husband grinned weakly, terrified to break the news of the inconvenience he had just taken on.
18.28
The Nawab Sahib had heard about Mahesh Kapoor’s question to Waris about Firoz’s health. He also knew that when the count was over, Mahesh Kapoor had refused a recount. Later he heard from his munshi that he had even refused to lodge an election petition.
‘But why would he wish to lodge an election petition? And against whom?’ said the Nawab Sahib.
‘Against Waris,’ said the munshi, and handed him a couple of the fatal pink fliers.
The Nawab Sahib read through one and his face grew pale with anger. The poster had made such shameless and impious use of death that he wondered that God’s anger had not fallen on Waris, or on him, or on Firoz, the innocent agency of this outrage. As if he had not sunk deeply enough in the world’s opinion, what must Mahesh Kapoor think of him now?
Firoz — whatever he might think of his father — was, by the grace of God, out of danger at last. And Mahesh Kapoor’s son was lying in jail in danger of losing his liberty for many years. How strangely the tables had turned, thought the Nawab Sahib, and what small satisfaction Maan’s jeopardy and Mahesh Kapoor’s grief — both of which in bitterness he had once prayed for — now gave him after all.
That he had not attended Mrs Mahesh Kapoor’s chautha made him feel ashamed. Firoz had had an infection at the time and had been in serious danger — but now the Nawab Sahib asked himself whether his son had been in such immediate hazard that he could not have spared half an hour and braved the glances of the world to at least show his face at the service? Poor woman, she had surely died fearing that neither her son nor his might live until the summer, and knowing that Maan at least could not even come to her deathbed. How painful such knowledge must have been; and how little her goodness and generosity had deserved it.
Sometimes he sat in his library and went to sleep from tiredness. Ghulam Rusool would wake him up for lunch or dinner whenever it was necessary to do so. It was becoming warm as well. The coppersmith had begun to sound its short continual call from a fig tree outside. Here in the library, lost in religion or philosophy or the speculations of astronomy, even worlds might seem small, not to speak of personal estates and ambitions, griefs and guilt. Or, lost in his projected edition of Mast’s poems, he might have forgotten the uproar of the world around. But the Nawab Sahib discovered that he could read nothing with any concentration. He found himself staring at a page, wondering where he had been for the last hour.
One morning he read in the Brahmpur Chronicle about Abida Khan’s derisive ad hominem remarks in the House, and how Mahesh Kapoor had not stood up to say a word by way of defence or explanation. He was seized with pain on his friend’s behalf. He rang up his sister-in-law.
‘Abida, what was the necessity for saying these things I’ve been reading about?’
Abida laughed. Her brother-in-law was weak and over-scrupulous, and would never make much of a fighter. ‘Why, it was my last chance to attack that man face to face,’ she said. ‘If it wasn’t for him, do you think your inheritance and that of your sons would be in such danger? And why talk of inheritance, how about your son’s life?’
‘Abida, there is a limit to things.’
‘Well, when I reach it, I will stop. And if I don’t, I will fall over the edge. That is my concern.’
‘Abida, have pity—’
‘Pity? What pity did that man’s son have on Firoz? Or on that helpless woman—’ Abida suddenly stopped. Perhaps she felt that she had reached the limit. There was a long pause. Finally she broke it by saying: ‘All right, I will accept your advice on this. But I hope that that butcher rots in jail.’ She thought of the Nawab Sahib’s wife, the only light of her years in the zenana, and she added: ‘For many years to come.’
The Nawab Sahib knew that Maan had come to visit Firoz twice at Baitar House before he had again been committed to jail. Murtaza Ali had told him so, and had also told him that Firoz had asked him to come. Now the Nawab Sahib asked himself the question: if Firoz had chosen to forgive his friend, what was the law that it should insist on destroying his life?
That night he was dining alone with Firoz. This was usually very painfuclass="underline" they tried to talk to each other without really speaking of anything. But tonight he turned to his son and said: ‘Firoz, what is the evidence against that boy?’