‘That’s not necessary,’ said Varun, not wanting to cause trouble.
‘It’s on my way to the hospital.’
‘Er, give my best to your father when you get there.’
‘Of course.’
‘Kalpana?’
‘Yes, Varun?’
‘What happened to that mysterious illness of yours that Ma kept telling us about? It was more than just hot spots, according to her.’
‘Oh, that?’ Kalpana looked thoughtful. ‘It sorted itself out the moment my father had to go to hospital. It made no sense for both of us to be ill.’
The Union Public Service Commission was holding its interviews in a temporary structure in Connaught Place, one which had been set up during the War and had not yet been dismantled. Kalpana Gaur squeezed Varun’s hand in the taxi. ‘Don’t look so dazed,’ she said. ‘And remember, never say, “I don’t know”; always say, “I’m afraid I haven’t any idea.” You look very presentable, Varun. Much more handsome than your brother.’
Varun glanced at her with a mixture of bewilderment and tenderness, and got out.
In the waiting room, he noticed a couple of candidates who looked like south Indians. They were shivering. They had been even less prepared for the Delhi weather than himself, and it was a particularly cold day. One of them was saying to the other: ‘And they say that the Chairman of the UPSC can read you like a book. He can assess you as soon as you enter the door. Every weakness of your personality is laid bare within seconds.’
Varun felt his knees tremble. He went to the bathroom, got out a small bottle that he had managed to secrete on his person, and took two quick swigs. His knees settled down, and he began to think he would conduct himself superbly after all.
‘I’m afraid I really have no idea,’ he repeated to himself.
‘About what?’ asked one of his fellow-candidates after a pause.
‘I don’t know,’ said Varun. ‘I mean, I’m afraid I really couldn’t tell you.’
‘And then I said “Good morning”, and they all nodded, but the Chairman, a sort of bulldog man, said, “Namaste” instead. I was quite shocked for a second, but somehow I got over it.’
‘And then?’ asked Kalpana eagerly.
‘And then he asked me to sit down. It was a roundish table, and I was at one end and the bulldog man was at the other end, he looked at me as if he could read every thought of mine before I had even thought it. Mr Chatterji — no, Mr Bannerji, they called him. And there was a Vice-Chancellor and someone from the Ministry of External Affairs, and—’
‘But how did it go?’ asked Kalpana. ‘Do you think it went well?’
‘I don’t know. They asked me a question about Prohibition, you see, and I’d just been drinking, so naturally I was nervous—’
‘You had just been what?’
‘Oh,’ said Varun guiltily. ‘One or two gulps. Then someone asked me if I liked the odd social drink, and I said, yes. But I could feel my throat become dry, and the bulldog man just kept looking at me and he sniffed slightly and noted something down on a pad. And then he said, Mr Mehra, what if you were posted to a state like Bombay or a district like Kanpur where there was Prohibition, would you feel obliged to refrain from the odd social drink? So I said of course I would. Then someone else on my right said, what if you were visiting friends in Calcutta, and were offered a drink, would you refuse it — as a representative of a dry area? And I could see them staring at me, ten pairs of eyes, and then suddenly I thought, I am the Iron Frame, who are all these people anyway, and I said, No, I saw no reason to, in fact I would drink it with a pleasure enhanced by my previous abstinence — that’s what I said. “Enhanced by my previous abstinence.”’
Kalpana laughed.
‘Yes,’ said Varun dubiously. ‘It seemed to go down well with them too. I don’t think it was I who was answering all those questions, you know. It seemed to be a sort of Arun person who had taken possession of me. Perhaps because I was wearing his tie.’
‘What else did they ask?’
‘Something about what three books I would take with me to a desert island, and did I know what the initials M.I.T. stood for, and did I think there would be war with Pakistan — and I really can’t remember anything, Kalpana, except that the bulldog man had two watches, one on the inside of his wrist and one on the outside. It was all I could do to avoid staring at him. Thank God it’s over,’ he added morosely. ‘It lasted forty-five minutes and it took a year off my life.’
‘Did you say forty-five minutes?’ said Kalpana Gaur excitedly.
‘Yes.’
‘I must send a telegram to your mother at once. And I have decided that you must stay in Delhi for another two days. Your being here is very good for me.’
‘Really?’ said Varun, reddening.
He wondered if it might have been the Brylcreem that had done it.
VARUN BOOSTED INTERVIEW CONCLUDED FINGERS CROSSED FATHER MENDING LOVE KALPANA.
Kalpana can always be trusted to do the needful, said Mrs Rupa Mehra happily to herself.
19.2
In Calcutta Mrs Rupa Mehra went around like a whirlwind, buying saris, herding her family into conferences, visiting her son-in-law-to-be twice a week, requisitioning cars (including the Chatterjis’ big white Humber) for her shopping and for visits to friends, writing long letters to all her relatives, designing the invitation card, monopolizing the phone in a Kakoli-like manner, and weeping alternately with joy at the prospect of her daughter’s marriage, concern for her daughter on her wedding night, and sorrow that the late Raghubir Mehra would not be present.
She looked at a copy of Van de Velde’s Ideal Marriage in a bookshop on Park Street and, though the contents made her blush, determinedly bought it. ‘It’s for my daughter,’ she informed the sales clerk, who yawned and nodded.
Arun stopped her from adding the design of a rose to the wedding invitation. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Ma,’ he said. ‘What do you think people will think of all that ghich-pich when they receive it? I’ll never live it down. Keep the design plain.’ He was very aggrieved that Lata, after receiving his egregious letter, had refused to be married from his house, and he was trying to compensate for his loss of authority by a commissarial attempt to take over all the practical arrangements for the wedding — at least those that could be managed at the Calcutta end. But he was up against the powerful personalities of his mother and his grandfather, both of whom had their own ideas about what was required.
Meanwhile, though his view of Haresh had not changed, he bowed — or at least nodded — to the inevitable, and attempted to be gracious. He had lunch once more among the Czechs, and balanced this with a return invitation to Sunny Park.
When Mrs Rupa Mehra asked Haresh about the date for the wedding, he said, beaming with cheerfulness: ‘The earlier the better.’ But in view of Lata’s exams and the fact that his own foster-parents were reluctant to agree to a wedding in the inauspicious last month of the Hindu calendar, the date was set for late, rather than early, April.
Haresh’s parents also requested Lata’s horoscope in order to ensure that her stars and planets matched those of her husband. They were particularly concerned that Lata should not happen to be a Manglik — a ‘Martian’ under certain astronomical definitions — because then, for a non-Manglik like Haresh to marry her would certainly result in his early death.
When Haresh passed on this request, Mrs Rupa Mehra got cross. ‘If there was any truth in all these horoscopes, there would be no young widows,’ she said.
‘I agree with you,’ said Haresh. ‘Well, I’ll tell them that no one has ever made a horoscope for Lata.’