‘It’s all for the best, on the whole,’ said Mahesh Kapoor. ‘If I had been an MLA, Agarwal would have had to ask me to join his Cabinet, and I would not have been able to stand it.’
‘Well,’ said the Nawab Sahib, ‘whether things are for the best or not, that’s how they are.’
There was a pause. Everyone was friendly enough, but no one knew what to talk about. Every topic seemed closed for one reason or another. There was no mention of law or laws, of doctors or hospitals, of gardens or music, of future plans or past recollections, of politics or religion, of bees or lotuses.
The judges of the Supreme Court had agreed that the Zamindari Acts were constitutional; they were in the process of writing their judgement, which would be announced to the world at large in a few days.
S.S. Sharma had been called to Delhi. The Congress MLAs of Purva Pradesh had elected L.N. Agarwal as Chief Minister. Astoundingly enough, one of his first acts in office had been to send a firm note to the Raja of Marh refusing government or police protection for any further attempts to salvage the linga.
The Banaras people had decided that Maan was no longer a suitable boy; they had informed Mahesh Kapoor of their decision.
All these subjects, and many others, were on everyone’s mind — and no one’s tongue.
Meenakshi and Kakoli, noticing the notorious Maan, swept up in a shimmer of chiffon, and even Mahesh Kapoor was not unhappy at the diversion they provided. Before they got there, however, Maan — who had just noticed Professor Mishra prowling vastly in the vicinity — had made good his disappearance.
When they heard that Firoz and Imtiaz were twins, Meenakshi and Kakoli were delighted.
‘If I have twins,’ said Kuku, ‘I shall call them Prabodhini and Shayani. Then one can sleep while the other is awake.’
‘How very silly, Kuku,’ said Meenakshi. ‘You’ll never get any sleep yourself that way. And they won’t ever get to know each other. Tell me, which of you is the elder?’
‘I am,’ said Imtiaz.
‘No, you’re not,’ said Meenakshi.
‘I assure you, Mrs Mehra, I am. Ask my father here.’
‘He wouldn’t know,’ said Meenakshi. ‘A very nice man, who gave me a lovely little lacquer box, once told me that, according to the Japanese, the baby who comes out second is the elder, because he proves his courtesy and maturity by allowing his younger brother to emerge first.’
‘Mrs Mehra,’ said Firoz, laughing, ‘I can never thank you enough.’
‘Oh, do call me Meenakshi. Charming idea, isn’t it? Now if I have twins I shall call them Etah and Etawah! Or Kumbh and Karan. Or Bentsen and Pryce. Or something quite unforgettable. Etawah Mehra — how exquisitely exotic. Where has Aparna got to? And tell me, who are those two foreigners there, talking to Arun and Hans?’ She stretched her long neck lazily and pointed with the red-nail-polished finger of a delicately hennaed hand.
‘They are from the local Praha factory,’ said Mahesh Kapoor.
‘Oh, how dreadful!’ exclaimed Kuku. ‘They’re probably discussing the German invasion of Czechoslovakia. Or is it the communists? I must separate them at once. Or at least listen to what they’re saying. I’m so desperately bored. Nothing ever happens in Brahmpur. Come, Meenakshi. And we haven’t yet given Ma and Luts our heart-deep congratulations. Not that they deserve them. How stupid of her not to marry Amit. Now he’ll never marry anyone, I’m sure, and he’ll become as grouchy as Cuddles. But of course, they could always have a torrid affair,’ she added hopefully.
And in a flash of flesh the Chatterjis of the backless cholis were gone.
19.13
‘She’s married the wrong man,’ said Malati to her mother. ‘And it’s breaking my heart.’
‘Malati,’ said her mother, ‘everyone must make their own mistakes. Why are you sure it is a mistake?’
‘It is, it is, I know it!’ said Malati passionately. ‘And she’ll find out soon enough.’ She was determined to get Lata to at least write a letter to Kabir. Surely Haresh, with the simpering Simran in his shady background, would have to accept that as reasonable.
‘Malati,’ said her mother calmly, ‘don’t make mischief in someone else’s marriage. Get married yourself. What happened to the five boys whose father you met in Nainital?’
But Malati was looking across the crowd at Varun, who was smiling rather weakly and adoringly at Kalpana Gaur.
‘Would you like me to marry an IAS officer?’ she asked her mother. ‘The most sweet and weak-willed and idiotic one I’ve ever met?’
‘I want you to marry someone with character,’ said her mother. ‘Someone like your father. Someone whom you cannot push around. And that’s what you want as well.’
Mrs Rupa Mehra too was staring at Kalpana Gaur and Varun in amazement. Surely not! — surely not! — she thought. Kalpana, who was like a daughter to her: how could she have battened on to her poor son? Could I be imagining things? she wondered. But Varun was so guileless — or, rather, so ineffectual even when he tried to be guileful that the symptoms of his infatuation were unmistakable.
How and when could this have happened?
‘Yes, yes, thank you, thank you,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra impatiently to someone who was congratulating her.
What could be done to prevent such a disaster? Kalpana was years older than Varun, and — even if she was like a daughter to her — Mrs Rupa Mehra had no intention of having her as a daughter-in-law.
But now Malati (‘that girl who makes nothing but mischief’) had gone up to Varun, and was looking deeply, deeply with her peerless green eyes into his. Varun’s jaw had dropped slightly and he appeared to be stammering.
Leaving Lata and Haresh to fend for themselves, Mrs Rupa Mehra marched up to Varun.
‘Hello, Ma,’ said Kalpana Gaur. ‘Many congratulations. What a lovely wedding. And I can’t help feeling responsible for it, in a way.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra shortly.
‘Hello, Ma,’ said Malati. ‘Yes, congratulations are in order from me as well.’ Receiving no immediate response, she added, without thinking: ‘These gulab-jamuns are delicious. You must try one.’
This reference to forbidden sweets annoyed Mrs Rupa Mehra further. She glared at the offending objects for a second or two.
‘What is the matter, Malati?’ she asked with some asperity. ‘You still look a little under the weather — you’ve been running around so much, I’m not surprised — and, Kalpana, standing in the centre of the crowd is not good for your hot spots; go and sit on that bench there at once, it is much cooler. Now I must have a word with Varun, who is not doing his duties as a host.’
And she took him aside.
‘You too will marry a girl I choose,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra firmly to her younger son.
‘But — but, Ma—’ Varun shifted from foot to foot.
‘A suitable girl, that is what I want for you,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra in an admonitory voice. ‘That is what your Daddy would have wanted. A suitable girl, and no exceptions.’
While Varun was trying to figure out the implications of that last phrase, Arun joined them, together with Aparna, who held her father’s hand in one hand and an ice-cream cone in another.
‘Not pistachio, Daadi,’ she announced, disappointedly.
‘Don’t worry, sweetheart,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, ‘we’ll get you lots of pistachio ice-cream tomorrow.’
‘At the zoo.’
‘Yes, at the zoo,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra absently. She frowned. ‘Sweetheart, it’s too hot to go to the zoo.’