One day in late December, a couple of months after Savita’s wedding, when the honey-scented harsingar had still been in blossom, when the roses were in their first full flush, when the sweet alyssum and sweet william had begun to bloom, when those beds of feathery-leafed larkspur that the partridges had not gobbled down almost to the root were doing their best to recover in front of the tall ranks of equally feathery-leafed but untempting cosmos, there had been a tremendous, almost torrential rainstorm. It had been gloomy, gusty and cold, and there had been no sun for two days, but the garden had been full of birds: pond herons, partridges, mynas, small puffed-up grey babblers in their chattering groups of seven, hoopoes and parakeets in a combination that reminded her of the colours of the Congress flag, a pair of red-wattled lapwings, and a couple of vultures, flying with huge twigs in their mouth to the neem tree. Despite their heroism in the Ramayana, Mrs Mahesh Kapoor had never been able to reconcile herself to vultures. But what had truly delighted her had been the three plump, dowdy pond herons, each standing near a separate small pool, almost entirely motionless as they gazed at the water, taking a careful minute over every step they made, and thoroughly content with the squelchiness of their environment. But the pools on the level lawn had quickly dried up when the sun had emerged. Mrs Mahesh Kapoor wanted to offer the hospitality of her lawn to a few more pond herons this year, and she did not want to leave matters to chance.
All this she explained to her daughter-in-law, gasping a little as she spoke because of her allergy to neem blossoms. Savita reflected that Mrs Mahesh Kapoor looked a bit like a pond heron herself. Drab, earthy-brown, dumpy unlike the rest of the species, inelegant, hunched-up but alert, and endlessly patient, she was capable of suddenly flashing a brilliant white wing as she rose up in flight.
Savita was amused by her analogy, and began to smile. But Mrs Mahesh Kapoor, though she smiled in response, did not attempt to find out what Savita was so happy about.
How unlike Ma she is, thought Savita to herself as the two continued to walk around the garden. She could see resemblances between Mrs Mahesh Kapoor and Pran, and an obvious physical resemblance between her and the more animated Veena. But how she could have produced such a son as Maan was still to Savita a matter of amusement and amazement.
3.17
The next morning Mrs Rupa Mehra, old Mrs Tandon and Mrs Mahesh Kapoor met in Prem Nivas for a chat. It was fitting that the kind and gentle Mrs Mahesh Kapoor should have acted as host. She was the samdhin — the ‘co-mother-in-law’—of both of the others, the link in the chain. Besides, she was the only one whose own husband was still living, the only one who was still mistress in her own house.
Mrs Rupa Mehra loved company of any kind, and this kind was ideal. First they had tea, and matthri with a mango pickle that Mrs Mahesh Kapoor had herself prepared. It was declared delicious all round. The recipe of the pickle was analysed and compared with that of seven or eight other kinds of mango pickle. As for the matthri, Mrs Rupa Mehra said:
‘It is just as it should be: crisp and flaky, but it holds together very well.’
‘I can’t have much because of my digestion,’ said old Mrs Tandon, helping herself to another.
‘What can one do when one gets old—’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra with fellow-feeling. She was only in her mid-forties but liked to imagine herself old in older company; and indeed, having been widowed for several years, she felt that she had partaken of at least part of the experience of old age.
The entire conversation proceeded in Hindi with the occasional English word. Mrs Mahesh Kapoor, for instance, when referring to her husband, often called him ‘Minister Sahib’. Sometimes, in Hindi, she even called him ‘Pran’s father’. To refer to him by name would have been unthinkable. Even ‘my husband’ was unacceptable to her, but ‘my this’ was all right.
They compared the prices of vegetables with what they had been at the same time the previous year. Minister Sahib cared more for the clauses of his bill than for his food, but he sometimes got very annoyed when there was too much or too little salt — or the food was too highly spiced. He was particularly fond of karela, the bitterest of all vegetables — and the more bitter the better.
Mrs Rupa Mehra felt very close to old Mrs Tandon. For someone who believed that everyone in a railway carriage existed mainly to be absorbed into a network of acquaintance, a samdhin’s samdhin was virtually a sister. They were both widowed, and both had problematical daughters-in-law.
Mrs Rupa Mehra complained about Meenakshi; she had already told them some weeks ago about the medal that had been so heartlessly melted down. But, naturally, old Mrs Tandon could not complain about Veena and her fondness for irreligious music in front of Mrs Mahesh Kapoor.
Grandchildren were also discussed: Bhaskar and Aparna and Savita’s unborn baby each made an appearance.
Then the conversation moved into a different mode.
‘Can’t we do something about Ramnavami? Won’t Minister Sahib change his mind?’ asked old Mrs Tandon, probably the most insistently pious of the three.
‘Uff! What can I say, he’s so stubborn,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor. ‘And nowadays he is under so much pressure that he gets impatient at every little thing I say. I get pains these days, but I hardly worry about them, I’m worrying about him so much.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll tell you frankly,’ she continued in her quiet voice, ‘I’m afraid to say anything to him. I told him, all right, if you don’t want the whole Ramcharitmanas to be recited, at least let us get a priest to recite some part of it, maybe just the Sundar Kanda, and all he said was, “You women will burn down this town. Do what you like!” and stalked out of the room.’
Mrs Rupa Mehra and old Mrs Tandon made sympathetic noises.
‘Later he was striding up and down the garden in the heat, which is good neither for him nor for the plants. I said to him, we could get Maan’s future parents-in-law from Banaras to enjoy it with us. They are also fond of recitations. That will help cement the ties. Maan is getting so’—she searched for the proper word—‘so out of control these days. . ’ She trailed off, distressed.
Rumours of Maan and Saeeda Bai were by now rife in Brahmpur.
‘What did he say?’ asked Mrs Rupa Mehra, rapt.
‘He just waved me away, saying, “All these plots and plans!”’
Old Mrs Tandon shook her head and said:
‘When Zaidi’s son passed the civil service exam, his wife arranged a reading of the whole Quran in her house: thirty women came, and they each read a — what do they call it? paara; yes, paara.’ The word seemed to displease her.
‘Really?’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, struck by the injustice of it. ‘Should I speak to Minister Sahib?’ She had a vague sense that this would help.
‘No, no, no—’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor, worried at the thought of these two powerful wills colliding. ‘He will only say this and that. Once when I touched upon the subject he even said: “If you must have it, go to your great friend the Home Minister — he will certainly support this kind of mischief.” I was too frightened to say anything after that.’