Savita rushed to her immediately. Her own heart was beating far too fast.
One last faint possibility struck Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘Is he a Parsi?’ she asked weakly, almost pleadingly. The thought was odious but not so calamitously horrifying. But a look at Savita’s face told her the truth.
‘A Muslim!’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra more to herself now than to anyone else. ‘What did I do in my past life that I have brought this upon my beloved daughter?’
Savita was standing near her and held her hand. Mrs Rupa Mehra’s hand was inert as she stared in front of her. Suddenly she became aware of the gentle curve of Savita’s stomach, and fresh horrors came to her mind.
She stood up again. ‘Never, never, never—’ she said.
By now Lata, having conjured up the image of Kabir in her mind, had gained a little strength. She opened her eyes. Her tears had stopped and there was a defiant set to her mouth.
‘Never, never, absolutely not — dirty, violent, cruel, lecherous—’
‘Like Talat Khala?’ demanded Lata. ‘Like Uncle Shafi? Like the Nawab Sahib of Baitar? Like Firoz and Imtiaz?’
‘Do you want to marry him?’ cried Mrs Rupa Mehra in a fury.
‘Yes!’ said Lata, carried away, and angrier by the second.
‘He’ll marry you — and next year he’ll say “Talaq talaq talaq” and you’ll be out on the streets. You obstinate, stupid girl! You should drown yourself in a handful of water for sheer shame.’
‘I will marry him,’ said Lata, unilaterally.
‘I’ll lock you up. Like when you said you wanted to become a nun.’
Savita tried to intercede.
‘You go to your room!’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘This isn’t good for you.’ She pointed her finger, and Savita, not used to being ordered about in her own home, meekly complied.
‘I wish I had become a nun,’ said Lata. ‘I remember Daddy used to tell us we should follow our own hearts.’
‘Still answering back?’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, infuriated by the mention of Daddy. ‘I’ll give you two tight slaps.’
She slapped her daughter hard, twice, and instantly burst into tears.
3.19
Mrs Rupa Mehra was not more prejudiced against Muslims than most upper-caste Hindu women of her age and background. As Lata had inopportunely pointed out, she even had friends who were Muslims, though almost all of them were not orthodox at all. The Nawab Sahib was, perhaps, quite orthodox, but then he was, for Mrs Rupa Mehra, more a social acquaintance than a friend.
The more Mrs Rupa Mehra thought, the more agitated she became. Even marrying a non-khatri Hindu was bad enough. But this was unspeakable. It was one thing to mix socially with Muslims, entirely another to dream of polluting one’s blood and sacrificing one’s daughter.
Whom could she turn to in her hour of darkness? When Pran came home for lunch and heard the story, he suggested mildly that they meet the boy. Mrs Rupa Mehra threw another fit. It was utterly out of the question. Pran then decided to stay out of things and to let them die down. He had not been hurt when he realized that Savita had kept her sister’s confidence from him, and Savita loved him still more for that. She tried to calm her mother down, console Lata, and keep them in separate rooms — at least during the day.
Lata looked around the bedroom and wondered what she was doing in this house with her mother when her heart was entirely elsewhere, anywhere but here — a boat, a cricket field, a concert, a banyan grove, a cottage in the hills, Blandings Castle, anywhere, anywhere, so long as she was with Kabir. No matter what happened, she would meet him as planned, tomorrow. She told herself again and again that the path of true love never did run smooth.
Mrs Rupa Mehra wrote a letter on an inland form to Arun in Calcutta. Her tears fell on the letter and blotched the ink. She added: ‘P.S. My tears have fallen on this letter, but what to do? My heart is broken and only God will show a way out. But His will be done.’ Because the postage had just gone up she had to stick an extra stamp on the prepaid form.
In much bitterness of spirit, she went to see her father. It would be a humiliating visit. She would have to brave his temper in order to get his advice. Her father may have married a crass woman half his age, but that was a heaven-made match compared to what Lata was threatened with.
As expected, Dr Kishen Chand Seth rebuked Mrs Rupa Mehra roundly in front of the dreadful Parvati and told her what a useless mother she was. But then, he added, everyone seemed to be brainless these days. Just last week he had told a patient whom he had seen at the hospitaclass="underline" ‘You are a stupid man. In ten to fifteen days you will be dead. Throw away money if you want to on an operation, it’ll only kill you quicker.’ The stupid patient had been quite upset. It was clear that no one knew how to take or to give advice these days. And no one knew how to discipline their children; that was where all the trouble in the world sprang from.
‘Look at Mahesh Kapoor!’ he added with satisfaction.
Mrs Rupa Mehra nodded.
‘And you are worse.’
Mrs Rupa Mehra sobbed.
‘You spoiled the eldest’—he chuckled at the memory of Arun’s jaunt in his car—‘and now you have spoiled the youngest, and you have only yourself to blame. And you come to me for advice when it is too late.’
His daughter said nothing.
‘And your beloved Chatterjis are just the same,’ he added with relish. ‘I hear from Calcutta circles that they have no control over their children. None.’ This thought gave him an idea.
Mrs Rupa Mehra was now satisfactorily in tears, so he gave her some advice and told her to put it into effect immediately.
Mrs Rupa Mehra went home, got out some money, and went straight to the Brahmpur Junction Railway Station. She bought two tickets for Calcutta by the next evening’s train.
Instead of posting her letter to Arun, she sent him a telegram.
Savita tried to dissuade her mother but to no effect. ‘At least wait till the beginning of May when the exam results come out,’ she said. ‘Lata will be needlessly worried about them.’
Mrs Rupa Mehra told Savita that exam results meant nothing if a girl’s character was ruined, and that they could be transmitted by mail. She knew what Lata was worried about all right. She then turned the emotional tables on Savita by saying that any scenes between Lata and herself should take place elsewhere, not within earshot of Savita. Savita was pregnant and should stay calm. ‘Calm, that’s the word,’ repeated Mrs Rupa Mehra forcefully.
As for Lata, she said nothing to her mother, simply remaining tight-lipped when she was told to pack her things for the journey. ‘We are going to Calcutta tomorrow evening by the 6.22 train — and that is that. Don’t you dare say anything,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.
Lata did not say anything. She refused to show any emotion to her mother. She packed carefully. She even ate something for dinner. The image of Kabir kept her company.
After dinner she sat on the roof, thinking. When she came to bed, she did not say goodnight to Mrs Rupa Mehra, who was lying sleeplessly in the next bed. Mrs Rupa Mehra was heartbroken, but Lata was not feeling very charitable. She went to sleep quite soon, and dreamed, among other things, of a washerman’s donkey with the face of Dr Makhijani, chewing up Mrs Rupa Mehra’s black handbag and all her little silver stars.
3.20
She awoke, rested. It was still dark. She had agreed to meet Kabir at six. She went to the bathroom, locked it from the inside, then slipped out from the back into the garden. She did not dare to take a sweater with her, as this would have made her mother suspicious. Anyway, it was not too cold.