‘Ah,’ said Sunil, his whisky-rich mind not quite on the problem.
‘But of course what I am saying is, er, quite obvious. I didn’t mean to, er, er, trouble you with that. But I did think that I, er,’—he looked around the room, his eye alighting on a cuckoo clock on the wall—‘that I would, well, pick your brains on something that might be quite, er, quite unintuitive. Now take 1, 4, 216, 72576 and so on. Does that surprise you?’
‘Well—’ said Sunil.
‘Ah!’ said Dr Durrani, ‘I thought not.’ He looked approvingly at his younger colleague, whose brains he often picked in this manner. ‘Well, well, well! Now shall I tell you what the impetus, the, er, catalyst, for all this, was?’
‘Oh, please do,’ said Sunil.
‘It was a, er, a remark — a very, er, perceptive remark of yours.’
‘Ah!’
‘You said, apropos the Pergolesi Lemma, “The concept will form a tree.” It was a, er, a brilliant comment — I never thought of it in those terms before.’
‘Oh—’ said Sunil.
Haresh winked at him, but Sunil frowned. Making deliberate fun of Dr Durrani was lese-majesty in his eyes.
‘And indeed,’ went on Dr Durrani generously, ‘though I was, er, blind to it at the time’—he scrunched up his deep-set eyes almost into nothingness by way of unconscious illustration—‘it, well, it does form a tree. An unprunable one.’
He saw in his mind’s eye a huge, proliferating, and — worst of all — uncontrollable banyan tree spreading over a flat landscape, and continued, with increasing distress and excitement: ‘Because whatever, er, method of super-operating is chosen — that is, type 1 or type 2—it cannot, er, it cannot definitely be applied at each, er, at each stage. To choose a particular, well, clumping of types may, may. . er, yes, it may indeed prune the branches but it will be too, er, arbitrary. The alternative will not yield a, er, consistent algorithm. So this, er, question arose in my, er, mind: how can one generalize it as one moves to higher operations?’ Dr Durrani, who tended to stoop slightly, now straightened up. Clearly, action was required in the face of these terrible uncertainties.
‘What conclusion did you come to?’ said Sunil, tottering a bit.
‘Oh, but that is just it. I didn’t. Of course, er, super-operation n+1 has to act vis-à-vis super-operation n as n acts to n–1. That goes without saying. What troubles me is, er, the question of iteration. Does the same sub-operation, the same, er, sub-super-operation, if I might call it that’—he smiled at the thought of his terminology—‘does it, er — would it—’
The sentence was left unfinished as Professor Durrani looked around the room, pleasingly mystified.
‘Do join us for dinner, Dr Durrani,’ said Sunil. ‘It’s open house. And may I offer you something to drink?’
‘Oh, no, no, er, no,’ said Dr Durrani kindly. ‘You young people go ahead. Don’t mind me.’
Haresh, suddenly thinking of Bhaskar, approached Dr Durrani and said, ‘Excuse me, Sir, but I wonder if I might force a very bright young man on to your attention. I think he would very much enjoy meeting you — and I hope you would enjoy meeting him.’
Dr Durrani looked inquiringly at Haresh but did not say anything. What did young people have to do with anything? he wondered. (Or people, for that matter.)
‘He was talking of the powers of ten the other day,’ said Haresh, ‘and he regretted that neither in English nor in Hindi is there a word for ten to the power of four or ten to the power of eight.’
‘Yes, er, well, it is a great pity,’ said Dr Durrani with some feeling. ‘Of course, in the accounts of Al-Biruni one finds. . ’
‘He seemed to feel that something should be done about it.’
‘How old is this young man?’ said Dr Durrani, quite interested.
‘Nine.’
Dr Durrani stooped once more in order to put himself on talking terms with Haresh. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Well, er, er, send him along. You know where I, er, live,’ he added, and turned to go.
Since neither Haresh nor Dr Durrani had ever seen each other before, this was unlikely. But Haresh thanked him, very pleased to be able to put two like minds into contact with each other. He did not feel uncomfortable that he might be encroaching on the time and energies of the great man. In fact the thought did not even occur to him.
4.8
Pran, who dropped in a bit later, was not an old Stephanian. He had been invited by Sunil as a friend and colleague. He missed seeing Dr Durrani, with whom he had a nodding acquaintance, and missed hearing about Bhaskar. In common with almost everyone in the family, he was a little in awe of his nephew, who seemed in certain respects just like any other child — fond of flying kites, fond of playing truant from school, and affectionate most of all towards his grandmothers.
‘Why have you come so late?’ asked Sunil a little belligerently. ‘And why is Savita not here? We were trusting her to leaven our cloddish company. Or is she walking ten paces behind you? No — I don’t see her anywhere. Did she think she’d cramp our style?’
‘I’ll answer the two questions worth answering,’ said Pran. ‘One — Savita decided she was feeling too tired; she begs you to excuse her. Two — I’m late because I’ve had dinner before coming. I know how things run in your house. Dinner isn’t served until midnight — if you remember to serve it at all — and even then it’s inedible. We usually have to get kababs at some wayside stall to fill ourselves up on the way home. You should get married yourself, you know, Sunil — then your household wouldn’t run so haphazardly. Besides, there would be someone to darn those atrocious socks. Anyway, why don’t you have your shoes on?’
Sunil sighed. ‘That’s because Haresh decided he needed two pairs of shoes for himself. “My need is greater than thine.” There they are in the corner, and I know I’ll never see them again. Oh, but you two haven’t met,’ said Sunil, talking now in Hindi. ‘Haresh Khanna — Pran Kapoor. Both of you have studied English literature, and I’ve never met anyone who knows more about it than the one, or less about it than the other.’
The two men shook hands.
‘Well,’ said Pran with a smile. ‘Why do you need two pairs of shoes?’
‘This fellow delights in creating mysteries,’ said Haresh, ‘but there’s a simple explanation. I’m using it as a sample to have another pair made.’
‘For yourself?’
‘Oh, no. I work with CLFC and I’m in Brahmpur for a few days on work.’
Haresh assumed that the abbreviations he often used were entirely familiar to everyone else.
‘CLFC?’ asked Pran.
‘Cawnpore Leather & Footwear Company.’
‘Oh. So you work in the shoe trade,’ said Pran. ‘That’s a far cry from English literature.’
‘All I am living by is with the awl,’ said Haresh lightly, and offered no more by way of explanation and misquotation.
‘My brother-in-law works in the shoe trade as well,’ said Pran. ‘Perhaps you’ve met him. He’s a trader in the Brahmpur Shoe Mart.’
‘I may have,’ said Haresh, ‘though because of the strike not all the traders have their stalls open. What’s his name?’
‘Kedarnath Tandon.’