‘Kedarnath Tandon! But of course I know him. He’s been showing me around all sorts of places—’ Haresh was very pleased. ‘In fact, it’s because of him in a way that Sunil has lost his shoes. So you’re his sala — sorry, I mean Veena’s brother. Are you the older one or the younger one?’
Sunil Patwardhan had loomed back into the conversation. ‘The elder,’ he said. ‘The younger one — Maan — was invited too, but his evenings nowadays are otherwise occupied.’
‘Well, tell me,’ said Pran, turning determinedly towards Sunil, ‘is there some special occasion for this party? It’s not your birthday, is it?’
‘No it’s not. And you’re not very good at changing the subject. But I’ll let you wriggle out of this one because I have a question for you, Dr Kapoor. One of my best students has been suffering because of you. Why were you so harsh — you and your disciplinary committee — what do they call it? student welfare committee? — with the boys who indulged in a little high spirits over Holi?’
‘A little high spirits?’ exclaimed Pran. ‘Those girls looked like they had been dyed in red and blue ink. It’s lucky they didn’t catch pneumonia. And really, there was a lot of, you know, unnecessary rubbing of colour here and there.’
‘But throwing the boys out of their hostels and threatening them with expulsion?’
‘Do you call that harsh?’ said Pran.
‘Of course. At the time that they’re preparing for their final exams?’
‘They certainly weren’t preparing for their exams on Holi when they decided — it seems that a few of them had even taken bhang — to storm the Women’s Hostel and lock up the warden in the common room.’
‘Oh, that steel-hearted bitch!’ said Sunil dismissively, then burst out laughing at the image of the women’s warden locked up, banging perhaps on the carom board in frustration. The warden was a draconian if rather good-looking woman who kept her charges on a strict leash, wore lots of make-up, and glared at any of the girls who did the same.
‘Come on, Sunil, she’s quite attractive — I think you have a soft spot for her yourself.’
Sunil snorted at the ridiculous idea.
‘I bet she asked for them to be expelled immediately. Or rusticated. Or electrocuted. Like those Russian spies in America the other day. The trouble is that no one remembers their own student days once they are on the other side.’
‘What would you have done in her place?’ asked Pran. ‘Or in our place for that matter? The girls’ parents would have been up in arms if we had taken no action. And, quite apart from the question of such repercussions, I don’t think the punishment was unfair. A couple of members of the committee wanted them expelled.’
‘Who? The Proctor?’
‘Well — a couple of members,’ said Pran.
‘Come on, come on, don’t be secretive, you’re among friends—’ said Sunil, putting a broad arm around Pran’s gangly shoulders.
‘No, really, Sunil, I’ve said too much already.’
‘You, of course, voted for leniency.’
Pran rebutted the friendly sarcasm seriously. ‘As it happens, yes, I did suggest leniency. Besides, I know how things can get out of hand. I thought of what happened when Maan decided to play Holi with Moby-Dick.’ The incident with Professor Mishra was by now notorious throughout the university.
‘Oh, yes,’ said the physicist who had wandered over, ‘what’s happened to your readership?’
Pran sucked in his breath slowly. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘But it’s been months that the post has been lying open.’
‘I know,’ said Pran. ‘It’s even been advertised, but they don’t seem to want to set a date for the selection committee to meet.’
‘It’s not right. I’ll talk to someone at the Brahmpur Chronicle,’ said the young physicist.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Sunil enthusiastically. ‘It has come to our knowledge that despite the chronic understaffing in the English Department of our renowned university and the availability of a more than suitable local candidate for the post of reader which has been lying unfilled now for an unconscionable length of time—’
‘Please—’ said Pran, not at all calmly. ‘Just let things take their natural course. Don’t get the papers involved in all this.’
Sunil looked meditative for a while, as if he was working something out. ‘All right, all right, have a drink!’ he said suddenly. ‘Why don’t you have a drink in your hand?’
‘First he grills me for half an hour without offering me a drink, then he asks me why I don’t have one. I’ll have whisky — with water,’ said Pran, in a less agitated tone.
As the evening went on, the talk of the party turned to news in the town, to India’s consistently poor performance in international cricket (‘I doubt we will ever win a Test match,’ said Pran with confident pessimism), to politics in Purva Pradesh and the world at large, and to the peculiarities of various teachers, both at Brahmpur University and — for the Stephanians — at St Stephen’s in Delhi. To the mystification of the non-Stephanians, they participated in chorus with a querulous: ‘In my class I will say one thing: you may not understand, you may not want to understand, but you will understand!’
Dinner was served, and it was just as rudimentary as Pran had predicted. Sunil, for all his good-natured bullying of his friends, was himself bullied by an old servant whose affection for his master (whom he had served since Sunil was a child) was only equalled by his unwillingness to do any work.
Over dinner there was a discussion — somewhat incoherent because some of the participants were either belligerent or erratic with whisky — about the economy and the political situation. Making complete sense of it was difficult, but a part of it went like this:
‘Look, the only reason why Nehru became PM was because he was Gandhi’s favourite. Everyone knows that. All he knows how to do is to make those bloody long speeches that never go anywhere. He never seems to take a stand on anything. Just think. Even in the Congress Party, where Tandon and his cronies are pushing him to the wall, what does he do? He just goes along with it, and we have to—’
‘But what can he do? He’s not a dictator.’
‘Do you mind not interrupting? I mean to say, may I make my point? After that you can say whatever you want for as long as you want. So what does Nehru do? I mean to say, what does he do? He sends a message to some society that he’s been asked to address and he says, “We often feel a sense of darkness.” Darkness — who cares about his darkness or what’s going on inside his head? He may have a handsome head and that red rose may look pretty in his buttonhole, but what we need is someone with a stout heart, not a sensitive one. It’s his duty as Prime Minister to give a lead to the country, and he’s just not got the strength of character to do it.’
‘Well—’
‘Well, what?’
‘You just try to run a country. Try to feed the people, for a start. Keep the Hindus from slaughtering the Muslims—’
‘Or vice versa.’
‘All right, or vice versa. And try to abolish the zamindars’ estates when they fight you every inch of the way.’
‘He isn’t doing that as PM — land revenue isn’t a Central subject — it’s a state subject. Nehru will make his vague speeches, but you ask Pran who’s the real brains behind our Zamindari Abolition Bill.’
‘Yes,’ admitted Pran, ‘it’s my father. At any rate, my mother says he works terribly late and sometimes comes back home from the Secretariat after midnight, dog-tired, then reads through the night to prepare for the next day’s arguments in the Assembly.’ He laughed shortly and shook his head. ‘My mother’s worried because he’s ruining his health. Two hundred clauses, two hundred ulcers, she thinks. And now that the Zamindari Act in Bihar has been declared unconstitutional, everyone’s in a panic. As if there’s not enough to panic about anyway, what with the trouble in Chowk.’