For Tara, Rs 110 was not a trifling sum, but she had no qualms about spending the money. She did not give any importance to the Rs 54 remaining in her purse either. Yet she could not help thinking what Rs 110 were worth to an average person. The monthly salary of a low-level government clerk
was not much more than the amount splurged on a dinner for just five persons. And Rs 14 left as tip! If the waiter had just one such customer every day, he would earn more than the starting monthly salary of a doctor in a government job.
What an anomaly of the social system! Thought Tara, while riding back with Narottam. She had recognized Mr Saran in what seemed to be a party in another section of the restaurant. Saran had been selected for the administrative service in the same batch as Tara, and they both had been posted to the ministry of industries. Saran had flashed a smile of greeting at Tara.
Tara couldn’t help asking Narottam, ‘How can government officers afford to party like this in expensive restaurants on monthly salaries of 1,000 or 1,500 rupees?’
‘Who spends from their pocket?’ Narottam replied. ‘Industrialists and mill owners bear the cost. If they can get some permit after spending five hundred rupees, to them it’s like paying the cab fare to their office. They consider it the cost of doing business. No one can splurge on money earned honestly and fairly.’
When Tara went to the Khannas on the second Sunday in August, Mrs Khanaa did not let her go back with Narottam. She asked Tara to stay for the afternoon tea. It began to rain in the afternoon. Since the Khannas were going to stay home because of the rain, Major Kapur gave Tara a ride to her home in his brother-in-law’s car. As Kapur drove, he regaled Tara with stories of how it poured with rain in Assam, in Hindi spoken with an English accent.
The macadam surface of the road was wet and slippery. Near the turn to Pachkuian Road were two tongas, one following the other. The horse on the tonga in front tripped, making the tonga lurch and tip over. Some women were riding in the front tonga. Men riding in the other tonga were helping the women, and three young men passing by on bicycles had stopped to help right the tonga in spite of the light rain.
Kapur slowed the car when he saw the road obstructed. A crowd had gathered in the middle of the road, leaving very little space for the car to pass. Kapur expressed his annoyance at those obstructing the road in a low voice. Twice he honked briefly in warning, then driving carefully and slowly, tried to squeeze the car through a gap between the road and the left-side footpath. In spite of his being cautious, the fender of his car brushed against
the wheel of a bicycle lying flat on the road, nudging it forward.
‘I’m so…’ Kapur had not finished the sentence when the men helping to right the tonga charged at the car. The bicycle resting on the spindle of the paddle had been pushed forward a few inches. Two young men blocked the car’s path and the third picked up the bicycle and examined it. It was not damaged but the young man came to the car window, ready to fight, ‘Are you blind? Can’t you see?’
Other young men joined the first in shouting at Kapur.
Tara noticed that Kapur’s face was flushed with anger. She was also annoyed and nervous. Kapur replied in an angry but controlled tone in his British-style Hindi, ‘Didn’t you see the car? Why did you block the road? Didn’t you hear me honk twice at you?’
‘You son-of-a-horn!’ One of the men surrounding the car stepped forward and threatened him.
Slowly, Kapur released his breath through clenched teeth and glared at the man without saying a word. It was obvious that the belligerent crowd was bent upon insulting him. Ignoring their shouting, he turned on the ignition. Tara could see that he was feeling humiliated, specially the ignominy of humiliation before a young woman.
Kapur drove the car up to the entrance of the gali behind the shops. Tara could step on to the chabutara at the bottom of the stairs leading to her flat, but in crossing that foot-wide space some raindrops could have fallen on her.
Kapur implored her to remain seated. He went upstairs and got an umbrella from Parsu. Standing in the rain he opened the umbrella over the foot-wide space. Tara felt awkward in being helped like a baby or an invalid, but there was little she could do.
‘Please come up for a while,’ Tara asked courteously and to show her sympathy for the impudence of the young men.
‘You’re probably tired,’ Kapur replied. ‘If it does not inconvenience you.’
‘No, do come up. It’s you who did the driving and you who must be tired.’
Kapur took a deep breath as he sat on a chair, ‘Don’t you think that those people were intentionally disrespectful?’
‘They were certainly impertinent. But you behaved with great restraint. I was really scared.’
‘This is the result of us gaining independence!’ Kapur said, trying to stay calm. ‘People think that independence means indiscipline and the right to openly flout the law.’
‘One must not overlook indiscipline, disorder and incivility.’ Tara tried to make him feel better. ‘Would you like some tea?’
‘No, thank you. We had tea only a short time ago. You go ahead if you want. I’ll take your leave now. I will come again sometime for the pleasure of your company.’
Kapur left. Tara found it pleasant under the ceiling fan with a cooling breeze coming through the window. Stretched out on a small sofa, she was thinking, ‘The behaviour of those men was certainly uncalled for, but what about Kapur’s attitude? Why people with cars think that pedestrians and bicyclists are always hostile towards them?’ She had spent twenty-four years of her life without a car. She could not agree with Mrs Agarwal that people walked on roads only to be a nuisance to the car owners. From her childhood she had seen cars speeding past in a cloud of dust and the drivers carelessly splashing the pedestrians with mud and nonchalantly driving off. That those who used tongas or rode bicycles were unable to do anything after being hit or injured by cars. Either the car owners did not realize how pedestrians felt or those without cars were not ready to suffer forever in silence. After feeling intimidated by the car owners for a long time, the pedestrians were refusing to take it lying down. ‘If Kapur had only said, “Please move your bicycle just a bit…”’
Tara remembered when Mrs Agarwal had heard about her buying a car; she had rung her to complain, ‘Congratulations! Won’t you show us your new car? That would please me so much.’ Tara felt awkward going to Mrs Agarwal’s house in her own car, but not going after her invitation could have been taken as a slight by her. Her chauffer Kripal Singh drove when she went to AA.
Mrs Chausia and Mrs Bhandari were visiting Mrs Agarwal. They all admired Tara’s car. After inquiring about its price, everyone began to complain about the high-handed manner of the police and the hostility of the pedestrians towards car owners. Mrs Bhandari said, ‘It’s good that you have a chauffeur. Now it’s so dangerous to drive yourself. The public is ready to pick a fight for the smallest of reasons. They will rough the car driver up even if the pedestrian or the bicyclist was at fault. If a chauffeur is driving they might let him go unharmed, but they never relent if the owner is at the steering. They are always ready to brawl, or at least curse and abuse. What the times have come to!’
Tara thought, ‘If a chauffeur is driving they might let him go unharmed, but they never relent if the owner is at the steering! Why did she say that? Isn’t that the viewpoint of a particular class? Well, I’ll try to steer clear of such situations.’
Major Kapur had said that he’d come again someday for a visit. He telephoned Tara on a Saturday, ‘I’d like to come over in the afternoon if it is convenient for you.’ It was convenient for her, so Kapur said that he’d come at 5.30.
Tara was fond of sewing her own clothes. Clothes made by a tailor never satisfied her. She had stopped wearing salwar-kameez combinations. Although buying a sewing machine only for making a blouse or other such clothing once in a while seemed wasteful, she still could not resist. She had also got the attachments for embroidery along with the machine, and had embroidered a few tablecloths. She could sew, if she wanted to, something for Mercy’s son, Sheelo’s daughter and for Mehta’s daughter ‘little Tara’.
Buying the sewing machine became a headache for her. Every month Mehta’s wife or his sister borrowed the machine for a week. If Tara lent her machine to them, she could not refuse her Punjabi neighbours. One saving grace was that only Punjabis borrowed her machine. Those from UP, Bengal and Maharashtra had no such habit. If she wanted to use the machine after it was returned, she had to first spend half an hour in cleaning it.
She rested for a while after returning from the office on Saturday. Then she oiled and cleaned the machine and began to sew a blouse. She had not finished working when the timepiece on a short stool nearby showed 5.25. She should get dressed, Tara thought, for Kapur will soon be here. She called Parsu and asked him to get some snacks from the bazaar. She wanted to finish hemming the blouse’s shoulder.
A low, solemn voice came from the direction of the living room, ‘May I come in?’
Tara again glanced at the timepiece. It was not even thirty seconds past 5.30. Tara felt that Kapur had arrived on time like the mail train. Parsu had just left for the bazaar. She felt acutely embarrassed, but had to arrange her aanchal and receive the guest a bit awkwardly. She could meet Narottam, Chaddha, Mathur or Mehta dressed casually, but Kapur’s behaviour was always very formal.
Kapur took a chair after Tara sat down. To alleviate her embarrassment,
Tara said, ‘Please don’t mind. I was so engrossed with some household chores that I didn’t realize it was 5.30.’
‘Maybe my watch is a bit fast. I hope I’m not early.’ Kapur politely took all the blame.
‘It is past 5.30, actually. I was busy sewing. I’m all covered with dust. Hope you won’t mind the untidiness,’ Tara said with a smile.
‘Oh, no, no! No such thing,’ Kapur tried to reassure her. ‘Natural behaviour, if you permit me to say, can be the best indicator of one’s true self.’
‘It’s very kind of you to say so,’ Tara replied formally, with a polite smile.
Kapur said, pointing to the copy of the
Literary Digest
on a side table, ‘Do you read this regularly?’
‘Not regularly. Only when Narottam gives me a copy.’
Kapur picked up the magazine and unfurling the pages, said, ‘I haven’t read this issue yet, but I usually do read it. I really like it.’
‘Me too. It often has short but interesting articles if you want a bit of light reading.’
Kapur raised his eyebrows, thought for a moment and concurred, ‘That’s exactly what I meant.’
After some chit-chat Tara asked, ‘You’ll have a cup of tea,
na
?’
‘I had some before I came. Please don’t trouble yourself. Of course, I’ll give you company if you are having tea.’
Over tea, Kapur again talked about literary matters. He mentioned books by Shaw, Maupassant, Maugham and Sartre. He praised Sartre’s depth and insight, wanted to know what Tara thought of him. He asked her permission to light a cigarette during the serious discussion.
Tara had read only one novel of Sartre. She praised it, then said, ‘I felt that instead of trying to find a way to solve his conflicts and dilemmas, he believed that his salvation lay in plunging himself heroically into the core of his vortex of despair. Forgive me for not expressing myself well. I’m not at all well read.’
‘No, no. You did a very good analysis of his thinking.’ Kapur said in praise. ‘You’re able to appreciate the soul of literature. Narottam is very impressed with your understanding of literature.’
‘Don’t talk of him! He loves to exaggerate. He himself is a good person, so he praises everyone else.’
‘No, no. Literature runs in your family. Narottam told me that your
brother is a well-known writer, a weekly’s editor and an MLA. Your family is a cradle of art and culture.’
‘My brother is certainly a well-known writer. My bhabhi is also a good writer, but I don’t have much knowledge of literature. I was a student of economics.’
Kapur moved from discussing literature to a discussion of films. He said, after a slight hesitation, ‘If you have no other engagements and it’s not inconvenient for you, let’s go to see the 6.30 show of
Madame Bovary
.’
‘No, no inconvenience and it is a wonderful idea, but I am expecting a friend later this evening.’
At 6.45, Kapur apologized profusely for staying for such a long time. He told Tara that he was living in the Officers’ Mess. After saying goodbye politely and expressing the hope of having the pleasure of meeting Tara at the club or at his sister’s house, or being permitted to visit her again, he left.
Kapur was a handsome and strapping fellow. Tara liked his company, but she also found it stressful to respond correctly to his all too polite behaviour.
Tara had just returned from the office when the telephone rang.
‘Is Taraji at home?’ the caller asked.
‘Namaste, Mrs Khanna. I am speaking.’
‘I’m going to be informal and call you Tara. I’m older than you. You can call me Nimmi didi if you wish.’
‘Sure, didi.’
‘I’m going to Connaught Place for shopping. You had really spoiled Raja the other day. Since then he has been asking repeatedly for Tara Aunty. Can’t forget you and wants to meet you again. Can we come over by seven o’clock?’
‘Do come, didi, I’ll be waiting.’
Mrs Khanna came with her son Rajeshwar. Tara welcomed them warmly and lavished the boy with hospitality. Raja was engrossed in his new mechanical merry-go-round, but Mrs Khanna spoke to Tara very amiably. When the guests were leaving, Tara said out of politeness, ‘Do you have to go? Have dinner with me, whatever simple and plain dinner there is.’
Mrs Khanna said, ‘You’re alone here. Why don’t you come along and have dinner with us? I’ll have you dropped back by ten.’
‘Some other time, didi.’ said Tara. Mrs Khanna then invited her with such genuine affection to accompany them on a picnic to Okhla next Sunday that Tara could not refuse.
On Saturday, 1 October, Tara came back from her office, had some tea, and lay down to rest and read the morning newspaper. She got up when the clock showed 6.15. She said to Purandei, ‘Bua, I’m going to stay with Mrs Khanna in the cantonment, and will return tomorrow morning. Don’t bother cooking for me. Make whatever you want for dinner.’