A Fine Family: A Novel (25 page)

Like everything else, Diwali too was celebrated on a grand scale at Priti’s house. For the past two weeks, Arjun had noted a great deal of activity at the Mehta house. As Diwali approached, the servants began the annual ritual of house cleaning: they beat the carpets. The tailor came to make new curtains. Everyone was in a hurry, and for days the house was filled with excitement. The cook, the gardener, the watchman, the bearer, and the maid—all of them got new clothes. The postman, the milkman and the washerman got money. There was much coming and going and confusion. Whereas Tara bought her Diwali sweets from the bazaar, Amrita engaged a halwai for three days to make sweets at home. While Tara gave sweets to a few select friends, Amrita distributed them to half the poor in the town, plus all the workers at her orchards.

Between Dasehra and Diwali, between Amrita’s reception for the Cabinet Minister and her Diwali party during that autumn of 1962, more melancholy news came of Chinese incursions on the Indian border. Nehru regarded the Chinese action as a personal insult, and it left him in a depression from which he never recovered. Many Indians similarly felt the Chinese action to be a betrayal, and the conversation in Amrita’s drawing room was no different from what was being said in homes all over the country on that Diwali evening.

‘After years of friendship and
“Hindi-Chini bhai bhai”,
why are the Chinese suddenly angry?’ asked Amrita of Kanwar Krishan Singh, the dashing young Minister of State who was on a week’s visit to Simla with his petite Nepali wife.

‘Because you take everyone in Asia for granted,’ interjected his Nepali wife. ‘You are so preoccupied with what is happening in Washington and London that you forget your neighbours. It won’t do to look at the world through English spectacles. Look at the way you treat us Nepalese.’

‘Come, come, you are putting it too strongly, my dear,’ said the young Minister, who wore a rose on his closed collar coat, in the fashion made famous by Nehru. ‘We may be guilty of forgetting Nepal, but we certainly don’t take the Chinese for granted.’

Amrita had a great talent for having the most interesting people at her informal get-togethers. Society in Simla agreed that the success of her evenings lay in her apparent lack of effort. People somehow came together, and invariably found at her house some new and interesting or powerful person who was often from the world of politics. He was usually a friend of a friend, and was visiting Simla briefly in order to escape the heat and dust of Delhi. Amrita’s friends were always rewarded by being able to get the latest reading of the political thermometer in Delhi or to find out about new trends in art and literature.

Arjun had arrived early and was standing in a group which was dominated by Rao Sahib. He was nervous and in awe of the magnificent company and the flower-filled drawing room. He wore a new sweater, which Tara had knitted for him for Diwali, and he had promised his mother that he would not get it wet in the damp evening. He kept looking around the room for Priti, but she had not appeared as yet in the brightly-lit drawing room. Nor had Karan arrived, and Arjun was paralyzed by an insurmountable timidity.

‘I think people silly who want to stay home rather than go to a party,’ Rao Sahib was saying to the bald-headed Justice Khosla. ‘You must remember an important rule in Simla’s society is that if you are not seen everywhere you are forgotten.’

‘Come, come, Bunty, that is a cynical view of people,’ laughed the judge. ‘Hardly something to teach this bright young lad’ and he looked directly at Arjun, who smiled nervously. ‘If you are inclined to think the worst of your fellow men. . . .’

‘Look at Chamba,’ interrupted Rao Sahib in his smooth Oxford accent. ‘Ever since he abandoned society he has been forgotten.’

‘Did I hear my name?’ asked the fascinating princess, who was sitting nearby on a sofa with Amrita. The men immediately turned around to face her and her ample, exposed bosom.

‘Not you, Sita dear, but your extraordinary husband,’ replied Rao Sahib.

When her husband was mentioned, the princess put on a dignified expression, which was most becoming on her. It was no secret that the two were not getting along, and the princess was in fact relieved when her husband left one day to become a yogi in the Himalayas. Ever since he had left, everyone in her glittering social circle felt sorry for her. She responded to these solicitous remarks appropriately as the injured party. As with all things, she managed her ‘dignified expression’ with her great talent for tact and social diplomacy. And her success lay in her appearing tactless and naive and perfectly natural, as though she did not realize the significance of that expression.

‘I always thought he was cracked,’ said Rao Sahib sympathetically. It was not uncommon to criticize Chamba behind his back. People who had never said a bad word about him suddenly became critical, hoping in this way to come closer to the lovely princess. She was unanimously regarded as the most beautiful woman in Simla, and she had turned the head of many brilliant men. Rao Sahib had openly flirted with her, but with no apparent success. Her attraction lay in the mystery of her private life, and no man had been publicly linked with her name.

‘I too think he was peculiar, but his only flaw was that he was too independent,’ said Amrita. She was not as hearty in condemning an erstwhile guest, who had been a regular feature, albeit an odd one at her parties. ‘He certainly had a mind of his own,’ she added. Amrita had in fact liked him. She had a feeling that the marriage was not going to succeed, since he had a revulsion for society, whereas Sita couldn’t do without it.

‘I say, don’t speak to Sita about him. It is too hard for her.’ said Rao Sahib, and he turned towards Justice Khosla. ‘Ah, she is such a charming and unhappy woman.’ He said this to the judge, but loud enough for the princess to hear.

Arjun looked around him, trying to spot Priti. He walked a few steps to the right, and at once he knew she was there. He knew by the rapture and the terror that seized him. She was standing in the alcove talking to Neena, Rao Sahib’s daughter, and to Rishi, the anaemic boy, whom Arjun remembered from the Green Room. There was nothing particularly striking in her sari, which was a tasteful maroon silk and which she wore with confidence, nor in the way she was standing and chatting. But to Arjun she would have been easy to spot anywhere. He wondered if he ought to go close to her and greet her, or whether he should wait till she came up to him. Then his nerve failed him and the place where she stood appeared unapproachable. He had to master himself and to remind himself that he was her guest after all, and that it was Diwali, and he had nothing to fear. He was filled with envy for Neena and Rishi, who could speak freely with her.

Priti noticed Arjun at this moment, smiled and waved to him. The world brightened up for him because of her smile. But she was distracted suddenly, and Arjun followed the direction of Priti’s gaze, which went to the entrance, where she had spotted Karan arriving. Through her eyes he saw an extraordinarily handsome man, who moved gracefully, with an air of easy assurance and confidence. Arjun noticed that Priti blushed and became excited and happy, and perhaps because of her aroused state, looked beautiful.

Arjun’s eyes were fastened on Priti, and thus it came as a shock when Karan came up to him, and put his arm around him. Karan gently took Arjun with him. Amrita beamed happily when she saw him. All eyes in Amrita’s group turned to Karan. Amrita got up and introduced him to the Minister of State and his Nepali wife, who recognized him from one of his concerts in Delhi.

The conversation in the group had steadily continued on Indo-Chinese relations and had just turned to the madness of the coming war. General Thapar spoke authoritatively about Chinese military capability. He argued that although the Indian soldier was not inferior in bravery he was less prepared to fight in the Himalayan terrain, both because of lack of experience and an ineffective supply line. Karan listened attentively to what was being said, and politely waited for the right pause in the conversation. While he waited his turn to speak, he glanced several times at Priti, who smiled back each time he looked at her.

Amrita led the conversation towards a more general note about the place of power and war in men’s affairs. She did this in order to hear what Karan had to say. After a few minutes Karan spoke. He attributed the behaviour of the Chinese to their desire to be regarded as the supreme power in Asia. He felt Nehru was insensitive to them, and by walking in boots too large for himself, he had brought the two countries to the brink of war.

Clearly this was an original point of view, and Karan held everyone’s attention. When he finished, he was applauded by the Minister and his wife, although the nationalistic sensibility of the General was hurt. Karan looked around and was rewarded by a smile from each person whose eye caught his.

Priti now joined their group. Arjun observed that she was aware of the impression that Karan had made and was delighted by his triumph. Arjun hoped that he would now be able to talk to her. She seemed so perfect in every way, as she stood close to him. To Arjun she was a creature far above anything earthly, and it was inconceivable that she would regard him as worthy of her. But Priti’s eyes were fixed on Karan as if she were under his spell. Arjun tried to catch her attention, but he was unsuccessful. Suddenly Karan smiled back at her, and she took him away towards the alcove.

Arjun watched them with torment in his heart. He noticed that as they were talking, Priti did not once take her eyes off him. She unashamedly stared at his oval face, the centre parting of his hair, his lean neck, and his slim arms. Karan was wearing a comfortable pair of baggy khaki pants, a white cotton shirt, and an equally loose fitting sweater. Nothing remarkable in itself, but the effect produced was of comfortable elegance. Arjun was left in no doubt about Priti’s feelings for him.

It was more difficult to decipher Karan’s feelings. Despite his puzzling ironic look, Arjun felt Karan found her agreeable. Arjun was equally troubled by the way Karan looked at her naked shoulders and arms and exposed midriff below her blouse. He wondered why they did not limit their looks to each other’s faces as normal people did when they talked. As they were staring at each other, Arjun had a terrible feeling that a barrier of modesty, which is always present between Indian men and women in society, was suddenly down between Priti and Karan. Without being able to explain this strange and uncomfortable sensation, Arjun was conscious that Priti and Karan were on dangerously intimate ground. If Karan were to place his hand on her bare arm, or even her neck, it would be the most natural thing to happen between them, thought Arjun. They were speaking about simple matters, but Arjun felt there was a hidden intimate meaning in everything that they said to each other. Suddenly he felt embarrassed. He became conscious that he was spying on a private conversation. He felt guilty and turned away.

As he looked away, his eye caught Amrita’s, who was busily engaged by General Thapar. Arjun’s imploring look seemed to ask: What does all this mean? Oblivious of the torment in his soul, Amrita smiled back warmly from afar with a look which seemed to say, ‘I hope you are happy. I am so glad you’re here. Do enjoy yourself.’

Arjun was disturbed, and the cause of his agitation was across the room from him. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t help looking at them. Just as he turned towards them again, he saw Priti squeeze Karan’s arm above the elbow. Karan looked startled. Priti blushed, and her brilliant eyes looked deep into him. Arjun shivered as Karan gave her a tender smile. She took his hand and led him outside.

Not until a few minutes later did Arjun realize all that had taken place. He was horrorstruck. He groaned inside himself. And he was irrevocably drawn outside to follow them into a strange, mad world and to await the next development with terror.

It was a bright moonlit night, and he had to be careful not to be seen. He walked quickly and stood behind the closest deodar trunk. He saw them nearby on the lawn. They kissed. Karan looked at her, a joyous light flashed into her eyes from the reflection of the moon, and a smile of happiness curved her lips. Karan seemed to make an effort to control himself, to cover his delight with his ubiquitous irony. But a strange look came on his face. His usual resolute, self-possessed manner and the carelessly calm expression had vanished and Arjun saw a look on it he had never seen before. Karan appeared bewildered, humble and submissive.

They kissed again, and Arjun escaped from behind the deodar tree and from the Mehtas’ Diwali party.

Bauji smoked his hookah and thought about the pride of his inheritance. He looked at his grandson, and he saw a worthy successor to his line (even though, alas, it was his daughter’s son). The proud sensuality of which this boy was presently a victim was also his heritage. Momentarily, a frown came upon Bauji’s brow as his mind was distracted by a film song on a loudspeaker somewhere in the neighbourhood; he thought with mild distaste of the vulgar ways of the new class. But it was a temporary lapse, the frown disappeared and his thoughts returned to his grandson, who sat nearby on a low stool skilfully preparing the next chillum to replace the dying embers of the one he was smoking.

Arjun had been with him for two weeks. But he had not said very much. His accursed pride kept him mostly to himself. The only thing he seemed to have succeeded in doing in this time was in learning to prepare the hookah. He would go out to the bazaar on a bicycle and carefully select the raw tobacco, which he helped Bhabo to cure at home with molasses and malt. He knew the right level at which to fill the water in the brass base; the exact angle at which to place the stone on the silver chillum in order to prevent the tobacco from falling through; and the correct amount of tobacco to fill in the chillum. Finally he would carefully place the smouldering dried cow-dung cakes above the tobacco, and his grandfather’s hookah would be ready.

A week after Amrita’s Diwali party, a scandal had exploded in Simla which kept that society talking for years. Not since Nehru’s name was linked with Lady Edwina Mountbatten on the first Indian Governor-General’s visit to Simla in the spring of 1948, did society have as much to talk about. Priti had run away with Karan. No one knew exactly where they were. Some said they had gone away to Delhi, others said to Bombay. A few like Rao Sahib maintained that they were in hiding somewhere in Simla. Most of Amrita’s friends and acquaintances were shocked. Some women, who envied Amrita for her pre-eminent place in society and who were weary of constantly hearing of her virtues, were secretly pleased to see their rival fall. They were waiting for a turn in the public opinion from the sympathy which her plight immediately drew, in order to pounce upon her with the full weight of their scorn. But a large number of older and middle aged members of the establishment were genuinely grieved at the scandal, and wanted to help Amrita and protect the Mehta name.

Tara was horrified. Even before schools broke for the winter vacation, she persuaded Seva Ram to give Arjun two hundred rupees and sent him down to visit Bauji in Hoshiarpur. Although Arjun did not say much, both Tara and Seva Ram were aware of his pain and could think of nothing better to do for the poor boy.

The chillum had been prepared, and grandfather and grandson sat soaking in the winter sun. They could smell the cooking of mustard greens and corn bread in the kitchen, and slowly they began to get hungry. The day Arjun arrived in Hoshiarpur, Bauji suspected something was wrong. He told Bhabo, ‘What’s bothering this boy is a woman!’ and his eyes twinkled behind his spectacles, and his moustache curved imperceptibly. ‘And I know her.’

Arjun had held out for ten days, but finally the dam had burst. He had sobbed uncontrollably. Bauji’s large fingers had stroked the top of his head. But he had not allowed the fire of Arjun’s rage to mute to self pity. It had taken time for the grandfather to gain the grandson’s confidence. But in the end Arjun’s faith was complete, and he was certain that Bauji would understand. And Bauji had understood his passion. In consoling his grandson, he did not make light of Arjun’s feelings. He seemed to know what a mighty pain it was to love. And mightier still it was to love in vain. At first Bauji’s pride was hurt—that a grand-daughter of Sanat Mehta should reject his grandson. But when he saw the defenceless boy’s pain, he regarded it a very serious business.

‘If you have to love a woman, my boy, she might as well be good-looking. At least you will have the memory of a nice face,’ Bauji said. And Arjun had smiled for the first time.

‘In the evenings, I sometimes see boys and girls from the Government College pass by. Ah, those girls, they keep me alive, my boy. One, in particular, is a dark-haired beauty. She came here the other day. She came with a petition. Don’t mention it to Bhabo, but she took my breath away. She was tall and well-made, and her skin had the flavour of freshly made butter. Under a mass of raven hair, curling in gentle waves, her dark eyes gleamed motionless like a statue. . . .’

He suddenly stopped as he caught Arjun’s eye, smiling with affectionate amusement. He blushed. The direction of his thoughts stung him suddenly and made him blush. He felt ashamed of himself for harbouring thoughts not befitting a gentleman in the seventh decade of his life. According to Hindu scriptures, he was in the fourth or the renunciation stage of a man’s life, and he should be well advanced in detaching himself from the world’s delights (and its sorrows) including the fragrance of jasmine in his garden and the smell of mustard greens and corn bread cooking in the kitchen. To leave all this and go off to the Himalayan woods in search of his soul—what could be more ridiculous, he thought.

‘What was in the petition?’ asked Arjun.

‘They want to change the name of the road outside our house. It is called Lawrence Road; they want to call it Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose Marg. I have resisted this change on the Municipal Committee.’

‘But why don’t you let them change it?’

‘They want to change it in the name of nationalism,’ said Bauji.

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘My boy, I hate abstract ideals. Such ideals are always too simple to fit the facts. Ideals and instructions must not be imposed. They must be allowed to grow and come alive. I don’t grudge the British for having stayed on perhaps twenty years longer than they should have. It gave our nationalism an opportunity to penetrate deeper and to flourish. The limited elections in the ’30s gave us a chance to experiment with new institutions and practice democracy.’

‘What does that have to do with changing a name?’

‘We must be reverent both to our new and old institutions. We must nurture them. A clever politician can easily destroy, in the name of the common good, an old institution which has worked well and which has time, familiarity, and habit behind it.’

‘But then there wouldn’t be any change at all,’ protested Arjun.

‘We must change gradually, a little at a time. My boy, in India we have traditions of the family, of the village, of the caste. Each man feels the need to be a part of something larger and more enduring than himself. We have a history and customary ways of acting. And the British Raj is part of our history. Although they came as conquerors, they gave us some of their best. It is now a part of us. We must not discard it easily, for the good might be lost with the bad. The same goes for our Muslim history.’

At the mention of ‘Muslim’ Bauji’s face suddenly twitched. He rarely mentioned that word.

‘If they want to have a road named after Bose, they ought to build a new one and so name it. But why rewrite history by changing the name of an existing road?’

‘It is an alien name “Lawrence”, Bauji,’ said Arjun.

‘Do they know who Lawrence was?’

‘Lord Lawrence, the Governor-General, wasn’t it?’ said Arjun, remembering his history text.

‘No, this one was his brother, Henry Lawrence, who was the first Resident in the Punjab and who was very fond of India and Indians.’

‘So what’s going to happen, Bauji?’

‘They are bringing a procession here this evening to persuade me to change my mind.’

‘Aren’t you afraid?’

‘Of what?’

‘Why, something might happen,’ said Arjun.

‘Bhabo is afraid, and she’s not even sympathetic to my point of view,’ said Bauji.

The procession of students came and it went. It was led by the same dark-haired beauty who had the complexion of ‘freshly made butter’. Bauji openly flirted with her, and it unsettled her considerably. He was charming and conciliatory, but he told her and the others the same things that he had told Arjun that morning. He recited the life of Lawrence and sent them to the college library. She and theothers were amused, but they remained unconvinced. Bauji too knew that he was in the minority and that it was a losing battle, but he enjoyed himself. The students were disciplined by and large and there was no serious incident, except when they were dispersing: one of them threw a stone which broke Bhabo’s bathroom window.

Bauji consoled Bhabo saying that it was a small price to pay for one’s convictions.

A month later came the twenty-sixth of January, a holiday, to celebrate India’s becoming a Republic. In Hoshiarpur, Bauji, as the President of the Municipal Committee, was asked to speak at a flag unfurling organized by the local Lions Club, and Arjun agreed to accompany him.

Arjun watched with pleasure as Bauji sprinkled scent on his handkerchief, a signal that he was almost dressed. He pulled down his starched cuffs, inserted gold cuff links, and deliberately fastened his gold watch with its double chain to his pocket. It was one of the few possessions he had brought from the old Punjab. Feeling clean and fragrant, he took his old, carved walking stick, and with a swinging gait went towards the waiting car.

The trees are different from Lyallpur,’ said Bauji, pointing to the tall simbal trees, which produced silk-cotton for soft pillows. ‘During the monsoon they are covered with brilliant red flowers. And the chutney from their blossoms is delicious!’

As they passed the Hoshiarpur Club, a frown came over Bauji’s forehead. With distaste he looked at the crumbling, betel-juice-stained walls of the sprawling old club which had been lovingly built by the English, and which had now been completely taken over by the new rich class of traders and small industrialists. He could still remember the time (soon after ’47) when the same walls were impeccably white-washed and always covered with masses of bougainvillaea. Now they seemed to spend more money on the club, but on the wrong things invariably.

Bauji told Arjun, ‘I rarely go there because so few speak any language except money. They play bad bridge, with stakes that are too high. They sit at the bar, flashing hundred-rupee notes, speaking loudly, and drinking too much whisky. The rule that you never paid cash (because your credit was good) is observed in the exception, because the new rich want to spend their black money as rapidly as possible. The last thing they want is a receipt lest the income-tax officer gets wise to their real income. You were never allowed to tip in the old days, but now you can’t hope to get a bearer’s attention unless you tip in advance. You are surrounded by ‘Hello-ji! How-are-you-ji?’ They can’t speak one language properly and insist on mixing two. It’s much too depressing, my boy.’

‘I know, the telephone operator is Exchange-ji,’ said Arjun.

‘The other night on the bridge table an aggressive lady suddenly switched to English and shouted ‘I am demanding you. I am demanding you.’ When her partner gently corrected her (inserting the “from” in the sentence) she screamed an obscenity that would have made a Sikh truck driver stand up.’

Bauji’s speech at the Lions Club was a great success. It was brief and witty. He could not resist a few jokes at the expense of the new-rich class, which was amply represented in the audience. But like all targets of such jokes, not one of them took exception, thinking that it was his neighbour who was the intended butt.

There was a problem, however, when it came to unfurling the flag. Twice Bauji tried. He raised the flag, but it would not open. The Lions in the audience roared, insisting that the flag be opened, the flowers taken out, and the flag raised without the flowers. It was the practical and efficient thing to do, proclaimed the efficient businessmen. But Bauji politely insisted that it wasn’t the way to do things. He patiently untied the knot, and tied a new knot. Then he raised the flag, pulled the string, and the flag unfurled, showering hundreds of marigold petals to the ground.

Next on the agenda was a speech by a local politician which predictably was long and windy, and the Lions started to get fidgety and embarrassed; the Chief Lion on the dais first hinted, then gestured, and finally tried to pinch the politician to make him sit down. At this point Bauji intervened and gently pointed out to the gathering that it was after all Republic Day; it was a celebration of democracy; and a central idea of democracy was the right of free speech; therefore, the politician should be allowed to speak for as long as he wished.

Eventually the function ended. The restless crowd started to disperse quickly. As they were leaving, Bauji noticed a little girl crying. Someone had accidentally bumped into her, and her string of beads was broken. The beads had scattered in the crowd. Bauji, with Arjun’s help, bent down and began to pick them up. The Lions, seeing what their Chief Guest was doing, also started to help. And as soon as the beads were gathered, the Lions handed them to the young girl and smugly went on their way. But Bauji and Arjun stayed behind till they had beaded the string. Eventually they put the necklace on the little girl, who wiped her tears, and gave them a smile.

As the days went by, Arjun felt that little by little the confusion in his mind was clearing up, and the shame and the discontent were passing away. In the company of Bauji and Bhabo, he began to feel himself again. He discovered that it was not necessary to be anyone else. He decided that he would never allow himself to come under the complete influence of another person. All he wanted now was to be himself. If that meant that he would have to give up hopes of an extraordinary happiness, so it had to be.