After classes, Lata and Malati, both dressed casually in their usual salwaar-kameez, went to Nabiganj to wander around and have a cup of coffee at the Blue Danube coffee house. This activity, known to university students as 'ganjing', they could afford to indulge in about once a week. As they passed the Imperial Book Depot, they were drawn magnetically in. Each wandered off to her favourite shelves and subjects. Malati headed straight for the novels, Lata went for poetry. On the way, however, she paused by the
61f
science shelves, not because she understood much science, but, rather, because she did not. Whenever she opened a scientific book and saw whole paragraphs of incomprehensible words and symbols, she felt a sense of wonder at the great territories of learning that lay beyond her - the sum of so many noble and purposive attempts to make objective sense of the world. She enjoyed the feeling; it suited her serious moods; and this afternoon she was feeling serious. She picked up a random book and read a random paragraph :
It follows from De Moivre's formula that z” = m (cos n + i sin n). Thus, if we allow complex number z to describe a circle of radius r about the origin, z“ will describe n complete times a circle of radius m as z describes its circle once. We also recall that r, the modulus of z, written |z|, gives the distance of z from O, and that if z' = x' + iy', then |z - z' is the distance between z and z'. With these preliminaries we may proceed to the proof of the theorem.
What exactly it was that pleased her in these sentences she did not know, but they conveyed weight, comfort, inevitability. Her mind strayed to Varun and his mathematical studies. She hoped that her brief words to him the day after the wedding had done him some good. She should have written to him more often to bolster his courage, but with exams coming up she had very little time for anything. It was at the insistence of Malati - who was even busiet than she was - that she had gone ganjing at all.
She read the paragraph again, looking serious. 'We also recall' and 'with these preliminaries' drew her into a cornpact with the author of these verities and mysteries. The words were assured, and therefore reassuring: things were what they were even in this uncertain world, and she could proceed from there.
She smiled to herself now, not aware of her surroundings. Still holding the book, she looked up. And this was how a young man, who had been standing not far from
62her, was included, unintentionally, in her smile. He was pleasantly startled, and smiled back at her. Lata frowned at him and looked down at the page again. But she could not concentrate on it, and after a few moments, replaced it on the shelf before making her way to Poetry.
Lata, whatever she thought of love itself, liked love poetry. 'Maud' was one of her favourite poems. She began to flip through a volume of Tennyson.
The tall young man, who had (Lata noticed) slightly wavy black hair and very good, rather aquiline, looks, seemed to be as interested in poetry as in mathematics, because a few minutes later Lata was aware that he had shifted his attention to the poetry shelves, and was glancing through the anthologies. Lata felt that his eyes were on her from time to time. This annoyed her and she did not look up. When, despite herself, she did, she noticed him innocently immersed in his reading. She could not resist glancing at the cover of his book. It was a Penguin : Contemporary Verse. He now looked up, and the tables were turned. Before she could glance down again, he said : 'It's unusual for someone to be interested in both poetry and mathematics.'
'Is that so ?' said Lata severely.
'Courant and Robbins - it's an excellent work.'
'Oh ?' said Lata. Then, realizing that the young man was referring to the mathematics book she had picked randomly off the shelf, she said, 'Is it?' by way of closure.
But the young man was eager to continue the conversation.
'My father says so,' he went on. 'Not as a text but as a broad introduction to various, well, facets of the subject. He teaches maths at the university.'
Lata looked around to see if Malati was listening. But Malati was intent on her browsing in the front of the shop. Nor was anyone else eavesdropping; the shop was not busy at this time of year - or this time of day.
'Actually, I'm not interested in mathematics,' said Lata with an air of finality. The young man looked a littledowncast before he rallied and confided, genially: 'You know, nor am I. I'm a history student myself.'
Lata was amazed at his determination and, looking straight at him, said, 'I must go now. My friend is waiting for me.' Even as she was saying this, however, she could not help noticing how sensitive, even vulnerable, this wavy-haired young man looked. This appeared to contradict his determined, bold behaviour in speaking to an unknown, unintroduced, girl in a bookshop.
'I'm sorry, I suppose I've been disturbing you ?' he apologized, as if reading her thoughts.
'No,' said Lata. She was about to go to the front of the shop when he added quickly, with a nervous smile, 'In that case, may I ask you your name ?'
'Lata,' said Lata shortly, though she didn't see the logic of 'in that case'.
'Aren't you going to ask me mine?' asked the young man, his smile broadening amiably.
'No,' said Lata, quite kindly, and rejoined Malati, who had a couple of paperback novels in her hand.
'Who's he ?' whispered Malati conspiratorially.
'Just someone,' said Lata, glancing back a bit anxiously. 'I don't know. He just came up to me and began a conversation. Hurry up. Let's go. I'm feeling hungry. And thirsty. It's hot in here.'
The man at the counter was looking at Lata and Malati with the energetic friendliness he showered on regular customers. The little finger of his left hand was searching for wax in the crevices of his ear. He shook his head with reproving benevolence and said in Hindi to Malati:
'Exams are coming up, Malatiji, and you are still buying novels ? Twelve annas plus one rupee four annas makes two rupees altogether. I should not allow this. You are like daughters to me.'
'Balwantji, you would go out of business if we did not read your novels. We are sacrificing our examination results at the altar of your prosperity,' said Malati.
'I'm not,' said Lata. The young man must have disap-
64peared behind a bookshelf, because she couldn't see him anywhere.
'Good girl, good girl,' said Balwant, possibly referring to both of them.
'Actually, we were going to get some coffee and came into your shop unplanned,' said Malati, 'so I didn't bring - ' She left the sentence unfinished and flung a winning smile at Balwant.
'No, no, that is not necessary - you can give it later,' said Balwant. He and his brother extended terms of easy credit to many students. When asked whether this wasn't bad for business, they would reply that they had never lost money trusting anyone who bought books. And, certainly, they were doing very well for themselves. They reminded Lata of the priests of a well-endowed temple. The reverence with which the brothers treated their books supported the analogy.
'Since you suddenly feel famished, we are going straight to the Blue Danube,' said Malati decisively once they were outside the shop. 'And there you will tell me exactly what happened between that Cad and you.'
'Nothing,' said Lata.
'Hah!' said Malati in affectionate scorn. 'So what did you two talk about ?'
'Nothing,' said Lata. 'Seriously, Malati, he just came up and started talking nonsense, and I said nothing in reply. Or monosyllables. Don't add chillies to boiled potatoes.'
They continued to stroll down Nabiganj.
'Quite tall,' said Malati, a couple of minutes later.
Lata said nothing.
'Not exactly dark,' said Malati.
Lata did not think this was worth responding to either. 'Dark', as she understood it, referred in novels to hair, not skin.
'But very handsome,' persisted Malati.
Lata made a wry face at her friend, but she was, to her own surprise, quite enjoying her description.
'What's his name ?' continued Malati.
65'I don't know,' said Lata, looking at herself in the glass front of a shoe shop.
Malati was astonished at Lata's ineptness. 'You talked to him for fifteen minutes and you don't know his name ?'
'We did not talk for fifteen minutes,' said Lata. 'And I hardly talked at all. If you're so keen on him, why don't you go back to the Imperial Book Depot and ask him his name ? Like you, he has no compunctions about talking to anyone.' ]
'So you don't like him ?' 1
Lata was silent. Then she said, 'No, I don't. I've noJ reason to like him.' 1
'It's not all that easy for men to talk to us, you know,1! said Malati. 'We shouldn't be so hard on them.' '
'Malati defending the weaker sex!' said Lata. 'I never thought I'd see the day.'
'Don't change the subject,' said Malati. 'He didn't seem the brazen type. I know. Trust my five-hundredfold experience.'
Lata flushed. 'It seemed pretty easy for him to talk to me,' she said. 'As if I was the sort of girl who …'
'Who what?'
'Who can be talked to,' ended Lata uncertainly. Visions of her mother's disapproval floated across her mind. She made an cfîuru ro push these away.
'Well,' said Malati, a little more quietly than usual as they entered the Blue Danube, 'he really does have nice looks.'
They sat down.
'Nice hair,' continued Malati, surveying the menu.
'Let's order,' said Lata. Malati appeared to be in love with the word 'nice'.
They ordered coffee and pastries.
'Nice eyes,' said Malati, five minutes later, laughing now at Lata's studied unresponsiveness.
Lata remembered the young man's temporary nervousness when she had looked straight at him.
'Yes,' she agreed. 'But so what? I have nice eyes too, and one pair is enough.'
661.16
WHILE his mother-in-law was playing patience and his sister-in-law was fending off Malati's leading questions, Dr Pran Kapoor, that first-class husband and son-in-law, was battling with the departmental problems he was reticent about burdening his family with.
Pran, though a calm man by and large, and a kind man, regarded the head of the English Department, Professor Mishra, with a loathing that made him almost ill. Professor O.P. Mishra was a huge, pale, oily hulk, political and manipulative to the very depths of his being. The four members of the syllabus committee of the English Department were seated this afternoon around an oval table in the staff room. It was an unusually warm day. The single window was open (to the view of a dusty laburnum tree), but there was no breeze; everyone looked uncomfortable, but Professor Mishra was sweating in profuse drops that gathered on his forehead, wet his thin eyebrows, and trickled down the sides of his large nose. His lips were sweetly pursed and he was saying in his genial, high-pitched voice, 'Dr Kapoor, your point is well taken, but I think that we will need a little convincing.'
The point was the inclusion of James Joyce on the syllabus for the paper on Modern British Literature. Pran Kapoor had been pressing this on the syllabus committee for two terms - ever since he had been appointed a member - and at last the committee had decided to agree whether to consider it.
Why, Pran wondered, did he dislike Professor Mishra so intensely ? Although Pran had been appointed to his lectureship five years ago under the headship of his predecessor, Professor Mishra, as a senior member of the department, must have had a say in hiring him. When he first came to the department, Professor Mishra had gone out of his way to be gracious to him, even inviting him to tea at his house. Mrs Mishra was a small, busy, worried woman, and Pran had liked her. But despite Professor Mishra's open-armed avuncularity, his Falstaffian bulk and charm,
67Pran detected something dangerous: his wife and two young sons were, so it seemed to him, afraid of their father.
Pran had never been able to understand why people loved power, but he accepted it as a fact of life. His own father, for instance, was greatly attracted by it : his enjoyment in its exercise went beyond the pleasure of being able to realize his ideological principles. Mahesh Kapoor enjoyed being Revenue Minister, and he would probably be happy to become either Chief Minister of Purva Pradesh or a Minister in Prime Minister Nehru's Cabinet in Delhi. The headaches, the overwork, the responsibility, the lack of control over one's own time, the complete absence of opportunity to contemplate the world from a calm vantage point: these mattered little to him. Perhaps it was true to say that Mahesh Kapoor had contemplated the world sufficiently long from the calm vantage point of his cell in a prison in British India, and now required what he had in fact acquired: an intensely active role in running things. It was almost as if father and son had exchanged between themselves the second and third stages of the accepted Hindu scheme of life: the father was entangled in the world, the son longed to separate himself into a life of philosophical detachment.