Читать книгу East Into Upper East - Ruth Prawer Jhabvala - Страница 10
ОглавлениеKuku Malhotra was a modern Indian girl who lived with her boy friend in a roof-top studio in New Delhi. Kuku was a documentary film-maker and had lately obtained a grant from the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting to make a documentary about her grandmother Sumitra. It may already have been too late. Nowadays the old lady sat mostly on her lawn or her verandah, bundled in shawls in the winter, fanned by a woman servant in the summer. Her name was still known, though she herself forgotten. Most people thought she was dead, along with all the others of her generation, who had been pioneers in the early years of Independence, the first truly modern Indians. When Kuku tried to interview her about those days, she remained silent, sunk into apathy. Only her lips chewed and mumbled; she rarely wore her teeth nowadays, except when it was time to eat. She still relished her food and got very excited over it, making frantic signs to her servant to hand her more hot bread and refill her little bowls with rice and fish. It seemed to Kuku that it was only in those moments that there was any trace left of the former Sumitra—of her boundless energy and her uninhibited enjoyment of life (and, Kuku thought, of lovers) that had broken down so many barriers for Kuku’s own generation.
Born between two European world wars, Kuku’s grandmother had come of age at the right time—just as Indians were reclaiming their country from British rule. She had grown up in Bombay where her father was a very rich businessman. She had lived in a big house on a hill overlooking the Arabian Sea and surrounded by a garden thick with palm trees. Her father’s money was at her disposal and she used it freely on herself and her friends. They had parties for every occasion, birthdays and the New Year and even Christmas, besides all the Hindu holidays. There were plenty of servants, and her father employed two cooks, one for Indian and the other for European cuisine. The parents and the servants enjoyed the parties almost as much as the young guests, who had names like Bunny, Bunti and Dickoo, carried over from their pampered childhood. The parties too were carried over from their childhood, together with the balloons and the jokes and the nicknames they shared. They were attractive, high-spirited young people, and it would have been impossible to predict how serious and important and even pompous they would become within a few years. Those who stayed in Bombay entered their fathers’ businesses and expanded them beyond all previous limits; those who went to New Delhi took over the highest posts of government and became rulers, kings of their country, crowned with offices.
It may have been the pull of New Delhi with all its might and power that influenced Sumitra to marry a boy from an old Delhi family. She could have married anyone she wanted. Many offers came for her, from all the leading families of their caste. Her father laid them before her for her consideration, always emphasizing that she was entirely free to choose or reject. She rejected them all, for of course she was going to make a modern love marriage; but she refused other young men too, those with whom she had grown up and partied in their fathers’ mansions. Many of them were in love with her, and she in love with some of them. She met Hari Prasad—known as Harry—on a visit she made to a cousin in Delhi. Here too the young people were throwing parties, and though these were not as lavish as the ones in Bombay, they held another kind of attraction. A transfer of power was taking place, and while the young people were dancing to gramophone records in the drawing room, their fathers and uncles were closeted in the study distributing cabinet posts among themselves. This was intoxicating.
Even without all that, Harry was attractive enough in himself, and different from the boys she had grown up with. He liked painting and literature; he had been to Oxford where he had developed his taste for oriental poetry and French wine. Somewhat languid and passive, he let Sumitra woo him; that suited her too, for it was in her nature to initiate and take the leading part. It made him laugh and pleased him—at that time—the way Sumitra took charge of things. It pleased his father too and was useful to him, for she became his hostess—a part few women at that time were qualified to play, for most of them were like Sumitra’s mother, and Harry’s, who spoke little English and spent their time in their prayer rooms or closeted with their spiritual advisers to ward off evil influences. But Harry’s father was entering a new, a wider world than any known to them before. He was a brilliant lawyer who had defended Indian leaders and kept or sprung them out of jail. He lived with his family in his own large New Delhi residence built many years before Independence with his own wealth and in the style of the surrounding residences of high-ranking British administrators.
Before moving in with her boy friend, Kuku Malhotra had lived in this house, with her grandmother Sumitra and her mother Monica, who was Sumitra and Harry’s only child. By that time the other grand British-style villas around them had been requisitioned for ministerial residences or torn down for modern blocks of flats. Monica too would have liked to sell the house and land at huge profit, but this was impossible while her mother was still alive. Monica took over a plot of land at the rear—part of what had been extensive servants’ quarters—and here, under her supervision, a group of flats was built as rental units. Her mother Sumitra did not like this activity on her estate, and she squinted malevolently at the workmen trampling over her lawn. Monica, busy fighting with the contractor, ignored Sumitra’s resentment: now, at fifty, she felt free for the first time to do what she and not what her mother wanted.
Monica had always been eclipsed by her mother, in looks and personality. Yet Sumitra herself had not been beautiful, not even in her youth—she was short and had always tended to be plump and her facial features too were rounded. But her gestures were as graceful as an Indian dancer’s, and like a dancer, she jingled with golden bangles and with the anklets that it had become fashionable to wear along with other traditional Indian jewelry (Sumitra also tried a diamond nose stud but it didn’t suit her). The blouses she wore under her saris were copied from Indian miniatures—it was all part of the cultural renaissance—and they were very short, just sufficient to support her breasts, leaving bare a large expanse of her midriff, as smooth as beige satin.
As her father-in-law’s hostess, Sumitra had introduced an original style of entertaining, which was partly modern and partly derived from the traditional refinements of an Indian royal court. Later, after he died, she was greatly in demand at the official parties to which foreign dignitaries were invited. At that time, many of the cabinet ministers and even the President in his palace were peasant politicians with village wives and no idea how to function in society. Sumitra became New Delhi’s semi-official hostess. The food she ordered to be prepared was mostly Indian but with the spices so cunningly blended that only their exquisite fragrance and none of their sharpness remained. Often a classical musician or dancer was brought in to entertain, their art also toned down to appeal to blander tastes; and though the guests were encouraged to immerse themselves in this cultured Indian ambience, they did not have to sit on the floor reclining against bolsters but were provided with chairs and sofas to support their stiff European spines.
At first her husband Harry accompanied her to all these grand receptions. Tall and slim, handsome and educated, he was an asset to her, though all he did was talk to the second secretary of some embassy or a cultural attaché’s wife. This became very boring for him, and after a while he began to refuse to go with her; he said he couldn’t stand another set of speeches extolling the amity and friendship between two great nations. At first she coaxed him—laughingly agreed with him that yes, wasn’t it horrible, but if she could suffer why couldn’t he, and anyway please for her sake—till he said, oh all right, and put on his high-collared coat with the jeweled buttons. But more and more he preferred to stay at home and cultivate his own interests. He tried his hand at translating couplets of Urdu poetry—purely as an amateur of course, he wasn’t a poet, he wasn’t a scholar; and when collections of these verses were published by real poets and scholars, he was content to admire and retreat, claiming nothing more for himself than the pursuit of a hobby. And as with all hobbies, this one could be taken up and put down at will, which suited him for he liked to spend his time in his own way. He lay under the ceiling fan, thinking about translating Urdu poetry and reading English detective stories. With the cessation of imports, he could no longer cultivate his taste for fine wines so he took to stronger drink—whisky and vodka.
His daughter Monica became his most constant companion. By this time she was old enough to be aware of the increasing tension between her parents. There was a quarrel now every time Sumitra wanted Harry to accompany her to one of her important functions. She no longer coaxed, she begged, and then she commanded, and then she remonstrated: didn’t he realize that this was her work, her contribution to her country? That made him laugh: oh yes, wonderful contribution, to flirt around in her sari and jewels, like a professional—if he didn’t come out with the word, she challenged him: professional what? What? And she stood demanding an answer, and he said, Courtesan. It amused him the way she went wild. They no longer shared a bedroom but they had a connecting dressing room, and with her gorgeous brocade sari half tucked in and half trailing on the floor behind her, she stamped up and down between their two bedrooms, reproaching him with the difference between her sense of duty and his utter lack of responsibility. He hummed to himself, and the more she worked herself up the calmer he became. Once he playfully trod on the sari trailing behind her so that she tugged it furiously from under his foot and it tore, and she sat down on the bed and burst into tears and he did not comfort her.
She accepted her fate and went everywhere by herself and he accepted his and stayed home and drank and read and played snakes and ladders with Monica. Later he taught Monica whist and contract bridge; by this time she was at college—she read history and international affairs—but she spent all her evenings with her father and they ate their dinner together, usually the two of them alone while Sumitra was needed elsewhere. And she was really needed—even Harry admitted it, that she was there to lay down the social and cultural guidelines of her newly independent country. An official car and chauffeur were at her disposal and stood parked in their driveway. Sometimes she had to go at dawn to the airport to receive and be photographed with some foreign cabinet minister and his wife; later in the day she took the wife shopping for Indian handicrafts. She had become an arbiter of taste, an expert on all aspects of Indian culture. Almost singlehandedly she revived cottage industries to export the best in Indian textiles and craftsmanship. She was the chairwoman of a committee to rename New Delhi streets, which had once commemorated English statesmen and soldiers such as Lord Kitchener, in honor of Indian freedom fighters; also of another committee appointed to take down statues of Queen Victoria and arrange design competitions for sculptures of Mahatma Gandhi.
She and Harry had settled down to a sort of brother and sister relationship. He mocked her work—of which however he was also quite proud—and the busier she was the more languid he became. He drank steadily—only vodka now—and this wrapped him in a pleasant haze, which made him very tolerant. She saw to it that he always had clean linen; he had taken to wearing only Indian clothes, fine white shirts with embroidery at the shoulders and neckline. Before leaving for her many duties, she arranged her household and ordered the day’s meals for her husband and daughter. These two remained very close, and Sumitra was aware that this was partly the result of an alliance against herself. When Harry mocked Sumitra—he imitated the way she posed for the photographers while garlanding a VIP—Monica laughed loudly in her mother’s face; and she too mocked her, not in the good-natured way that Harry did but bitterly. She blamed her mother for many things. Later, whenever Kuku spoke admiringly of her grandmother’s achievements, Monica would pull a face: “She did it for herself,” she told Kuku. “To show off and be admired by people; by men,” she said.
In her mid-thirties, when she met Lieutenant-General Har Dayal, Sumitra was even more attractive than in her youth. She had become elegant and worldly, befitting the part she played on the national stage. She rustled around in her brocades with masculine purpose and feminine grace; there was a somewhat set expression about her mouth now, which may have been the determination of a busy woman, an almost public personage, but also an indication of some disappointment. There was no one really she could open herself to fully: husband and daughter had ganged up against her, at best indifferent if not contemptuous of the great role she played. As for those among whom she played it—the politicians and higher bureaucrats—they were not of her background, not of her education, not of her class. There was no one, she felt, who understood her: except her husband, and he wilfully misinterpreted her. So she was ready for Lieutenant-General Har Dayal when he entered: for not only was he, like her husband, a man of education and refinement, he was also, unlike her husband, an important person—in fact, a sort of national hero. He was a career officer, among the last batch of Indians to be trained at Sandhurst where he had acquired the manners of a British gentleman. At the same time he was an Indian aristocrat, a minor raja in a minor state, not more than a large landowner but with an ancestral habit of command. He was of the traditional warrior caste and looked like a warrior: tall, broad, upright, manly and shining in his uniform. And he had just won a border war against a neighboring enemy country and had been decorated with the highest award for gallantry. Now he had been brought to army headquarters in New Delhi with a view to succeeding the present commander-in-chief.
Meanwhile he was an honored guest—an indispensable ornament like Sumitra herself—at all receptions and banquets for foreign dignitaries. He knew how to behave: to make conversation in English, to use the right cutlery, to let ladies precede him through a door. The Indian politicians still tended to rush in first and even to jostle and push their way to the front at the buffet table, so that Sumitra had to be on constant guard: it was mortifying to see a plate being snatched from the French ambassador’s wife by the Minister for Trade and Commerce. Sumitra and Lieutenant-General Har Dayal became allies, each signaling to the other to prevent or make up for some breach of manners; sometimes both rolled their eyes in mock despair.
Lieutenant-General Har Dayal—or Too, as he came to be known to Sumitra and her family—had been married for many years and had teenage children at boarding schools. After the first few months in New Delhi, his wife, unable to stand the sort of official life they led, had gone back to their estate. Theirs had been an arranged marriage and, like him, she was of a minor royal house of the warrior caste; she rode horses and hunted tigers and was more at home in deserts and jungles than in political drawing rooms. So Too was mostly alone, and lonely; and Sumitra was also lonely. It was easy for them to come to an understanding, not so easy to become lovers. At the conclusion of the social events at which they met, they were driven home in their respective official cars; and although no family members lived with him, he was surrounded by his family retainers. However late it was, his batman waited up for him, to take off his boots and help him change for bed; and in case Too wanted anything at night, he slept outside his door on a little string cot, the way he had done throughout their army years together.
By the time Sumitra came home, her husband Harry was asleep. His drinking made him breathe heavily, even snore, which disgusted her so much that she tried to wake him; but he only grunted and turned over onto his other side, his long nerveless arm flung out on the sheet. She shut the two doors of their connecting dressing room, and lay in bed thinking of Too. In the course of their evening together, they had managed not only to exchange glances but also surreptitiously to brush up against each other, the lightest of contact—of arms or hands—setting up a conflagration of nerves. It was fearful, painful, but also so exquisite that they kept finding opportunities to do it again. It was strange how they managed to contrive their understanding; neither of them had experience of secret affairs, they were innocent except in marriage. But it may have been that both had an ingrained habit of secrecy—of snatching moments of privacy out of communal living among family members, and the ever present family retainers, wakeful in service.
Night after night she lay in bed, longing for and plotting the next step beyond the secret touch of arm against arm. She liked to think that Too was lying in his house, in his bed, plotting in the same way. It was only later that she discovered how deep was his sleep, deeper than Harry’s and in his case not induced by drink but by an untroubled mind and a robust constitution. But at that time, at the beginning, she lay awake straining her ears for the sound of his arrival, certain that he was as tormented as she was and had contrived a way to come to her. But all she heard was dogs barking to each other across the dusty night, and sometimes the howl of jackals that still infested the unbuilt areas around the capital; and worst, though faint through two closed doors, her husband’s troubled alcoholic snores.
One night she could bear it no longer—she got up and let herself out and started up the little sports car she kept for her private use. She woke the watchman and put on such a stern preoccupied face that he unlocked the gate fast and without question. She drove through the wide and silent tree-lined streets. Too lived in an area of mansions requisitioned by the government of India for their own high-ranking officers; in the evening there were always many cars parked outside under the trees, for in almost every house there was some official function to which important guests came. But now all the parties were over and the houses shut up behind their high wrought-iron gates.
She reduced speed when she approached his house. She had vaguely planned to rouse his watchman in the same domineering manner as her own: but his watchman was not the usual sleepy old retainer with a blanket thrown over his shivering shoulders but a brisk little Gurkha soldier with a rifle that sprang alive in his hands as he shouted, “Who’s there!” At once the dogs started up—Too’s Alsatians, brought from his estate—and, frightened as any miscreant, Sumitra stepped on the accelerator and drove off. Tears of fury and frustration splashed on her wheel, and when she got home, she was so careless in her anger that she sounded the horn repeatedly to have the gates opened. As she parked the car, she saw that a light had come on in the house; she bit her lip, angry now with herself but also determined to face down anyone who dared to challenge her.
Monica stood at the top of the stairs, watching her mother walk up them. Sumitra was calm; she said, “What, aren’t you asleep yet, Moni?”
“Where have you been?” Monica said in the imperious way in which she often addressed her mother. It was to assert herself against Sumitra’s dominant personality, and also to counter the look of disappointment that was always in her mother’s eyes when they looked at her. It was there now—Sumitra couldn’t help it. Monica was lanky like her father, and her hair, her eyes, her complexion were dull: as if Sumitra had taken all the sparkle and warmth there was to be had and left none for her daughter.
“Goodness, I’m tired,” yawned Sumitra. “I thought no one was ever going home—why, Moni, you know there was that banquet for the King of Nepal. I told you—”
“You went to a banquet for the King of Nepal—in this?” Monica scornfully indicated the lilac robe Sumitra had thrown over her nightdress on her way to Too.
Sumitra had become skilled enough in the ways of diplomacy to know how to handle a mistake that could not be redeemed. One simply swept over it—the way Sumitra now swept past Monica and into her bedroom where she stood at the mirror applying the night cream she had already applied some hours ago before retiring to her restless bed. Monica had come up behind her; she had no diplomacy at all: “I’ll tell Papa,” she said.
Sumitra went on smoothing cream into her smooth skin. They could see each other in the mirror. After a while she replied, “What will you tell him? That Mummy couldn’t sleep and went for a drive? Yes, that’s a stupid thing to do but it’s not a crime, I hope.” She could see the grim expression on Monica’s face falter into doubt. She went on, “I get so exhausted with these interminable dinners that afterwards I can’t sleep; I toss and turn half the night and don’t know what to do with myself.” She unfastened her robe and, in a gesture of weariness, let it drop to the carpet. “Sometimes I go down to make myself a cup of tea, and if that doesn’t work, I take the car for a spin.” In the mirror she probed her daughter’s indecisive face, then turned around to her: “I try to be very quiet and not wake you or Papa—but tonight I’m sorry I was so upset—”
“Why were you upset?”
“I told you! The strain! You don’t know, nobody knows what hard work it all is. They’re so stupid. No one has the faintest idea how to do anything—tonight, you won’t believe this, they were serving the fish with the soup—oh, I don’t want to think about it! Every time I ask myself, why am I doing this, why can’t I just stay home and eat my dinner in peace with you and Papa.” She laid her head on Monica’s shoulder. Monica put her arm around her—but cautiously, as if not quite trusting her mother and ready to retrieve her affectionate gesture. Before this could happen, Sumitra kissed her: “You must go to sleep now. It doesn’t matter about me, but you shouldn’t be missing out on your beauty sleep.” And when Monica hesitated—“I think I’m getting there too—at last. That drive must have done me good.” And she yawned to prove it and was altogether so tired, so needful of sleep that Monica had to leave her and go back to her own room. It was some time before either of them was really asleep, for Monica too was restless now, not knowing what to believe, or even to feel about her mother.
Sumitra never told Too about her nocturnal expedition, nor did she repeat it. She still waited for him to plot the right maneuver, but finally her desire was fulfilled without any plotting at all. A Chinese military delegation was on a visit to New Delhi, and Too was among those appointed to entertain them. He had the large establishment and many servants for handsome entertainment; but he had no hostess, and it was natural for him to turn to Sumitra for help. She came to his house on the day before to check up on the glasses, the china, the silver; everything was there in plenty, but arranging it for the following day took many hours, so that Sumitra had to stay in the house till late at night. Too, always a considerate master, sent the servants away to rest in their quarters; he told his batman that he would not be needing him, even slipping him some money with a wink that meant he could have his evening of enjoyment with the dancing girls of GB Road the way he liked to do once in a while. Too himself was very tired—he undid his regimental tie and opened his shirt and fell down on his bed, saying “Phoo” in exhaustion. Sumitra stood above him: “Come on, what do you think you’re doing, I still haven’t been through the dessert plates or the coffee cups!”
“Golly, I can’t keep up with you,” he said, letting himself sink into his satin bedcover. She tried to tug him up, but he only sank in deeper and half shut his eyes as if about to fall asleep. But his pupils glinted at her, and when she tugged at him again, he let his limbs go limp like those of a dead man. Laughing and scolding, she tried to pull him up—till suddenly his limp arms tautened and he grabbed her and brought her down, and at last they were where they wanted to be with each other.
The next day was brilliant—it was a garden party and all Too’s roses were in bloom and pigeons and parrots flew about between the deep green trees and the deep blue sky. There were also some kites, but these were kept away by servants vigorously flapping starched dinner napkins at them. All Sumitra’s arrangements worked splendidly, so that the guests of honor relaxed enough to let down their stoic silent guard (but a few months later they attacked several border posts and penetrated into Indian territory). Monica was studying Chinese history and current affairs—it was her optional subject in her college course—so she had come along, escorted by her father. Of course they were entirely on the periphery of the party while Sumitra held the centre. She summoned the servants to bring platters of oven-baked chickens and fish kebabs and then instructed the Chinese guests to eat them Indian style with their fingers. She did this so charmingly that they all tried it and laughed at each other in Chinese while she laughed at them in English and the interpreter interpreted and all were comrades together.
Too was pleased with the success of his party but couldn’t quite keep pace—no one could, when Sumitra was making a party go—so he wandered away from the buffet tables and found himself next to Harry, who stood admiring the roses with a glass in his hand. “I’m Harry,” Harry introduced himself, and Too said, “I’m Harry too.” They both laughed and it was from this time, that is from the first moment of their acquaintance, that Harry Too became Too.
“I belong to her,” Harry said, pointing to Sumitra in the distance. For a moment they both glanced at her—mature and fully ripened like Too’s roses—then Harry turned back to these latter in their beds, and pointing to a particularly large and luscious specimen, “What’s that one?” he asked. Too wasn’t sure, he had to get down to read the label. But Harry was no longer interested. “Rose,” he said, “it’s called rose; eternal rose,” and he quoted: “‘The nightingale has heard good news: the rose has come.’”
“Ah,” said Too, getting up and dusting the earth from his knees; he didn’t know much poetry but he loved hearing it.
This was the beginning of the friendship between the two Harrys (Hari Prasad and Har Dayal). Too often dropped in at the house between his various duties and engagements to spend time with Harry. He really enjoyed his company. Mostly Sumitra wasn’t home, there were so many places where she was needed, but her husband had nothing whatsoever to do and was always available for a drink and a chat. Too matched him drink for drink, but whereas Harry was soon wrapped in the haze that alone enabled him to carry on his existence, Too gave no sign of diminution of energy—on the contrary, he became more alert, more vigorous, and more loudly appreciative of the poetry Harry recited to him. Monica often joined them; she also enjoyed Too’s company and he loved having her with them, treating her as if she were a child, his child, and indeed he called her “Beti,” daughter. At the same time he regarded her as his intellectual superior—not out of flattery, but admiring her because she went to college and could answer his questions, such as whether nineteenth-century Turkestan was part of Russia or China. And if she didn’t know the answer, she looked it up next day in one of her textbooks, so in the evening she was ready for him and all three had a discussion about the Afghan wars or the three battles of Panipat. Too told them about his own military adventures, which were often of a secret nature such as smuggling sentry posts into enemy territory, or taking a detachment of troops to help quell a palace revolution in a neighboring kingdom.
These evenings were so enjoyable that Too sometimes forgot about an official function where he was expected; and once, when he did remember, it was already too late and he said, To hell with it, and stayed to dine with Harry and Monica. So it happened that when Sumitra returned from her official function, she found Too still in her house, with her husband and daughter. “Oh my goodness,” she said, “aren’t you supposed to be at the Admiral’s dinner?”
In one way, she was put out by his dereliction of duty, for in order to succeed to the post she wanted for him, he had to keep up his connections. But it also suited her to have him at home when she arrived. There was, as always, something she had to discuss with him—the war widows’ fund, of which she wanted him to be the patron-in-chief. Harry was tired, he yawned, excused himself and went to bed. She sent Monica upstairs too—“Don’t you have an early class tomorrow, Moni?” But as soon as they were alone, Too got up and said he had to leave.
“Why?” she said—reproachfully, for it seemed so unfair to her when she and Harry hadn’t slept together in years and were in separate bedrooms, with the doors of their connecting dressing room shut and, if she wanted, locked.
But Too would not stay—he wouldn’t even kiss her goodnight. “Not here,” he said when she clung to him.
“Who’s there to see?” she whispered, but he disengaged himself and went out to where his car and driver were waiting.
When she went upstairs, pulling hairpins out of her hair so that it tumbled angrily around her shoulders, she found Monica standing at the top of the stairs. “Go to bed,” Sumitra told her, but Monica would not relinquish her post until her mother was inside her bedroom with the door closed behind her.
But Sumitra was aware of Too’s frustration and that he yearned for her as she did for him. It took her some time to realize that, in spite of his training in military maneuvers, in everyday affairs he was straightforward to the point of being simple, and it was up to her to devise a way. Now, whenever there was a function they had to attend together, she drove herself there in her little sports car; and when he arrived, he sent his car home, so that it was left to her to drive him back to his house. Only it was not there that they drove but beyond the confines of the city—this was before it had crept up with rows of government housing, and also before pollution from industrial plants and noxious fumes from decrepit buses had cast a pall over the Delhi sky. The stars were still visible and pure, and moonlight washed like ice water over the tombs and palaces and the desert into which they had been sinking for undisturbed centuries. Sumitra parked the car, and they crept up the stairwell of a deserted pleasure pavilion (only the bats stirred and squeaked). They carried a mat and cushions that she had brought, and spread them on a balcony with a railing of stone arabesques. Music was missing, but the air was laden with the scent of plants mysteriously flowering in the desert dust. Their lovemaking—undisturbed now, unbridled—was charged with the energy of those male and female divinities who between them are responsible for creating and upholding the world.
But when the schools were closed and his children on holiday, nothing could keep Too in New Delhi. Sumitra argued with him, pleaded the importance of his being in the capital at this time, when only a few months were left before the retirement of the current commander-in-chief. She pointed out that Too had to be constantly seen in the right circles to remind those who mattered of the superiority of his claim. But Too wouldn’t listen to Sumitra. He took all his accumulated leave and returned to his home state for several of the crucial weeks when he should have been in the capital advancing his career.
It was left to Sumitra to keep his interests alive, and at this time she made herself particularly indispensable to the Minister of Defense, who was in overall charge of the top military appointments. This portfolio had been assigned to him not because he was in any way qualified for it but because some such cabinet post was due to his political standing. He however coveted another Ministry—that of Foreign Affairs—for which he was even less suitable. He was a peasant who had worked his way up from his village council through the political machinery of his native state, and from there, by shrewdness and cunning and the majority of votes he commanded, to a position at the national centre. In New Delhi he had been allotted one of the stately requisitioned mansions, but he had no idea how to live in it. His family were left behind in the village to look after their fields and their herd of buffalo (he had been, and still was, the local milk supplier). Like others, he turned to Sumitra to help him furnish his ministerial residence and, on diplomatic occasions, to act as his hostess. He made use of all her skills; and of her time too—she had hardly arrived home at night when there was a note from him to accompany him in the morning to the airport where some VIP had to be received with garlands. Or he telephoned—here he never made use of an intermediary but his own voice oozed down the line in the unctuous tone he had adopted with her, suggesting a wealth of understanding between them. And there was such understanding—when she urged Too’s claim to him, he nodded to reassure her that he was ready to fulfill his part of whatever bargain it was they had made with each other.
Harry scorned him—he called him the Milkman, and whenever his peon arrived with a note, Harry told Sumitra, “Here’s another love letter from your Milkman.” She retorted angrily that he knew very well how all her efforts were to help their friend Too; and Harry shrugged and said yes, Too was a decent chap, one of their own sort, but the Minister was not. Sumitra defended the Minister, holding him up to Harry as an example of that manly ambition that was so lacking in Harry himself.
“What a pity he’s so ugly,” Harry said.
She shouted, “How does that matter? I’m not going to bed with him!”
“You’re not?” Harry taunted her—aware that this would make her more furious than anything, the suggestion that anyone so squat and ugly and stinking of peasant fodder might be thought to aspire to her bed.
Yet later—many years later—that was what her daughter Monica alleged. With outsiders, Monica always spoke in glowing terms of her mother’s contribution to her country and boasted of the honors she had received. But to her daughter Kuku she said, “How do you think she did it! By sleeping with people of course . . . Well, what else!” she added, as though Kuku had contradicted her. “How do you think she got her appointment to the UN—or her Padma Bhushan or whatever medal it was they gave her.”
Kuku protested, “It was on merit; because she was so extraordinary for her time, so absolutely modern.”
“Oh yes, so absolutely modern that she’d sleep with anyone—even the Milkman,” Monica sneered. She still called him that, as her father had done, although he had filled some of the highest offices, and when he died, schools and government departments had been closed for two days as a mark of respect.
Kuku asked, “What about Too? Did she—”
“Oh, I’m sure she’d have liked to, but he wouldn’t look at her. He was our friend—Papa’s and mine.”
Certainly, when Too returned to Delhi, his first visit was to Harry and Monica. It was the day of his arrival and he showed up unexpectedly and stood in the doorway, declaiming, “‘The nightingale has heard good news: the rose has come.’”
All three laughed with the pleasure of being reunited. It was teatime, but when the tray was brought, Harry said, “Do we really want this?” so only Monica drank tea while the other two recalled the servant to bring out the drinks of their preference. “Much too early of course,” Harry admitted, “so it’s lucky for us that she’s at the All India WC”—this being his facetious name for the All India Women’s Conference, of which Sumitra was the president.
Too had a lot to tell them—about his children, especially his eldest daughter who was already such a good shot that he was thinking of entering her for the Ladies Olympic team. Oh yes, and he himself had shot another tiger: not a man-eater this time, but the villagers had complained of some goats being killed, so he had gone out with his gun-bearer. He knew of its whereabouts because of the monkeys.
“The monkeys?”
“Yes, the monkeys. When they know a tiger’s near, they run up to hide in the trees, shivering and chattering, and all the tiger has to do is walk around and around the tree. Around and around—around and around—and they become so completely paralyzed with fright, they drop off the branches like apples, one by one they come down: plop,” and Too raised his arms and let himself drop out of the chair onto the carpet.
At that moment Sumitra entered, and he quickly got up, laughing uproariously to hide his confusion. Whatever her feelings at the unexpected sight of him, she showed nothing but the pleasure of greeting an old friend and became at once the gracious hostess: “Have you had tea—ah good, they brought the tray.”
Harry raised his vodka glass to her: “Yes, have some . . . Too was telling us about the monkeys and the tiger. And how to shoot a croc. Do you know how to shoot a croc?” he asked Sumitra.
“In the eye,” Too said, raising an imaginary rifle. “Straight in the eye.”
Harry said, “Bang bang,” then turned to Sumitra, “How dull it’s been without him—we told him it was really high time he came back.”
“Yes, high time,” Sumitra confirmed with her hostess’ courteous smile.
Only two days later an important reception was given by the Minister of Defense (the Milkman) to honor the visiting president of a neighboring country. This man had seized power after a coup d’état, and executing friends and enemies alike, had made himself dictator. He had been a general in the army—he was still known as the General—and, on his visit to India, was particularly interested in meeting members of the military establishment. This of course included Too, and Sumitra anticipated that his presence at this reception would clinch his triumph over his rival for the post of commander-in-chief. Her heart leaped with pride as soon as he entered—Too eclipsed not only his rival but everyone there except the visiting General, who was even taller than Too and had more medals on his chest.
Sumitra worked very hard for this party. She knew that the Minister as well as Too had to prove himself on this occasion, when the Prime Minister, the Vice-President, and members of the cabinet were guests in his house. She had had the place polished in every corner, changed the curtains, brought in additional carpets, lent her own silver and china and crystal and raided Too’s house for more. The result made it clear to all present that the Minister’s establishment and his style of entertaining were of a standard to do honor to his country, if he were to represent it as its Minister of Foreign Affairs. He himself unfortunately fell short—literally, for though strong and fat, he was of stunted growth. With his muscular build, like that of a wrestler, Sumitra had suggested to him a different mode of dress from the usual farmer’s dhoti that left his stout calves bare. There was not much she could do about his manners—he ate with noisy relish and had not yet quite mastered the use of cutlery; but he was determined to please his guests and showed the intelligent concern of a practised host, sharp-eyed for every detail. He and Sumitra worked different parts of the reception area, both of them charging around with tremendous energy and sometimes signaling to each other across a room. It was always the Minister’s eye she caught, wanting her to do something or seeking her advice, even when she was looking around for Too.
And she was often obliged to look around for him. Although this was the occasion for him to outshine his rival, it was the latter who was everywhere visible. Searching out Too, she at last found him sitting alone and morose on a back verandah. “Why are you here? The PM is asking for you, he wants to talk to you, you know about what.”
“I don’t know about what. I don’t have anything to say to him. Or any of them. Not a blasted thing,” he said and took a long draught from his glass, as though it alone contained what was healthy and clean.
She wanted to remind him how hard she was working for him, how much she was doing on his behalf; but there was something else that took precedence. She stepped closer to him: “Did you send your car away? . . . Why not? I’ve brought the MG for us.”
“Where did you want us to go—in this?” He was right: it was the monsoon season and rain fell in torrents over the Minister’s garden, as it would be falling in torrents over the ruins of the pleasure pavilion and its latticed balcony on which they had spent their fragrant summer nights.
“There’s that guest-house out there.”
“With a hundred spies inside it.” Again he was right: this guesthouse—the converted mausoleum of a medieval prince—served as a secret rendezvous for so many important officials that the staff were all in the pay of foreign embassies needing incriminating information.
“We could drive to Gurgaon,” she pleaded. “There are any number of little hotels where no one would guess or care who we were.”
“To Gurgaon: and arrive there tomorrow morning if we’re lucky and don’t get stuck in the mud. Do you have any idea what the roads are like with these rains?”
“And do you have any idea how I’ve missed you?”
She had stepped even closer to him but now quickly drew back: for the Minister had appeared in the doorway to the verandah, beckoning to her. His intelligent eyes darted from her to Too, taking in whatever there was to take in; it did not in the least divert him from his business with her.
“The General is leaving,” he informed her, causing her to hurry inside where a bustle of aides-de-camp and security men were clearing a path for this departure. Sumitra saw that Too’s rival had made himself very prominent and had the General’s attention. She did not hesitate to cut in on them: it was her privilege, as hostess, to have the last word of gratitude and farewell with the guest of honor and to accompany him to the front door. She mustered all her grace and her little courtly ways for this ceremony and was rewarded by a swift glance of appreciation from those vulture eyes (the General preferred blondes but was known to have a weakness for all feminine charm). She was also rewarded by the Minister: he patted her arm in a gesture that was not in the least disrespectful but expressed his gratitude, and also perhaps his promise of return for the service she had rendered him.
It was only a week later that Too was offered, over the head of his rival, the appointment of commander-in-chief. He turned it down, saying nothing about it to anyone. He spent most of that day with Harry and Monica, drinking, discussing their usual variety of interesting topics, and appreciating Harry’s poetry recital over their glasses of vodka: “‘Respect the cup you hold—the clay it’s made from was the skulls of buried kings.’”
“Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha,” said Too in applause.
He stayed for dinner but left early and went home and to bed, sinking immediately into his usual deep sleep from which nothing could wake him.
It was the servants who were roused by Sumitra—first the armed Gurkha, whose rifle she contemptuously pushed aside, then the bearer, and finally the batman, whom she stepped over where he lay at the door of Too’s bedroom. She made a lot of noise and so did the dogs and the servants trying to stop her, but Too did not wake till she shook him hard by the shoulder: “What have you done!” she cried.
He started up at once, like a soldier in ambush ready to face the enemy who has taken him by surprise; but the enemy was Sumitra.
He sent the servants back to their posts, calming them with his own unruffled manner. It was more difficult to calm Sumitra, but he managed to persuade her to wait for him in the drawing room. He wore his robe over his pajamas and brushed his hair with his silver brushes, planning his strategy. By the time he joined her, he was ready with his defense but she launched out immediately: “I couldn’t believe my ears when he told me! After all I did, after all he did, pulling all those strings for you—”
His face darkened: “I want no strings pulled for me by a person like him.”
“Why? Because he’s not a raja—because he hasn’t been to Sandhurst and can’t speak your kind of English—all right, our kind—”
“No. Because he’s not a decent chap.”
Although he said nothing more, she knew what he was referring to. There was some scandal involving the Minister about contracts for army equipment, rumors of bribes taken—but good heavens, there were always rumors, always scandals, that was what political life was like: accusations and counter-accusations, intrigues and counter-intrigues.
It was useless to expect Too to have any understanding of these realities. She dropped the subject of the Minister and took up her own—and his: “As commander-in-chief you would be in Delhi all the time—we would see each other whenever we want . . .” But his face remained closed, his eyes fixed on some distant place above her head. She broke down: “What’s the matter? Ever since you’ve come back, it’s been like this—as if you don’t want to be back; as if you don’t want to be with me.”
He did not reply but began to pace the room in thought. It was a large room, with sofa-sets imported from England, hunting trophies on the walls, and family photographs in silver frames scattered over occasional tables. He circled it several times, but his pacing brought him nothing—he still had no idea how to deal with the situation.
Again it was she who had to take the initiative: “All that matters is that you should be here; near me; that we should be together. All right, refuse, if you don’t want to be the army chief, if you feel it’s not for you—”
“That’s right!” he exclaimed and stopped pacing, relieved to have this thought expressed for him. “It’s not for me!”
“Then what’s for you?” she said softly; she laid her face against his chest and stroked it with both hands. But she felt him stiffen. She stepped back to gaze up into his face, which remained closed against her. Her heart beat in anguish; her eyes swept around the room as though seeking some other help. She took in the photographs—most of them were of his children, his handsome young family of two girls and a boy, also some of his wife, who was very beautiful but had always remained cold to him, caring more for her own family, her sister and brothers, than for him.
Sumitra became desperate: “If you resign your commission, we could go away somewhere, you and I. Why not—look at me! I’m willing to do it, why not you? I’d arrange it, everything—we’d go abroad to some place where not a soul knows us and we need never come back here ever again—”
He groaned aloud. If she was desperate, so was he, and now he dared to say this much: “I need to be at home—no, not here but my home—yes, with my family and in my house and on my land and with my people—what shall I tell you!” He broke off, unable to continue and tell her what it was he intended to do.
He told Harry and Monica—but only just before he left. By that time Sumitra was away on one of her cultural relations tours—she had taken a group of potters and weavers to a symposium on handicrafts in Bangkok—so he was relieved of the necessity of telling her at all. She was only away for ten days, but by the time she returned, he was dead. He had been shot in the back of the head, ambushed by the outlaws he had gone to suppress. Harry read the news on the front page of the newspaper, which also carried a photograph of Too’s corpse. Harry hid it from Monica and broke the news to her himself as gently as he could. Both of them were devastated. They could not believe it: Too had left in such tremendous high spirits! He had himself asked to be sent on this expedition and had been looking forward to it as to a tiger shoot. And in a way it had been like a tiger shoot for him: this band of outlaws had for years been harrying the countryside—his countryside! his people!—pillaging, burning, raping, kidnapping, killing, worse than wild beasts. Worse, much worse than wild beasts! cried Too; and if he caught them—and he would catch them, he promised—he would shoot them in cold blood. “Killed while attempting to escape,” was the usual formula, Too told Harry and Monica with a chuckle. He would have them shackled together in a row and them one by one—bang! bang!
It was about this time that Monica had her nervous breakdown, which her daughter Kuku later diagnosed as due to a lack of sex life. Kuku, who had plenty of sex herself, ascribed most malfunctions to this cause; but at the time Sumitra must have come to the same conclusion, for it was around then that she had arranged a marriage for Monica with the ambitious young under-secretary Malhotra. This marriage had only lasted long enough to produce Kuku, and then Monica and her baby had moved in with Sumitra, who was by that time a widow. So Kuku, growing up with these two women, had from childhood been a witness to the fights between them. Monica, who continued to blame her mother for everything, was always on the attack, forcing Sumitra to defend herself. For instance, Monica blamed her for letting Too go on the expedition that had led to his death: “You could have stopped it,” Monica said.
“How? How? I was in Bangkok, I didn’t even know about it.”
“You could have got him some appointment to keep him in Delhi. You could easily have done it, you were in so thick with the Milkman. You certainly got everything out of him for yourself, though goodness only knows what you had to do in return.”
Once, when Kuku was about twelve, her grandmother told her about the Minister, “He was very kind to me.”
“But what did you have to do for him?” Kuku innocently inquired.
Sumitra shrugged: “I suppose I helped him to become the Foreign Minister.”
She always considered that he had done more for her than she had for him, and at a time when she needed it. After Too’s death, she had to contend not only with Monica’s nervous breakdown but with Harry’s increasing alcoholism. He began to drink the moment he got up and continued steadily until his servant helped him to bed at night. He and Monica no longer had their pleasant times together—it was as though, without Too, they had broken apart and each was locked up in solitary misery. Sumitra meanwhile was kept busier than ever, for it was the winter season and many important foreign visitors had to be entertained and taken to see the Red Fort and the Qutb Minar. It was always very late when she was at last driven home; but however late it was, Monica would be waiting up for her. She seemed to have spent the day brooding about her mother, whom she held responsible for Too’s death, Harry’s drinking, and Monica’s own inferiority complex and generally unhappy life. Sumitra, although exhausted after her long day, tried to calm her, and it always ended in the same way, with Monica’s ragé melting into tears and Sumitra tucking her into bed and tenderly kissing her goodnight. It was only then that Sumitra could go to bed herself and give way to her own grief, which she shared with no one.
After Too had refused the high command, the Minister and Sumitra did not mention him again between them; except on his death, when the Minister spoke some conventional words of condolence to her, on the loss of her family friend. At this time the Minister was even more occupied than Sumitra, for besides all the social activities and the official meetings, he was involved in the many secret comings and goings preceding a major cabinet reshuffle. When, at the end of that busy season, he was offered the post he had coveted, Sumitra was the first person he informed of his success. She almost admired him at that moment: he was not a handsome figure—the very opposite, even now after she had done all she could to improve his appearance. But there was something about him in his triumph—an energy, a manliness—that she had known in no other man, not even in Too with all his shining looks and chest full of medals. And where had it all led to, with Too, she thought, shot like a dog by thieves and murderers: and for the first time the tears she shed by herself every night sprang to her eyes in broad daylight and in the presence of another person.
It could not have been the reaction the Minister had expected to his announcement; but it was his life’s business to deal with the vagaries of human psychology and conduct. He scrutinized her face with his eyes that were set too deeply in fat to reveal their penetrating intelligence. Then he joined his palms together like a supplicant and said that there was something she must do for him; that she could not refuse him, must not. He offered her three choices: the high commission in London, the embassy in Washington, and the Indian mission to the UN in New York. He knew it was much too much to ask of her who had already done everything for him, but he needed her more than ever in his new responsibilities, and without her he was helpless as a little child and could proceed no further.
During the following years, Sumitra lived mostly abroad. Although she was already middle-aged during her great years as India’s ambassador to the UN, she had retained her smooth olive skin and her pitch-black hair and sparkling eyes; and she wrapped herself so skillfully in her sari that she appeared merely plump, as she had been, and not fat, as she had become. She had always loved jewelry and now was so laden with it that she resembled a barbaric queen—an impression enhanced by the bolder colors and patterns of her saris, which were of traditional designs adapted to modern tastes. The expression on her face was that of a person used to giving orders to people—in contrast to her manner, her exquisite gestures of courtesy and submission to the point of immolation which were a mark of royal breeding as well as of the courtesan and temple dancer. Her parties were, like herself, an enchanting mixture of east and west. There was always plenty of liquor, but also pomegranate and mango juices and spiced yoghurt drinks; the servants glided around with silver trays of delicacies that were to be found only in the finest Indian homes where they were made from recipes handed down by a grandmother. A visiting Indian musician—always a maestro of the first rank—would entertain after dinner; but for those who had business with each other there were brandy and cigars in the study and doors that could be closed. Sumitra herself closed them, smiling for a moment as she did so with perfect understanding and a promise of privacy for whatever matters of high state had to be discussed.
Now in charge of foreign affairs, the Minister frequently traveled abroad, stopping off in New York whenever he could. She looked forward to his visits. He consulted her about policy and discussed the personalities of the world and national leaders they both had to deal with. She continued to monitor his personal habits, and here too he followed her advice—for instance, he left off using a certain pungent body oil prescribed as beneficial to the flow of blood to the brain and other important organs.
Monica quarreled with her about the Minister, as she quarreled with her on all subjects. Monica traveled between her mother in New York and her father in New Delhi, and it would be difficult to say in which place she was more unhappy. She was undergoing treatment with a New York analyst and was learning far more about herself and her relationship with her mother than was good for either of them. She also learned not to suppress her natural feelings, and whenever the Minister visited, she made no secret of her contempt for him. But even though she tossed her head and flung out of the room without returning his courteous greeting, he smiled tolerantly and reassured Sumitra that the girl was young, a child only. Nevertheless, it was he who suggested matrimony in place of psychiatry (he had just married off his own sixteen-year-old daughter, with two thousand guests consuming five hundred pounds of clarified butter). And it was he who found Monica’s bridegroom: on his return to New Delhi, he made discreet inquiries in his own Ministry, and after personally interviewing several likely candidates, he finally selected Under-Secretary Malhotra. However, Monica always denied that her marriage had been arranged. She claimed she had met Malhotra at a diplomatic party, and had been fool enough to be taken in by him. “It was because I was so unhappy,” she explained to her daughter Kuku. “Because of Mummy and what she had done to me.”
During her years at the UN, Sumitra’s husband Harry also sometimes came to stay with her. Unlike the Minister, he fitted well into her diplomatic salon. Harry had elegant manners and conversed easily in English and with charm. Unfortunately he also got drunk very quickly—and now it only took a drink or two to get him into that state. He was never rowdy or ill-behaved but continued to stand holding his glass with a smile frozen on his face. If anyone spoke to him, he tried sincerely to respond, but so unsuccessfully that people tended to back away and he was left standing by himself, still smiling and still on his feet, though by now supporting one shoulder against a wall. He was very apologetic about his condition, and readily agreed to enter a clinic in Virginia that Sumitra had arranged for him. But he returned after less than a week—“Leave it,” was all he said in answer to Sumitra’s reproaches. That same night he was for the first time noisily drunk and she had to make signs to the servants, while her guests pretended not to notice him being hustled away, loudly declaiming poetry as he went.
Nevertheless, she liked having him there, at least during the few hours of the day when he was sober. He was the one person with whom she could be as she had been. They spoke of old friends—about these also as they had been and not as they were now: some of them were bureaucrats or judges, some were alcoholics like Harry, some dead like Too. They both spoke of Too with loving nostalgia, and it didn’t matter that she was nostalgic for the moonlit nights in the ruined pleasure palace and Harry for the poetry and vodka and chit-chat in his New Delhi garden. It all appeared as remote now as those scenes of royal indulgence depicted in the miniature paintings that hung on Sumitra’s walls. These pictures were just beginning to be recognized at their true value, and she had been among the first to acquire, for a few rupees, a collection that was later auctioned at Christie’s. Harry himself seemed to belong in those paintings, to be one of the long dead princes, from Kulu or Kashmir, shown reclining among little golden drinking vessels and flowers that scintillated like the jewels in their turbans.
Harry’s last visit to New York—he died shortly after his return to India—coincided with one of the Minister’s foreign tours. Both of them were present at a cocktail party given by Sumitra in honor of the Minister, preceding a dinner at the Iraqi embassy, also in his honor. Sumitra had been nervous all day, for Harry was very irritated by the presence of the Milkman (as he still called him), who was living in the house with them. “Well, what should I do?” Sumitra defended herself. “It’s not my house, it’s an official residence belonging to the government of India.”
“Oh yes,” sneered Harry, “he is the government of India. He’s certainly got his dirty hands in the treasury up to the elbows.” He was referring to a major financial scandal that again involved the Minister: this was nothing unusual—rumor as pungent as his body oil clung to him throughout his career.
Sumitra did not try to argue with Harry. Like Too before him, he would never understand. He had no conception of the shifts and makeshifts necessary to hold on to a position of power, and that what appeared to him as bribery and corruption was nothing but a judicious balancing of funds to keep the machinery of government oiled and functioning.
That evening, though performing with her usual accomplishment the role of diplomatic hostess, she glanced more often than ever toward Harry in his corner. It was also second nature for her to keep an eye on the Minister; but this was really no longer necessary, for by now his very defects had turned into assets. His English had remained rudimentary, but that only made people listen to him more attentively, as if fearful of missing something important he was saying. And there was a sort of power in his earthiness—the smell of cow dung still seemed to cling to him, if no longer physically—a suggestion of roots and soil that was exciting to Sumitra’s cosmopolitan guests. Elegant women clustered around him and he made no secret of his liking for them, though of course in a very respectful way. He knew perfectly where to draw the line, and also where it was permissible to go beyond it—there were rumors about him in this area as well, and whenever he arrived in some backwater of his electoral district, the local bosses knew what sort of girls to bring for him from the bazaar.
Now, at Sumitra’s cocktail party, he was playful with a kind of crude gallantry that charmed his listeners. Although at home he was a strong advocate of the national program of total prohibition, here he indulged his liking for strong liquor, at the same time retaining the full use of his perfectly honed faculties. His eyes darted around as swiftly as his mind to pinpoint those guests who were the most important to him on his present visit. At that particular party it was the head of an international monetary fund, and he had already taken care to establish a friendly rapport with him prior to their official meeting scheduled for the following day. Now he felt at liberty to relax and to amuse his sophisticated audience with his own brand of rustic humor. Stretching out his hand to a servant for another glass, he burst into a snatch of song—a simple folk melody that suited his remarkably pleasant singing voice. There was applause and delighted laughter, so that Sumitra—now herself occupied in exerting her charm on the head of the monetary fund—glanced over to the little circle of which he was the admired centre. She smiled to see this strong and wily politician, who held power over millions of souls and vast stretches of land, turn back into the lusty village youth he had once been. He sang of the dust swirled up at dusk by the homecoming cows, and the jingle of the ornaments adorning the village bride. He also shared his taste for Bombay talkies and switched from folk song to popular film song—the rose and the nightingale at their last gasp but now shrill and sweet enough to delight his sturdy peasant soul. “When you dip in the lake, O bathing Beauty, beware of driving us mad!” he sang and even broke into a little shuffle of a dance. Although squat as a toad in his politician’s homespun garb, he transformed himself into a screen heroine with a wet garment clinging to her body, combing the long tresses that cascaded down to her hips.
Along with everyone else, Sumitra was so intent on this performance that for a moment she relaxed her vigilance over Harry in his corner. It was only when she saw the Minister—seemingly engrossed in his little song and dance act—glance in that direction that she too looked at her husband. Harry had climbed on to a chair and was declaiming something—but already, at a sign from the Minister, the servants had closed around him and were half coaxing, half lifting him down. The Minister was giving another sample of a film song—“I’m a vagabond, wandering in the woods of the heart”—so that everyone’s attention continued to be fixed on him. Only Sumitra was with Harry, along with several servants—some of them brought from his childhood home in Delhi—who had got him down from his chair and were edging him toward the door. He was trying to tell them something with all the earnestness of someone completely drunk, and when they didn’t understand, he appealed in frustration to Sumitra: “Dragging our poets in the mire—Ghalib and Faiz!” Then he shouted, “Degradation!” and tried to point at the Minister, who was still giving his audience a taste of Bombay film lyrics; but the servants quickly lowered Harry’s arm and kept it pinned to his side. Sumitra followed them through the door and stood at the foot of the stairs, watching them lead Harry up to his room. He was looking back at her and quoting something but slurring his words, so that she wasn’t sure whether it was about the rose and the nightingale, or Jamshed’s throne gone on a puff of wind.
When she returned to her party, it was still going splendidly. The Minister had finished his act and, pleased to have given pleasure, was laughing together with his audience. He had taken off his little boat-like cotton cap and was wiping the perspiration from his head. As he did so, for a brief second his eyes slid toward Sumitra, and she gave him the briefest nod to reassure him that Harry was being taken care of. From here on—according to the official report to New Delhi—the evening’s program proceeded as per schedule.
