‘You sound serious, doctor,’ said Pran, attempting to add a touch of lightness to the conversation. This Imtiaz was very different from the one who had helped duck Professor Mishra in the tub.
‘I am serious.’
‘But if this isn’t a heart attack, what danger am I in?’
‘If you have congestive heart failure, you will have all the effects of pent up blood in your system. Your liver will become enlarged, so will your feet, your neck veins will become prominent, you will cough, and you will get very breathless, especially on walking or exertion. And it is possible that your brain might become confused as well. I don’t want to alarm you—this isn’t life-threatening—’
‘But you are alarming me,’ said Pran, looking at Imtiaz’s mole and finding it very irritating. ‘What else are you doing? I can’t take all this bed rest seriously. I know I’m all right. I’m a, well, I’m a young man. I feel fine. And it’s always been the case that when my breathing spasms pass off, I’m as well as ever—as healthy as anyone—every bit as fit. I play cricket. I enjoy trekking—’
‘I am afraid,’ said Imtiaz, ‘that the picture is different now. Formerly you were an asthmatic patient. Now, however, the main problem is with the right side of your heart. You will need rest. You would do well to take my advice seriously.’
Pran looked hurt at the formality with which his friend was addressing him, and did not protest any further. Imtiaz had said that the condition was not immediately life-threatening. Pran knew without asking—both from the seriousness of his friend’s demeanour and from his list of possible complications—that it was almost certainly life-shortening in the long run.
When Imtiaz left, Pran tried to face the new fact. But today seemed to be very much like yesterday, and the sudden intrusion of the fact was something that Pran almost felt he could shrug off—like an irrelevant memory or a bad dream. But he was depressed, and found it difficult to conceal this and behave normally with Lata or his mother-in-law or, most of all, with Savita.
13.2
That afternoon Pran was moved to the medical college hospital. Savita had insisted on being able to visit him, so he was given one of the few rooms on the ground floor. About half an hour after he came in, it began to rain heavily, and did not let up for a few hours. Pran found that the rain was the best thing for him in these circumstances. It took him out of himself in a way that even reading would not have been able to do. Besides, Imtiaz had told him that on the first day he should not read or exert himself in any other way at all.
The rain came down. It was a continuing event, and yet it was not stimulating: just the combination that Pran needed. In a short while he found himself dozing off.
He woke up to a mosquito bite on his hand.
It was almost seven o’clock, the end of the visiting hour. He noticed, as he opened his eyes and reached for the spectacles on the nightstand, that apart from Savita there was no one else in the room.
‘How are you feeling, darling?’ said Savita.
‘I’ve just been bitten by a mosquito,’ said Pran.
‘Poor darling. Bad mosquitoes.’
‘That’s the problem with a room on the ground floor.’
‘What is?’
‘The mosquitoes.’
‘We’ll close the windows.’
‘Too late, they’re already in.’
‘I’ll get them to spray the room with Flit.’
‘That spray will knock me out as well; I can’t leave the room while they’re doing it.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Savita, why don’t we ever quarrel?’
‘Don’t we?’
‘No, not really.’
‘Well, why should we?’ asked Savita.
‘I don’t know. I feel I’m missing out on something. Now look at Arun and Meenakshi. You tell me they’re always having tiffs. Young couples always have tiffs.’
‘Well, we can have tiffs about the baby’s education.’
‘That’s too long to wait.’
‘Well, about its feeding times. Do go back to sleep, Pran, you’re being very tiresome.’
‘Who’s that card from?’
‘Professor Mishra.’
Pran closed his eyes.
‘And those flowers?’
‘Your mother.’
‘She was here—and no one woke me up?’
‘No. Imtiaz said you were to rest—and we let you rest.’
‘Who else came today? Do you know, I’m feeling rather hungry.’
‘Not many people. Today we were supposed to leave you to yourself.’
‘Oh.’
‘Just to get over things.’
Pran sighed. There was a silence. ‘Food?’
‘Yes, we’ve brought some from the house. Imtiaz warned us that the hospital food is horrible.’
‘Isn’t this the hospital where that boy died—that medical student?’
‘Why are you being so morbid, Pran?’
‘What’s morbid about dying?’
‘Well, I wish you wouldn’t talk about it.’
‘Better to talk about it than to do it,’ said Pran.
‘Do you want me to have a miscarriage?’
‘All right, all right. What’s that you’re reading?’
‘A law-book. Firoz lent it to me.’
‘A law-book?’
‘Yes. It’s interesting.’
‘What’s the subject?’
‘Tort.’
‘Are you thinking of studying law?’
‘Yes, perhaps. You shouldn’t talk so much, Pran, it’s not good for you. Shall I read out a bit of the Brahmpur Chronicle? The political news?’
‘No, no. Tort!’ Pran began to laugh a little, then started coughing.
‘You see?’ said Savita, moving to the bed to prop him up.
‘You shouldn’t get so worried,’ said Pran.
‘Worried?’ said Savita guiltily.
‘I’m not going to die, you know. Why have you suddenly decided to take up a profession?’
‘Really, Pran—you seem bent on having that tiff. If I take up law it’ll be because Shastri got me interested in it. I want to meet that woman lawyer, Jaya Sood, who practises in the High Court. He told me about her.’
‘You’re about to have a baby; you shouldn’t take up studies immediately,’ said Pran. ‘And think about what my father would say.’
Mahesh Kapoor, who believed in women’s education, did not believe in women working, and made no bones about it.
Savita did not say anything. She folded the Brahmpur Chronicle and swatted a mosquito. ‘Are you ready for dinner?’ she asked Pran.
‘I hope you’re not here by yourself,’ said Pran. ‘I’m surprised your mother let you come here unaccompanied. What if you suddenly feel unwell?’
‘Only one person is allowed to stay beyond visiting hours. And I threatened to kick up a fuss if it wasn’t me. Emotional excitement is very bad for me in my delicate state,’ said Savita.
‘You are extremely stupid and stubborn,’ said Pran tenderly.
‘Yes,’ said Savita. ‘Extremely. But your father’s car is waiting downstairs in case it’s needed. Incidentally, what does your father think about Nehru’s sister, who is a working woman if ever there was one?’
‘Ah,’ said Pran, preferring not to take up the last remark. ‘Fried brinjal. Delicious. Yes, let’s hear a bit of the Brahmpur Chronicle. No, read me a bit of the University Regulations, beginning where that bookmark is. That bit about leave.’
‘What does that have to do with your committee?’ asked Savita, resting the volume on her stomach.
‘Nothing. But I’ll have to take leave, you know, for at least three weeks, and I may as well find out what the rules are. I don’t want to fall into one of Mishra’s traps.’
Savita thought of suggesting that he should forget about the university for a day, but she knew that this was impossible. So she took up the volume and started reading:
‘The
following kinds of leave are permissible:
(a) Casual leave
(b) Compensation leave
(c) Deputation leave
(d) Duty leave
(e) Extraordinary leave
(f) Maternity leave
(g) Medical leave
(h) Privilege leave
(i) Quarantine leave
(j) Study leave.’
She paused. ‘Shall I go on?’ she asked, glancing briefly down the page.
‘Yes.’
Savita continued: ‘Except in urgent cases in which the Vice-Chancellor or the Pro Vice-Chancellor shall take decisions, the power to grant leave in general shall be vested in the Executive Council.’
‘No problem there,’ said Pran. ‘This is an urgent case.’
‘But with L.N. Agarwal on the Executive Council—and your father no longer a Minister—’
‘What can he do?’ said Pran calmly. ‘Nothing much. All right—what’s next?’
Savita frowned, and read on:
‘When the day immediately preceding the day on which the leave begins or immediately following the day on which the leave expires is a holiday or a series of holidays or a vacation the person to whom the leave is granted or who is returning from leave may make over charge at the close of the day before or return to duty on the day following such holiday or series of holidays or the vacation provided such early departure or delay in return does not involve the University in extra expenditure. When leave is prefixed or suffixed to such holidays or vacation, the consequential arrangement shall begin or end as the case may be, from the date when the leave begins or expires.’
‘What?’ said Pran.
‘Shall I read it again?’ asked Savita, smiling.
‘No, no, that’s fine. I’m feeling a bit light-headed. Your statutes are going to be as bad as that—or worse, you know. Read something else. Something from the Brahmpur Chronicle. No politics—some human interest story—like a child eaten by a hyena. Oh, sorry! Sorry, darling. Like someone winning a lottery—or the “Brahmpur Diary”—that’s always soothing. How’s the baby?’
‘He’s sleeping, I think,’ said Savita, with a look of concentration.
‘He?’
‘According to my law-books, “he” includes “she”.’
‘Books, is it now?’ said Pran. ‘Oh, well.’
13.3
Mrs Rupa Mehra, torn between solicitude for Pran, concern for Savita, who was due to deliver any day now, and desperate anxiety on behalf of Lata, would have liked nothing better than to have an emotional breakdown. But the press of events would not allow it at present, and she therefore abstained.
When Savita was in the hospital, Mrs Rupa Mehra wanted to be with her. When Lata was at the university—especially when she was at one of her rehearsals—Mrs Rupa Mehra’s heart started pounding at the mischief she could be up to. Yet Lata was so busy that her mother hardly got a moment alone with her, let alone the chance for a heart-to-heart talk. At night it was impossible, for when Savita came home to sleep, emotional excitement in the house was the last thing her mother wanted to inflict upon her.
Mrs Rupa Mehra did not know what to do, and neither the Gita nor invocations to her late husband helped her in this exigency. To withdraw Lata from the play at this stage might drive her to God knows what rash action—even outright defiance. She could not avail herself of either Savita’s advice or Pran’s, since the one was close to birth, and the other—so Mrs Rupa Mehra had convinced herself—to death. She still recited her two chapters from the Gita when she woke up, but the world was too much with her, and the verses were occasionally interrupted by silent starings into space.
Pran, however, had begun to enjoy his stay in hospital. The monsoon weather was too muggy for his liking, but at least the moisture in the air was not too bad for his bronchial tubes. He had managed to rid his room of mosquitoes. He had exchanged the Brahmpur University Calendar and Regulations for Agatha Christie. Savita no longer complained that he spent no time with her. He felt like a calm captive, floating along on the currents of the universe. Occasionally the universe would fling someone up near him. If he was asleep, the visitor might wait for a while and then go away. If he was awake, they talked.
This afternoon a whispered and urgent conversation was taking place around him. Lata and Malati had come to visit him after a rehearsal. Finding him asleep, they decided to sit on the sofa and wait. Just a few minutes later, Mrs Rupa Mehra arrived with Savita.
Mrs Rupa Mehra saw the two of them and her eyes narrowed with exasperation.
‘So!’ she said.
Lata and Malati could not mistake the tone of her voice, but could not understand the cause of it.
‘So!’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra in a strong whisper, glancing at the sleeping Pran. ‘You have come from the rehearsal, I imagine.’
If she thought that this oblique reference to the conspiracy would make the culprits collapse, she was mistaken.
‘Yes, Ma,’ said Lata.
‘It was an excellent rehearsal, Ma—you should see how Lata has opened out,’ said Malati. ‘You’ll really enjoy the play when you come for Annual Day.’
Mrs Rupa Mehra flushed red at the thought of Lata opening out. ‘I will certainly see the play, but Lata will not be in it,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.
‘Ma!’ said Lata and Malati simultaneously.
‘Girls should not be in plays—’
‘Ma, we thrashed all this out earlier,’ began Lata, with a glance at Savita. ‘Let’s not wake Pran up.’
‘Yes, Ma, that’s true,’ said Savita. ‘You can’t withdraw Lata now. You agreed to let her act. It’ll be impossible for them to find someone else. She’s learned her lines—’
Mrs Rupa Mehra sat down on a chair. ‘So you know as well?’ she said reproachfully to Savita. ‘Children cause one nothing but pain,’ she added.
Luckily, Savita did not relate this remark to her present condition. ‘Know? Know what?’ she said.
‘That—that that boy, K’—Mrs Rupa Mehra could not bring herself to take his name—‘is acting in the play with Lata. I am ashamed of you, Malati,’ she continued, her nose beginning to redden, ‘I am ashamed of you. I trusted you. And you have been so devious.’ Her voice rose, and Savita put a finger to her lips.
‘Ma, please—’
‘Yes, yes, it is all very well, when you become a mother you too will find out—’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘You will make sacrifices, and then they will break your heart.’
Malati could not help smiling. Mrs Rupa Mehra rounded on her, the prime architect of this plot.
‘You may think you are very clever, but I always know what is going on,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. She did not mention that only a chance conversation had enabled her to discover that Kabir was acting in Twelfth Night. ‘Yes, you can smile and smile and smile, but it is I who will do the crying.’
‘Ma, we had no idea that Kabir would be acting,’ said Malati. ‘I was trying to keep Lata out of his way.’
‘Yes, yes, I know, I know, I know it all,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra in miserable disbelief. She reached into her bag for her embroidered handkerchief.
Pran stirred; Savita went over to stand by his side.
‘Ma, let’s talk about this later,’ said Lata. ‘It certainly isn’t Malati’s fault. And I can’t back out now.’
Mrs Rupa Mehra quoted a line from one of her favourite didactic poets to show that nothing was impossible, then said: ‘And you have had a letter from Haresh as well. Aren’t you ashamed to be even seeing this other boy?’
‘How do you know I have had a letter from Haresh?’ whispered Lata indignantly.
‘I am your mother, that’s how I know,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.
‘Well, Ma,’ whispered Lata hotly, ‘you may trust me or not, but let me tell you that I did not know that Kabir would be in the play, and I am not meeting him afterwards, and there is no plot at all.’
None of this convinced Mrs Rupa Mehra, who—glancing at Savita for
a second—had begun to think of the brood of misfits that this unimaginable match could create.
‘He is half-mad, do you even know that?’ asked Mrs Rupa Mehra.
To her bafflement and shock, this only produced a smile from Lata.
‘You are laughing at me?’ she said, appalled.
‘No, Ma, at him. He’s achieving madness quite nicely,’ said Lata. Kabir had taken to the part of Malvolio alarmingly well; his initial awkwardness had vanished.
‘How can you laugh at this? How can you laugh at this?’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, rising from her chair. ‘Two tight slaps will do you some good. Laughing at your own mother.’
‘Ma, softly, please,’ said Savita.
‘I think I’d better go,’ said Malati.
‘No, you stay there,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘You should hear this too, then you will advise Lata better. I met this boy’s father at the Subzipore Club. He told me that his wife was fully mad. And the peculiar way he said it made me think that he was also partly mad.’ Mrs Rupa Mehra could not entirely conceal from her voice the triumph of vindication.
‘Poor Kabir!’ said Lata, appalled.
Kabir’s long-forgotten remark about his mother began to make a horrible kind of sense.
But before Mrs Rupa Mehra could reproach Lata further, Pran had woken up. Looking around him, he said: ‘What’s going on? Hello Ma, hello Lata. Ah, Malati, you’ve come too—I asked Savita what had happened to you. What’s the matter? Something dramatic, I hope. Come on, tell me. I heard someone say someone was mad.’
‘Oh, we were discussing the play,’ said Lata. ‘Malvolio, you know.’ It cost her an effort to speak.
‘Oh, yes. How’s your part going?’
‘Fine.’
‘And yours, Malati?’
‘Fine.’
‘Good, good, good. Whether I’m allowed to or not, I’ll come and see it. It must be just a month or so away. Wonderful play, Twelfth Night—just the thing for Annual Day. How’s Barua running the rehearsals?’
‘Very well,’ said Malati, taking over; she could see that Lata was in no mood to speak. ‘He’s got real flair. One wouldn’t think so, he’s so mild-mannered. But from the very first line—’
‘Pran is very tired,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, interrupting this unpleasant description. She wanted to hear nothing positive about the play. In fact she wanted to hear nothing at all from that brazen girl, Malati. ‘Pran, you have your dinner now.’