Dipankar came over. He was dressed in a kurta-pyjama, and was looking rather serious.
‘Something extraordinary has happened, Dipankar,’ said his mother. ‘I want your advice.’
‘And he does it to trees as well, Memsahib,’ continued the gardener, seeing his ally approach. ‘He broke off all the lichis, then he broke off the guavas, then he broke off all the little jackfruit from the tree at the back. I got really annoyed. Only a gardener can understand the pain of a tree. We sweat for it and see it bear, and then this monster breaks them off with sticks and stones. I showed them to the driver and what did he say? No anger, not even a slap, just “Son, one doesn’t do this sort of thing.” If my child damaged his big white car,’ continued the gardener, nodding forcefully, ‘then he’d feel something.’
‘Yes, yes, very sad,’ said Mrs Chatterji vaguely. ‘Dipankar, dear, do you know that that dark young man who helps around the garden is on the run from the police?’
‘Oh?’ said Dipankar philosophically.
‘But aren’t you upset?’
‘Not yet. Why?’
‘Well, we might all be murdered in our—well, in our beds.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘It could be anything. The mali says it’s to do with a ration card. But he’s not sure. What should I do? Your father will be very upset if he hears that we’ve been harbouring a fugitive. And, as you know, he’s not even from Bengal.’
‘Well, he’s a good fellow, this Shambhu—’
‘Not Shambhu, Tirru. That’s what he’s called, apparently.’
‘Well, we needn’t upset Baba—’
‘But a High Court Judge—with a wanted criminal working on his chrysanthemums—’
Dipankar looked beyond his hut to the large white chrysanthemums in the far bed—those few that the season and the driver’s son had spared. ‘I’d advise inaction,’ he said. ‘Baba will have enough on his plate now that Tapan is leaving Jheel.’
Mrs Chatterji continued: ‘Of course, it isn’t as if the police are always—what? What did you say?’
‘And joining St Xavier’s. It’s a wise choice. And maybe, then, Ma, he can go on to Shantiniketan.’
‘Shantiniketan?’ Mrs Chatterji couldn’t make out what that holy word had to do with the matter on hand. An image of trees came to her mind—great trees under which she had sat and partaken of the lessons of Gurudeb, her master, the waterer of the garden of the culture of Bengal.
‘It’s being parted from the soil of Bengal that’s been making him so unhappy. He’s a divided soul, can’t you see, Ma?’
‘Well, he certainly has two names,’ said Mrs Chatterji, slipping down the wrong fork of the conversation. ‘But what’s this about Tapan and St Xavier’s?’
Dipankar became soulful. His voice filled with a calm sadness, he said:
‘It’s Tapan I’ve been talking about, Mago. It’s not the lake of Jheel that he needs, it’s “your deep ponds, loving and cool as the midnight sky” that he misses. That’s why he’s been so low. That’s why his reports have been so poor. That—and his longing for the songs of Tagore—Kuku and you singing Rabindrasangeet as the evening falls, at the cow-dust hour. . . .’ Dipankar spoke with conviction, for he had convinced himself. Now he recited the magic words:
‘Finally my homesickness grew too great to resist. . . .
I bow, I bow to my beautiful motherland Bengal!
To your river-banks, to your winds that cool and console;
Your plains, whose dust the sky bends down to kiss;
Your shrouded villages, that are nests of shade and peace;
Your leafy mango-woods, where the herd-boys play;
Your deep ponds, loving and cool as the midnight sky;
Your sweet-hearted women returning home with water;
I tremble in my soul and weep when I call you Mother.’
Mrs Chatterji was repeating the words together with her son. She was deeply moved. Dipankar was deeply moved.
(Not that Calcutta contained any of the above-mentioned features.)
‘That is why he weeps,’ he concluded simply.
‘But he hasn’t been weeping,’ said Mrs Chatterji. ‘Just scowling.’
‘It has been to save you and Baba pain that he does not weep in front of you. But, Ma, I swear on my life and soul that he was weeping today.’
‘Really, Dipankar,’ said Mrs Chatterji, amazed and not entirely pleased at his fervour. Then she thought of Tapan, whose Bengali really had deteriorated since he had been to Jheel; and the thought of his unhappiness overwhelmed her.
‘But which school will accept him at this stage?’ she asked.
‘Oh, that?’ said Dipankar, brushing away the insignificant objection. ‘I forgot to mention that Amit Da has already got St Xavier’s to agree to take him in. All that is needed is his mother’s consent. . . . “I tremble in my soul and weep when I call you Mother,”’ he murmured to himself again.
At the word ‘Mother’, Mrs Chatterji, good Brahmo though she was, wiped away a tear.
A thought struck her. ‘But Baba?—’ she said. She was still overcome by events—in fact she wasn’t certain she had comprehended them all. ‘This is all so sudden—and the school fees—he really was crying? And it won’t disturb his studies?’
‘Amit Da has agreed to coach Tapan himself if necessary,’ said Dipankar unilaterally. ‘And Kuku will teach him one Tagore song a week,’ he added. ‘And you can improve his Bengali handwriting.’
‘And you?’ asked his mother.
‘I?’ said Dipankar. ‘I? I will have no time to teach him anything, because I will be working at Grindlays from next month.’
His mother looked at him in amazement, hardly daring to believe what she had heard.
16.6
Seven Chatterjis and seven non-Chatterjis were seated for dinner at the long oval table in the Ballygunge house.
Luckily, Amit and Arun were not too close to each other. Both held strong opinions, Amit on some subjects, Arun on all; and Amit, being at home, would not be as reserved as he might otherwise be. The company, too, was the kind he felt comfortable in: the seven non-Chatterjis were all part of the clan by extension—or about to become so. They were Mrs Rupa Mehra and her four children, together with Pran (who was looking well) and the young German diplomat who was Kakoli’s successful suitor. Meenakshi Mehra, when in Ballygunge, was included among the Chatterji count. Old Mr Chatterji had sent a message to say he would not be able to join them.
‘It’s nothing,’ said Tapan, who had just returned from the garden. ‘Perhaps he’s tired of being tied up. Why don’t I set him free? There aren’t any other mushrooms around.’
‘What? And have him bite Hans again?’ said Mrs Chatterji. ‘No, Tapan.’
Hans was looking grave and a little bewildered.
‘Mushroom?’ asked Hans. ‘Please, what is a mushroom in this context?’
‘You may as well know,’ said Amit. ‘Since you’ve been bitten by Cuddles, you are already virtually a blood-brother to us. Or a saliva-brother. A mushroom is a young man who is sweet on Kuku. They spring up everywhere. Some carry flowers, some just moon and mope. You had better be careful when you get married to her. I wouldn’t trust any mushrooms, edible or otherwise.’
‘No, indeed,’ said Hans.
‘How is Krishnan, Kuku?’ asked Meenakshi, who had been following the conversation only partly.
‘He is taking everything very well,’ said Kuku. ‘He will always have a special place in my heart,’ she added defiantly.
Hans was looking even more grave.
‘Oh, you needn’t worry about that, Hans,’ Amit said. ‘That doesn’t mean much. Kuku’s heart is full of specially reserved places.’
‘It is not,’ said Kuku. ‘And you have no right to talk.’
‘Me?’ said Amit.
‘Yes, you. You are completely heartless; Hans takes all this flippant talk about affection very badly. He has a very pure soul.’
/> Meenakshi, who had had a bit too much to drink, murmured:
‘Gentlemen that I allure,
They are always thinking pure.’
Hans blushed.
‘Nonsense, Kuku,’ said Amit. ‘Hans is a strong man and can take anything. You can tell from his handshake.’
Hans flinched.
Mrs Chatterji found it necessary to intervene. ‘Hans, you mustn’t take what Amit says seriously.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Amit. ‘Only what I write.’
‘He gets into these moods when his writing is going badly. Have you had any news from your sister?’
‘No, but I am expecting to hear from her any day,’ said Hans.
‘Do you think we are a typical family, Hans?’ said Meenakshi.
Hans considered, then answered diplomatically: ‘I would say you are an atypically typical family.’
‘Not typically atypical?’ suggested Amit.
‘He’s not always like this,’ said Kuku to Lata.
‘Isn’t he?’ asked Lata.
‘Oh no—he’s much less—’
‘Less what?’ demanded Amit.
‘Less selfish!’ said Kuku, annoyed. She had been trying to defend him before Lata. But Amit seemed to be in one of those moods where he cared about no one’s feelings.
‘If I tried to be more unselfish,’ said Amit, ‘I would lose all those qualities that make me a net joy-giver.’
Mrs Rupa Mehra looked at Amit, rather astounded.
Amit explained: ‘I meant, Ma, that I would become completely sister-pecked and docile, and then my writing would suffer, and since my writing gives pleasure to many more people than I actually meet, there would be a net loss to the universe.’
This struck Mrs Rupa Mehra as astonishingly arrogant. ‘Can you use that as a reason to behave badly to those around you?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yes, I think so,’ said Amit, carried away by the force of his argument. ‘Certainly, I demand meals at odd hours, and I never answer letters in time. Sometimes, when I’m in the middle of a patch of inspiration, I don’t answer them for months.’
To Mrs Rupa Mehra this was sheer villainy. Not to answer letters was unforgivable. If this attitude spread, it would be the end of civilized life as she knew it. She glanced at Lata, who appeared to be enjoying the conversation, though not contributing to it at all.
‘I’m sure none of my children would ever do that,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘Even when I am away, my Varun writes to me every week.’ She looked pensive.
‘I’m sure they wouldn’t, Ma,’ said Kuku. ‘It’s just that we’ve pampered Amit so much that he thinks he can do anything and get away with it.’
‘Quite right,’ said Amit’s father from the other end of the table. ‘Savita’s just been telling me how fascinating she finds the law and how much she looks forward to practising it. Why have a qualification if you make no use of it?’
Amit fell silent.
‘Now Dipankar has settled down at last,’ Mr Justice Chatterji added with approval. ‘A bank is just the place for him.’
‘A river-bank,’ Kuku could not refrain from saying. ‘With an Ideal to ply him with Scotch and type his ruminations for him.’
‘Very amusing,’ said Mr Justice Chatterji. He was pleased with Dipankar these days.
‘And you, Tapan, you’re going to become a doctor, are you?’ said Amit with cynical affection.
‘I don’t think so, Dada,’ said Tapan, who looked quite happy.
‘Do you think I’ve made the right decision, Dada?’ asked Dipankar uncertainly. He had made up his mind suddenly, having been struck by the insight that one had to be of the world before one could get away from it; but he was beginning to have second thoughts.
‘Well—’ said Amit, thinking of the fate of his novel.
‘Well? Do you approve?’ said Dipankar, looking with great concentration at the beautiful shell-shaped dish that had contained his baked vegetables.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Amit. ‘But I’m not going to tell you I do.’
‘Oh.’
‘Because,’ continued Amit, ‘that would be the surest way of making you feel imposed upon—and then you’ll change your mind. But—if this helps—you are certainly blinking less these days.’
‘That’s true,’ said Mr Justice Chatterji with a smile. ‘I’m afraid, Hans, you must think we’re a very peculiar family.’
‘Not so,’ said Hans gallantly. ‘Not very peculiar.’ He and Kakoli exchanged affectionate glances.
‘We hope to hear you sing after dinner,’ continued Mr Justice Chatterji.
‘Ah. Yes. Something from Schubert?’
‘Who else is there?’ said Kakoli.
‘Well—’ began Hans.
‘For me there can only be Schubert,’ said Kakoli giddily. ‘Schubert is the only man in my life.’
At the far end of the table, Savita was talking to Varun, who had been looking downcast. As they talked, he cheered up perceptibly.
Meanwhile, Pran and Arun were engaged in a discussion of politics. Arun was lecturing Pran about the future of the country and how India needed a dictatorship. ‘None of these stupid politicians,’ he continued, unmindful of Pran’s feelings. ‘We really don’t deserve the Westminster model of government. Nor do the British for that matter. We’re still an advancing society—as our dhoti-wallahs are fond of telling us.’
‘Yes, people are always making advances in our society,’ said Meenakshi, rolling her eyes upwards.
Kuku giggled.
Arun glared and said in a low voice: ‘Meenakshi, it’s impossible to hold a sensible discussion when you’re tight.’
Meenakshi was so unused to being ticked off by an Outsider in her parents’ home that she did shut up.
After dinner, when everyone had adjourned to the drawing room for coffee, Mrs Chatterji took Amit to one side and said to him: ‘Meenakshi and Kuku are right. She’s a nice girl, though she doesn’t say very much. She could grow on you, I suppose.’
‘Mago, you make her sound like a fungus,’ said Amit. ‘I can see that Kuku and Meenakshi have won you over to their way of thinking. Anyway, I refuse not to talk to her just because you want me to. I’m not Dipankar.’
‘Whoever said you were, darling?’ said Mrs Chatterji. ‘I do wish you had been nicer at dinner, though.’
‘Well, anyone I like should be given the chance to see me at my best,’ said Amit unrepentantly.
‘I don’t think that’s a very useful way of looking at things, dear.’
‘True,’ admitted Amit. ‘But looking at things in terms of a useful way of looking at things may not be a useful thing either. Why don’t you talk to Mrs Mehra for a while? She was rather subdued at dinner. She didn’t mention her diabetes once. And I’ll talk to her daughter and apologize for my boorishness.’
‘Like a good boy.’
‘Like a good boy.’
16.7
Amit walked over to Lata, who was chatting to Meenakshi.
‘Sometimes he’s terribly rude—and for no reason at all,’ Meenakshi was saying.
‘Talking about me?’ said Amit.
‘No,’ said Lata, ‘about my brother, not hers.’
‘Ah,’ said Amit.
‘But the same certainly holds for you,’ added Meenakshi. ‘You’ve either been writing something strange or reading something strange. I can tell.’
‘Well, you’re right, I have. I was going to invite Lata to have a look at some books I promised to lend her but didn’t post. Is this a good time, Lata? Or should we look at them some other time?’
‘Oh, no, this is a good time,’ said Lata. ‘But when will they begin singing?’
‘I shouldn’t think for another fifteen minutes. . . . I’m sorry I was so rude at dinner.’
‘Were you?’
‘Wasn’t I? Didn’t you think so? Perhaps I wasn’t. I’m not sure now.’
They were walking past the room where Cuddles had been confined, and he let out a growl.
‘That dog should have his hypotenuse squared,’ said Amit.
‘Did he really bite Hans?’
‘Oh, yes, quite hard. Harder than he bit Arun. Anyway, everything looks more livid on pale skin. But Hans took it like a man. It’s a sort of rite of passage for our in-laws.’
‘Oh. Am I within the bitable degrees?’
‘I’m not sure. Do you want Cuddles to bite you?’
Upstairs, Lata looked at Amit’s room in a new light. This was the room where ‘The Fever Bird’ had been written, she thought; and where he must have worked out his dedication to her. Papers lay scattered around in far worse disorder than the last time she had visited it. And piles of clothes and books lay on his bed.
‘I shivered in the midnight heat,’ thought Lata. Aloud she said: ‘What sort of view do you get of that amaltas from here?’
Amit opened the window. ‘Not a very good view. Dipankar’s room is the best for that; it’s just above his hut. But enough to see its shadow—’
‘—Shake slightly on the moonlit grass.’
‘Yes.’ Amit didn’t normally like his poetry quoted back at him, but with Lata he didn’t mind. ‘Well, come to the window, sweet is the night-air.’
They stood there together for a while. It was very still, and the shadow of the amaltas did not shake at all. Dark leaves and long, dark, podded beans hung from its branches, but no yellow clusters of flowers.
‘Did it take you long to write that poem?’
‘No. I wrote it out in a single draft when that damn bird kept me awake. Once, I counted sixteen desperate triplets building upwards to fever pitch. Can you imagine: sixteen. It drove me crazy. And then I polished it over the next few days. I didn’t really want to look at it, and kept making excuses. I always do. I hate writing, you know.’
‘You—what—?’ Lata turned towards him. Amit really puzzled her at times. ‘Well, then, why do you write?’ she asked.
Amit’s face grew troubled. ‘It’s better than spending my life doing the law like my father and grandfather before me. And the main reason is that I often like my work when it’s done—it’s just the doing that is so tedious. With a short poem there’s the inspiration of course. But with this novel I have to whip myself to my desk—To work, to work, Macbeth doth shirk.’