‘Do you go to a hill station every summer?’ asked Lata. Though she had been schooled at St Sophia’s in Mussourie, there was no question now of being able to afford to take a house in the hills whenever they chose.
‘Oh yes,’ said Kabir. ‘My father insists on it. We usually go to a different hill station every year—Almora, Nainital, Ranikhet, Mussourie, Simla, even Darjeeling. He says that the fresh air “opens up his assumptions”, whatever that means. Once, when he came down from the hills, he said that like Zarathustra he had gained enough mathematical insight on the mountainside in six weeks to last a lifetime. But of course, we went up to the hills the next year as usual.’
‘And you?’ asked Lata. ‘What about you?’
‘What about me?’ said Kabir. He seemed troubled by some memory.
‘Do you like it in the hills? Will you be going this year as usual?’
‘I don’t know about this year,’ said Kabir. ‘I do like it up there. It’s like swimming.’
‘Swimming?’ asked Lata, trailing a hand in the water.
A thought suddenly struck Kabir. He said to the boatman: ‘How much do you charge local people to take them all the way up to the Barsaat Mahal from near the dhobi-ghat?’
‘Four annas a head,’ said the boatman.
‘Well then,’ said Kabir, ‘we should be paying you a rupee—at the most—considering that half your journey is downstream. And I’m paying you a rupee and four annas. So it’s not unfair.’
‘I’m not complaining,’ said the boatman, surprised.
The mist had cleared, and now before them on the bank of the river stood the grand grey edifice of the Brahmpur Fort, with a broad reach of sand stretching out in front of it. Near it, and leading down to the sands, was a huge earthen ramp, and above it a great pipal tree, its leaves shimmering in the morning breeze.
‘What did you mean by “swimming”?’ asked Lata.
‘Oh yes,’ said Kabir. ‘What I meant was that you’re in a completely different element. All your movements are different—and, as a result, all your thoughts. When I went tobogganing in Gulmarg once, I remember thinking that I didn’t really exist. All that existed was the clean, pure air, the high snows, this rush of swift movement. The flat, drab plains bring you back to yourself. Except, perhaps, well, like now on the river.’
‘Like music?’ said Lata.
The question was addressed as much to herself as to Kabir.
‘Mmm, yes, I think so, in a way,’ Kabir mused. ‘No, not really,’ he decided.
He had been thinking of a change of spirit brought about by a change of physical activity.
‘But,’ said Lata, following her own thoughts, ‘music really does do that to me. Simply strumming the tanpura, even if I don’t sing a single note, puts me into a trance. Sometimes I do it for fifteen minutes before I come back to myself. When things get to be too much for me, it’s the first thing I turn to. And when I think that I only took up singing under Malati’s influence last year I realize how lucky I’ve been. Do you know that my mother is so unmusical that when I was a child and she would sing lullabies to me, I would beg her to stop and let my ayah sing them instead?’
Kabir was smiling. He put his arm around her shoulder and, instead of protesting, she let it remain. It seemed to be in the right place.
‘Why aren’t you saying anything?’ she said.
‘I was just hoping that you’d go on talking. It’s unusual to hear you talking about yourself. I sometimes think I don’t know the first thing about you. Who is this Malati, for instance?’
‘The first thing?’ said Lata, recalling a shred of conversation she’d had with Malati. ‘Even after all the inquiries you’ve instituted?’
‘Yes,’ said Kabir. ‘Tell me about yourself.’
‘That’s not much use as a request. Be more specific. Where should I begin?’
‘Oh, anywhere. Begin at the beginning, go on until you reach the end and then stop.’
‘Well,’ said Lata, ‘it’s before breakfast, so you’ll have to hear at least six impossible things.’
‘Good,’ said Kabir, laughing.
‘Except that my life probably doesn’t contain six impossible things. It’s quite humdrum.’
‘Begin with the family,’ said Kabir.
Lata began to talk about her family—her much-beloved father, who seemed even now to cast a protective aura over her, not least significantly in the shape of a grey sweater; her mother, with her Gita, waterworks, and affectionate volubility; Arun and Meenakshi and Aparna and Varun in Calcutta; and of course Savita and Pran and the baby-to-be. She talked freely, even moving a little closer to Kabir. Strangely enough, for one who was sometimes so unsure of herself, she did not at all doubt his affection.
The Fort and the sands had gone past, as had the cremation ghat and a glimpse of the temples of Old Brahmpur and the minarets of the Alamgiri Mosque. Now as they came round a gentle bend in the river they saw before them the delicate white structure of the Barsaat Mahal, at first from an angle, and then, gradually, full face.
The water was not clear, but it was quite calm and its surface was like murky glass. The boatman moved into mid-stream as he rowed. Then he settled the boat dead centre—in line with the vertical axis of symmetry of the Barsaat Mahal—and plunged the long pole that he had earlier fetched from the opposite bank deep into the middle of the river. It hit the bottom, and the boat was still.
‘Now sit and watch for five minutes,’ said the boatman. ‘This is a sight you will never forget in your lives.’
Indeed it was, and neither of them was to forget it. The Barsaat Mahal, site of statesmanship and intrigue, love and dissolute enjoyment, glory and slow decay, was transfigured into something of abstract and final beauty. Above its sheer river wall it rose, its reflection in the water almost perfect, almost unrippled. They were in a stretch of the river where even the sounds of the old town were dim. For a few minutes they said nothing at all.
3.14
After a little while, without as such being told to, the boatman pulled his pole out of the mud at the bottom of the river. He continued to row upstream, past the Barsaat Mahal. The river narrowed slightly because of a spit of sand jutting almost into mid-stream from the opposite bank. The chimneys of a shoe factory, a tannery and a flour mill came into view. Kabir stretched and yawned, releasing Lata’s shoulder.
‘Now I’ll turn around and we’ll drift past it,’ said the boatman.
Kabir nodded.
‘This is where the easy part begins for me,’ said the boatman, turning the boat around. ‘It’s good it’s not too hot yet.’ Steering with an occasional stroke of the oar, he let the boat drift downstream on the current.
‘Lots of suicides from that place there,’ he commented cheerfully, pointing at the sheer drop from the Barsaat Mahal to the water. ‘There was one last week. The hotter the weather, the crazier people get. Crazy people, crazy people.’ He gestured along the shore. Clearly, in his mind, the perpetually land-bound could never be quite sane.
As they passed the Barsaat Mahal again, Kabir took a small booklet entitled Diamond Guide to Brahmpur out of his pocket. He read out the following to Lata:
Although Fatima Jaan was only third wife of Nawab Khushwaqt still it was to her that he made the nobile edifice of Barsaat Mahal. Her feminine grace, dignity of heart and wit proved so powerful that Nawab Khushwaqt’s all affections were soon transferred to his new bride, their Impassionate love made them inseparatable companions both in the palaces as well as in the court. To her he built Barsaat Mahal, miracle of marble filligral work, for their life and pleasures.
Once she also accompanied him in the campaign. At that time she gave birth to a weakly son and unfortunately, due to some disorder in the system, she looked despairingly at her lord. At this, the Nawab was shocked too much. His heart was sank with grief and face grew much too pale. . . . Alas! On the day of 23 April, 1735, Fatima Jaan closed her eyes at a shortage of 33 before her broken-hearted lo
ver.
‘But is all this true?’ said Lata laughing.
‘Every word,’ said Kabir. ‘Trust your historian.’ He went on:
Nawab Khushwaqt was so much grieved that his mind was upset, he was even prepared to die which he, of course, could not do. For a long time he could not forget her though all possible efforts were made. On each Friday he went on foot to the grave of his best-loved and himself read fatiha on final resting spot of her bones.
‘Please,’ said Lata, ‘please stop. You’ll ruin the Barsaat Mahal for me.’ But Kabir read mercilessly on:
After her death the palace became sordid and sad. No longer did the tanks full of golden and silvery fish afford sportive amusements to the Nawab. He became lustrious and debauching. He built now a dark room where refractory members of harem were hanged and their bodies were swept away in the river. This left a blot on his personality. During those days these punishments were usual without distinction of sexes. There was no law except the Nawab’s orders and the punishments were drastic and furious.
The fountains played still with frangrant water and an unceasing water rolled on the floors. The palace was not less than a heaven where beauty and charms were scattered freely. But after expiry of the One of his life what to him mattered the innumerable blooming ladies? He breathed his last on the 14 January gazzing steadfastly at a picture of F. Jaan.
‘Which year did he die in?’ asked Lata.
‘I believe the Diamond Guide to Brahmpur is silent on this subject, but I can supply the date myself. It was 1766. Nor does it tell us why it was called the Barsaat Mahal in the first place.’
‘Why was it?’ asked Lata. ‘Because an unceasing water rolled freely?’ she speculated.
‘Actually it has to do with the poet Mast,’ said Kabir. ‘It used to be called the Fatima Mahal. Mast, during one of his recitations there, made a poetic analogy between Khushwaqt’s unceasing tears and the monsoon rains. The ghazal containing that particular couplet became popular.’
‘Ah,’ said Lata, and closed her eyes.
‘Also,’ continued Kabir, ‘the Nawab’s successors—including his weakly son—used to be found more often in the pleasure grounds of the Fatima Mahal during the monsoons than at any other time. Most things stopped during the rains except pleasure. And so its popular name changed.’
‘And what was that other story you were about to tell me about Akbar and Birbal?’ asked Lata.
‘About Akbar and Birbal?’ asked Kabir.
‘Not today; at the concert.’
‘Oh,’ said Kabir. ‘Did I? But there are so many stories. Which one was I referring to? I mean, what was the context?’
How is it, thought Lata, that he doesn’t remember these remarks of his that I remember so well?
‘I think it was about me and my friends reminding you of jungle babblers.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Kabir’s face lit up at the memory. ‘This is how it goes. Akbar was bored with things, so he asked his court to tell him something truly astonishing—but not something that they had merely heard about, something that they themselves had seen. The most astonishing story would win a prize. All his courtiers and ministers came up with different and astonishing facts—all the usual ones. One said that he had seen an elephant trumpeting in terror before an ant. Another said that he had seen a ship flying in the sky. Another that he had met a Sheikh who could see treasure buried in the earth. Another that he had seen a buffalo with three heads. And so on and so forth. When it came to Birbal’s turn, he didn’t say anything. Finally, he admitted that he had seen something unusual while riding to court that day: about fifty women sitting under a tree together, absolutely silent. And everyone immediately agreed that Birbal should get the prize.’ Kabir threw back his head and laughed.
Lata was not pleased by the story, and was about to tell him so when she thought of Mrs Rupa Mehra, who found it impossible to remain silent for even a couple of minutes in grief, joy, sickness or health, in a railway carriage or at a concert or indeed anywhere at all.
‘Why do you always remind me of my mother?’ asked Lata.
‘Do I?’ said Kabir. ‘I didn’t mean to.’ And he put his arm around her again.
He became silent; his thoughts had wandered off to his own family. Lata too was silent; she still could not work out what had caused her to panic in the exam, and it had returned to perplex her.
The shoreline of Brahmpur again drifted past but now there was more activity at the water’s edge. The boatman had chosen to keep closer to the shore. They could hear more clearly the oars of other boats; bathers splashing, clearing their throats, coughing and blowing their noses; crows cawing; verses from the scriptures being chanted over a loudspeaker; and beyond the sands the sound of temple bells and conches.
The river flowed due east at this point, and the risen sun was reflected in its surface far beyond the university. A marigold garland floated in the water. Pyres were burning at the cremation ghat. From the Fort came the shouted commands of parade. As they drifted downstream they once more heard the ceaseless sounds of the washermen and the occasional braying of their donkeys.
The boat reached the steps. Kabir offered the boatman two rupees.
He nobly refused it.
‘We came to an understanding beforehand. Next time you’ll look out for me,’ he said.
When the boat stopped moving Lata felt a pang of regret. She thought of what Kabir had said about swimming or tobogganing—about the ease conferred by a new element, a different physical motion. The movement of the boat, their feeling of freedom and distance from the world would soon, she felt, disperse. But when Kabir helped her ashore, she did not pull away, and they walked hand in hand along the edge of the river towards the banyan grove and the minor shrine. They did not say much.
It was more difficult to climb up the path than to walk down it in her slippers, but he helped pull her up. He might be gentle, she thought, but he is certainly strong. It struck her as amazing that they had hardly talked about the university, their exams, cricket, teachers, plans, the world immediately above the cliffs. She blessed the qualms of Hema’s Taiji.
They sat on the twisted root of the twin banyan trees. Lata was at a loss as to what to say. She heard herself saying:
‘Kabir, are you interested in politics?’
He looked at her in amazement at the unexpected question, then simply said, ‘No,’ and kissed her.
Her heart turned over completely. She responded to his kiss—without thinking anything out—but with a sense of amazement at herself—that she could be so reckless and happy.
When the kiss was over, Lata suddenly began thinking again, and more furiously than ever.
‘I love you,’ said Kabir.
When she was silent, he said:
‘Well, aren’t you going to say anything?’
‘Oh, I love you too,’ said Lata, stating a fact that was completely obvious to her and therefore should have been obvious to him. ‘But it’s pointless to say so, so take it back.’
Kabir started. But before he could say anything, Lata said:
‘Kabir, why didn’t you tell me your last name?’
‘It’s Durrani.’
‘I know.’ Hearing him say it so casually brought all the cares of the world back on her head.
‘You know?’ Kabir was surprised. ‘But I remember that at the concert you refused to exchange last names with me.’
Lata smiled; his memory was quite selective. Then she grew serious again.
‘You’re Muslim,’ she said quietly.
‘Yes, yes, but why is all this so important to you? Is that why you’ve been so strange and distant sometimes?’ There was a humorous light in his eyes.
‘Important?’ It was Lata’s turn to be amazed. ‘It’s all-important. Don’t you know what it means in my family?’ Was he deliberately refusing to see difficulties, she wondered, or did he truly believe that it made no difference?
Kabir held her hand and said, ‘You love me. An
d I love you. That’s all that matters.’
Lata persisted: ‘Doesn’t your father care?’
‘No. Unlike many Muslim families, I suppose we were sheltered during Partition—and before. He hardly thinks of anything except his parameters and perimeters. And an equation is the same whether it’s written in red or green ink. I don’t see why we have to talk about this.’
Lata tied her grey sweater around her waist, and they walked to the top of the path. They agreed to meet again in three days at the same place at the same time. Kabir was going to be occupied for a couple of days doing some work for his father. He unchained his bike and—looking quickly around—kissed her again. When he was about to cycle off, she said to him:
‘Have you kissed anyone else?’
‘What was that?’ He looked amused.
She was looking at his face; she didn’t repeat the question.
‘Do you mean ever?’ he asked. ‘No. I don’t think so. Not seriously.’
And he rode off.
3.15
Later that day, Mrs Rupa Mehra was sitting with her daughters, embroidering a tiny handkerchief with a rose for the baby. White was a sexually neutral colour, but white-on-white was too drab for Mrs Rupa Mehra’s tastes, and so she decided on yellow. After her beloved granddaughter Aparna, she wanted—and had predicted—a grandson. She would have embroidered the handkerchief in blue, except that this would certainly have invited Fate to change the sex of the child in the womb.
Rafi Ahmad Kidwai, the Union Minister of Communications, had just announced that postal charges were to be raised. Since replying to her abundant correspondence was what occupied at least a third of Mrs Rupa Mehra’s time, this had hit her hard. Rafi Sahib was the most secular-minded, least communally impassioned man possible, but he happened to be Muslim. Mrs Rupa Mehra felt like hitting out, and he presented a direct target. She said:
‘Nehru indulges them too much, he only talks to Azad and Kidwai, does he think he’s the Prime Minister of Pakistan? Then see what they do.’