A Fine Family: A Novel (20 page)

When he reached home he felt depressed by the contrast of his drab everyday life with the brilliant world of the ADC. He hated his room, his clothes, his books. To make matters worse, Tara was upset because he had returned late. Arjun decided to keep his visit to ADC a secret. He also felt that Karan would not want him to talk about his life in society, as he himself never spoke about it.

In the following weeks, Arjun tried to find out everything he could about Priti and her family. This was not difficult because they were well known. But it was not easy to hide his feelings when he mentioned her name. Gradually he became adept at steering the conversation over family dinner so as to learn more about her. His parents may have guessed that something was afoot, but they said nothing.

What Arjun learned seemed only to extend rather than diminish the gap between Priti and himself. That their grandfathers knew each other was the single reassuring fact he could fall back upon. He wondered how close Bauji had been to Sir Sanat Mehta. Did Priti know about Bauji? Even if she did, would it matter to her? Probably not. He tried to picture Bauji and Sanat Mehta talking in the courtyard at Lyallpur. But his memories of Lyallpur were vague and the picture blurry. Nevertheless he visualized the two men sitting under the shade of the mango tree, and Bauji offering papaya to his friend. Bauji used to offer fruit to everyone.

Bauji had lost everything in the partition while the Mehtas had not been affected. For one thing, their mills had been in Amritsar, which had come to India under the Radcliffe award. Whereas Bauji had invested in property in and around Lyallpur, Sanat Mehta had spread his real estate investments in Delhi, Simla, and as far away as Calcutta. Even his mansion in Lahore he had sold off during the ’40s, having guessed that the partition of the Punjab was inevitable, and that Lahore might go to Pakistan in the partition plan.

Apart from their house in Simla, which Sanat Mehta had bought from a departing Englishman in the ’30s for a fraction of its real value, he had made an impressive investment in an apple orchard in Kotgarh, about fifty miles north of Simla. He had got it virtually for nothing, although he had been called a fool at that time. After Independence, California-style apples had become popular and the orchard was now worth a fortune. Although their money was old, the status of the Mehtas was not due to their wealth alone. It also owed to the fact that Priti’s father had been active in the Congress movement in the ’30s and ’40s. During the freedom struggle, famous figures including Gandhi, Patel and even Tagore had visited their house in Lahore. Nehru had been a regular guest during the famous Simla round table conferences with the Viceroy. Karan knew Priti’s father from his days in the nationalist movement.

With his khaki canvas school bag slung on his back, Arjun passed Priti’s house twice a day. As he approached, his heartbeat would quicken. Even before the three-thirty bell, which announced the end of school, he would begin to think of her. When the bell rang, he would quickly gather his books and run out before any of his school friends decided to walk home with him. A round red post-box—a proud symbol of the British Raj—stood a hundred yards from her house, and it became a familiar landmark. When he reached it he would slow down his galloping pace, take a deep breath, and walk with measured steps towards the pleasure that awaited him.

Having reached Priti’s home, Arjun would first look in through the latticed gate, which gave a view of the side of the house and of the flower-lined path leading up to it. From this angle he could tell if the Mehtas had company. He could observe the servants going back and forth from the house to the lawn with the tea service. As Arjun moved towards the front of the house he had to be careful not to be seen. He became skilled at hiding behind a giant deodar tree on the other side of the road, which was at a slightly higher level. From here he could get a complete view of the lawn and a partial view of the house. He was grateful that the hibiscus hedge was cut low.

The house itself had a long gabled front of red brick, but years of Simla’s wet weather had mellowed it, with creepers growing abundantly around the windows and on the walls. Its wide veranda overlooked an acre of finely cut lawn, ending in the north in the dense shade of great old deodars and pine. Beds of colourful pansies, dahlias, asters, and a dozen varieties of roses bordered the lawn. The riot of flowers was surrounded by a low hedge and a green fence.

The Mehtas always seemed to have company. Full of fascination, Arjun would watch them having tea on the spacious lawn in the golden light of the sun. Afternoon tea at their house was obviously a well-practiced ceremony conducted with a gentle leisureliness. Arjun was struck by the Englishness of the scene. It seemed to come straight from a picture of an English country house which he had once seen in a magazine.

He imagined Priti living in these exalted circumstances which he could never hope to be part of. On his lucky days’ he would spot Priti on the lawn, either swinging on a wooden swing, talking to her friends, or playing badminton at the south end of the park. He would be filled with longing. He would have given anything to be a part of her unreachable, magical world.

One day he saw her close up. She was in light blue and she sat on the grass, just a few feet away from the fence. She was surrounded by two other boys and a man of indeterminate age. They were listening while she talked. Her head was unmistakably tilted. Suddenly she looked towards Arjun. Her dark, lively eyes seemed to mock him. A shiver ran through his body. He moved back behind the tree. He did not think she had seen him, but he could not be sure. After some time they moved away, and Arjun got ready to go home. As he was leaving, the same man, whom he had seen with Priti, called out to him from the fence above.

‘I say, young man, you shouldn’t stare at people like that.’

Arjun was mortified. He walked away quickly so as not to be recognized. He heard Priti shout from a distance, ‘What is it?’ The man replied, ‘Oh, it’s nothing, just a street urchin peering through the hedge.’ Despite his shame, Arjun felt soothed and healed by the sound of her voice. It had a melodious ring, which haunted him at night.

It was the same with her name. The words ‘Priti Mehta’ had acquired a magical quality for him. Once his school friend had uttered them, and it had left a warm and pleasant sensation inside him. Similarly, when his mother mentioned ‘the Mehtas’ he felt an unusual pleasure. He wondered about the power of words. He began to see why the ancient Brahmins were so particular about the configurations of sounds in a Vedic chant. His father did the same when he meditated by repeating a mantra. If they could invoke the gods with words, he would bring himself close to the Mehtas by the repetition of her name.

As the days went by, the daily walk to and from school became the chief pleasure of Arjun’s life. His moods alternated daily. He was ecstatic one day, sad another. When he was joyous, life seemed to surge in him, like springtime Himalayan grass. He enjoyed the breeze and the lovely weather. He looked up at the azure sky, and received the light into the expanse of his soul.

At about this time, Big Uncle came up from the plains to spend a holiday in Simla. Bauji’s eldest son had settled in Delhi after the partition. He had tried to make a go of his legal career, but had failed, and joined the government instead. He was now a department manager of the cottage industries programme which encouraged the development of village handlooms and handicrafts, mainly for export. Although he had not risen far in life, he had retained his sense of humour. When Tara asked why he had not brought his wife and children along, he replied, ‘A family and fun don’t go together. After seeing the same faces for eleven months, a man wants something new in the twelfth month.’

The day after he arrived, Big Uncle quietly gathered everyone’s shoes and hid them in the attic. It created a real commotion in the morning, when Arjun had to go to school and Seva Ram to work. ‘When will you grow up!’ said Tara, not amused.

Big Uncle brought much life into the household. He teased Tara’s maid, and even Seva Ram laughed at his constant joking. He went to the smartest tailor on the Mall and had a new wardrobe stitched. He strutted about in his fashionable clothes, as if he were the most handsome man in Simla. In fifteen days he found or made more friends on the Mall than Tara and Seva Ram had in fifteen years. He took Tara to the movies and to cafes, where she had not been for years. But most of all he loved to sit and gossip with Tara. Like two old maids they would talk for hours about the family over tea. Sometimes the talk would turn to Karan.

After all these years Tara still felt strong emotion for Karan. She would have probably characterized it as ‘concern’ or ‘affection’. But her heart still ached whenever she thought about him. Or if she unexpectedly ran into him, her whole being was suffused with joy. However, she did not dare to admit to herself that there was anything improper in her feelings for her cousin.

‘I get sick thinking about it,’ said Tara. ‘He had such a brilliant future. And look at him now. It is sad, isn’t it, that a man should do less than what he is capable of.’ She sighed.

‘What exactly is he doing?’ asked Big Uncle. ‘Still lecturing in the college?’

‘No, he left that some years ago, I suspect, because they did not promote him. But don’t tell him I said so.’

‘He has joined the Advanced Institute,’ said Seva Ram.

‘You must have heard about the new Institute in the papers. It got a lot of publicity. It is located in the old Viceregal Lodge,’ said Tara with emphasis, and Big Uncle was suitably impressed. ‘But they have no classes,’ she added.

‘Then what does he do?’ asked Big Uncle.

‘He is writing a book,’ she said. ‘I don’t quite know what it is on. He is so secretive. One is never quite sure,’ said Tara.

‘It is on the origins of Carnatic music,’ said Arjun.

‘What a shame!’ sighed Tara.

‘There is nothing shameful about writing a book,’ said Big Uncle with a smile.

‘I don’t mean that,’ she said. ‘He was capable of so much more. All those good-for-nothings who went to jail in the ‘40s became ministers. And the rascals put on such airs when they rode in government rickshaws.’

‘Don’t you speak to him about all this?’ asked Big Uncle.

‘I get tired of it. You know how he is. He just laughs.’

‘Some people are just lucky. I wouldn’t work either if Chachi had left me a fortune.’

‘What!’

‘You mean you didn’t know?’

‘But I thought Chachi died during the partition.’

‘Yes, but she had cleverly transferred her assets beforehand. Karan was named as the beneficiary if her own family members died.’

‘Which they did. Ah, so that explains a great deal.’

‘I heard he gave a sitar concert in Delhi,’ said Big Uncle with a strange smile.

After a pause, Tara suddenly lowered her voice, ‘I too have heard rumours about concerts. And he uses a different name. They say the papers carry reports of his performances, but I haven’t seen anything.’

‘It is common to use another name among artists,’ said Big Uncle.

Arjun was anxious to tell them that it was true. Karan was a famous artist, who performed in the big cities of India, and even abroad. He was a coveted member of the ADC, and all the rich and the powerful people were his friends. How could anyone feel sorry for him! Instead of saying all this, he merely smiled ironically like Karan.

‘He is away from Simla for months, but it is no use asking, because he never tells. Anyway, that is no way to live, giving concerts in public. It is all right to perform once in a while for your friends but to perform for money, that is another thing.’ After a short pause, Tara added, ‘Ah, I wish he would marry and settle down.’

‘Why don’t you find him a girl, Tara?’ said Big Uncle seriously.

‘In fact I did receive a number of offers, but I felt they were below his social level,’ she said, again lowering her voice, ‘I also once tried for a girl for him. Good family from Pindi. They knew Bauji. But when they learned that he was a college teacher, they ran away. If only I had known about his inheritance from Chachi.’

‘Alas. . .’ said Big Uncle, smiling in mock sympathy.

‘It is not natural for a man to remain a bachelor. He is not getting any younger. He should have someone to cook for him and to look after him. And he must have children to care for him when he is old.’ Tara sounded genuinely concerned.

‘It is our karma. We have to live out our karma,’ said Seva Ram philosophically.

‘Artists often don’t marry,’ said Arjun.

‘Why don’t
you
speak to him,’ said Tara to her husband.

‘No, no,’ smiled Seva Ram shyly. ‘Keep me out of it. I am no good at these things.’

‘Seriously, tell him what the guru told
you
when you did not want to marry.’

‘What?’ asked Big Uncle.

Seva Ram reddened. ‘The guru told him that marriage is a duty to mankind and civilization,’ said Tara smugly.

Arjun thought this conversation strange. He smiled secretly at the thought of all those desirable women who had smiled at Karan when he entered the Green Room. Even Priti, he vividly remembered, the way she had looked at him as she implored him to come and play the sitar for her. Was there anything more in those deep, dark eyes of his than showed on the surface? He wondered and he felt a trace of jealousy.

During Big Uncle’s visit to Simla, the Rivoli, which was a tiny cinema below the Ridge, announced a matinee showing of all of Guru Dutt’s films for a full week. Tara, who was a devoted fan of the great director, asked Big Uncle to take her, since Seva Ram was not keen to go, and besides he was working at that time. As it did not require much persuasion to make Big Uncle go to the movies, both of them could be seen at the Rivoli every afternoon, crying their hearts out through each tragic scene, or laughing their heads off during the comic sequences. During the evenings they would sing songs from the films and dissect them scene by scene.

With their heavily charged sensuality, the films summoned all of Tara’s middle class romantic dreams, which were also the dreams of the new nation that was still being led by the dreamer Nehru. Like Guru Dutt’s heroes, Tara too was thirsty for affection, fame and romance. She identified with their search for the pure and the innocent, unscathed by the compromises of society. Unrequited love which led to self-inflicted suffering was a constant theme, and Tara put a little bit of herself in every film. She thought of the innocence of Seva Ram even if he was aloof; she thought of the cynicism of Karan even if he was attractive. She believed literally in the Mughal gardens surrounded by breathtaking lakes, bumble bees, sweet flowers and torpid breezes. But she did not go along with the desolation and despair at the end of the films. Her dreams for Arjun’s future were safe in the real world. She believed in Nehru’s hopes of democracy, socialism and secularism. She had long forgiven him for his miscalculation of the partition. Even though she thought he was an idealist, she liked his dreams. Besides she trusted Nehru because he had proven himself by liberating the Hindu woman. As far as she was concerned the Hindu Code Bill was the most important legislation enacted in the Indian parliament in the ’50s.