A Suitable Boy, Page 57

  Dipankar nodded furiously, blinked rapidly, and gulped his Scotch down, while Kakoli winked at him. That’s what she liked about Dipankar, thought Kakoli: he was the only serious younger Chatterji, and because he was such a gentle, accommodating soul, he made the ideal captive listener for any purveyors of pabulum who happened to stray into the irreverent household. And everyone in the family could go to him when they wanted unflippant advice.

  ‘Dipankar,’ said Kakoli, ‘Hemangini wants to talk to you, she’s pining away without you, and she has to leave in ten minutes.’

  ‘Yes, Kuku, thanks,’ said Dipankar unhappily, and blinking a little more than usual as a result. ‘Try to keep her here as long as you can . . . we were just having this interesting discussion. . . . Why don’t you join us, Kuku?’ he added desperately. ‘It’s all about how Unity is the intrinsic essence of our being. . . .’

  ‘Oh, no, no, no, no, Dipankar,’ said the Grande Dame, correcting him a trifle sadly, but still patiently: ‘Not Unity, not Unity, but Zero, Nullity itself is the guiding principle of our existence. I could never have used the term intrinsic essence—for what is an essence if it is not intrinsic? India is the land of the Zero, for it was from the horizons of our soil that it rose like a vast sun to spread its light on the world of knowledge.’ She surveyed a gulab-jamun for a few seconds. ‘It is the Zero, Dipankar, represented by the Mandala, the circle, the circular nature of Time itself, that is the guiding principle of our civilization. All this’—she waved her arm around the drawing room once more, taking in, in one slow plump sweep the piano, the bookcases, the flowers in their huge cut-glass vases, the cigarettes smouldering at the edges of ashtrays, two plates of gulab-jamuns, the glittering guests, and Dipankar himself—‘all this is Non-Being. It is the Non-ness of things, Dipankar, that you must accept, for in Nothing lies the secret of Everything.’

  7.15

  The Chatterji parliament (including Kakoli, who normally found it difficult to wake up before ten) was assembled for breakfast the next day.

  All signs of the party had been cleared away. Cuddles had been unleashed upon the world. He had bounded around the garden in delight, and had disturbed Dipankar’s meditations in the small hut that he had made for himself in a corner of the garden. He had also dug up a few plants in the vegetable garden that Dipankar took so much interest in. Dipankar took all this calmly. Cuddles had probably buried something there, and after the trauma of last night merely wanted to reassure himself that the world and the objects in it were as they used to be.

  Kakoli had left instructions that she was to be woken up at seven. She had to make a phone call to Hans after he came back from his morning ride. How he managed to wake up at five—like Dipankar—and do all these vigorous things on a horse she did not know. But she felt that he must have great strength of will.

  Kakoli was deeply attached to the telephone, and monopolized it shamelessly—as she did the car. Often she would burble on for forty-five minutes on end and her father sometimes found it impossible to get through to his house from the High Court or the Calcutta Club. There were fewer than ten thousand telephones in the whole of Calcutta, so a second phone would have been an unimaginable luxury. Ever since Kakoli had had an extension installed in her room, however, the unimaginable had begun to appear to him almost reasonable.

  Since it had been a late night, the old servant Bahadur, who usually performed the difficult task of waking the unwilling Kuku and placating her with milk, had been told to sleep late. Amit had therefore taken on the duty of waking his sister.

  He knocked gently on her door. There was no response. He opened the door. Light was streaming through the window on to Kakoli’s bed. She was sleeping diagonally across the bed with her arm thrown across her eyes. Her pretty, round face was covered with dried Lacto Calamine, which, like papaya pulp, she used to improve her complexion.

  Amit said, ‘Kuku, wake up. It’s seven o’clock.’

  Kakoli continued to sleep soundly.

  ‘Wake up, Kuku.’

  Kakoli stirred slightly, then said what sounded like ‘choo-moo’. It was a sound of complaint.

  After about five minutes of trying to get her to wake up, first by gentle words and then by a gentle shake or two of the shoulders, and being rewarded with nothing but ‘choo-moo’, Amit threw a pillow rather ungently over her head.

  Kakoli bestirred herself enough to say: ‘Take a lesson from Bahadur. Wake people up nicely.’

  Amit said, ‘I don’t have the practice. He has probably had to stand around your bed ten thousand times murmuring, “Kuku Baby, wake up; wake up, Baby Memsahib,” for twenty minutes while you do your “choo-moo”.’

  ‘Ungh,’ said Kakoli.

  ‘Open your eyes at least,’ said Amit. ‘Otherwise you’ll just roll over and go back to sleep.’ After a pause he added, ‘Kuku Baby.’

  ‘Ungh,’ said Kakoli irritably. She opened both her eyes a fraction, however.

  ‘Do you want your teddy bear? Your telephone? A glass of milk?’ said Amit.

  ‘Milk.’

  ‘How many glasses?’

  ‘A glass of milk.’

  ‘All right.’

  Amit went off to fetch her a glass of milk.

  When he returned he found that she was sitting on the bed, with the telephone receiver in one hand and Cuddles tucked under the other arm. She was treating Cuddles to a stream of Chatterji chatter.

  ‘Oh you beastie,’ she was saying: ‘oh you beastly beastie—oh you ghastly, beastly beastie.’ She stroked his head with the telephone receiver. ‘Oh you vastly ghastly mostly beastly beastie.’ She paid no attention to Amit.

  ‘Do shut up, Kuku, and take your milk,’ said Amit irritably. ‘I have other things to do than wait on you, you know.’

  This remark struck Kakoli with novel force. She was well practised in the art of being helpless when there were helpful people around.

  ‘Or do you want me to drink it for you as well?’ added Amit gratuitously.

  ‘Go bite Amit,’ Kakoli instructed Cuddles. Cuddles did not comply.

  ‘Shall I set it down here, Madam?’

  ‘Yes, do.’ Kakoli ignored the sarcasm.

  ‘Will that be all, Madam?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes what?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘I was going to ask for a good-morning kiss, but that Lacto Calamine looks so disgusting I think I’ll defer it.’

  Kakoli surveyed Amit severely. ‘You are a horrible, insensitive person,’ she informed him. ‘I don’t know why women swoooooon over your poetry.’

  ‘That’s because my poetry is so sensitive,’ said Amit.

  ‘I pity the girl who marries you. I reeeeeally pity her.’

  ‘And I pity the man who marries you. I reeeeeeally pity him. By the way, was that my future brother-in-law you were going to call? The nutcracker?’

  ‘The nutcracker?’

  Amit held out his right hand as if shaking it with an invisible man. Slowly his mouth opened in shock and agony.

  ‘Do go away, Amit, you’ve spoilt my mood completely,’ said Kakoli.

  ‘What there was to spoil,’ said Amit.

  ‘When I say anything about the women you’re interested in you get very peeved.’

  ‘Like who? Jane Austen?’

  ‘May I make my phone call in peace and privacy?’

  ‘Yes, yes, Kuku Baby,’ said Amit, succeeding in being both sarcastic and placatory, ‘I’m just going, I’m just going. See you at breakfast.’

  7.16

  The Chatterji family at breakfast presented a scene of cordial conflict. It was an intelligent family where everyone thought of everyone else as an idiot. Some people thought the Chatterjis obnoxious because they appeared to enjoy each other’s company even more than the company of others. But if they had dropped by at the Chatterjis’ for breakfast and seen them bickering, they would probably have disliked them less.

  Mr Justice Chatterji sat at the head of th
e table. Though small in size, short-sighted, and fairly absent-minded, he was a man of some dignity. He inspired respect in court and a sort of obedience even in his eccentric family. He didn’t like to talk more than was necessary.

  ‘Anyone who likes mixed fruit jam is a lunatic,’ said Amit.

  ‘Are you calling me a lunatic?’ asked Kakoli.

  ‘No, of course not, Kuku, I’m working from general principles. Please pass me the butter.’

  ‘You can reach for it yourself,’ said Kuku.

  ‘Now, now, Kuku,’ murmured Mrs Chatterji.

  ‘I can’t,’ protested Amit. ‘My hand’s been crushed.’

  Tapan laughed. Kakoli gave him a black look, then began to look glum in preparation for a request.

  ‘I need the car today, Baba,’ said Kuku after a few seconds. ‘I have to go out. I need it for the whole day.’

  ‘But Baba,’ said Tapan, ‘I’m spending the day with Pankaj.’

  ‘I really must go to Hamilton’s this morning to get the silver inkstand back,’ said Mrs Chatterji.

  Mr Justice Chatterji raised his eyebrows. ‘Amit?’ he asked.

  ‘No bid,’ said Amit.

  Dipankar, who also declined transport, wondered aloud why Kuku was looking so wistful. Kuku frowned.

  Amit and Tapan promptly began an antiphonal chant.

  ‘We look before and after, and pine for what is—’

  ‘NOT!’

  ‘Our sincerest laughter with some pain is—’

  ‘FROT!’

  ‘Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest—’

  ‘THOT!’ cried Tapan jubilantly, for he hero-worshipped Amit.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling,’ said Mrs Chatterji comfortingly; ‘everything will come out all right in the end.’

  ‘You don’t have any idea what I was thinking of,’ countered Kakoli.

  ‘You mean who,’ said Tapan.

  ‘You be quiet, you amoeba,’ said Kakoli.

  ‘He seemed a nice enough chap,’ ventured Dipankar.

  ‘Oh no, he’s just a glamdip,’ countered Amit.

  ‘Glamdip? Glamdip? Have I missed something?’ asked their father.

  Mrs Chatterji looked equally mystified. ‘Yes, what is a glamdip, darling?’ she asked Amit.

  ‘A glamorous diplomat,’ replied Amit. ‘Very vacant, very charming. The kind of person whom Meenakshi used to sigh after. And talking of which, one of them is coming around to visit me this morning. He wants to ask me about culture and literature.’

  ‘Really, Amit?’ asked Mrs Chatterji eagerly. ‘Who?’

  ‘Some South American ambassador—from Peru or Chile or somewhere,’ said Amit, ‘with an interest in the arts. I got a phone call from Delhi a week or two ago, and we fixed it up. Or was it Bolivia? He wanted to meet an author on his visit to Calcutta. I doubt he’s read anything by me.’

  Mrs Chatterji looked flustered. ‘But then I must make sure that everything is in order—’ she said. ‘And you told Biswas Babu you’d see him this morning.’

  ‘So I did, so I did,’ agreed Amit. ‘And so I will.’

  ‘He is not just a glamdip,’ said Kakoli suddenly. ‘You’ve hardly met him.’

  ‘No, he is a good boy for our Kuku,’ said Tapan. ‘He is so shinsheer.’

  This was one of Biswas Babu’s adjectives of high praise. Kuku felt that Tapan should have his ears boxed.

  ‘I like Hans,’ said Dipankar. ‘He was very polite to the man who told him to drink the juice of bitter gourds. He does have a good heart.’

  ‘O my darling, don’t be heartless.

  Hold my hand. Let us be partless,’

  murmured Amit.

  ‘But don’t hold it too hard,’ laughed Tapan.

  ‘Stop it!’ cried Kuku. ‘You are all being utterly horrible.’

  ‘He is good wedding-bell material for our Kuku,’ continued Tapan, tempting retribution.

  ‘Wedding bell? Or bedding well?’ asked Amit. Tapan grinned delightedly.

  ‘Now, that’s enough, Amit,’ said Mr Justice Chatterji before his wife could intervene. ‘No bloodshed at breakfast. Let’s talk about something else.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Kuku. ‘Like the way Amit was mooning over Lata last night.’

  ‘Over Lata?’ said Amit, genuinely astonished.

  ‘Over Lata?’ repeated Kuku, imitating him.

  ‘Really, Kuku, love has destroyed your brain,’ said Amit. ‘I didn’t notice I was spending any time with her at all.’

  ‘No, I’m sure you didn’t.’

  ‘She’s just a nice girl, that’s all,’ said Amit. ‘If Meenakshi hadn’t been so busy gossiping and Arun making contacts I wouldn’t have assumed any responsibility for her at all.’

  ‘So we needn’t invite her over unnecessarily while she’s in Calcutta,’ murmured Kuku.

  Mrs Chatterji said nothing, but had begun to look anxious.

  ‘I’ll invite whoever I like over,’ said Amit. ‘You, Kuku, invited fifty-odd people to the party last night.’

  ‘Fifty odd people,’ Tapan couldn’t resist saying.

  Kuku turned on him severely.

  ‘Little boys shouldn’t interrupt adult conversations,’ she said.

  Tapan, from the safety of the other side of the table, made a face at her. Once Kuku had actually got so incensed she had chased him around the table, but usually she was sluggish till noon.

  ‘Yes,’ Amit frowned. ‘Some of them were very odd, Kuku. Who is that fellow Krishnan? Dark chap, south Indian, I imagine. He was glaring at you and your Second Secretary very resentfully.’

  ‘Oh, he’s just a friend,’ said Kuku, spreading her butter with more than usual concentration. ‘I suppose he’s annoyed with me.’

  Amit could not resist delivering a Kakoli-couplet:

  ‘What is Krishnan in the end?

  Just a mushroom, just a friend.’

  Tapan continued:

  ‘Always eating dosa-iddly,

  Drinking beer and going piddly!’

  ‘Tapan!’ gasped his mother.

  Amit, Meenakshi and Kuku, it appeared, had completely corrupted her baby with their stupid rhyming.

  Mr Justice Chatterji put down his toast. ‘That’s enough from you, Tapan,’ he said.

  ‘But Baba, I was only joking,’ protested Tapan, thinking it unfair that he should have been singled out. Just because I’m the youngest, he thought. And it was a pretty good couplet too.

  ‘A joke’s a joke, but enough’s enough,’ said his father. ‘And you too, Amit. You’d have a better claim to criticizing others if you did something useful yourself.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ added Kuku happily, seeing the tables turning. ‘Do some serious work, Dada. Act like a useful member of society before you criticize others.’

  ‘What’s wrong with writing poems and novels?’ asked Amit. ‘Or has passion made you illiterate as well?’

  ‘It’s all right as an amusement, Amit,’ said Mr Justice Chatterji. ‘But it’s not a living. And what’s wrong with the law?’

  ‘Well, it’s like going back to school,’ said Amit.

  ‘I don’t quite see how you come to that conclusion,’ said his father dryly.

  ‘Well,’ said Amit, ‘you have to be properly dressed—that’s like school uniform. And instead of saying “Sir” you say “My Lord”—which is just as bad—until you’re raised to the bench and people say it to you instead. And you get holidays, and you get good chits and bad chits just like Tapan does: I mean judgements in your favour and against you.’

  ‘Well,’ said Justice Chatterji, not entirely pleased by the analogy, ‘it was good enough for your grandfather and for me.’

  ‘But Amit has a special gift,’ broke in Mrs Chatterji. ‘Aren’t you proud of him?’

  ‘He can practise his special gifts in his spare time,’ said her husband.

  ‘Is that what they said to Rabindranath Tagore?’ asked Amit.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll admit there�
��s a difference between you and Tagore,’ said his father, looking at his eldest son in surprise.

  ‘I’ll admit there’s a difference, Baba,’ said Amit. ‘But what’s the relevance of the difference to the point I’m making?’

  But at the mention of Tagore, Mrs Chatterji had entered a mode of righteous reverence.

  ‘Amit, Amit,’ she cried, ‘how can you think of Gurudeb like that?’

  ‘Mago, I didn’t say—’ began Amit.

  Mrs Chatterji broke in. ‘Amit, Robi Babu is like a saint. We in Bengal owe everything to him. When I was in Shantiniketan, I remember he once said to me—’

  But now Kakoli joined forces with Amit.

  ‘Please, Mago, really—we’ve heard enough about Shantiniketan and how idyllic it is. I know that if I had to live there I’d commit suicide every day.’

  ‘His voice is like a cry in the wilderness,’ continued her mother, hardly hearing her.

  ‘I’d hardly say so, Ma,’ said Amit. ‘We idolize him more than the English do Shakespeare.’

  ‘And with good reason,’ said Mrs Chatterji. ‘His songs come to our lips—his poems come to our hearts—’

  ‘Actually,’ said Kakoli, ‘Abol Tabol is the only good book in the whole of Bengali literature.

  The Griffonling from birth

  Is indisposed to mirth.

  To laugh or grin he counts a sin

  And shudders, “Not on earth.”

  Oh, yes, and I like The Sketches of Hutom the Owl. And when I take up literature, I shall write my own: The Sketches of Cuddles the Dog.’

  ‘Kuku, you are a really shameless girl,’ cried Mrs Chatterji, incensed. ‘Please stop her from saying these things.’

  ‘It’s just an opinion, dear,’ said Mr Justice Chatterji, ‘I can’t stop her from holding opinions.’

  ‘But about Gurudeb, whose songs she sings—about Robi Babu—’

  Kakoli, who had been force-fed, almost from birth, with Rabindrasangeet, now warbled out to the tune of a truncated ‘Shonkochero bihvalata nijere apoman’:

  ‘Robi Babu, R. Tagore, O, he’s such a bore!