A Suitable Boy, Page 60

  ‘I see. Well, thank you, Arun.’

  But Arun had not finished.

  ‘And we could offer to reduce the premium.’

  ‘Reduce it, did you say?’ Basil Cox raised both eyebrows.

  ‘Yes. Just remove the Theft, Pilferage and Non-Delivery clause. They can have everything else: the standard policy of fire, storm, leakage, piracy, forced jettison and so on, plus Strike, Riot and Civil Commotion, rainwater damage, even taint, whatever they want. All on very favourable terms. But no TPND. That they can insure with someone else. They obviously have very little incentive to protect their cargo if we fork out their claims every time someone decides to drink their tea for them.’

  Basil Cox smiled. ‘It’s an idea. Let me think about it. We’ll talk about it in the car this afternoon on the way to Puttigurh.’

  ‘There’s one other matter, Basil.’

  ‘Could it wait till the afternoon too?’

  ‘Actually, one of our friends from Rajasthan is coming to see me in an hour and it has to do with him. I should have brought it up earlier, but I thought it could wait. I didn’t know he was so eager to have a quick response.’

  This was a stock euphemism for a Marwari businessman. The grasping, enterprising, canny, energetic and above all ungentlemanly traits of that community were intensely distasteful to the leisured and gentlemanly sahibs of the managing agencies. The managing agency might borrow a great deal of money from a certain kind of Marwari businessman, but the chairman would not dream of inviting him to his club, even if it were one to which Indians were admitted.

  But in this case it was the Marwari businessman who wanted Bentsen Pryce to finance him. His suggestion, in brief, was this: his house wanted to expand into a new line of operations, but he wanted Bentsen Pryce to invest in this expansion. In return, he would give them whatever insurance business arose from the new operations.

  Arun, swallowing his own instinctive distaste for the community, and reminding himself that business was business, put the matter to Basil Cox as objectively as he could. He forbore from mentioning that this was no more than what one British firm did for another in the regular way of business. He knew that his boss was not unaware of that fact.

  Basil Cox did not ask him for his advice. He looked at a point beyond Arun’s right shoulder for a disconcertingly long time, then said:

  ‘I don’t like it—it smells a bit Marwari to me.’

  By his tone he implied that it was a species of sharp practice. Arun was about to speak when he added:

  ‘No. It’s definitely not for us. And Finance, I know, would not like it at all. Let’s leave it at that. So I’ll see you at two thirty?’

  ‘Right,’ said Arun.

  When he got back to his room, he wondered how he would put things to his visitor, and what reasons he could adduce to defend the decision. But he did not need to. Mr Jhunjhunwala took the decision surprisingly well. When Arun told him that his company couldn’t go ahead with the proposal, Mr Jhunjhunwala did not ask him to explain himself. He merely nodded, then said in Hindi—implying an awful complicity, it seemed to Arun, a complicity of one Indian with another—‘You know, that’s the trouble with Bentsen Pryce: they won’t take something on unless there’s a bit of a smell of the English in it.’

  7.22

  After Mr Jhunjhunwala had gone, Arun phoned Meenakshi to say that he would be back from work fairly late that evening, but that they should still plan to go for cocktails at the Finlays’ at about seven thirty. He then answered a couple of other letters, and finally settled back to his crossword.

  But before he could solve more than two or three more clues, the phone rang. It was James Pettigrew.

  ‘Well, Arun, how many?’

  ‘Not many, I’m afraid. I’ve just begun to look at it.’

  This was an outright lie. Apart from straining every brain cell he could while sitting on the toilet, Arun had frowned at the crossword over breakfast and even scribbled the letters of possible anagrams underneath the clues while being driven to work. Since his handwriting was illegible, even to himself, this usually didn’t help him much.

  ‘I won’t ask you if you got “that confounded pane in the neck”.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Arun. ‘I’m glad you give me credit for an IQ of at least eighty.’

  ‘And “Johnson’s rose”?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How about “Knife a gentleman buys in Paris”?’

  ‘No—but since you’re obviously eager to tell me, why don’t you put both of us out of our agony?’

  ‘Machete.’

  ‘Machete?’

  ‘Machete.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite see how—’

  ‘Ah, Arun, you’ll have to learn French some day,’ said James Pettigrew infuriatingly.

  ‘Well, what didn’t you get?’ asked Arun with ill-masked irritation.

  ‘Very little, as it happens,’ said the obnoxious James.

  ‘So you’ve solved it all, have you?’ said Arun.

  ‘Well, not exactly, not exactly. There are a couple that are still troubling me a little.’

  ‘Oh, just a couple?’

  ‘Well, perhaps a couple of couples.’

  ‘For example?’

  ‘“Musician who sounds rapacious”, five letters, third letter T, fifth letter R.’

  ‘Luter,’ said Arun promptly.

  ‘Aaah, that’s got to be right. But I always thought the right word was lutanist or perhaps lutist.’

  ‘Does the L give you any help in the other direction?’

  ‘Er . . . let’s see . . . yes, it does. That must be “Belfry”. Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ said Arun. ‘As it happens, I had a linguistic advantage with that one.’

  ‘How so?’ said James.

  ‘The word “loot” comes from Hindi.’

  ‘So it does, so it does,’ said James Pettigrew. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘it seems that I’ve won the Ashes three to two, and you owe me lunch sometime next week.’

  He was referring to their weekly crossword stakes that ran from Monday to Friday. Arun grunted his admission of defeat.

  While this conversation, devoted largely to the peculiarities of words, and not entirely pleasing to Arun Mehra, was taking place, another telephone conversation, also dealing with the peculiarities of words, was taking place, which, had he been aware of it, would have pleased Arun Mehra even less.

  Meenakshi: Hello.

  Billy Irani: Hello!

  Meenakshi: You sound different. Is there anyone in the office with you?

  Billy: No. But I wish you wouldn’t call me at the office.

  Meenakshi: It’s so difficult for me to call at other times. But everyone happens to be out this morning. How are you?

  Billy: I’m in fine, er, fettle.

  Meenakshi: That makes you sound like a sort of stallion.

  Billy: Are you sure you’re not thinking of fetlock?

  Meenakshi: Silly Billy! Of course not. Fetlock is the hair somewhere. It’s what you catch a horse by, I think. I think it’s the part of the mane at the base of the neck. Hair equals lock.

  Billy: Well then, tell me, how can you sprain a fetlock or break one? You keep hearing of a horse having to be shot because it’s broken a fetlock. By the way, are you going to the races tomorrow at Tolly?

  Meenakshi: Yes, as it happens. Arun just called me from the office. Basil Cox has invited us. So will I see you there?

  Billy: I’m not sure I’m going tomorrow. But we’re all meeting this evening aren’t we, for cocktails at the Finlays’—and then dinner and dancing somewhere?

  Meenakshi: But I won’t get a chance to say a word to you—what with Shireen guarding you like an emerald egg, and Arun—and my sister-in-law.

  Billy: Your sister-in-law?

  Meenakshi: She’s quite nice; she needs to be brought out a bit, though. I thought we’d throw her in with Bish, and see how they get along.

  Bill
y: And did you call me an emerald egg?

  Meenakshi: Yes. You are rather like an emerald egg. And that brings me to the point. Arun is going to be out in Puttigurh or somewhere until seven o’clock or so. What are you doing this afternoon? I know it’s Friday, so don’t say you’re working.

  Billy: Actually, I have lunch first, then a game of golf.

  Meenakshi: What? In this weather? You’ll be swept out to sea. So let’s meet—for tea and so on.

  Billy: Well—I’m not sure all this is such a good idea.

  Meenakshi: Let’s go to the zoo. It’ll be pouring with rain so we won’t meet the usual good citizen. We’ll meet a horse—or a zebra and we’ll ask him if he’s sprained his hair or his neck. I’m so funny, aren’t I?

  Billy: Yes, hilarious. Well, I’ll meet you at four thirty. At the Fairlawn Hotel. For tea.

  Meenakshi: For tea and so on.

  Billy [rather reluctantly]: And so on. Yes.

  Meenakshi: At three o’clock.

  Billy: Four o’clock.

  Meenakshi: Four o’clock. Four o’clock. Perhaps you were thinking of forelock when you said fetlock.

  Billy: Perhaps I was.

  Meenakshi: Or foreskin.

  Billy: I wouldn’t grab a horse by that.

  Meenakshi: Silly Billy! But what is a fetlock then?

  Billy: Look up a dictionary—and tell me this afternoon. Or show me.

  Meenakshi: Naughty.

  Billy [with a sigh]: You’re far naughtier than I am, Meenakshi. I don’t think this is at all a good idea.

  Meenakshi: Four o’clock then. I’ll take a taxi. Bye.

  Billy: Bye.

  Meenakshi: I don’t love you a bit.

  Billy: Thank God.

  7.23

  When Meenakshi returned from her assignation with Billy, it was half-past six, and she was smiling contentedly. She was so pleasant to Mrs Rupa Mehra that it quite unsettled her, and she asked Meenakshi if something was the matter. Meenakshi assured her that nothing at all was the matter.

  Lata couldn’t decide what to wear for the evening. She entered the drawing room carrying a light-pink cotton sari, a part of which she had draped over her shoulder. ‘What do you think of this, Ma?’ she said.

  ‘Very nice, darling,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, and fanned a fly away from Aparna’s sleeping head.

  ‘What nonsense, Ma, it’s absolutely awful,’ said Meenakshi.

  ‘It is not at all awful,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra defensively. ‘Pink was your father-in-law’s favourite colour.’

  ‘Pink?’ Meenakshi started laughing. ‘He liked wearing pink?’

  ‘On me. When I wore it!’ Mrs Rupa Mehra was angry. Meenakshi had changed from nice to nasty in an instant. ‘If you don’t have any respect for me, at least have respect for my husband. You have no sense of proportion. Going off gallivanting to New Market and leaving Aparna for the servants to take care of.’

  ‘Now, Ma, I’m sure pink looked lovely on you,’ said Meenakshi in a conciliatory manner. ‘But it’s absolutely the wrong thing for Luts’s complexion. And for Calcutta, and for the evening, and for this kind of society. And cotton just won’t do. I’ll see what Luts has and help her choose something that will make her look her best. We’d better hurry, Arun will be home at any moment, and then we won’t have time for anything. Come on, Luts.’

  And Lata was taken in hand. She was finally dressed in one of Meenakshi’s deep-blue chiffon saris which happened to go with one of her own blue blouses. (She had to tuck the sari in considerably more than Meenakshi, since she was a few inches shorter.) A peacock brooch of light blue, dark blue and green enamel, also belonging to Meenakshi, pinned her sari to her blouse. Lata had never worn a brooch in her life, and had to be scolded by Meenakshi into it.

  Meenakshi next overruled the tight bun into which Lata usually coiled her hair. ‘That style looks simply too prim, Luts,’ said her mentor. ‘It really isn’t flattering to you. You have to leave it open.’

  ‘No, I can’t do that,’ protested Lata. ‘It just isn’t proper. Ma would have a fit.’

  ‘Proper!’ exclaimed Meenakshi. ‘Well, let’s at least soften up the front of it so that you don’t look so schoolmarmish.’

  Finally, Meenakshi marched Lata off to the dressing table in her bedroom, and put the final touches to her face with a bit of mascara. ‘This will make your eyelashes look longer,’ she said.

  Lata fluttered her eyelashes experimentally. ‘Do you think they’ll fall like flies?’ she asked Meenakshi, laughing.

  ‘Yes, Luts,’ said Meenakshi. ‘And you must keep smiling. Your eyes really do look appealing now.’

  And when she looked at herself in the mirror, Lata had to admit they did.

  ‘Now what perfume would suit you?’ said Meenakshi aloud to herself. ‘Worth seems about right for you.’

  But before she could come to a final decision, the doorbell rang impatiently. Arun was back from Puttigurh. Everyone hopped around and danced attendance on him for the next few minutes.

  When he was ready, he became frustrated that Meenakshi was taking so long. When she did finally emerge, Mrs Rupa Mehra stared at her in outrage. She was wearing a sleeveless, low-cut, magenta blouse in open-back choli style, with a bottle-green sari of exquisitely fine chiffon.

  ‘You can’t wear that!’ gasped Mrs Rupa Mehra, making what in the Mehra family were known as big-big eyes. Her glance veered from Meenakshi’s cleavage to her midriff to her entirely exposed arms. ‘You can’t, you—you can’t. It is even worse than last night at your parents’ house.’

  ‘Of course I can, Maloos dear, don’t be so old-fashioned.’

  ‘Well? Are you finally ready?’ asked Arun, looking pointedly at his watch.

  ‘Not quite, darling. Would you close the clasp on my choker for me?’ And Meenakshi with a slow, sensuous gesture passed her hand across her neck just below her thick gold choker.

  Her mother-in-law averted her eyes.

  ‘Why do you allow her to wear this?’ she asked her son. ‘Can’t she wear a decent blouse like other Indian girls?’

  ‘Ma, I’m sorry, we’re getting late,’ said Arun.

  ‘One can’t tango in a dowdy choli,’ said Meenakshi. ‘Come, Luts.’

  Lata gave her mother a kiss. ‘Don’t worry, Ma, I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Tango?’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra in alarm. ‘What is tango?’

  ‘Bye, Ma,’ said Meenakshi. ‘Tango. A dance. We’re going to the Golden Slipper. Nothing to worry about. There’s just a large crowd and a band and dancing.’

  ‘Abandoned dancing!’ Mrs Rupa Mehra could hardly believe her ears.

  But before she could think of anything to say the little sky-blue Austin had started off on the first leg of the night’s revels.

  7.24

  Cocktails at the Finlays’ was a hubbub of chatter. Everyone stood around talking about the ‘monsoonish’ weather, which had struck earlier than usual this year. Opinion was divided as to whether today’s tremendous rains were monsoonal or pre-monsoonal. Golf had been quite impossible this afternoon, and though the races at Tollygunge were very rarely cancelled owing to the weather (after all, it was known as the Monsoon Racing Season to distinguish it from the winter one), if the rains were as heavy tomorrow as they had been today, the ground might be complete slush and the going too difficult for the horses. English county cricket too played a large part in the conversation, and Lata heard more than she might have wished to about Denis Compton’s brilliant batting and his left-arm spinners, and how superbly he was doing as captain of Middlesex. She nodded in agreement wherever necessary, her mind on a different cricketer.

  About a third of the crowd was Indian: executives of managing agencies like Arun, with a smattering of civil servants, lawyers, doctors and army officers. Unlike in Brahmpur, which she had just been visiting in her thoughts, in this stratum of Calcutta society—even more obviously than at the Chatterjis’—men and women mixed freely and unselfconsciously. The hawk-nosed host
ess, Mrs Finlay, was very kind to her and introduced her to a couple of people when she noticed her standing by herself. But Lata felt ill at ease. Meenakshi, on the other hand, was in her element, and her laughter could be heard from time to time tinkling above the general mash of sociable noise.

  Arun and Meenakshi were both floating a few inches above the ground by the time they and Lata drove over from Alipore to Firpo’s. The rain had stopped a couple of hours earlier. They drove by the Victoria Memorial, where the ice-cream and jhaal-muri sellers provisioned the couples and families who had come out for a stroll in the comparative cool of the evening. Chowringhee was uncrowded. Even at night the broad and spacious frontage of the street presented an impressive appearance. To the left a few late trams plied along the edge of the Maidan.

  At the entrance to Firpo’s, they met Bishwanath Bhaduri: a dark, tall young man of about Arun’s age with a square-set jaw and hair combed neatly back. He bent at the waist when introduced to Lata, and told her that he was Bish, and that he was charmed.

  They waited for Billy Irani and Shireen Framjee for a few minutes. ‘I told them we were leaving the party,’ said Arun. ‘Why the hell haven’t they appeared?’

  Perhaps responding to his importunity, they appeared within seconds, and after they had been introduced to Lata—there had been no time for Arun and Meenakshi to make the necessary introductions at the Finlays’ once they had got caught up in small talk—they all went up together to the restaurant, and were shown to the table they had reserved.

  Lata found the food at Firpo’s delicious and the talk of Bishwanath Bhaduri glitteringly insipid. He mentioned that he had happened to be in Brahmpur at the time of her sister Savita’s wedding, to which he had gone with Arun. ‘A lovely bride—one felt like snatching her away from the altar oneself. But of course not as lovely as her younger sister,’ he added suavely.

  Lata stared at him incredulously for a second or two, then looked at the rolls, imagining them into pellets.

  ‘I suppose the shehnai should have been playing “Here Comes the Bride”,’ she could not resist saying as she looked up again.