Previous Section, Section III, Next Section

Chapter 10

Posted on Thursday, 1 February 2001

Anupa looked at herself in the mirror, and decided, on a whim, to take out some of the jewelry her mother had left for her. Opening the locker in her cupboard, she judiciously chose a chain with a pretty pendant and a few bangles, putting away the more ornate pieces. There was, after all, no point in tempting fate by going to such a public venue heavily bejewelled. Still, she could not deny that she looked distinctly festive in the new sari Mrs. Chaudhuri had given her, accented as it was with her mother's jewelry, for Anupa habitually wore none, and an elaborate bindi *. Durga Puja was a time of gifts and new clothes, but for some years now Anupa had only been able to count on Mrs. Chaudhuri to give her anything out of the ordinary. This year it seemed as though she had outdone herself, and it occurred to Anupa that her friend was quite probably trying to forward her chances with a certain gentleman. For Anupa's friendship with Soumendra had hardly ceased; it had, if anything, intensified in the weeks since he had revealed to her his history. And yet neither of them had made any avowals to each other, or dropped any intimations for their other friends, but Anupa knew that many of them assumed that the two were merely being coy. She did not allow such assumptions to bother her anymore, and she had decided to wait and see if he would react. She put thoughts of Soumendra from her for the moment, for she was to see him that very evening, and made her way downstairs to the Chatterjees. It was Saptami, the seventh day of Durga Puja +, and the second day of major festivities, and Mrs. Chatterjee had asked her to take them to the nearest Puja.

"Anupa, my, don't you look a picture! Why, that young man of yours won't be able to keep his eyes off you if he sees you like this! I feel quite dowdy standing next to you! Come, come inside, let me get a better look at you!"

"Why, Shanta di, you don't expect me to believe that! Your sari is perfectly lovely!"

"Do you think so? Anil and his wife sent it to me, and when I saw it I said to the Admiral that that brother of mine must think I'm ten years younger than I am, to be sending me such a girlish thing, but he and Pradip were quite adamant that I should wear it, so here I am, all decked up. Oh, but the embroidery is so fine! I do hope Aparna likes the sari I sent her. Of course they don't really celebrate Durga Puja in her community, but she is married to a bengali now, and then, she is still a new bride!"

But Anupa's attention had been struck by something her companion had said much earlier.

"Pradip?"

"Oh, but Anupa, didn't I tell you? Pradip is here! After years of begging him to come we finally managed to talk Pradip into joining us in Calcutta for Durga Puja. Of course he can only stay for two days. You know what he's like -- always afraid that they'll transfer him to a bad post if he doesn't spend all his time on the job! He'll be coming with us today, and the Admiral too, and of course they aren't ready yet. Come on, you two! Anupa's here already! Really, my dear, I can't see why men accuse us of taking so much time. Here we are, you and I, perfectly set and ready to go, and it's the men who are holding us up. But just give me one minute, I'll go straighten my hair and find my chappals **."

"So Shanta's complaining about us already? Why, Pradip and I have been perfectly ready for the last half an hour -- we were just checking the TV to see if we could find out the scores of the test match. India was doing so well yesterday."

"You two! Always with your television and your test matches! I tell you, Anupa, it takes a lot of patience to take care of a house full of men!"

"Come, Shanta, if you tell Anupa things like this she'll never want to get married. You go get your chappals, or we'll miss the anjali ++"

"What did I tell you, Anupa? He's complaining about my being late now. After spending all that time in front of the TV! Come, Pradip, where are you? You come to see us for two days, that too in the middle of Durga Puja, and you're glued to the TV set! Honestly, if Anupa didn't know that we don't stand on ceremony here she'd think you're deliberately trying to avoid her."

"Didi...," came Pradip's half-hearted protest, and he would have spoken countered her accusations had not all comment died on his lips at the sight of Anupa.

"Can't think of anything to say now, can you? Come along, don't be dawdling here; after so many years you come to Calcutta for the puja, and now look, we're going to miss the anjali today!"

"Shanta, how long are you going to stand here scolding him? We are starving, you know. You wouldn't even let me have biscuits with my tea."

"And here's another one, who can think about nothing but food! Honestly, Anupa, you don't know what I have to put up with these men."

"Don't scare her now, Didi! Come, Anupa, let's go on ahead or you'll have to put up with my sister's complaints all the way."

Anupa stared at him flabbergasted for a moment, but walked on with him as he had indicated. She had expected him to resume his usual pose of ignoring her studiously, for they had barely spoken at all since the first time they ran into each other at Lata's. And here he was, deliberately soliciting her company. To be sure, conversation was still awkward between them, and after attempting to ask Pradip a little bit about his work, and responding to his stilted questions about hers, they were happy to surrender the burden of conversation to the other couple, who were only a few steps behind them.

"Do you know, Anupa, I've never been to the puja in this neighbourhood. It must be very grand, with the kinds of families that live here."

"Actually, Shanta di, this is a fairly low-key community puja. The really great pujas around here used to be the private pujas in some of the families. Most of those have been discontinued, or at least, they aren't open anymore. We haven't had a puja in our house since I was a little girl. We stopped when my grandfather died."

"Are their any pujas left like that in Calcutta anymore?" wondered the Admiral, "I remember when I was a boy we would go from house to house and eat the lunch they provided at every one, but that was a very long time ago."

"Oh, yes! There are plenty in North Calcutta, if you know where to look. And some of those houses and courtyards are incredible. The neighbours of the Mukherjees have one. It's not as grand as some, but the idol is spectacular. You should definitely go by and see it if you have the time."

She snuck a look at Pradip, wondering if he would add anything. It was he, after all, with his intimate acquaintance of the lanes and bylanes of North Calcutta, who had introduced her to these hidden festivities, and the houses, many of which deserved to be architectural landmarks, within which they occurred, for growing up, Anupa had never known anything but her family and neighbourhood pujas, and some of the larger more publicized pujas which competed for crowds and attention every year. Anupa's mind was of a different bent, and her penchant was to seek pockets of sublimity within the mundane. Pradip had given her his restless habit of exploring the city's intricate cobweb, and she had never grown out of it.

But Pradip did not say anything, although he averted his eyes a little too quickly.

"Perhaps there will be some time this evening, when we go pick them up for the play. And you are coming with us too, aren't you, Anupa? Oh, I think you should wear this saree again this evening. That young man of yours won't be able to take his eyes off you."

"Your... friend is coming with us?"

This was from Pradip.

"Pradip, you can be so silly sometimes. Of course Soumendra Babu will be there. It's his play after all, and he was so kind to arrange everything when he found out we hadn't seen it yet. I read another interview of his in the paper. The play's getting such rave reviews! Your father must be really excited."

"Baba is very happy. He's asked Soumendra to direct another production there this year, but I don't know if he will be able. He's very busy this year, with classes, and the new play he's working on."

"And he isn't thinking of returning to London?"

Pradip thought he must have sounded pathetically desperate, but to his relief, Anupa treated it as a perfectly reasonable question.

"Not to live there, I don't think. He does want to take some of his productions there, and this current play he's working on is actually partly set in London."

"But Anupa, how long is this one playing at the Mancha? The admiral and I haven't been there in so long -- the last time was before the fire that destroyed the old building. Long before your time, my dear?"

"It's playing twice a week for another two weeks. But actually, tonight's performance is at one of the puja pandals, not at the Mancha. You must go there some other time: they'll be hosting a drama festival in December, with performers from all over India. You must let me know if you're interested in any of the shows, and I'll arrange for tickets."

"Of course we'll go see some of them. Pradip, you don't have any other plans to come to Calcutta then, do you?"

"I can't make excuses to keep coming so often, Didi. You know I really don't have that much work that really has any connection with Calcutta. It's your turn to come to Bombay now."

"Of course I'll come one of these days; what else have I to do but to visit you and Anil now that the Admiral is retired? Is it much further to the puja pandal, Anupa? I can barely walk in these new chappals!"

"We're almost there, Shanta di. It's just around this next street corner."

"Oh, good. I do hope we're in time for the last anjali. It would be such a shame to miss it after fasting all morning. Why, here we are! It really is so close to the house; I wonder all the noise from the dhaks *** does not carry over."

"It doesn't right now, with so much other commotion on the streets, Shanta di. At night you'll hear it all right."

"It's a good thing we're going to be out late then. But look at that protima! +++ I haven't seen one so magnificent in years! I always said that we did puja very well on all the naval bases we've been posted at. But Calcutta really is something different, isn't it?"

"I've never spent puja anywhere else, Shanta di, so I can't really say. But there is such a variety here that almost every kind of puja must be represented here."

"But there is a difference. I mean, we do have quite a few pujas in Bombay, and the one in Shivaji Park rivals almost any Calcutta puja for sheer scale, but it's a different feeling. It's like the whole city is involved, and not just some pockets."

As they approached the massive tent they could see the idol through the gate. Durga, mounted on her lion, armed in each of her ten hands, with the demon Mahishasura cowering at her feet, was the centerpiece, and she was flanked on either side with her sons Ganesha and Karthik, and her daughters, Lakshmi and Saraswati. The drummers were off to one side with their gigantic instruments, and people congregated in groups everywhere, wearing their festive best, while the loud-speaker was mobilizing people to come forward if they wished to receive anjali.

"Yes, Pradip, that's exactly what I meant. It's a small community feeling, not something for everybody. But look at us, standing her chatting while they are announcing the last anjali. Let's go get the flowers!"

They headed over near the idol, and took the flowers that were being handed out to the gathering crowd in large baskets. Finally, when everyone had flowers, the priest began, reading the mantras into the microphone to reach the entire crowd. Anupa tried to concentrate on the words of the mantra and her prayers, but she couldn't help being amused when she realized that Pradip was throwing the flowers directly every time, despite the priest's admonitions to deposit the flowers back in the basket so that they could be put at the feet of the goddess in a more orderly fashion. She realized that no matter how much she tried to persuade herself that she was over him, she remained unfailingly observant where he was concerned. For all her closeness with Soumendra, she was in no way constantly aware of his presence. And it was not that she did not find him attractive, because Anupa was more than a little impressed by the dashing figure he cut. In fact, by any objective standard, Soumendra was striking while Pradip, at first sight, was innocuous. And though Anupa admitted valuing intellect over appearance in her affections that was hardly where she could justify her preference. Soumendra was an intellectual of a very respectable calibre, and his interests collided with Anupa's to a remarkable degree in a way that Pradip's would never do. Anupa had always felt that the very divergence in their interests kept their relationship stimulating, and though she did not refute that notion now, she had to admit that her current attraction to him had nothing to do with his conversation -- they had not really talked in years. It was operating at a totally different level -- hormones, she presumed -- and the effect on her was one that Soumendra would never have. What this meant she was not able to decide. Until Pradip's return she had assumed that the comparison between the two men was inevitable simply because she had loved Pradip first. Now she realized that her feelings for him were still unresolved. What was daunting was that it hardly looked as though there might be any impending resolution. It had been years, after all, since they had known one another, and they were not years that had left her invulnerable. That she might have rationalized: his very absence was allowing her to hold on to a fantasy since she could have no conception of how they must have grown apart or for that matter how unlikely a couple they had always made. But that rationalization could no longer help her: she was seeing him again, she needed no further proof of his indifference than that he was consenting to an arrangement elsewhere, and in several meetings they had not been able to go further than to exchange pleasantries. And yet here he was, invading more than he could know of her thoughts and feelings. She could not pretend now that these emotions had faded away, or were unresolved remnants: however baseless in the reality of their interaction, within her capacity to feel, they were a real presence. However, the fact that Pradip remained present did not necessarily mean that Soumendra could not compete with the spectre; she cared for the two men from two different faculties, and conceivably she could allow them to coexist, and be equally as contented with the one as with the other. But as she considered that possibility she realized that she could not think of Soumendra without invoking the comparison, while thoughts of Pradip could preoccupy her almost without her being aware of it. With an effort, she dismissed these speculations. Whatever her feelings on the matter, Pradip could never be hers, and she had no real reason to believe that Soumendra was interested either. She had managed to exist for years without giving herself over to pining in this fashion, and now was not the moment to give herself over to excessive romantic sensibility. But nevertheless, as the words of the culminating prayer drew to a close and she opened her eyes, she could not help being aware of Pradip's gaze upon her, nor the unaccustomed thrill that the awareness evoked.

"Wasn't it fabulous? I know I've seen it a few times now, but every time it's like I notice a whole new level of depth and complexity in the play!"

"Soumendra will be happy to hear that, I'm sure."

"What will I be happy to hear? Go on, you know how I adore flattery."

Anupa smiled at Soumendra as he came over to join them.

"Lata was just saying that she sees a whole new layer of depth in the play every time she sees it."

"How many times has it been now? Five, at last count, I think?"

"I'm up to seven, counting this evening!"

"I wish everyone was as faithful as you!"

"But everyone does love it! There was another article today in Ananda Bazaar. I clipped it out."

"Well, you'd better watch out. A few more watchings and the play won't stand up to scrutiny. There aren't that many layers to it, you know."

"Soon I'll be finding layers that you never even knew were there."

"Ah, literary criticism. This is the monster you've created, madam. I hope you're satisfied."

"Lata does me proud, as you well know."

"And what did you think of the performance?"

"Radha seemed a little jumpy today, but the rest of the cast was solid. And I still don't know where you're going with the scene in the park. They don't say anything!"

"But Anupa di, that's precisely the point of it, that they care so much but they can't say anything at all! It brings tears to my eyes every time."

"Let it be, Lata, you'll never convince her. This is an old bone of contention between us. I am trying to work it differently for the English version, though. I'll run it by you some time."

"Soumendra Babu, I never knew you were working on another version! You must allow me to see it!"

Anupa smiled at the exchange between the two, and excused herself as she noticed Mira calling her.

"I tell you, Anupa di, these boys are such a nuisance! They insist on chasing each other around the pandal like hooligans! Maybe they'll listen to you."

And with that, Mira left her, complaining loudly to her mother-in-law. Lata's nephews came to her without too much persuasion, and she sat them down in a corner, playing a quieter game of Antakshari ****. Chandan joined in the game too, chatting with Lata as the boys struggled to come up with another song beginning in the letter 'k'.

"Kya Hua, Tera Vada,
Voh Kasam, Voh Irada?
Bhulega Dil Jis Din Tumhe
Voh Din Zindagi Ka Akhri Din Hoga.
Kya Hua, Tera Vada?"

"What happened to your promise,
That oath, that intention?
The day my heart forgets you
Will be the last day of my life.
What happened to your promise?"

Anupa felt her heart fluttering wildly to hear that familiar voice sing those bars again, and she told herself with much difficulty that he was not singing them to her.

"Are you playing for the boys, then?"

It was Chandan who framed the question, and Anupa almost wondered that he could speak so matter of factly while she was in this state.

"It seems only fair. They seem to be having much more trouble than you and Anupa."

"Yes, Pradip uncle, join our team!" the boys piped in, as Chandan accepted the challenge.

"Very well, but consider yourself warned. They didn't call me the bard of the Presidency College canteen for nothing!"

"That was my mantle you inherited, I'm afraid. We'll see who survives."

"Great, this'll be fun then. What letter were we on again? 'D,' I think?"

"Deewano Se Yeh Mat Poocho
Deewano Pe Yeh Kya Guzari Hai.
Haan, Unke Dilon Se Yeh Poocho
Armanon Pe Kya Guzari Hai."

"Do not ask those madly in love
What the madly in love endure.
Ask instead of their hearts
What their wishes have endured."

"Nice work, Anupa! What can you come up with for that, Pradip?"

The contest continued, as Pradip consulted the boys to come up with a response. Anupa drifted back into her thoughts, as Chandan bantered with the others. Looking over at the others, she saw that Lata and Soumendra were still talking. She was as excited as ever, and he seemed amused at her enthusiasm. It struck her suddenly that the younger girl was absolutely infatuated, and she wondered whether she was even aware of the fact. Certainly she hadn't voiced any opposition to the arrangement with Pradip, but then, the arrangement seemed oddly tentative, with no pressure on either side to go through even with a formal engagement, much less the wedding itself. Lata was relatively young, of course, and her parents were not eager to see her go across the country, but they had ceased to entertain other proposals, and seemed to look upon the alliance as an eventual certainty. Anupa knew that Mira was impatient with this state of affairs and that she wanted to see the actual wedding go through, but the rest of the family seemed contented to let matters progress more slowly. Yet Anupa realized that even such an informal unspoken arrangement would be difficult to go back upon. She wondered how Lata felt about it. She had thought previously that Lata would not be averse to the match, but that was before she had met Soumendra. It occurred to her to wonder whether Soumendra was encouraging the attention. Certainly in her artless fashion Lata flattered him far more than she did, and she knew he was not averse to the attention. She dismissed the thought as unworthy, but it bothered her that it had occurred to her to wonder.

It was Pradip for whom she was sorry. He did seem willing to at least make an effort to get to know Lata, and Anupa assumed that he was genuinely interested in forwarding the match. Certainly he gave no indication of residual feelings towards her, and she did not doubt that he had moved on. Anupa wondered how much he realized of what was happening with Soumendra, and whether he would be able to compete with the other's glamour. The situation was not unredeemable, after all. Soumendra could hardly be interested in Lata: hero worship was certainly flattering, but could hardly be a foundation for a mutually rewarding relationship. And though Anupa did not like to dwell on it, she could not help remarking that everyone seemed to notice his partiality for her. Although her own imputed situation made it difficult to inquire, Anupa thought it likely that Lata herself was so caught up in her idealization that she herself probably did not realize her feelings for the man. Perhaps she had enough real feeling for Pradip to make a relationship between them a real and more healthy possibility. But Anupa knew her own heart well enough to realize that this was what bothered her the most.

Notes:

* Bindi -- the red dot on a woman's forehead. (Actually they can be any colour and all sorts of interesting shapes for festive occasions.) They used to be red vermillion or other pigments, but these days one usually buys stickers.

+ Durga Puja -- the quintessential Bengali festival. It takes place in either October or November. It's more of a social occasion for communities to congregate together, although there is a puja component. The puja is formally ten days long, but the last five (Shashti, Saptami, Ashtami, Navami, and Dashami) are actively celebrated. Food is served at the pandals or tents, and in the evening there are cultural programs -- plays, music, dances. It's also celebrated very actively by expat bengali communities. Gifts, usually of clothing, are exchanged between family, and one wears new clothes each day of the festivities. I've enclosed a picture of an idol, as described in the story

** chappals -- slippers

++ anjali -- ritual prayer. I explained this in an earlier chapter.

*** dhak -- the massive drums they play in temples and during pujas, and in some kinds of folk music in bengal.

+++ protima -- idol

****Antakshari -- a game in which one team sings the first verse of a song, and the next team has to sing something starting with the letter the last song ended on. (The letters go by the indian alphabet, meaning that only free-standing vowel sounds count; otherwise, you take the consonant sound.) When we were kids we usually played the game with place-names instead of songs, but it is immensely popular with songs (and has sprouted off several TV game shows), and that serves my purposes far better.

My translations are practically literal and not at all poetic. I should point out one problem. The word "deewana" literally means 'lunatic', but is almost invariably used to mean 'lover', especially in hindi movies. I went with 'madly in love,' which is awkward, but comes close to the intended meaning.

Chapter 11

Posted on Monday, 8 July 2002

Pradip listened somewhat absent-mindedly to the groom's copious instructions as he led the horse out of the stables. He supposed he should be paying a little more attention - he had hardly ridden in years, after all. The only time he had regularly had the opportunity to do that sort of thing had been during his one year at the Civil Service Academy in Mussourie. When he had been posted in a rural district the local bigwigs had been utterly in awe of his authority, and had been only too happy to lose to him at badminton, tennis, billiards or any other game he might care to name, or lend him their best horses, if he so preferred. All though many of his contemporaries had never hesitated to take advantage of all of these available favours, Pradip had been more reticent, and had indulged only occasionally. He thought it had probably been a wise decision; too many of his colleagues, in his opinion, had gotten too used to being the big fish in a small pond, and were unable to accustom themselves to life in Bombay, where they had far too many superiors to whom to defer, and hardly anyone to pay them the sort of attention which they had come to expect.

He did require some assistance mounting the horse, and thought ruefully that perhaps he should have taken what chance he'd had to practice after all. Now that he was living in Bombay it was unlikely that a suitable opportunity would present itself for a long time; he could not imagine owning a horse on his salary, nor was he even a member of the Turf Club at Mahalaxmi, and the number of favours he would have to call in obtain the membership, and to arrange for a horse to take out regularly, made the endeavor an impracticable one. Membership to the club would not come cheap even after pulling strings to get himself nominated right away, and riding lessons and the services of the groom would make a further dent. For the time being it was an impossible project.

Still, he thought, as he settled into a steady canter, one could hardly say that he had done badly for himself. Here he was, taking out a horse at the Tollygunge Club, allowed to do so in his own right without requiring anybody's indulgence. When he had been growing up they had only ever seen the cars enter and leave the gates, chauffeuring the white sahibs and their families, who had persisted long after Independence in this former imperial capital; or the boxwallahs, their Indian counterparts, the captains of Indian industry in the days before the communists had stripped Calcutta of any economic significance; and the posh barristers and doctors, who had all of the airs of the sahibs with whom they hobnobbed. No one he had associated with in his childhood had ever entered these hallowed grounds. The likes of his father were the clerks and assistants of these people, not their social peers. When he had been in school, he had been fascinated by the mysterious rituals of these institutions: he had read his P. G. Wodehouse, and knew his Drones' and Senior Conservatives', and from Maugham he had his notion of colonial clubs, although Forster's A Passage to India had left him with a particularly unpleasant picture.

By the time he was in college his envy had been overlaid by a thin veneer of ideological disdain, and like most of the Bengali youth of his era he affected a coffee-house Marxism that never quite escalated into the violent proclivities of those of his peers who became actively involved with the Naxalite movement. Pradip had never been tempted to take shots at the policemen on Park Street or to associate with those of his contemporaries who did. He had even managed to fall in love with the daughter of a man who was a particularly blatant example of everything that he was rebelling against. At the time, though, he had thought of his romance with Anupa as his own personal contribution to the cause of egalitarianism. When she had abandoned him he had thought himself outraged at her betrayal of their cause, her submission to oppressive and archaic standards, but it had really only been her rejection of him that had mattered. He knew now that it was just a little game that he had played with himself, and one that had always been unfair to Anupa. She might have been a poor little rich girl, but she was not the sort who needed to learn her liberalism from him. And she had not failed in any large ideological rebellion by deferring to the judgment of parental figures to whom she was bound by ties of affection and duty. He wondered if the whole thing had just been the convenient rationalization of a man smarting from rejection. Politicizing his personal anguish had helped him endure it, but what had really enabled him to get over it had been a process that had involved his leaving those politics far behind. Pradip was now hardly a reactionary, but how very far he was today from the man who had grandly proclaimed to Anupa that any form of luxury was a moral outrage that could never be justified by earning it at the expense of others.

As the stables came back into sight Pradip cautiously reined in his horse and headed in that general direction. He wondered why, once again, his thoughts today had drifted in the direction of Anupa. They seemed to be doing so increasingly often these days, even before he had come to Calcutta again and seen her here. In fact, if he were to be totally honest with himself it had been the prospect of seeing her again that had contributed to his unusual alacrity in agreeing to this short visit. He had even made an effort to speak to her again, to get to know her, just to find something about her that would allow him to forget about her. And he had failed miserably. Everything he had seen about her had reinforced all his notions of her superiority. In their earlier acquaintance, he had always resented her family for their treatment of her, but he had never been aware of the quiet grace and dignity with which she handled their demands. And demands they certainly were, from her father, with his high-handed pretensions, from Ila, with her superior airs, from Mira, with her perpetual litany of grievances. Even the other Mukherjees did not spare her; Chandan, his parents, and her sister, required her as a confidant and a dependable friend nearly as much as her own family needed her. He doubted that anyone in her acquaintance gave her the room to express herself, rather than imposing all their expectations on her, someone who listened to her, and allowed her to express her own worries and frustrations.

Pradip sat back in his saddle as he realized that she did have just such a friend - that poet person, whatever his name was. The groom came to help him dismount, and led the horse back to its stall while pointing Pradip in the direction of the changing rooms. Pradip was almost too preoccupied to listen, and allowed his feet to drift automatically in the appropriate direction, hardly noticing how he proceeded. Now that he thought about it he couldn't believe that he'd forgotten; it was all that his sister could talk about, was Anupa's friendship with this man, a celebrity, no less. And he'd seen them together himself yesterday, chatting away quite earnestly. It had struck him particularly that for once Anupa had been doing her own fair share of talking in a conversation, rather than being talked at. He hadn't quite gathered what they had been talking of before Lata interrupted them. Probably, in such a public setting, it had been an indifferent topic, but they had had the air of being close confidants. But somehow this realization did not quite satisfy him. In fact, it troubled him more than he cared to think about. He admitted to himself, of course, that in spite of all that had happened between them, he still cared for Anupa's welfare. He should have been happy for her if indeed she had found such a good friend. There was certainly no one more deserving of such attention than her. Bt there was the rub, because he was not at all confident as to the nature of this attention. Pradip was not the sort of person to grudge his family and friends their outside interests, or friendships he didn't participate in. It bothered him, therefore, that he should have been so perturbed by this friendship of Anupa's. One explanation, of course, was that he resented the fact that he himself was so far removed from Anupa as to have only the most tenuous claim on her friendship himself. But he dismissed this hypothesis even as he examined it, realizing that were he and Anupa friends in the proper sense of the term, he would only resent her proximity to this man more. As he thought about it more closely, he came to the conclusion that it was not even their friendship he objected to, but rather, this implication everyone seemed to have taken for granted that their relationship went beyond friendship.

His mind protested that he was in no position to harbor any objections of this nature as far as Anupa was concerned - that her friendship was all that he had any business to even hope for - but his feeling was impossible to dismiss. It was not as though he had anything against this man in person - try as he might he could not even remember his name, and they had met only a few evenings ago. As far as he knew, the man had everything going for him: he was rich; well educated; intelligent, by all accounts; a good conversationalist; and rather striking in appearance. If anyone deserved such a man it was Anupa, and that they seemed to care for one another was only a bonus. And yet something inside him - his heart, apparently - violently protested at the very thought. Sighing, Pradip faced the fact that he had been trying to bury unsuccessfully for all of these years. He loved this woman. She had not had him then, more than eight years ago, but though his pride had been wounded at the time he had realized since that the timing had hardly been appropriate for either of them. Her father, perhaps, had been gratuitously cruel in his dismissal of his suit, but what would Pradip have done, with a B.A. degree and a wife? And Anupa had been only nineteen, with just one year of college behind her. Had they married then, could she ever have reached where she was today, a professor in her own right? They had both needed time then, to fulfill their own potential. He wondered now what would have occurred had he come back at a suitable time, with his Masters degree behind him and a prestigious job in hand. Surely then his lack of blue blood would not have prevented his father from giving his blessing.

As for Anupa herself - knowing her as he did, Pradip could not imagine that she would not have been equally happy at the prospect. It was not arrogance on his part, but Pradip had known, even without her saying so, that she had loved him then. In the one encounter he had had with her father the old man had dismissed such a thing as being ridiculous, and Pradip had been outraged at the time that Anupa should have betrayed him in such a fashion, but had he reflected on the matter with a cooler head he would have realized then, as he did now, that her father was hardly the sort of man to be a confidant to Anupa, and moreover, could hardly have even been expected to fully comprehend what love was. And Anupa was not the sort to nurture resentment. She had understood then that her family's objections had made it impossible for them to associate as they had formerly, and clandestine assignations would certainly have gone against her nature. She would not have held it against him under the circumstances that he had chosen to seek his further education elsewhere rather than to continue to torture himself with brief glimpses of her.

Had he come back at an appropriate time, much might have been retrieved. But now, now even he was not so arrogant as to imagine that she could possibly love him after all this time had passed. If she had waited for him then eight years was surely too long for anyone to wait, and if there was any possibility that she might have forgiven him had he actually returned to her after those eight years then he had squandered away that chance as well. Meeting him as she had, at the house of another girl he had ostensibly come to examine as a marital prospect could hardly have sent her the appropriate signal, and he had compounded his error by treating her as he had. It was not as though he had not had the opportunity to see her; his sister and brother-in-law were tenants at her home and friends of hers to boot. But he had acted boorishly at every turn, and clumsily attempted to court Lata and her family while this Romeo had traipsed in and monopolized the woman he loved.

Pradip sighed as he thought of Lata. That she was nice girl became clearer every time he met her. She was warm, and friendly, and sweet, and if she was a little bit shy where he was concerned that was only to be expected. After all, he could hardly claim to be his normal self around her either. But she was not Anupa. Now that he had admitted to himself that he was still in love with her he was able to state his real problem with Lata. There were all sorts of justifications he had tried to come up with - that she was too young, that she wasn't terribly well informed about the world around her, that she was too close to her family to happy far away from them in Bombay. And probably there was some merit in each of those assertions. But the crux of it, quite simply, was that she was not Anupa. And some day not too far from now, he would be marrying her. He supposed they would get along well enough, in the manner that most couples did. He was not the type to hold it against her that she was not the woman he loved. He would neither rant nor storm, nor even would he ignore her, or treat her with contempt, or worse, indifference. He knew that he could easily come to feel some sort of affection for her. She would grow up as she saw more of the world, and he supposed that he could mold her into something like the wife he would have wanted. But in the end it would nothing to what he had once seen for himself. It could never be the equal relationship he could have had with Anupa.

He saw himself looking back from the mirror and took stock, realizing that through all of his musings he had managed quite successfully to shower and groom himself. His stomach grumbled, and he wondered what the club would have on offer for breakfast. He could certainly do with some eggs and toast. He made his way over to the outdoor patio overlooking the golf course, but noticed, on arrival, that all the tables were occupied. He was told that the wait should not be terribly long, and he glanced around idly, taking the crowd. He thought of how posh he had once imagined it to be, back when he could never have made it past the gates, and was amused to notice how bourgeois it seemed now to his more sophisticated eyes. Had he seen these people on the street he would not have taken them to be particularly affluent or influential. There was, however, a healthy percentage of foreigners, which he had found rarely to be the case in the Bombay clubs. He wondered why that was the case, when he was quite sure that there were more expatriates based in the country's financial capital. Of course in Calcutta, many visiting Englishmen chose to stay at the club, which was apparently not the case in Bombay. Perhaps Tolly just had more prestigious affiliations than the CCI, or the Bombay Gymkhana. And Bombay expats were usually based in the suburbs, and thus more likely to make use of facilities in that part of town.

It was then that he saw her. At first he thought it was a figment of his imagination, but as he stared fixedly in her direction he had to admit that it really was her. She appeared to be nursing a fresh lime and soda, waiting for someone to join her. He started walking towards her, without even thinking of the fact that she obviously wasn't waiting for him. He hadn't known that Anupa was a member here, but it was hardly unlikely, for a family like hers. He had skirted around two tables that were too close together as he made his way over by the time he realized that there was no reason to believe that she would want to see him. He might have tried to retreat had it been possible for him to do so gracefully at that point, but it was not. Apart from the physical awkwardness of making his way back through that tangle of tables, there was also the fact that Anupa had seen him. She had looked up when he had been walking towards her in obvious intent, and she would doubtless be mystified now if he did not approach. He knew of course, that he did want to see her, and talk to her, but he cautioned himself to be careful. The last thing she needed now was to be burdened with his belated realizations. All he could hope for was her friendship, and if he could obtain that now it would be a great deal more than he deserved.

Anupa smiled at him pleasantly as he finally came up to her, greeting him as though it was perfectly natural that he should join her, and gestured to a chair as she asked him to sit down. Pradip had to assume that her feelings could not be in anything like the tangle his were in right now, since he certainly did not feel capable of coherent conversation at the moment, and the thought, while confirming the resolutions he had made just a moment before, could not help but disappoint him. He sat down, feeling rather stupid, and to make matters worse, he was conscious that he was staring at her, and quite unable to stop himself. After all, he rationalized, given that she was the only other person at the table, he could hardly not look at her. In fact, of course, he was quite wrong about Anupa's feelings. Anupa's astonishment at seeing him, and more pertinently, at seeing him approach her voluntarily, was such as to send her spirits into a flutter of confused anticipation. But hers was naturally the more reserved character of the two, and years of keeping her own counsel through every demanding or anxious situation had made her adept at concealing her feelings.

"What brings you here today?" she asked, seeing him sitting there, looking rather lost, with no apparent intention of beginning a conversation. Being the person she was she could hardly admit to herself the slight pang of satisfaction she felt at seeing that she still had some sort of effect on him.

"I ... uh, I just came out for a ride. And then I came here for breakfast, but it's rather busy, and so I was waiting, and then I saw you sitting here, so I thought I'd come over and say hello." Pradip had the feeling he was rambling, but he had no notion of what he should be saying instead, so he just stopped, feeling like an idiot once again.

"I didn't know you rode."

"I didn't use to ride." Neither of them really needed to specify when he was alluding to, but she was surprised that he would make a reference to their history. He continued, somewhat awkwardly, "They taught us, at the Academy in Mussourie. Bit archaic, really. I'm not sure how much use it is these days. I've certainly never needed to use a horse in the line of duty, but I did enjoy learning." Obviously he had felt the need to say something further, sparing her the need to respond directly to his earlier comment.

"Not everything has to be useful to have a value. If it helps you relax, gives you a chance to think, perhaps, then that's quite enough, wouldn't you say?"

"You're right, of course. I still tend to think in terms of direct utility sometimes, but I've made great strides in appreciating the value of leisure. Who would ever have thought that I would voluntarily take more than two days' leave?"

"When do you go back?"

"Tomorrow. I haven't gotten to the point where I feel like I can waltz away for a whole week, I'm afraid."

"And did you enjoy Calcutta? It must be strange to come back for Durga Puja after so many years."

"I can't say I completely enjoyed it, actually. I mean, there were some great nostalgic moments, but it felt very impersonal somehow. Maybe it's just that I'm only visiting and I can't really identify with one particular Puja that I contributed to and was a part of, but I couldn't help feeling cut off, somehow. It's like I've lost the capacity to belong here."

"And have you found the capacity to belong somewhere else?"

"I think I have, most of the time. Sometimes I just feel lonely over there, and then I just want to come home. But it's actually lonelier here, in a way. Not with my family, I mean, Didi's great, you know her. But just in the city in general. I feel like I should fit in, but I don't."

"At least you have some choices about where to belong. It's very disconcerting when the only setting you've known stops feeling comfortable. Then you get used to being lonely, which is even worse."

She wasn't looking at him at this point, which allowed him to take her in more closely. He didn't quite know when the conversation had gotten so personal, or how she had induced him to speak in this vein. He supposed it had always been that way with Anupa. When they talked they had always delved deeply, not necessarily into personal subjects, but into their personal feelings about whatever subject they were discussing. But somehow even when he entered the subject he had not expected Anupa to lay herself open in such a way. It was she, after all, who had been controlling the conversation. And this was a subject she was surely not accustomed to discussing openly. But Pradip could see that her feelings ran deep, and it did not take much to induce whence they sprang. He did not believe that she meant to be telling him this; she too had obviously slipped into the habits of their past intimacy. He wondered if he should pursue a conversation in this vein, or whether he should divert it to a lighter subject. He opted for honesty, not at all convinced that he was making the right choice, but not sure that he would have the chance to speak candidly with her again.

"They're not real choices though, are they? I mean it feels like the choice was already made for me without my fully understanding it. I'm not convinced anymore that I've made all the right choices, and now I feel slotted into this place in the world that I'm not sure is the right one for me. I just feel like there's something missing."

He stopped, realizing that he had come precariously close to declaring his feelings. For all that they could talk like everything was as it had been, what they were talking about showed the full extent of what had changed. There had not been loneliness or incompleteness to discuss then, nor had there been any reason to imagine that their lives were on the wrong trajectory. They had been together, and it had never occurred to them that that might not be completely natural to remain together that way. Whatever happened to them now it was clear that their broken intimacy had left a mark - he would not call it a scar - on each of them. It had changed the way they saw themselves, and the way in which they related to the world. Whether or not they went their separate ways there would always be that to bind them together, and he doubted whether any other person could ever affect him in such a way.

"No, you're right. You're just dragged along by circumstance, and you see what's happening, and you want to protest, 'this is not me!' but it is, of course, and then you look back and realize that it really was you, and maybe somewhere along the line you did have some choices which you squandered, and can't do anything about, now."

Pradip blinked. He wasn't sure what he had expected her to say, and he wasn't sure how he ought to respond. He was deeply tempted to pour his heart out to her, and perhaps he would have, had he been sure that she was even conscious of his presence there. She hadn't looked at him in some time, and was obviously deep in thought. He couldn't be sure that she knew that she was speaking her thoughts out loud to him, and he didn't want to embarrass her by intruding on her private feelings. He did not think that she was ready to hear his feelings, and he had no illusions that she would be able to respond to them positively after the way in which he had treated her, but even that would not have stopped him had he not felt that it would be an imposition, and that he would only be giving her more pain at a time when she had quite enough to think of on her own. He looked away from her for a moment, just to collect himself, and stopped short, seeing someone approaching the table. When he saw who it was, he realized just how much of an imposition it would have been for him to say anything. She did not need him. He may have made her what she was, but what he had made her was nothing to take credit for. There were others who might succeed where he had failed, in giving her the happiness she deserved.

"Anupa, I'm sorry. I had a really hard time finding the pro. I hope I haven't been too long."

"No, Soumendra." She looked up finally, with an absent-minded smile on her face, "And I had Pradip here to keep me company."

"Mr. Bannerjee! This is an unexpected pleasure. Will you be joining us for breakfast?"

"No, I should be on my way, actually. I just saw Anupa and stopped to chat. It's very nice to see you again as well. Goodbye."

"Have a safe trip back, Pradip. I'm glad we had a chance to talk."

"It's always a privilege, Anupa."

He looked at her, as though he had something else to say, but then he turned around and left, and only then did she remember that he had said something before about wanting breakfast.

"I wonder why he didn't stay and eat something."

"He probably didn't want to get in the way. I didn't know you were friends, Anupa."

"We knew each other at Presidency."

"What is it with that college? Why is it that everyone and his second cousin just happens to have gone to Presidency?"

"Well, if you hadn't run off to Oxford, where would you have gone?"

"Touché. I suppose one doesn't really think of other choices if one gets in there. Why don't you teach there, anyway?"

"It's a government college. Transferable job. I could end up in Darjeeling or Bordhoman or something."

"Really? A college with the cachet of Presidency and they don't have a unique faculty? Why?"

"You know our government. Equal opportunity education. Not exactly a philosophy compatible with building a Harvard of the East."

"I suppose not. So you and Pradip Bannerjee were contemporaries, were you?"

"Pradip was a few years ahead of me."

"Oh, I see."

"See what?"

"I think I told you once, Anupa, that I wasn't going to pry into your story if you weren't ready to tell me. I get the feeling I'll be violating that promise if I ask you anymore questions about your friend the bureaucrat."

"I think I summarized the salient points of that story for you earlier. It's not a story with an 'ever after,' happily or otherwise."

"I hope not unhappily, Anupa. But there's something rather important that I need to talk to you about."

"What is it? You sound rather serious."

"Yes, well, despite all the evidence to the contrary, I am capable of it from time to time. Actually, I've been giving a lot of thought to the prospect of asking you to marry me, Anupa."

It would be an understatement to say that Anupa was surprised. Whatever she was expecting from Soumendra, this was not it, but she had to admit know that it was actually very like him. She was somewhat amused and extremely grateful that if he had raised this subject at all he had done it in such a way as to make it relatively easy to talk about. She could not imagine how she might have responded to a more direct proposal.

"And what did you decide?"

"I haven't quite decided yet, actually. I suppose it would depend upon how you'd respond."

"It would be silly of me to say no."

"Yes, there is that. We get along extremely well, wouldn't you say? We're never at a loss for subjects to talk about. And I'm arrogant and histrionic, and you're always levelheaded and sensible. It's like we're made for each other. There's just one little matter."

Anupa was almost laughing at this point. She could always trust Soumendra to bring out the humor in any moment. Whether or not she accepted, and on that point she was still genuinely undecided, she could never have imagined that this could be something other than a nerve-wracking and embarrassing experience.

"Don't tell me, you're in love with someone else?"

"Actually, I think I'm falling in love with you. And that, my dear, is a problem, wouldn't you say?"

Suddenly she wasn't laughing anymore. It struck her then that she could accept a proposal, she could even marry, and share her life with someone. But she could not acknowledge anyone else's love. As much as she cared for Soumendra, this was not an offering that held any meaning for her, and yet she understood very well that it meant rather a lot to him, and it occurred to her that there would be something unfair in taking advantage of that. She had force herself to carry on the conversation.

"I might have assumed that would be a point in favor."

"I should be so lucky. I'm not a particular fan of unrequited love, Anupa. It's not something I have much experience with, and I'm not eager to amass that experience. I know you're not madly in love with me or anything of the sort; I don't expect that, and I'm not there either. But I could be, if I let myself. I guess the question is, can you?"

She understood what he was saying, of course. It wasn't unreasonable, by any means, to want to be wanted. But it didn't quite tally with her definition of love, in which one couldn't help wanting. The voluntary component that he insisted on had never been a part of her equation for love. It was not as though she had tried to fall in love with Pradip. In getting to know him, it had happened naturally, and she had never had a sense of crossing a threshold. Was it too much to suppose that the same thing could happen twice?

"How far a step is it from like to love? The one just turns into the other, doesn't it?"

"I suppose that how it felt for you before."

"I suppose it did. We've discussed this before. Love comes gradually - it's not a bolt of lightning."

"I think I told you that I only believe in love at first sight. If there's a spark, Anupa, you can start that gradual journey of yours. But you can tell before then if there's a spark. Are you attracted to me at all?"

Anupa was not the most demonstrative of people under the best of circumstances, and this was not a question designed to make her feel comfortable. She had admitted to herself before that Soumendra was an attractive man, and she found herself able to admit it to him as well. It occurred to her then that she had never really thought about Pradip purely in physical terms, as she had thought of Soumendra. It was not as though she had not been attracted to him, or was not now; it was simply that her feelings ran so much deeper than that that she seemed to be conscious of him on more than a physical level. Which, as far as her current situation went, was neither here nor there. Pradip was not sitting across the table discussing marriage with her.

"You're fishing for compliments here. Yes, of course I'm attracted to you. You're a very handsome man."

"Thank you. That's another point in favor, then, if we return to our little tally. Compatibility and mutual attraction."

"Mutual attraction? Thank you for telling me. I might never have guessed."

"Now you're the one fishing for compliments, Anupa. You're absolutely magnificent, and you know it well, or you wouldn't work so hard to hide it."

"You do have a way with words, don't you? Now do I get a proposal or not?"

"Not quite yet, I'm afraid. There's just one last detail, the roadblock."

"What's that?"

"You see you can be attracted to more than one person. It's not wrong or unfaithful or anything. If you're already in love with someone else, the attraction won't lead anywhere. Which is all fine and dandy, but in our situation, if you're already in love with someone else that becomes a rather substantial roadblock."

"You think I'm still in love with him?"

"I don't know. You're going to have to tell me what I should do. And if my friendship means anything to you, which I think it does, then please be honest with both of us. I know what's easiest. If I weren't in any danger I'd jump for it myself, Anupa, I know we'd make a fine couple. But I can't think of anything more lonely than being with someone I love if she doesn't love me back. Un qui aime et une qui se laisse aimée, who was it that said that? I've always hated that idea."

"I do appreciate the problem, Soumendra. I don't know what to say."

"It hasn't escaped my notice, Anupa, that you're not cutting me off outright, as I half expected you to do. In fact you've come rather close to fishing for that proposal, and yet you haven't jumped right out with a denial. I somehow don't think you'd react this way if your feelings were really at stake. You'd think about it more, I think. You'd try to figure out how rational the idea was above and beyond your feelings. I could be reading you wrongly, of course. Look, I'm not trying to be hard on you. God knows you've been through a lot and deserve the best of everything. I do believe, quite firmly, that love is not a once in a lifetime thing. It's not that simple. But don't know that you believe that enough to be able to do it again."

"I don't see how I could connect someone else with those same feelings. I think it's over - the rosy warm glow has definitely gone away, and even that catch in the heart - a real physical pain and heaviness - even that's gone now. You saw us just now, we're able to talk to each other like friends. I don't think that would happen if it were still love. But how could I feel those same feelings? I think I would have to love you in a completely different way."

"And could you love me in a completely different way?"

"As I do already. I do care about you, and that will only increase as we know each other better."

"Then I really think I'd better not, Anupa. I hope you understand."

"Understand what?"

She felt like there had been some sort of test that she had failed. She had been offered a lovely organized and fulfilling life, and suddenly it had been taken away. And yet there was this sense of relief from the cloying discomfort that had taken over her when this conversation had suddenly gotten serious. That life she had seen wasn't really hers. Could she really have been that society wife, that gracious hostess, that photograph on the cover of a magazine? She could not have been. She was something different. She was Anupa Bhattacharya, with her students, and her family, such as it was, and her lingering melancholy that this imaginary life could not have alleviated, since its remedy was something else entirely. Soumendra her friend was able to make her laugh and bring her some relief; Soumendra her husband would have turned into an untenable burden. She could not have been his wife and remained herself, even though he was himself everything that was agreeable, and liked her just as she was. But the simple fact of being his wife would have changed her, and made her untrue to herself. And yet she admitted, she was disappointed in him that he would not try to win her.

"It's your little story. It does have an 'ever after,' you know. I'm just not sure what kind yet. But I wouldn't try to fight it."

She nodded then rose, as he signed the check. Somehow she'd never noticed that they'd managed to finish a complete breakfast between the two of them.

"Come, let me take you home."

"Weren't you going to play a round of golf?"

"No, not until this afternoon. I wasn't planning on abandoning you, you know."

She waited absently by the practice green as he went over to the microphone in the main building to summon the vehicle. Somehow it did feel as though he had abandoned her. She realized that even though she had never admitted as much to herself, she had been expecting a proposal, or at least a continuation of the pleasant friendship they had shared. Now even that had been threatened, and the proposal that she had come so close to accepting had been withdrawn without her really having had the option. She found herself resenting Soumendra for taking this easier way out, and for refusing to risk his heart. And it occurred to her that she had never resented Pradip for his abandonment, even though he had held her heart in such a way as to be able to injure her far more cruelly. Soumendra simply did not have that power over her, which was partly what had made his offer so tempting. He was pleasant and charming, and they would have enjoyed playing house together. But that was really all it would have been, even though he had wanted her, and she had been about to let him. Perhaps he had not taken an easy way out, for all that he did spare his heart some damage. Perhaps it had been courageous of him to bring the matter to a head, and make the difficult choice now rather than to continue to harbour latent hopes. If he had really meant to offer her his love, it was not so unreasonable to want hers in return. It was better for them to resolve the question in this way and preserve their friendship, instead of allowing it to get to a point where he would only be able to resent her for the inequity of their affections.

Perhaps it was not so much resentment that she was feeling now as it was jealousy, that Soumendra with his notions of love at first sight could be so rational in his affection. Had she been capable of it she would have excised her feelings for Pradip long ago. As it was she could not even bring herself to resent him for having inspired such a depth of feeling. But those feelings were her old friends, and they were so intrinsically bound with her notion of herself that she would not even have wished to forsake them now. She could not be jealous of Soumendra, not when he would never know this feeling of loving someone so much that he was a part of how she thought of herself. She almost laughed at this admission, it was nothing but the truth, yet she had not lied to Soumendra when she had said that her love and even the pain that came with it had faded away. It had faded away, at least that active form of love that had required an act of volition on her part, and which had brought with it associated hopes and ambitions for the future. But this wake that it had left behind - surely even this was more than most people experienced in a lifetime. For this, she had Pradip to thank. And though she had long reconciled herself to the fact that nothing could ever come of it anymore, she found herself regarding him with real gratitude, that simply by being who he was he had allowed her to ever feel this way.

Chapter 12

Posted on Monday, 2 June 2003

Anupa glanced at her watch as she waited for the bus. She was jostled by someone in the crowd, and turned around to see that the presumed guilty party walk off, not so much as turning round from the heated debate in which he was involved. This was not Anupa's usual commute, and though she knew it well enough, there was none of the anonymous familiarity of known faces that she had grown accustomed to. But today was a bit of a special circumstance for her. It was rare enough for her ever to receive calls while she was at work, but today she had received more than that. It had been a summons, as conveyed by her sister Mira, but as the call had originated with old Mrs. Mukherjee, Anupa was certain that the initial request had not been initially so peremptorily phrased.

The noisy traffic was an improbable mélange of gawky-looking yellow Ambassador cabs, buses with battered aluminium siding and ornate wooden windows painted green, black and yellow auto rickshaws looking like improbably bulbous cartoon honeybees spilling over with people, cycle rickshaws painted in far more vivid colours, and of course, the throngs of people. It was almost tiring to watch, this slow grind, yet Anupa had always found an improbable enjoyment in it, and it was almost with reluctance that she climbed into her own bus and occupied the crevice between two other women that passed for a seat in the ladies section. She would have preferred to stand rather than face inwards, this way, but knew that to do so, and refuse an available seat would be to attract unnecessary attention. The notice would not necessarily be unfavourable; it was simply that Calcuttans were constitutionally incapable of not interfering in other peoples' business. And, for some reason, she was feeling particularly inconspicuous today.

She dismounted at the most convenient stop, and picked up her customary pot of doi before heading back to the Mukherjee house. The maid you who let her in seemed relieved when she saw who had arrived, and she was quickly relieved of the gift she bore. She climbed the stairs rapidly, and had already started down the long corridor to the sitting room which old Mrs. Mukherjee favoured when Mira emerged from her room.

"You're finally here, I see. Took your time about it, didn't you?"

"Yes, Mira. I'm here. Will you take me to Mashima?"

"Yes, yes, she's been waiting for you all this time. I don't see what the fuss is all about, frankly. All for the better, I say. It is such a grand thing for her. But there she is, making a hue and cry about the whole thing like some sort of calamity has fallen upon the house. Who listens to me in this house?"

"What is the matter, Mira? You haven't told me anything of what's going on."

"Why don't you just talk to your precious Mashima? She needs you to help her break the news to those Chatterjees. I don't see why they should particularly mind. It's not as though anything was really moving on that front. And as far as I'm concerned, the girl's done quite well for herself. But go, she will be upset that I keep you in another minute."

Anupa was utterly confused as to what Mira was talking about, but she knew that when Mira was in one of these moods she would get little information from her. In any case, she knew that Mrs. Mukherjee needed her, probably rather urgently judging by her summons. As far as her own curiosity, she was more likely to get the information she required from the older lady as well. She made her way over to that chamber and realized that the matter might be of some gravity after all; she did not think she had ever seen old Mrs. Mukherjee looking quite so distraught. Mr. Mukherjee was with her, and Chandan sat there on the divan as well, his usually cheerful countenance looking rather grim and careworn, but Mrs. Mukherjee was standing, and she started to speak the moment Anupa entered the room.

"Anupa! Come in, come in. Sit down, dear. I've been waiting for you. What do you make of this awful mess? There is nothing to be done, I know, but you can help us. It is a great relief even just to have you here. I suppose you will take Lata's part in this despite everything she has done. And you are the one she has wronged in this, even though you are not a girl to hold it against her. We had not a hint of it, Anupa, not a hint, I tell you, or we would have put an end to this tomfoolery with plays a long time ago. I did not think she was a girl to be led so easily astray, Anupa. My only daughter-- who would have thought she could act in such a way?"

"Mashima, please, I do not even know what Lata has done! Surely it can be nothing so dire?"

"You do not know what has happened? I thought, but then, I suppose they would not have the face to tell you. I did not think that you would hear the news from me, but now that you are here I suppose it is my place. My own daughter, Anupa - I hardly have the face to tell you..."

"I will tell you, Anupa, Ma is hardly able to think straight, let alone talk about it. We all thought you would know already. Lata told us last night that she and Soumendra Babu are engaged to be married. Did you know anything of this?"

Chandan had cut in, halting his mother's circumlocution. Anupa would have been grateful, but she was too shocked to be able to react. He looked at Anupa, clearly awaiting a response, and she gathered herself in order to respond.

"No, I had no inkling of any such thing. Is it quite certain?"

Anupa was prevaricating, and she knew it, though she thought it unlikely that the Mukherjees would realize this. That Lata had formed an attachment to Soumendra had hardly come as news to her. She had seen the girl flutter around him, all gushes and blushes, to be fairly certain of her infatuation, although she had questioned whether or not Lata had admitted such a thing to herself. But her own shock and even dismay at the news was perfectly genuine, although the Mukherjees were likely to ascribe it to an incorrect cause. But she was after all privy to some information that they were not, which she was not likely to share. Even if there has not been her own privacy to consider, it would do the Mukherjees no good to learn that Soumendra had proposed to her just days before. And though she had been the one to refuse him, she could not deny that it sent a muted but definite pang through her to realize that he was now to marry Lata. Was she so easy to replace? Lata was a charming creature, but she was in many ways, and definitely in the way she acted around Soumendra, something of a child. Was that what Soumendra wanted? It occurred to her then that kind of adoration was precisely what Soumendra had asked her for, and that she had not been able to offer it to him. He must have known all along that Lata offered it to him freely. But what he had said popped into her mind as well -- "Un qui aime, et une qui se laisse aimee." Une qui aime, more like it here, but would Soumendra requite her, or would he be content to bask in her affection?

"Oh, yes, quite certain. If it were just Lata's word, we wouldn't have known what to make of it. But Soumendra Babu called and spoke to Baba on the phone himself. He will be coming by tomorrow evening to discuss things formally."

"Oh."

Anupa paused again for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. So they were not just seeing each other, then. Soumendra was already willing to make such a commitment to her. To a certain extent, of course, this could simply be a sign of deference to her family. Anupa knew that the Mukherjees, like many Bengali families, would not have been terribly pleased to have their young daughter conspicuously going around with a boyfriend, especially one who happened to be a man of Soumendra's stature. A fiancé was a different matter altogether.

And then there was also the matter of Pradip. Although there had been no formal commitment on that front, both the Mukherjees and the Chatterjees had assumed in their easy way that eventually an alliance would be formed between them. In fact, as Anupa well knew, that was a primary reason for their dismay today, because objectively speaking, the Mukherjees could not object to Soumendra in any way. It was only the matter of Pradip, and their presumption of Soumendra's attachment to her. She blinked. That was the main reason they had called her, and why Mrs. Mukherjee had been so awkward about the whole situation. They needed her reassurance. Whatever her feelings might be on reflection, for now, it was up to her to give them the confidence that this was the right thing for Lata.

"And how is Lata taking it? She must be ecstatic."

Mr. and Mrs. Mukherjee just looked at each other, unable to respond. It was Chandan who spoke again.

"Anupa, you must know why we asked you here. Are you alright?"

"Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Anupa..."

"Soumendra is my dear friend, and you know Lata is as much my sister as she is yours. How could I not be happy for them?"

"Anupa, are you quite sure? We were so worried about you when we found out. All of us thought Soumendra Babu and you..."

"You could have just asked me at anytime, Chandan. Soumendra and I are friends, just as you and I are. I am surprised, of course, but it is only because two people I am so close to have been keeping such a thing from me. Would you believe that I had not the slightest idea?"

Anupa thought that she was being just a little too vehement, but Chandan appeared to accept what she had said. His relief was visibly apparent, and he did not pursue that subject any further.

"If it is any comfort to you, none of us had the slightest idea of any such thing. And I believe it is all very recent. Lata will be happy to give you all the details. She can hardly talk of anything else."

"I must see her, of course, and give her my congratulations. I am sure Soumendra will make her very happy. But Chandan, surely this is not the only reason Mashima wanted me here. There is also the matter of ... Have you told the Chatterjees anything yet?"

It was Mrs. Mukherjee who answered, finally reassured by Anupa's denials, and able to speak coherently again.

"You are just the girl to think of everything, Anupa. I wish Lata could be more like you, but she has turned out to be such a heedless creature. I could never have thought that she would do something like this behind our backs."

"I am sure it will turn out well, Mashima. He is a very good man."

"I know that, Anupa, I cannot complain about her choice, but if there was even an inkling of such a thing, she should not have kept us in the dark like this. I was so worried about you... thank goodness there was nothing there. But Anupa, I do not know how we will show our faces to the Chatterjees. And what will Pradip think of us? He will think that our daughter has been running around with other men behind his back."

"Lata is in love, Mashima. I am sure they will understand that it happens suddenly sometimes. They are not the sort of people to take this the wrong way."

"There is nothing to be done now, Ma. The deed is done. The Chatterjees must be told, and very soon. Given Soumendra Babu's celebrity, it is not impossible that they will hear the news from other sources."

Anupa was grateful for Chandan's support. She had feared for a moment that the Mukherjees would prevail on her to break the news, and while she was willing to do anything to help them, she could not consider this an appropriate option. Surely this was a responsibility that fell on the family itself. It was only the Mukherjees' habitual reliance on informality, a tendency which her sister Mira never tired of criticizing, that had allowed her to consider that they might expect such a thing of her. In fact, as far as she could tell, Mrs. Mukherjee, being now satisfied that Anupa had not been personally injured, was counting on her in this regard. But it was Mr. Mukherjee, who had been silent all this time, who finally intervened.

"Na, Ma,* you have done too much already. We cannot give you this responsibility, which rightfully belongs to your elders. Be a sister to my children, as you have always been, and stay the daughter we have always considered you to be. It is as much as anyone can ask of you."

And there the matter was allowed to rest. It was decided that Mr. Mukherjee and Chandan would return with her to her home, partly so that they would be able to drop her off, because as Mrs. Mukherjee put it, "We can hardly have you traveling all across the city for no reason," but mainly so that they would have a chance to see the Chatterjees, and give them the good news. This being settled, Anupa asked to see Lata, wanting to offer her sincere congratulations to the young girl, who, it was evident, had not heard too much in that vein from her immediate family. She found her in Mira's sitting room, Mira for once offering her the encouragement that her mother and father were not.

"You must tell your father that it'll have to be a very grand affair. You can imagine the sorts of people who will come from Soumendra Babu's side. We must put up a good show ourselves."

"Perhaps you are right, boudi +. I always thought one of those big palatial houses they give out for weddings nowadays would be wonderful. You know, with the high vaulted ceilings and massively proportioned rooms. And I would like for there to be a nice outdoor area as well. I always wanted to get married in good weather and have the receiving line and podium outdoors."

"You have good timing, then. It's the perfect time for us to plan a winter wedding for you. We still have almost four months before February, if that's what you decide on. Don't let them postpone it until the summer, or you'll be caught in the rains. It's just so muggy at that time of year as well. I remember, at my wedding, no one wanted to raise a muscle. It was such a mess!"

"Discussing wedding plans already, Lata?" asked Anupa, as she joined them.

"Yes, Anupa di, there is so much to plan. Boudi thinks that we should get started already."

"I am sure you have enough time, Lata, to accept the congratulations of your old friends before you become so busy in all this planning."

"Anupa di, how can you say such a thing? Of course I have time for you. You know that I owe all of this to you. Sou- he would never have looked at me twice if it weren't for you."

Anupa was amused to note that Lata was already trying to follow the Bengali custom of not calling her husband by name. She wondered how long she would be able to keep it up. This was always a difficult step for couples who had known each other beforehand and were habituated to calling each other by name -- in most cases nowadays, they didn't even try.

But at the moment, Anupa was more concerned about what Lata was saying than she was about the manner in which she expressed herself. She didn't really want to think about what Lata meant by her statement.

"How can you say such a thing, Lata? I am sure that is not true."

"No, Anupa di, it is all your doing. It is because of you that I started reading his books, and it was because of your friendship that he agreed to help me out with my play, and that is how we got to know one another. And I am sure I would never have known what to say to him if it hadn't been for everything I learnt from you."

Anupa was somewhat relieved to realize that Lata's intent had been quite innocent, but she was still saddened at the girl's tendency to undervalue herself.

"No, Lata, you are a clever girl. You do not need my help."

"I am sure she does not. She's done far better for herself than you've ever managed to."

Anupa could not fathom why her sister would choose to interrupt them in this way. Perhaps she was simply feeling left out of the conversation, or perhaps she was motivated by some deeper resentment -- for Anupa knew that she grudged her the fact that Anupa had been Chandan's first choice, and furthermore that the family, including Chandan, were closer to Anupa than they were to her - but this was not about Mira, and at this moment, her interruption was simply unhelpful. Lata, however, did not attend to her, but turned right back to Anupa.

"You are happy for me--for us--are you not, Anupa di? He said you would be. He said he loved you like a sister, and that you would be delighted for us. It is true, is it not? I could not bear to hurt you, and I know that is what Ma and Baba and Dada think. But I would never do that."

"No, Lata, of course you wouldn't. And I am quite delighted. How could I not be, for my little sister? Soumendra doesn't deserve you, but we won't tell him that."

"Anupa di, how can you say that? He was right, you tease him far too much."

"As should you do, or my dear friend, and the love of your life, will grow entirely too full of himself, and we can't have that, now, can we?"

Lata laughed and gasped, and the two of them spent the remainder of the evening in easy conversation, while, Mira, very much put out at being so neglected, attempted to busy herself with her boys, who did not know quite what to make of their mother's undivided attention on a school night.

As for the rest of it, Anupa had her report from Chandan soon enough. Everything had gone as well as could be expected -- all the awkwardness was in making the declaration, but being gentlefolk, there was only one way in which the Chatterjees could respond. They were disappointed, to be sure, at the loss of the connection, but they wished Lata every happiness with her chosen partner. They were quite certain that Pradip would understand. If anything, they too were worried primarily about their young friend Anupa, who had to endure more good-natured concern from them. Mrs. Chaudhuri, when she heard about it, was extremely disappointed at the loss of the possible connection, and commented at length on what she considered to be Soumendra's expression of poor taste. Anupa endured her sympathy with grace, but she could not help feeling that she had drifted apart in her thinking from her former mentor, and that she had felt more real empathy, little as she had demanded or welcomed it, in the simpler expressions of Lata's family and Pradip's.

It was only from her immediate family that she was insulated from this sympathy. Her father expressed his concern at Soumendra's lack of discernment at choosing to make such a connection, and Anupa wondered anew how exactly her father managed to forget that he had given his only married daughter to that very family, and acquired an extremely dutiful if not actually affectionate son-in-law in the process. Ila attempted to mock Anupa at her failure to capture the man, but her own jealousy of Lata's good fortune was too patently obvious. Anupa was only saddened by this reaction. She knew Ila to be a clever girl, and could not understand how she had allowed herself to be reduced to this. She was prone to blaming herself for her family's failures, but she realized that she had done everything she could have for her father and Mira and Ila. There had been nothing wanting on her part, and if they were unhappy or incomplete or bitter she would not hold herself responsible.

As the immediate hullabaloo over Soumendra and Lata's announcement settled down, a kind of organized chaos set in around Anupa. Lata and her mother and Mira threw themselves into planning for the wedding, and Anupa found herself dragged into this as well. Anupa was happy to find that having an occasion to plan for, and a creditable new connection, had brought Mira closer to her mother-in-law and to Lata than she had ever been in the past. Though they did not defer to her they respected her opinions on the bridal trousseau, and the flowers, and the catering, and Mira was happy to share her views with a receptive audience. Lata was simply ecstatic, and Soumendra seemed happy to bask in her excitement. But Chandan, she could see, was taking his sister's defection from Pradip particularly hard; he seemed to regard it as a sign of family weakness, and he was determined to ensure at the very least that there should not be any failure of decorum now.

It occurred to Anupa that Chandan and Pradip had developed something of a friendship on Pradip's visits into Calcutta, and that perhaps it was not too surprising that he should be the one to feel most strongly the loss of the anticipated familial connection. It would be difficult for them to maintain a friendship now; Anupa did not think that Pradip would consider this to be Chandan's fault in any way, but it would be awkward for the families to continue to interact. Unless there were other circumstances which would bring them into some proximity, Anupa could see that the burgeoning friendship between Chandan and Pradip, as well as the two families, would probably wither away. The Chatterjees did not be the sort to hold this against them, and of course, living downstairs from her as they did, their association with her, and by extension, with her sister's family, would have to continue in some form. But as for Pradip, Anupa found herself at a complete loss. She had no way of knowing how he would take it. She could only think of one comparable instance, and she remembered all too well that he had made not the slightest effort to retain at least a friendship with her. Of course, in that case it had been her family that had provided the opposition, and Anupa knew that she would have found it difficult to have continued to associate with him in any way. Still, she remembered their meeting at the Tolly Club a little over two weeks ago. It had certainly seemed as though he was making overtures of friendship. If he had matured enough to be able to forgive her, surely it was not too much to hope that he would be able to do the same for Lata, where his feelings could certainly not be as acutely involved.

Anupa was a bit startled to realize that she flattered herself in this way where Pradip was concerned. Surely she could not believe that after so many years she would still have any sort of a hold on him, yet it had occurred to her as a certainty that he would not suffer the loss of Lata in the same way that he had suffered the loss of her. No, she could grant herself that this was probably true. They had been young, and they had been in love. She knew what she had suffered on his account, and without knowing any of the particulars of what he had endured she felt that he could hardly have responded in such an extreme manner that he had had he not taken it badly. But she realized that she did not know how he would respond to this situation. She hoped for his sake that he would not cling to resentment, that he would be man enough to realize that Lata had found her own happiness. She hoped for his sake as well that he would find his own happiness. She did not allow herself to consider the fact that he was now unattached, and carefully schooled her mind not to wander down that maze of possibilities for them to find their happiness together.

* Na, Ma -- Literally, 'No, Mother.' It is something of a Bengali tradition to address daughters, or women in a daughter-like relationship, as Ma, especially in moments of emotion. I like to think it ties in with the Shakti cult and the worship of the female power/ energy/ element in Bengal, but that's a long story.

+ Boudi -- sister-in-law

Continued In Next Section