Previous Section, Section IV

Chapter 13

Posted on Wednesday, 9 July 2003

Anupa looked over at the stack of papers that still remained for her to mark and sighed. Although she was never one to fall behind in her work, the last couple of days had been particularly hectic for her. There was hardly a decision for which Lata did not wish to consult her, and although Anupa encouraged her to rely more on her mother and Mira, she still found herself called upon for any number of errands that were beginning to become rather taxing. Lata's wedding was to be in late January, about two months away now, and there were still any number of choices and decisions to be made.

The previous afternoon, Anupa had been dragged shopping for sarees with the Mukherjees. The outing had not been wholly fruitless, even though Lata had not managed to find the one she would actually be married in. Mrs. Mukherjee had found an elegant ivory saree embroidered in maroon and gold zaree that would be very becoming for the mother of the bride, and had purchased also a delicate orange one which Anupa had briefly admired, which she had insisted on presenting to Anupa, regardless of all her protests. Mira had been rather put out at her mother-in-law's generosity, having wished to claim the saree for herself, even though Mrs. Mukherjee had previously presented her with a far more elaborate turquoise blue creation for the occasion, and Mira herself had previously resolved to wear her own wedding Benarasi, a gorgeous deep red and gold saree that she rarely had an occasion to wear, for Lata's wedding. They had also purchased a number of other sarees for Lata's trousseau - a number of cotton tangail sarees and a delightfully light yet dressy Dhakai, as well as a few silks from Orissa and the South. And they had made a start in purchasing the namaskari gifts that they would be presenting to Soumendra's family. Although Soumendra had relatively few living relations in Calcutta, some of his distant cousins who lived in Muffasil towns would be representing his side of the family at the wedding. Custom required that sarees and other tokens be presented to each of the women, and the Mukherjees were determined to do things in style for their only daughter's wedding, and perhaps especially since it was to such a socially prominent gentleman.

Anupa had already been reluctantly dragged on numerous such expeditions, to purchase china, silverware, furniture, luggage, and of course, jewelry. Apart from the elaborate bridal gold set, Lata had selected several simpler ones for other occasions, and Mrs. Mukherjee had had several of her own sets cleaned and even reset, some to be presented to Lata, and others for herself to wear for the occasion. She had been called in to help finalize menu options with the caterer, to inspect the various mansions and clubs that the Mukherjees had short-listed as possible venues for the wedding, helped them find a reliable and inspiring purut to perform the ceremony, and helped choose the cardstock and motif for the invitations. And she had a sneaking suspicion that when the time came around for them to call on people with the actual invitations, she would have a significant role to play there as well. It was not as though she did not wish to help the Mukherjees out in this way, but for a person of Anupa's quiet disposition, the strain of constantly being available on demand was beginning to tell.

She tried to absorb herself in the papers, and enjoy the opportunity to cast her mind over an engaging subject having nothing to do with weddings and finery, but she could not quite lose herself. Anupa was often disappointed to find that her B.A. students seemed to believe that regurgitating the professor's lecture in a paper was sufficient to secure a respectable mark, but she understood that that was how most of her students had been taught to succeed in academic work. Here and there she managed to find a paper that had something a little different to say about one of Browning's dramatic monologues, or was able to make an interesting comparison to the Romantic poets or the Modernists, or at least to cite some secondary sources she hadn't directly referred to, and these she had to content herself with. She was almost done with the stack when she noticed how dark it was getting. Night fell very quickly in Calcutta, and especially so at this time of year. The twilight was fleeting, and Anupa knew it would be quite dark long before she made it home. Still, she at least wanted to make it as far as the bus-stop while she had a bit of light, so she took the last few papers with her and started to pack up for the day.

She had just grabbed her over-large tote bag and started towards the door when she found herself relieved of her burden. Looking up, she saw that it was Soumendra who had taken the bag. Anupa had been wondering when she would see him next; ever since she had heard about the wedding she had had no contact with him at all, and she had started to think that he might prefer for their friendship to fade away into something more like a casual acquaintance. She wasn't quite sure how she herself felt about such a thing - she knew Lata could never object to their friendship, but in her own lingering discomfort, she had started to believe that perhaps this lack of contact was for the best. Now that he had appeared here, of course, it was a moot point. Still, she wasn't quite sure even now what he was here for.

"I thought I might find you in here today."

"Why, were you looking for me?"

"I suppose I was. I haven't seen you in quite some time."

"No. I've been rather busy lately, as you can imagine. I suppose you have too."

"Actually not so much. Other than receiving a wealth of congratulatory calls I've been remarkably unoccupied."

"I suppose I owe you my congratulations as well. I'm sure you and Lata will be very happy."

"Are you, now?"

"Am I what?"

"Sure that we will be happy?"

"She loves you, Soumendra, as you must know. Isn't that exactly what you wanted?"

"I know she does, Anupa, but I wanted to know what you really think. Do you despise me for this?"

"I don't know what you mean, Soumendra. Why should I despise you?"

"Don't play coy, Anupa. It doesn't suit you."

"I'm not playing coy, Soumendra. I just fail to see the point of this conversation."

"I just want to make sure that we are still friends, Anupa. Surely that's a worthwhile objective."

"Since when have you cared so much about the state of our friendship?"

"Oh, come now, Anupa!"

"I'm sorry, I know that was probably unfair. But I don't quite want to enter into a discussion about your fiancée with you. You'll have to forgive me."

"I know you too well to think that you might be jealous, Anupa, but I wonder what else could make you so jittery."

Anupa, knew she was being rather sharp and deliberately playing obtuse. Of course, knew perfectly well what it was that was putting her off-balance, but she really didn't want to enter into the subject with Soumendra. He was perfectly right in thinking that she was not jealous. There had been a certain amount of resentment in her reaction to his news, that he should so quickly have moved on to Lata, but there had been nothing of real jealousy or regret. If anything, it had only validated her decision, for when she had decided that she could not offer him her love she had not thought him capable of such a quick turnaround. But what she had not been able to dismiss was a lingering discomfort for Lata's sake, to which Lata herself, blissfully in love, was entirely unaware. And while Soumendra was perceptive enough to realize that something was the matter, and, in fact, had probably sought her out today for that very reason, he too did not appear to be sensitive enough to have gathered precisely what the problem was.

But the truth was that although Soumendra had lost nothing in Anupa's eyes as a pleasant and engaging friend and companion to herself, her view of his reliability in matters of the heart had severely deteriorated. Simply put, Anupa was not at all sure that Soumendra was good enough for her young friend, a point of view that was complicated by her conviction that Lata was hardly Soumendra's equal either. She felt that Soumendra had settled for something less than he might have had, and in so settling, had rendered himself unworthy of the simple girl who adored him but was hardly his peer. The thought of such a superficial union saddened her, and perversely, the very happiness that Lata had clearly found in it made it all the more difficult for Anupa to accept. And now she was all the more irked at Soumendra. He had no business coming here to discuss this with her. Whatever he thought of their friendship, she was in no position to be candid with him about this, and surely he should understand at least that much.

"I'd really rather not talk about it, Soumendra. If you'll excuse me, it's getting rather late."

"I was expecting to offer you a ride home, Anupa. I'm not abandoning you here at this time of night. We needn't talk about anything you don't want to if you prefer."

"Thank you," she said, as they made their way out through the dingy corridors towards the parking lot to Soumendra's car, a huge old Contessa. Anupa had often teased him about it, accusing him of only wanting to be conspicuous now that everyone was starting to buy the compact little cars which were so much more practical for a city like Calcutta, but she had to admit that it was very comfortable. This was a distinct improvement over the bus she had expected to take.

"So you've been keeping yourself quite busy these days, I hear?"

"Yes, it has been rather hectic. I'm sure Lata's told you about it."

"Yes, she has. I gather that she absolutely depends on your opinions."

"She knows I'm more likely to go along with her than Mira is. She just wants the moral support."

"Oh, I think it's a little more than that. I do hope you know how much she appreciates your help. I'm sure it must seem like they have no concept of what your other responsibilities are, but I assure you that Lata at least really does understand what it means for you."

"It's really not all that. And how are you managing at your end?"

"Well, I rather hoped you'd help me out when you had a chance," He laughed at Anupa's expression. "I was joking, you know. You should have seen the look on your face!"

"That was low, Soumendra, although I should have known better than to give the polite answer with you."

"That's what I love about you, Anupa. You can never lose that bit of formality, can you, even with a clown like me?"

Anupa paused for a moment. "And what do you love about Lata?" she asked, lightly.

"I think you know the real answer to that, but I won't lie to you, Anupa, even to make you feel a bit better. I love the fact that she loves me. She isn't afraid to show it, or say it, or act like it's the most wonderful thing in the world that I love her. It's impossible not to love that, really."

Anupa didn't respond.

"We will be very happy together, you know. You needn't be so afraid for us. You're a little too much of a romantic, yourself; you've set the bar quite a bit higher than the rest of us mere mortals."

"You're one to talk," Anupa couldn't help responding, "with all your views on love at first sight."

"Oh, I've never denied that I'm a romantic myself, but perhaps not quite on the same plane as you. I'm afraid it's 'dull sublunary lovers' love' for me, which I'm quite satisfied with, but you my dear, 'endure not yet a breach but an expansion.' It's really quite impressive."

"Stop throwing Donne around, Soumendra. I don't know what mysticism you're talking about."

"Why? I thought it rather apt, if I do say so myself. You and your civil servant, walking in circles around each other - 'thy firmness makes my circle just...'"

"And what? Are you trying to "make me end where I begun?'"

"I can't say the thought hadn't crossed my mind. It seemed awfully appropriate. I actually entertained these grand visions of sacrificing myself for the sake of your happiness, you know. It hasn't quite worked out that way, I'm happy to say. I'm rather a selfish creature, and I'm rather pleased not to be crossed in love. I intend to be utterly besotted. Still, I suppose I have cleared the path. Have you heard from our upright young public servant yet?"

"Of course not, Soumendra. I can't imagine where you got such an idea."

"The odd thing is, you actually believe what you're saying. And I suppose your young man feels the same way. And yet it's so bloody obvious just to look at you that you might as well be screaming it from the rooftops. Sometimes I wonder if these people are just blind."

"Soumendra, please."

"All right, I'll stop. I can see I'm making you uncomfortable. But I do have one condition."

"What's that?"

"I wasn't actually joking earlier. You're as much on my side as you are on Lata's for this wedding thing, all right? I won't have you abandoning me to do all this running around by myself."

"What do you need me to do?"

"I hardly know. That's why I need you. I need to figure out what I need to be doing. I can't expect the old hens from the muffasil to help me out on this."

"All right, Soumendra. We'll figure out what you need to do. I dare say I'm getting good practice on Lata's side of things."

"I could certainly use some of that expertise. I'm counting on you, Anupa. I want this to be a wedding to remember."

"Oh, I think that's rather a given. But I will help you, if you need me."

"Thanks Anupa."

"Thanks for the ride, Soumendra. I'll see you around."

"That you certainly will."

Anupa let herself out of the car and into the house, locking up behind her. She climbed upstairs quickly, and went straight to her room. For some reason, she didn't quite feel like interacting with people just yet. The conversation with Soumendra had upset her more than she liked to think. She had expected a certain amount of awkwardness at her end, in trying to talk about him and Lata naturally, but she had never imagined that the subject of Pradip might enter the conversation, or even cross Soumendra's mind. Anupa admitted to herself that in certain ways she had never properly understood how Soumendra functioned. He was insightful and penetrating, to be sure, and he had the ability to enter into difficult and awkward subjects and to draw her into discussing them despite her own resistance. But his candidness was loaded in a peculiar way, since he was also self-indulgent, and prone to a certain kind of melodrama, and this was how he had indulged himself today.

Anupa found the notion that he might have taken up with Lata in order to free her path to Pradip to be a profoundly disturbing one, and for all his self-deprecation, that was precisely what Soumendra had suggested. Troubled as she already was by this unequal relationship she wanted to repudiate any responsibility for its creation. Now Soumendra had forced her to examine her possible culpability, and she wasn't sure what to make of it. She couldn't help thinking that she and Soumendra would have made a suitable and more matched pairing. She would have gone into it with her eyes open, knowing precisely what she had to offer Soumendra, and what she had to offer was considerable. Her balance and restraint would have tempered his self-indulgence and grandiosity, and would have permitted his intellect to flourish in a healthier fashion. And he in turn would have helped her overcome her excessive inwardness, and drawn her out into the world a little more. Both would certainly have benefited from the match in important ways, and Anupa could clearly see that this would not be the case with him and Lata. And yet it was Lata who was giving him what he said he really wanted, and Anupa wanted him to appreciate that. In retrospect, the idea that Soumendra had settled for an easy affection was far less troubling thought to her that he might in fact have settled to clear her own path. She really wanted to believe that here was no such sinister motive implicating her in this relationship. As for the opening Soumendra had spoken of, that door had been closed long ago. It had never had anything to do with Lata or Soumendra, and Anupa could not believe that their alliance now would affect her situation in any way.

Chapter 14

Posted on Friday, 24 September 2004

Looking up from his file as his secretary bid him a belated good night, Pradip wondered what exactly he was up to. In the last few weeks he had inundated his bosses with paperwork, sent his subordinates scurrying around researching obscure points of questionable relevance, and set up and attended meetings in every backwater of the state. His office had become a hive of activity, the last night to go out every night in Mantralaya. He was working himself to the bone, and other people along with him. A twinge of guilt attended his realization that his secretary still had a journey of a good hour and a half before him, and his wife, no doubt, would be displeased. Pradip himself, of course, had no such thing to worry about, and that, in a sense, was the crux of it.

Or not quite. For while Pradip at one time had expected and hoped to have a wife very early in his life, he had, to all appearances, reconciled himself admirably to the more extended bachelorhood he had found himself in. He had plenty of friends, married and single, and a generally balanced approach to his work. Yet recently, it seemed, none of that had been enough to satisfy him, and he knew people around him were speculating as to the reason. The most common supposition, he knew, was that he had been crossed in love. It was certainly plausible, yet it was not true. Or was it? Even now, several weeks after he had heard the news, Pradip was still not quite sure how he felt about it. There was a certain sense of outrage that he did not comprehend when he thought about the coolness of his feelings for Lata. He had not particularly desired her as a wife, yet it felt strange to be rejected. But perhaps rejection was not the quite the right word; he had never really had her, after all; had made not the slightest effort ever to know her. She had chosen someone else; he felt certain the decision had little reference to him. She had barely known him well enough to reject him. After all, he had experienced rejection before, and this was not what it felt like.

He had no right to any resentment; he knew that well, and felt it strongly, for Lata's sake. He had strenuously enjoined on his sister not to cut their cordial ties with the Mukherjee family, had insisted that this was nothing, that of course Lata must follow her own heart, and under no circumstances ought they allow it to affect their ties of friendship. And he sincerely believed that the awkwardness could and ought to be overcome. And yet it was there, that odd restlessness in his heart, a feeling that something here was seriously amiss, and he had no conception of how to set it right. And of course, it came down to Anupa. Everything in his life came down to Anupa. What else did he have? though of course he did not in fact, have her, or ever really expect to have her.

How could any man choose Lata when he might have had Anupa? Try as he might it was an equation he could not fathom, despite all his good faith, and all the credit he was willing to offer the child. Because she was a child, and however sweet, or endearing, or even precocious she might be, she was not a woman. Pradip was neither vain nor truly self-deceiving. He did not over-rate himself in comparison to Soumendra, and though he could not quite like the man he paid him the compliment of his respect. It did not surprise him in the slightest that Lata might choose a Soumendra over him; it would quite overthrow his notion of her if she did not. But it did not sit right with his understanding of the man that he could possibly choose the insipid Lata if he might have had the interest and the affection of Anupa. He knew Anupa well enough to know that she held the man in some regard, and despite the neglect she received from her family it did not seem reasonable to him that a man of sense could discount the compliment of her affection. Soumendra, for all his faults of self-importance and exhibitionism, was not a fool, but if he was not a fool, Pradip could not discern what he was about.

He was spiralling down a familiar path of confusion, he knew; one that had hardly benefitted him in the weeks since he had first received these tidings of Lata's marriage. He stretched out in his chair for a minute and forced himself to rise, knowing that the bearers were eager to lock up the office behind him and head out themselves. He took the stairs down instead of the elevator, nodded absently as the constable on duty outside, and headed out into the night air. It was finally beginning to cool off after a wretchedly warm October, and he was glad at least that the weather was not quite as torturous as his mind. He started on the short walk home to the quarters assigned to him nearby, having long ago dismissed his driver. The roads were not quite empty at this time, but they were quite different. The traffic signals had been put on blinkers, much too early to his mind, and traffic was chaotic as he tried to cross the intersection opposite Mantralaya. The footpaths were actually walkable, if one were watchful enough, for though they were uneven and full of potholes that one might normally think belonged on a road, at least at this time they were not invaded with hawkers and food stands. This was after all still the primary business district of the city, however much the suburbs were expanding, and there were hardly a lot of restaurants that the common run of office workers could afford. On the footpaths one could find a great profusion, not quite legal but convenient and affordable, from full plates of rice and curry, to sandwiches, pao bhaji, dosas, Chinese, or coconut water or sugarcane juice. Pradip himself usually had something sent up to his office from the Mantralaya canteen to his office unless he was going out for lunch somewhere. Officers at his level did not normally frequent these stands, but in the evenings sometimes, when he left work early, he had risked his stomach against these treats, and as he passed the packed up carts now he could feel himself getting hungrier.

A lonely reheated dinner was a fate he could not quite contemplate right now; many nights he had gone to bed hungry just to avoid it. His stomach growled as though in response to such thoughts, putting him on notice that he could not expect to get away with such behavior right now. But where ought he go? Was there anyone he could impose on at such an hour? Or should he just go out somewhere, perhaps grab a drink and a snack and fool his stomach long enough to sneak to bed without having to worry about this for another day. He really was getting too old to be alone; he could hardly remember that once upon a time when he had resolved to put Anupa behind him it had actually felt comfortable to know that he was not accountable; that there was no one to comment on what he did, where he went, or what time he saw fit to return. Now he could not properly imagine a reason to wish to go out without someone to enjoy it with, unless it were simply to run away from a lonely flat. He went on, well past his house, into Colaba. The shops, of course, were all closed by now, but there were more than a few places there that would be too noisy to let him get lonely.

But despite the noise, and the crowd, the cigarette smoke and the two quick drinks in his bloodstream, that restlessness was still throbbing in him somewhere, refusing to let him find an equilibrium. The crowd was disconcertingly young, the decor here not quite as shabby in the days he had first come here as an initiate, and though he did not consider himself either old or particularly prudish the women seemed to him to be singularly underdressed. Nocturnal Bombay had undergone a revolution since the days when he had last stumbled into bars with packs of his friends, which was hardly surprising now that his friends were married, raising babies, and utterly forgetful of the fact that they had ever come into such places. Perhaps when they were older still they would remember what it had been to be young and lonely, but for now they were wrapped up in the glories of family life. The tempo of the music was oddly soothing to him; it was pulsating in a manner that was calculated to jar but oddly resonated with his own unease. What was that man thinking? How could he do this to her? That was what it came down to, for whatever Anupa had done to him she could never deserve such cavalier treatment as this. She was too good for him; she was too good for either of them; it was for her to reject whom she chose; who was he to choose a chit of a girl over a woman who could have given him all the happiness any man deserved and more?

But what was a man to do about it? -- when all involved had made him clear that he was not needed in any way. For that was something that still stung, however little it was justified. He could hardly resent Anupa now; she was utterly justified, and to his confused mind it was incomprehensible that he could ever have resented her. But that the girl had done it -- that was an odd sort of an ache -- the response of a man who perhaps ought not to be surprised at pain but is. Was it to be expected that such a child should throw him over? What had he done to deserve it? And yet he did not care about the girl, was just as satisfied never to see her again in his life if he need not. What was truly the matter with him? Was there anything to be done about it?

Perhaps he ought to go to Calcutta again, to the beginning and the end of his confusion. What was there at the end of his road he did not know, but in Calcutta there was Anupa. And perhaps if he was very lucky there was conversation, and a kind of clarity. He did not doubt that it would unravel his mind to speak with her. To what end he did not quite know. To offer sympathy, perhaps. To commiserate, now that they both knew what it was to suffer in love. Perhaps only to trade notes on bewilderment and incomprehensibility -- to laugh at the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that had brought them to this juncture. He really needed to talk to Anupa, if he was getting quite this dramatic, and starting to quote Shakespeare to himself. That was her job, after all.

Chapter 15

Posted on Sunday, 24 October 2004

As the plane commenced its descent, Pradip experienced that peculiar anticipation that always afflicted him at this time, ever since he had first flown. No matter how often he travelled, how mundane the reason for flying, or how little he looked forward to his destination, he had never managed to cure himself of these jitters. On this occasion, given his reason for flying, they were perhaps more forgivable than usual. Of course, he wasn't quite sure what his reason for flying really was, and quite deliberately he schooled his mind to think of something different. He glanced out the window, studying the bright collage of lights that was Calcutta. The city looked like a map illuminated by diyas, or tealights, which was quite appropriate, given what night it was. He supposed that was the reason the flight was relatively empty. Those who were so unfortunate as to have to travel on this perhaps most celebrated night of the Hindu calendar had probably tried to take earlier flights, and were now with their family and friends. He tried to see if he could actually see any fireworks from the air, but he wasn't sure he noticed anything particularly different. His anticipation built until he felt the familiar but always reassuring thump as the wheels made contact on the runway.

The plane taxied as Pradip stretched, anxious to be out of his seat. It was always a torturous wait until the plane slowed, and found a gate, and he barely attended to the final announcements as the flight attendant announced the outside temperature and wished everyone a Happy Diwali. Pradip grabbed his bag and disembarked, feeling that slight nip in the air that differentiated Calcutta from Bombay at this time of year. He took the bus that dropped him off at the terminal and went through walking at his usual rapid clip, glad that he hadn't checked any bags. As he stepped out of the baggage claim area he spotted the driver holding up his name on a placard, and went over to him quickly. The driver took the bag from him and led him to the car, initiating a garrulous line of small talk, reflecting on how Bannerjee Babu must enjoy being home. Pradip wondered at the difference between the people in the two cities, and also at the bond one Bengali inevitably claimed with another, no matter how unconnected they were.

This was a homecoming, he realized, as he let the driver speak. For a long time now he hadn't truly felt that way about Calcutta, but today for some reason it was different. Perhaps because it was a day of homecoming -- Diwali, the festival of lights -- Ram's triumphant return to Ayodhya after completing his exile and liberating his wife. He had been exiled for so long, Pradip realized, without ever admitting it to himself. Perhaps he still was, and his recognition of it was all that had changed, but somehow, he felt different tonight, younger, perhaps, and strangely energetic. He realized now that those jitters from the plane still hadn't gone away.

As they got off the bypass into the city, Pradip realized what a long journey this was going to be. On Diwali, no, Kali Puja, here in Calcutta, everyone was on the streets. There were as many pandals erected in the streets for this fierce deity as there had been for her other incarnation, Durga, about twenty days earlier when he had last been here. Of course the pandals were much smaller, and the festivities were confined to this one night, but the crush was quite comparable, and perhaps exacerbated by the fact that people were out on the streets everywhere with their fireworks. Pradip found himself enjoying the sights and sounds, as every hand he passed held sparklers, lighting flowerpots that threw up their multicoloured showers of sparks, and Catherine wheels that threw the sparks rather disconcertingly on to his tires as they whizzed on to the street, or the Kali-patkas most distinguished for the racket they made. It had been a while since he had enjoyed Diwali like this. For so long he had been in lonely districts where there were many to look up to him, but only a few to befriend. In his solemn capacity he had hardly felt he had the opportunity to really let loose and celebrate, and for some time now he had hardly felt the inclination.

As his thoughts began to drift towards their inevitable target he reminded himself that this really had very little to do with Anupa. After all, he had certainly marked the occasion with great verve and enthusiasm while he had been a student in Delhi, and perhaps the Academy had been the last occasion when he had had friends and peers to celebrate with like this. Still, had Anupa been with him when he was SDO or Collector he had no doubt they would have had their own private celebrations, or perhaps even larger parties with their friends. Certainly she would have wanted to have a Lakshmi puja to mark the day, or perhaps even a Kali puja if that was in her family tradition, although he was fairly certain it was not. And then, perhaps by now there would have been children, impatient to get out of the puja and their nice clothes and go play with their friends as soon as possible. Pradip was amazed at how easy it was to imagine Anupa into his life. It was an exercise he had scrupulously avoided for a long time, but recently he had found it happening with some frequency, and had made no effort to stop himself. He had spent hours in the last week wondering how she would like Bombay, what changes she would make to the flat, how she would get along with Anju and his other friends' wives, and how easy it would be for her to get a place at the university. And now he was imagining a full fledged shadow life. He could see her children -- their children -- so vividly that it cost him a considerable pang to realize that they didn't exist, and for the first time he admitted to himself that if they never did, he could not contemplate, let alone participate in bringing in to the world, any others. It would be Anupa or no one for him.

Only when the car pulled up at the house did Pradip break out of his reverie. His driver's monologue had never ceased, and he was impressed to meet a Babu who was so attentive a listener, for Pradip had made all the right noises at the all right places in his story. It was almost worthwhile for him to have been out working so late on a Puja night, he thought, and his sentiments were confirmed when he saw the tip that Pradip absently thrust into his hand. Lakshmi certainly was coming to his house tonight.

Shanta di and the Admiral were delighted to see Pradip again so soon. They had worried about his reaction to the news, and it was reassuring to see him in the flesh. They had been slightly concerned at his determination to come at this time, not sure how it would appear to the Mukherjees or their in-laws upstairs, but they could hardly have asked him to stay away on such an auspicious occasion, especially as it was bhai phota the following day. Shanta, of course, had had a little Lakshmi puja earlier in the evening, and as Pradip entered the house he was careful to avoid her carefully drawn footsteps leading to the altar. He paid his respects to the Goddess, scrutinizing her perhaps a little more attentively than usual tonight. Would Lakshmi, his luck, wealth and well-being, ever enter his house? He ate the prasad his sister had made, and then sat with her and his brother-in-law, although his thoughts were decidedly elsewhere. Was it too late to see Anupa tonight? Was the festival enough of a pretext for him to go offer his good wishes? Would she even want to see him? With some trepidation about what his sister would think he broached an inquiry about their upstairs neighbours, only to learn that they were in fact out for the night. Soumendra Babu had revived his family's tradition of having a Kali Puja. It would, of course, run extremely late. They had, they admittedly slowly, also been invited, but given the awkwardness, and the really very slight acquaintance they shared with the man, they hadn't thought of going. And so that was that, at least for tonight.

Anupa helped the priest with the basket of flowers, looking around in some amazement at her surroundings. Soumendra, it seemed, never did anything by halves. In honour of his impending marriage he had decided to reopen his family's house in town, and typically for him, had decided to do things in style. Instead of the conventional griha prabesh and satya narayan puja he had chosen to revive his family's traditional Kali Puja. When he had first approached Anupa for help she had assumed that he would want a small scale affair, and had helped him locate a reliable priest and taken him to the neighbourhood where he could commission an idol, and purchase her accouterments. It was when she had seen him opt away from the compact clay deities and commission one of the larger straw filled variety that she first began to gain an inkling of his vision. His chosen idol was nearly six feet tall, and had undoubtedly been a challenge to carry through the doors of this large hall. Her clothing was exquisite, and instead of the usual foil jewelry and weapons, Soumendra's Kali wore real gold, although Soumendra maintained that the family had always kept the jewels for this purpose, and he hadn't commissioned them. Kali's jewelry, of course, was rather distinctive, and surely these skeletons, exquisitely wrought as they were, had been designed for no mortal woman to wear.

Anupa was one of the only people there who had fasted through the entire day, and was hence able to touch the puja supplies and help the priest. Few people made the effort for a puja that was conducted so late, and apart from her, only the priest himself and Soumendra, whose puja it was, had made the effort. Lata, Anupa knew, had tried, but ultimately had succumbed in the evening and eaten a few sweets before joining her nephews to play with fireworks. Now the boys were in bed, and Lata, decked out in a beautiful new sari, looked quite different from the girl who had been scampering round the streets only about an hour ago. She was standing with Soumendra as he introduced her to some of the family photographs that lined the walls. Soumendra's ancestors, like so many others, looked rather stern and formal as they gazed down from their sepia toned portraits, and Anupa preferred to concentrate on the magnificent idol before her as the priest finally started the puja.

Kali was not usually Anupa's favorite deity, but today she felt something of a kinship with this fierce Goddess, brought into the world to fight a battle no man could win, and able to stop only when she stepped inadvertently on her husband Shiva's chest, sticking out her tongue in a cosmic blooper captured in all her idols. Indeed, without her this most potent of all Gods, the destroyer of the trinity but certainly as much a symbol of creation in his usual phallic lingam incarnation, was inanimate -- a shava, or a corpse. Normally Anupa preferred a Durga or a Jagadhatri, equally strong but more balanced, or perhaps just more recognizably feminine. Because Kali did represent balance of a sort, an acknowledgement of forces so often hidden away or forgotten that one might hardly know they were there. In a cruel world of famine, warfare, devastation, and death, there was undoubtedly room for a Kali, this incarnation of time itself. For time itself was the ultimate perpetrator of cosmic violence -- entropy and death -- yet these passive forces had none of the animation, the energy, the living Shakti of Kali. It was rare for Anupa to be proud of something for which she could take no credit but it gave her a peculiar satisfaction to know that she came from a lineage that acknowledged and worshipped this feminine creative principle, not only in its mellow but also its most fearsome form.

Of course she had to acknowledge that it was never so simple. This puja was a man's province in a patriarchal society, conducted here by one to satisfy the pride of another. Soumendra, who sat so gracefully by the priest, wearing only a dhoti and an uttorio, yet somehow managing to escape the Bengali male's habitual embarrassment with his bare torso, was a perfect example of a man off such a society, respectful, insightful, yet ultimately beguiled by docility and ignorance. Was such a man bringing Kali to his home? How was he to comprehend her power? But for that matter, who was she? Willing to be treated as a doormat by her father and her nearest relations, willing to disregard her strongest feelings, willing to be disregarded for the sake of a man's wounded pride, not once but twice -- with Pradip because she would not defend him, and Soumendra because she could not love him -- who was she to claim the sacred feminine? She, who had sacrificed her happiness over and over, she was the goat that had been slaughtered for this puja here tonight, not the Goddess to whom this offering was rendered. This was a strange night -- a celebration of Lakshmi, feminine wealth; Kali, feminine power, and the homecoming of Ram, that ultimate chauvinist who cast off his chaste Sita for the sake of the whisperings of his people. Anupa was done being Sita, that futile paragon of Indian womanhood. Whether she could find Lakshmi or Kali within her was yet to be seen.

Chapter 16

Posted on Sunday, 16 January 2005

It's Diwali, the day after Kali Puja. Pradip just arrived in Calcutta last night.

Despite the late hour at which she had gone to sleep the previous night, Anupa rose early the next morning, feeling surprisingly refreshed. She suspected, of course, that she would feel the exhaustion later in the day, but for now she was determined to make the most of her morning. She took her cup of tea out to the terrace, taking in that slight refreshing nip in the air that announced the advent of Calcutta's winter. Anupa knew, of course, that it wasn't never got very cold by objective standards, but like all Calcuttans she enjoyed the opportunity of pulling out her sweaters and shawls, and, in fact, however nice it was outside, it really would get rather chilly indoors in old houses like Anupa's, not to mention the cavernous rooms of the college. Looking down at the street where the morning bustle was just starting, she wondered how she ought to spend the remainder of the day. The evening, of course, was reserved for Mira's boys, who would come over to burst the rest of their firecrackers. The college vacations would be ending soon now that Kali Puja was past. Although Anupa had gone in somewhat frequently to work on her research and prepare her materials, she had enjoyed not having classes for the month, and wanted to make the best use of the few days until Bhai Phota she had left.

Draining the last of her tea, she stepped back into the house and dressed quickly. She would head over to New Market, she decided. She didn't really want to shop, but she hadn't been there just to wander in the longest time. And of course the last of the puja decorations would still be there, and perhaps the first of the Christmas decorations. She went into the kitchen and instructed the cook, and told her that she wasn't planning to be back in time for lunch. No doubt her father would not appreciate her defection, but somehow she was simply inclined to spend the day away from home. She knew, of course, that it was entirely too early to leave, but she didn't want to stay long enough to invite her father's comments. Besides, the market, or at least parts of it, would certainly be open; it just wouldn't be brimming over with people just yet.

She headed downstairs, and on a whim, she knocked on the Chatterjees' door. It was doubtful that Shanta di would come with her, especially so early, but if she did want to come Anupa would welcome her company. But she knew that they wouldn't regard it as an imposition; they had certainly been awake for some time at this hour, and she knew quite well that they did not stand on ceremony. And besides, it had been a week or two since she had looked in on them, and she certainly had the time to stop and chat for a bit.

"Shanta di, how are you? Did you have a good Lakshmi Puja?"

"Yes, it was lovely. Come in and take a look at her; I'm sorry you weren't able to join us last night."

"No, I'm sorry. I'd promised Soumendra a long time ago..."

"Oh, it's no problem at all. This was just a little home puja. We didn't have any guests, but you're like one of the family. Besides, you helped me organize everything. Here, let me get you some prasad."

Anupa smiled her thanks and went to the corner of the room, where the idol was, still covered in flowers from last night. She knelt down in worship, and prayed for a moment, for good health and prosperity. As she rose, she turned at a slight noise to see Pradip, looking slightly rumpled in a pair of white pajamas, obviously having just woken up. He looked about equally as shocked to see her in there.

"Pradip!"

"Hello, Anupa."

"How are you? What brings you to Calcutta?"

"I was looking for didi. I didn't know you were in here."

They spoke simultaneously, then stopped and glanced bashfully at each other for another moment. It was Anupa who recovered first.

"She just went to the kitchen, I think. She was going to bring me some prasad from yesterday's puja."

"I see," he managed, just as his sister returned with a plateful of luchis, some vegetables, and sweets.

"Sorry, Anupa, it's all cold now, of course, but I wanted you to try some of the bhog instead of just the sweets."

"Thank you! It's wonderful. I love day old luchis."

"Pradip always says that too. Of course the way he eats there's hardly ever any left for the next day."

"Didi!"

"I didn't see you there. Finally decided to wake up, did you?"

"Good morning to you too. I wasn't going to waste the entire day in bed, you know."

"What were you planning to do? You never did properly tell me what brings you to Calcutta."

"Bhai phota's coming up, you know that!" he said, defensively, but he couldn't help glancing at Anupa's direction for a moment.

"Well, that's sweet, but bhai phota's two days away. Are you going to be in my hair all day today and tomorrow?"

"That's the last time I take up one of your invitations!"

Anupa contained a laugh as she watched brother and sister bicker, wondering whether she should take her leave, as Shanta di decided to let up on her brother and turned back to her.

"So you'll join us for breakfast, Anupa?"

"Shanta di! You've already put a plate of food in my hand. I can't possibly eat any more."

"Nonsense! Your Dada just stepped out for some chhanar pulao. You can't say no to that."

"No, I really don't want to intrude."

"No, don't go, Anupa. You're not intruding at all. You heard Didi. If anything, I'm the intruder."

Anupa was nearly too flustered to answer, but she acquiesced, not quite able to look at Pradip.

"By the way, Anupa, I nearly forgot. Did you just come by to see us, or did you need something?"

"Oh, it's nothing, Shanta di. I was just thinking of heading to New Market this morning, and I wondered if you wanted to come along."

"What a lovely thought. It's very tempting thought, my dear, but I couldn't possibly. I've got to put this whole place back in order. Why don't you take Pradip with you? You can see he's at a loose end."

Anupa didn't know how to respond to that suggestion, but she was reasonably certain Pradip wouldn't hesitate to shoot it down. She was surprised for the third time that morning when he agreed to his sister's suggestion with alacrity.

"That's a great idea. You don't mind if I tag along, do you, Anupa."

"No, not at all."

Great, I'll just go get ready. You guys can start breakfast without me if Jamai Babu comes back."

Ultimately, of course, the ladies did insist on waiting for Pradip before they had breakfast, over all the Admiral's protests. He had brought back, in addition to the promised chhanar pulau, a more substantial savoury breakfast of idlis and sambhar from a neighbourhood south Indian tiffin house, which he insisted would be unreasonably cold by the time his brother-in-law returned. Anupa and Shanta took this in good humour, knowing Pradip to be far from fastidious, and in fact he was changed and ready in record time, and when they sat down to eat, the idlis were still practically steaming. Despite Anupa's protests, she ended up having another fairly substantial breakfast, though she ate nothing in comparison to Pradip, who aside from polishing off twice as many idlis as the rest of them, had the remainder of last night's leftover luchis, exclaiming over them just as Anupa had done earlier. They chatted genially as they ate, and Anupa couldn't help realizing that she hadn't had such a pleasant informal family style meal in a very long time. The Admiral and Shanta Di were of course always very kind to Anupa, but she couldn't help noticing that it was Pradip as much as either of them who was making sure she had her part in the conversation. There was something subtly different about him, yet familiar in the Pradip she had once known, and she realized that he had shed the self-consciousness that had cloaked all of their recent encounters. How he had managed it was a mystery to her, since she was doubly inhibited by his more natural manners. But she forced herself to make an effort, and had she only known it, had no trouble at all being delightful to all of her companions.

By the time they set out, Pradip's self-consciousness was threatening to make an extremely unwelcome comeback. He was acutely aware of the fact that he had essentially invited himself along, and had no way of knowing whether Anupa had permitted it only out of politeness. Nevertheless, he knew from his last visit that Anupa was willing to be friendly, even rather personal, with him. She did not reject his company, and had made an effort to make him feel welcome. It was something, and he intended to build on it as well he could. This opening was better than anything he had hoped to contrive, and he didn't intend to blow it. Of course, that would probably involve carrying on some kind of conversation, or she would think he had decided to tag along just to glower at her side. He was still planning his opening conversational gambit as she locked the door behind her and turned to him.

"Shall we take the bus?"

"No, there's no need. Actually, I have a car while I'm here."

"Good thing you're coming with me, then. Of course, parking will be a bit of a nightmare."

"It's still early, isn't it?"

"Not anymore, after that breakfast."

The driver had pulled up to the door by now, seeing Pradip, and he opened the door for Anupa before going around to the other side.

"Such gallantry. I'm impressed," she said, and Pradip was heartened to see her speaking so naturally to him.

"I'll have you know I've learnt a thing or two," he responded in kind.

"I have no doubt," she said, looking away, and he wondered if he had put his foot in his mouth already. He tried to extract it, changing the subject as gracefully as possible given that there seemed to be an embargo on almost every subject he could think of, since they related either to their shared history or their long separation.

"Why the sudden impulse to go to New Market?"

"I don't know. I just wanted to take in the festive time of year, I suppose. I haven't been there in ages just to wander. I could ask you the same question, though."

"You made it sound like fun. I haven't been there in ages either. Besides, you heard my sister. She was trying to kick me out, so the least I could do was to secure some congenial company."

"And flattery too!"

"I aim to please."

"So how long are you staying this time around?"

"I'm not sure, actually."

"Can you take an indefinite leave?"

"I have a good deal of vacation time piled up, believe it or not. I don't know how much of it I'll use, but I was planning to stay at least a week or so."

"That should make Shanta di very happy."

"Oh, I'm not so sure about that. You heard her this morning."

"Then why did you come?"

"To make myself happy. At least that's the plan."

Anupa wasn't quite sure what he meant by that, and didn't know how to respond. It was fortunate for her that they had reached New Market, and had a distraction that allowed her to get away from this conversation. She got out of the car while he was still instructing the driver, before he could think of coming around to get the door for her. He arranged for the driver to find a parking spot and meet them outside the market in a few hours.

They started on a leisurely ramble through the market in more or less companionable silence. To Pradip, seeing the market through new eyes after so many years away, the discrepancy between dark grey ill-maintained corridors and the bright, almost garish, displays in the shops themselves was oddly striking. He acknowledged, of course, that there were similar markets to be found in Bombay, even close to her posher enclaves downtown where he lived, but since he rarely ventured out shopping for bargains, he hardly ever encountered them. In fact it felt rather odd to be wandering through a market without an express intention of taking something back, and none of the shopkeepers calling out to them seemed to understand that they might just wish to be strolling through. The shops themselves were of an extremely varied and mixed character. There were corridors devoted to grocers and green grocers, but in the rest of the market, there were a profusion of clothing stores of all sorts, from Indian to Western wear, casuals to formal, for children and adults. Then there were the shops and stalls selling accessories of every description, from leather purses to faux gold and silver jewellery. If you looked a little harder there were stationery stores, record stores, any number selling consumer goods, and a few devoted to electronics. For those who needed to nourish themselves in the course of a hard day's shopping there was a sprinkling of fast food stalls of every description. And finally, especially around the centre of the market from where the aisles radiated out, there were the holiday decorations. The central hall itself was already given over to the Christmas trees, with mini-Santa Clauses beaming benignly from every direction, and the glittering streamers adding a bit of sparkle.

"I love coming here at this time of year. With the sorts of things one hears are happening around the country, gestures like this restore my faith in pluralism."

"That's an interesting way of thinking about it. I guess I've thought about Christmas in this country as a largely secularized and commercial occasion, but you're probably right that there's a little more to it here in Calcutta. In Bombay unless you're going to Midnight Mass or planning to gorge yourself at someone's party you'd hardly notice."

"It's becoming a little more invisible here every year, but if you walk down Park Street on Christmas eve there's still a bit of magic in the air. And of course a mad rush on the cakes and Yule Logs at Flury's. It's sad, really, to be losing something that's been such a tradition here since this city was born."

"I'm not used to thinking of Calcutta as a city that's out of touch with its traditions. I think you could argue that it's almost obsessively in touch with its supposed cultural superiority."

"And that's largely true, if you're talking about Bengali culture, the preoccupation with Rabindranath Tagore, and Durga Puja and all of that. But there are a lot of other stories here that are getting lost. Bengal's nawabi muslim history, the Anglo-Indian tradition, the story of the Chinese immigrants, even the immigrants from Bangladesh. These are all the things that make us who we are. I've never understood the desire to overwrite history. "

"So you don't believe in leaving the past behind."

"Well, it's never really gone, is it? I mean, you can build on it, or learn from it, but you can never really pretend that it never happened, or that it hasn't made you what you are. I don't know; maybe it's something to do with me. I know plenty of people can live satisfied lives without needing to revisit these the past. And other people make up a version that makes up a version that suits them politically or in terms of self-justification, or glorification, or whatever. I don't think the past is there just to validate your choices. I would feel that the texture of my life was poorer without some awareness of where I was coming from. I need those threads to fill in the context."

"Well, that's good to know," Pradip said reflectively. It crossed his mind that this might be his opening, but he shelved that idea. Clearly, his earlier comment about looking for his happiness had either flustered her or crossed into territory she wasn't ready to revisit. There was no doubt in his mind that he did want to revisit their past, or really, to revive their past relationship, but he was by no means convinced that was an achievable goal, or even the goal he had come here to accomplish. He had come here to be her friend, if she needed one, and to obtain her friendship if she was willing to offer it. And since she seemed to be willing to do that, within some limitations, he would not try to breach them, just yet.

"Sorry, have I been rambling on about this? Bad habit from lecturing, I suppose."

"Not at all. You always have a way of making me think."

"As long as you don't mind thinking, then. Are you here on vacation to think?"

"Well, it's not like I use my brains when I'm actually working, so it seems fair that they should get a bit of exercise while I'm on vacation."

She smiled. "You inspire me with such confidence in the workings of the government."

"Don't let me scare you. It's better this way. It's the ideologues who do think that are the scary ones. You know what they say -- the road to hell is paved with good intentions."

"Yes, I know something about that road."

"Sorry, I don't mean to keep weighing down the conversation."

"Well, you're not the one doing that, are you? I think I'm the one who keeps veering into over-serious territory. Sorry, I'm not sure this isn't how you wanted to spend your holiday."

"Not at all. Please, don't apologise. I'm always happy to have a chance to talk to you."

She looked at him doubtfully

"Not when I'm constantly brooding, I'm sure."

"No, you're not," he tried to stop her from withdrawing into herself, but he didn't quite succeed. She wandered away from the centre of the market, walking a little faster than she had been, and while not exactly uncommunicative, she was not willing to answer him in anything longer than clipped part-sentences. Nevertheless he persevered, extending himself beyond his own norm to carry the burden of the conversation, and succeeding in drawing a few smiles from her. He had always considered her to be more of an introvert than he was, so it was something of a learning experience to realize that he implicitly expected her to drive their dialogue. He tried to convince himself that this was a sign of her comfort with him that she had always chosen to exert herself in this manner, but the fact remained that he had never before realized this to have been the case. He was drawn out of these introspections, noticing once again that the conversation was beginning to lag.

They were approaching one of the exits of the market, and feeling as though he had wandered long enough, he turned towards Anupa and suggested that they get lunch. She agreed, laughingly reminding him of the size of his breakfast, but he brushed off her comment and led her to Aminia, a Mughlai restaurant that was a longtime favourite for both of them. As they entered the large public area bustling with diners he paused for a moment, but he led her through to the family rooms in the rear, mindful that they would render themselves too conspicuous in the outer room, regardless of how little they might desire the relative privacy. He eschewed the curtained booths, selecting a relatively exposed table and drawing back the chair for her before seating himself.

They had hardly settled themselves that a waiter came by, dropping off two menus and two glasses of water in the curiously abrupt fashion of servers at such institutions. Anupa looked as though she might have sought refuge in the menu, but at a place like Aminia, where the limited options were all too familiar, this was hardly an option. When the server swung back by they placed their orders, a plate of mutton biryani each, with an Aminia special for him, and rezala for her on the side.

They stared at each other for a long moment, but as he started to speak, she looked away, and then got up, claiming that she needed to go wash her hands before she ate. He watched her make her way towards the washbasin, knowing that he needed to break through these absurd inhibitions somehow if he was going to gain her friendship, but not quite knowing how. Finally, he decided that he would have to take a somewhat direct approach if he was to make any progress at all, and when she returned, he spoke rather deliberately.

"Anupa, I know it seems a bit awkward for us to talk, like we're skirting around a real conversation, but there really isn't any need for that, is there? I think we've known each other long enough to just be natural."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean, Pradip."

"Look, Anupa, please. You do know what I'm talking about. This isn't how we used to talk. I'm just... I don't want things to be this awkward."

"No, that's not exactly what I meant. I'm not trying to stonewall you or deny that this is a bit strange. I'm just not sure how you mean to cure it."

"I... That's true, actually. I guess I was just thinking that if we admitted that there was this awkwardness that would automatically take care of it, but you're right of course, we both already knew that."

"But you're probably right that to acknowledge it is a little bit better than pretending that there's nothing of the sort going on." She smiled self-deprecatorily, "I don't quite understand why you're going to all this trouble. Why do you want to talk to me?"

This was an unexpected blow. Pradip stared for a moment that lengthened as the waiter chose this moment to clank down their plates of food on the table. When he had finally retreated, he spoke.

"I'm sorry. I should have realised. Of course I shouldn't be imposing on you like this."

"No, Pradip, that's not what I meant. It's not an imposition on me at all. It's just, after all the trouble I've caused you, why are you being so nice to me?"

"I should ask you that question. I haven't been very nice to you at all. I've been mean and resentful; I've pretended to ignore you; I've barely acknowledged to anyone that we know each other."

"All of which made a great deal of sense. It's only natural that you should move on."

"Are you saying that I shouldn't be nice to you?"

"I wonder why you would be, that's all."

"So you think my resentment is implacable?"

"Well, I do like that brooding Byronic image."

"I'm sorry to disoblige you, but I don't think I want to be quite that lonely or miserable. Perhaps I'm being nice to you because I need a friend."

Her eyes softened, and she touched his arm briefly.

"Of course you do. How are you, really?"

He looked at her in confusion.

"I'm well. I'm not sure what you mean."

"I mean about Lata. I know it's not something we've talked about, obviously, but I have wondered."

"Oh! I'm fine. I mean, I barely knew her, after all. Please, you're not eating anything; it's getting cold."

"Pradip!"

"No, really, Anupa," he said, taking a bite of his own biryani. Then, seeing her expression, he relented, "I think the most disconcerting thing was that I had actually convinced myself to do this. It was kind of a shock to realise how little I knew her."

"Are you sure? You can tell me the truth, you know."

"I intend to, Anupa. She meant nothing to me. It's a bit shameful that in retrospect I'm actually relieved. I wouldn't have been brave enough to do what she did."

"I don't think brave is the word. You're too honest to do that."

"No, honesty has nothing to do with it. It would hardly have been honest to go through with it. But while we're being frank, Anupa, how about you? Were you very hurt?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you know what I mean. It was pretty clear Soumendra was interested in you."

"Were you under the impression that I was interested in him?"

"Weren't you?"

"I asked you what you thought."

"I guess I assumed you must be. You seemed very friendly."

"We were. We still are."

"Are you saying that I misread the entire situation?"

"You're not being very clear as to how you read the situation, Pradip, so I can't answer that question."

"Please, Anupa, I know I'm fumbling around this. If you mean to tell me any of this then just take pity on me and tell me. If you don't want to, I'll respect that."

She hesitated for a moment, but relented, seeing his expression.

"Alright, Pradip. I suppose it's only fair. You're right. Soumendra did say he was interested in me, in a manner of speaking, not that I was expecting it or looking forward to it. He withdrew his offer before I responded."

"So you weren't interested in him at all?"

"I didn't say that. He didn't think I could give him what he wanted."

"Which was?"

"Love, he claimed."

"Why do you say it that way? Do you think you could have?"

"I don't know, but I don't think it was for him to decide. Anyway, he did decide, and I guess he's found what he's looking for."

"And you don't resent that? You're still friends?"

"I'm rather impressed that he was so clear about what he was looking for, and under those circumstances, I suppose he was right. And I don't resent him for going after what he wanted. But I suppose our friendship has changed."

"I'm going to ask you a rather impertinent question, and I don't want you to read anything into it. You're free not to answer it, of course."

"I doubt if you could ask me anything more personal than you already have, Pradip."

"I suppose that's true, but this isn't just personal to you. Have you told Lata about any of this?"

"I'll answer that if you tell me why you're asking. It's only fair, if you don't want me reading anything into the question."

"I'm not asking out of my supposed interest in Lata, and in fact that's exactly what I don't want you thinking. I'm not mooning after her, or trying to ruin her happiness. It just seems like an interesting moral dilemma. One could make the case that she deserves to know what he's been up to, and I was always under the impression that you too were close."

"He hasn't been up to anything, Pradip. Nothing happened. No, I haven't told her. I'm not quite sure what purpose it would serve."

"It would achieve a certain clarity, I assume. You were telling me about not wanting to get away from the past."

"But it's Soumendra's prerogative what he wants to tell her about his past. Perhaps I'm oversimplifying this for myself, but I really don't think it's my place to say anything."

"I suppose that's true."

"I didn't tell her anything about you either."

"What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean! You're not pure as the driven snow either. Or a washed tulsi leaf, I should say, since neither of us has ever seen the driven snow."

"Actually, I did see snow once."

"Really?"

"I was in Germany for a conference. It was a very small snowfall, but it was a rather unique experience. Did you know it actually gets a little warmer when it snows?"

"I can't imagine."

"I'm sure you could, but you shouldn't have to."

"But you've been changing the subject."

"I think you're changing the subject now, but what would you like me to say?"

"Do you think I should have told Lata about us? Or would you feel the need to tell a significant other yourself?"

"I think you're right in what you were saying earlier. I wouldn't want to run away from the past."

"So you would tell her?"

"I would say what needed to be said."

"And what does need to be said?"

"A great deal, I think, but do you think now is the time?"

She blinked, and looked away, turning to her watch.

"Perhaps not. We've been done eating for some time now, and I need to run another errand before I head home."

She reached for her purse, but he stopped her.

"No, please, I'll get it. I insist."

She nodded, and let him pay. They headed out of the restaurant, chatting amicably, but without any of the seriousness that had characterised their lunch. He followed her back into the market, where she made her way to Nahoum's, the famous Jewish-run bakery, where she fought the clamouring crowds to buy several slabs of rich plum cake and two dozen mince pies, mostly for her nephews. He started to ask for some himself, but she stopped him, pointing out that she had already picked up some for his sister, and she wouldn't allow him to share the tab.

"Would you like some dessert, then? We forgot to get the phirni at Aminia."

She smiled, "Sure, I'll join you for something."

They happily shared a couple of rumballs on their journey home, regardless of the sticky fingers.