His daughter Monica became his most constant companion. By this time she was old enough to be aware of the increasing tension between her parents. There was a quarrel now every time Sumitra wanted Harry to accompany her to one of her important functions. She no longer coaxed, she begged, and then she commanded, and then she remonstrated: didn’t he realize that this was her work, her contribution to her country? That made him laugh: oh yes, wonderful contribution, to flirt around in her sari and jewels, like a professional—if he didn’t come out with the word, she challenged him: professional what? What? And she stood demanding an answer, and he said, Courtesan. It amused him the way she went wild. They no longer shared a bedroom but they had a connecting dressing room, and with her gorgeous brocade sari half tucked in and half trailing on the floor behind her, she stamped up and down between their two bedrooms, reproaching him with the difference between her sense of duty and his utter lack of responsibility. He hummed to himself, and the more she worked herself up the calmer he became. Once he playfully trod on the sari trailing behind her so that she tugged it furiously from under his foot and it tore, and she sat down on the bed and burst into tears and he did not comfort her.
She accepted her fate and went everywhere by herself and he accepted his and stayed home and drank and read and played snakes and ladders with Monica. Later he taught Monica whist and contract bridge; by this time she was at college—she read history and international affairs—but she spent all her evenings with her father and they ate their dinner together, usually the two of them alone while Sumitra was needed elsewhere. And she was really needed—even Harry admitted it, that she was there to lay down the social and cultural guidelines of her newly independent country. An official car and chauffeur were at her disposal and stood parked in their driveway. Sometimes she had to go at dawn to the airport to receive and be photographed with some foreign cabinet minister and his wife; later in the day she took the wife shopping for Indian handicrafts. She had become an arbiter of taste, an expert on all aspects of Indian culture. Almost singlehandedly she revived cottage industries to export the best in Indian textiles and craftsmanship. She was the chairwoman of a committee to rename New Delhi streets, which had once commemorated English statesmen and soldiers such as Lord Kitchener, in honor of Indian freedom fighters; also of another committee appointed to take down statues of Queen Victoria and arrange design competitions for sculptures of Mahatma Gandhi.
She and Harry had settled down to a sort of brother and sister relationship. He mocked her work—of which however he was also quite proud—and the busier she was the more languid he became. He drank steadily—only vodka now—and this wrapped him in a pleasant haze, which made him very tolerant. She saw to it that he always had clean linen; he had taken to wearing only Indian clothes, fine white shirts with embroidery at the shoulders and neckline. Before leaving for her many duties, she arranged her household and ordered the day’s meals for her husband and daughter. These two remained very close, and Sumitra was aware that this was partly the result of an alliance against herself. When Harry mocked Sumitra—he imitated the way she posed for the photographers while garlanding a VIP—Monica laughed loudly in her mother’s face; and she too mocked her, not in the good-natured way that Harry did but bitterly. She blamed her mother for many things. Later, whenever Kuku spoke admiringly of her grandmother’s achievements, Monica would pull a face: “She did it for herself,” she told Kuku. “To show off and be admired by people; by men,” she said.
In her mid-thirties, when she met Lieutenant-General Har Dayal, Sumitra was even more attractive than in her youth. She had become elegant and worldly, befitting the part she played on the national stage. She rustled around in her brocades with masculine purpose and feminine grace; there was a somewhat set expression about her mouth now, which may have been the determination of a busy woman, an almost public personage, but also an indication of some disappointment. There was no one really she could open herself to fully: husband and daughter had ganged up against her, at best indifferent if not contemptuous of the great role she played. As for those among whom she played it—the politicians and higher bureaucrats—they were not of her background, not of her education, not of her class. There was no one, she felt, who understood her: except her husband, and he wilfully misinterpreted her. So she was ready for Lieutenant-General Har Dayal when he entered: for not only was he, like her husband, a man of education and refinement, he was also, unlike her husband, an important person—in fact, a sort of national hero. He was a career officer, among the last batch of Indians to be trained at Sandhurst where he had acquired the manners of a British gentleman. At the same time he was an Indian aristocrat, a minor raja in a minor state, not more than a large landowner but with an ancestral habit of command. He was of the traditional warrior caste and looked like a warrior: tall, broad, upright, manly and shining in his uniform. And he had just won a border war against a neighboring enemy country and had been decorated with the highest award for gallantry. Now he had been brought to army headquarters in New Delhi with a view to succeeding the present commander-in-chief.
Meanwhile he was an honored guest—an indispensable ornament like Sumitra herself—at all receptions and banquets for foreign dignitaries. He knew how to behave: to make conversation in English, to use the right cutlery, to let ladies precede him through a door. The Indian politicians still tended to rush in first and even to jostle and push their way to the front at the buffet table, so that Sumitra had to be on constant guard: it was mortifying to see a plate being snatched from the French ambassador’s wife by the Minister for Trade and Commerce. Sumitra and Lieutenant-General Har Dayal became allies, each signaling to the other to prevent or make up for some breach of manners; sometimes both rolled their eyes in mock despair.
Lieutenant-General Har Dayal—or Too, as he came to be known to Sumitra and her family—had been married for many years and had teenage children at boarding schools. After the first few months in New Delhi, his wife, unable to stand the sort of official life they led, had gone back to their estate. Theirs had been an arranged marriage and, like him, she was of a minor royal house of the warrior caste; she rode horses and hunted tigers and was more at home in deserts and jungles than in political drawing rooms. So Too was mostly alone, and lonely; and Sumitra was also lonely. It was easy for them to come to an understanding, not so easy to become lovers. At the conclusion of the social events at which they met, they were driven home in their respective official cars; and although no family members lived with him, he was surrounded by his family retainers. However late it was, his batman waited up for him, to take off his boots and help him change for bed; and in case Too wanted anything at night, he slept outside his door on a little string cot, the way he had done throughout their army years together.
By the time Sumitra came home, her husband Harry was asleep. His drinking made him breathe heavily, even snore, which disgusted her so much that she tried to wake him; but he only grunted and turned over onto his other side, his long nerveless arm flung out on the sheet. She shut the two doors of their connecting dressing room, and lay in bed thinking of Too. In the course of their evening together, they had managed not only to exchange glances but also surreptitiously to brush up against each other, the lightest of contact—of arms or hands—setting up a conflagration of nerves. It was fearful, painful, but also so exquisite that they kept finding opportunities to do it again. It was strange how they managed to contrive their understanding; neither of them had experience of secret affairs, they were innocent except in marriage. But it may have been that both had an ingrained habit of secrecy—of snatching moments of privacy out of communal living among family members, and the ever present family retainers, wakeful in service.
Night after night she lay in bed, longing for and plotting the next step beyond the secret touch of arm against arm. She liked to think that Too was lying in his house, in his bed, plotting in the same way. It was only later that she discovered how deep was his sleep, deeper than H
arry’s and in his case not induced by drink but by an untroubled mind and a robust constitution. But at that time, at the beginning, she lay awake straining her ears for the sound of his arrival, certain that he was as tormented as she was and had contrived a way to come to her. But all she heard was dogs barking to each other across the dusty night, and sometimes the howl of jackals that still infested the unbuilt areas around the capital; and worst, though faint through two closed doors, her husband’s troubled alcoholic snores.
One night she could bear it no longer—she got up and let herself out and started up the little sports car she kept for her private use. She woke the watchman and put on such a stern preoccupied face that he unlocked the gate fast and without question. She drove through the wide and silent tree-lined streets. Too lived in an area of mansions requisitioned by the government of India for their own high-ranking officers; in the evening there were always many cars parked outside under the trees, for in almost every house there was some official function to which important guests came. But now all the parties were over and the houses shut up behind their high wrought-iron gates.
She reduced speed when she approached his house. She had vaguely planned to rouse his watchman in the same domineering manner as her own: but his watchman was not the usual sleepy old retainer with a blanket thrown over his shivering shoulders but a brisk little Gurkha soldier with a rifle that sprang alive in his hands as he shouted, “Who’s there!” At once the dogs started up—Too’s Alsatians, brought from his estate—and, frightened as any miscreant, Sumitra stepped on the accelerator and drove off. Tears of fury and frustration splashed on her wheel, and when she got home, she was so careless in her anger that she sounded the horn repeatedly to have the gates opened. As she parked the car, she saw that a light had come on in the house; she bit her lip, angry now with herself but also determined to face down anyone who dared to challenge her.
Monica stood at the top of the stairs, watching her mother walk up them. Sumitra was calm; she said, “What, aren’t you asleep yet, Moni?”
“Where have you been?” Monica said in the imperious way in which she often addressed her mother. It was to assert herself against Sumitra’s dominant personality, and also to counter the look of disappointment that was always in her mother’s eyes when they looked at her. It was there now—Sumitra couldn’t help it. Monica was lanky like her father, and her hair, her eyes, her complexion were dull: as if Sumitra had taken all the sparkle and warmth there was to be had and left none for her daughter.
“Goodness, I’m tired,” yawned Sumitra. “I thought no one was ever going home—why, Moni, you know there was that banquet for the King of Nepal. I told you—”
“You went to a banquet for the King of Nepal—in this?” Monica scornfully indicated the lilac robe Sumitra had thrown over her nightdress on her way to Too.
Sumitra had become skilled enough in the ways of diplomacy to know how to handle a mistake that could not be redeemed. One simply swept over it—the way Sumitra now swept past Monica and into her bedroom where she stood at the mirror applying the night cream she had already applied some hours ago before retiring to her restless bed. Monica had come up behind her; she had no diplomacy at all: “I’ll tell Papa,” she said.
Sumitra went on smoothing cream into her smooth skin. They could see each other in the mirror. After a while she replied, “What will you tell him? That Mummy couldn’t sleep and went for a drive? Yes, that’s a stupid thing to do but it’s not a crime, I hope.” She could see the grim expression on Monica’s face falter into doubt. She went on, “I get so exhausted with these interminable dinners that afterwards I can’t sleep; I toss and turn half the night and don’t know what to do with myself.” She unfastened her robe and, in a gesture of weariness, let it drop to the carpet. “Sometimes I go down to make myself a cup of tea, and if that doesn’t work, I take the car for a spin.” In the mirror she probed her daughter’s indecisive face, then turned around to her: “I try to be very quiet and not wake you or Papa—but tonight I’m sorry I was so upset—”
“Why were you upset?”
“I told you! The strain! You don’t know, nobody knows what hard work it all is. They’re so stupid. No one has the faintest idea how to do anything—tonight, you won’t believe this, they were serving the fish with the soup—oh, I don’t want to think about it! Every time I ask myself, why am I doing this, why can’t I just stay home and eat my dinner in peace with you and Papa.” She laid her head on Monica’s shoulder. Monica put her arm around her—but cautiously, as if not quite trusting her mother and ready to retrieve her affectionate gesture. Before this could happen, Sumitra kissed her: “You must go to sleep now. It doesn’t matter about me, but you shouldn’t be missing out on your beauty sleep.” And when Monica hesitated—“I think I’m getting there too—at last. That drive must have done me good.” And she yawned to prove it and was altogether so tired, so needful of sleep that Monica had to leave her and go back to her own room. It was some time before either of them was really asleep, for Monica too was restless now, not knowing what to believe, or even to feel about her mother.
Sumitra never told Too about her nocturnal expedition, nor did she repeat it. She still waited for him to plot the right maneuver, but finally her desire was fulfilled without any plotting at all. A Chinese military delegation was on a visit to New Delhi, and Too was among those appointed to entertain them. He had the large establishment and many servants for handsome entertainment; but he had no hostess, and it was natural for him to turn to Sumitra for help. She came to his house on the day before to check up on the glasses, the china, the silver; everything was there in plenty, but arranging it for the following day took many hours, so that Sumitra had to stay in the house till late at night. Too, always a considerate master, sent the servants away to rest in their quarters; he told his batman that he would not be needing him, even slipping him some money with a wink that meant he could have his evening of enjoyment with the dancing girls of GB Road the way he liked to do once in a while. Too himself was very tired—he undid his regimental tie and opened his shirt and fell down on his bed, saying “Phoo” in exhaustion. Sumitra stood above him: “Come on, what do you think you’re doing, I still haven’t been through the dessert plates or the coffee cups!”
“Golly, I can’t keep up with you,” he said, letting himself sink into his satin bedcover. She tried to tug him up, but he only sank in deeper and half shut his eyes as if about to fall asleep. But his pupils glinted at her, and when she tugged at him again, he let his limbs go limp like those of a dead man. Laughing and scolding, she tried to pull him up—till suddenly his limp arms tautened and he grabbed her and brought her down, and at last they were where they wanted to be with each other.
The next day was brilliant—it was a garden party and all Too’s roses were in bloom and pigeons and parrots flew about between the deep green trees and the deep blue sky. There were also some kites, but these were kept away by servants vigorously flapping starched dinner napkins at them. All Sumitra’s arrangements worked splendidly, so that the guests of honor relaxed enough to let down their stoic silent guard (but a few months later they attacked several border posts and penetrated into Indian territory). Monica was studying Chinese history and current affairs—it was her optional subject in her college course—so she had come along, escorted by her father. Of course they were entirely on the periphery of the party while Sumitra held the centre. She summoned the servants to bring platters of oven-baked chickens and fish kebabs and then instructed the Chinese guests to eat them Indian style with their fingers. She did this so charmingly that they all tried it and laughed at each other in Chinese while she laughed at them in English and the interpreter interpreted and all were comrades together.
Too was pleased with the success of his party but couldn’t quite keep pace—no one could, when Sumitra was making a party go—so he wandered away from the buffet tables and found himself next to Harry, who stood admiring the roses with a glass in his ha
nd. “I’m Harry,” Harry introduced himself, and Too said, “I’m Harry too.” They both laughed and it was from this time, that is from the first moment of their acquaintance, that Harry Too became Too.
“I belong to her,” Harry said, pointing to Sumitra in the distance. For a moment they both glanced at her—mature and fully ripened like Too’s roses—then Harry turned back to these latter in their beds, and pointing to a particularly large and luscious specimen, “What’s that one?” he asked. Too wasn’t sure, he had to get down to read the label. But Harry was no longer interested. “Rose,” he said, “it’s called rose; eternal rose,” and he quoted: “‘The nightingale has heard good news: the rose has come.’”
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