“Ah,” said Too, getting up and dusting the earth from his knees; he didn’t know much poetry but he loved hearing it.
This was the beginning of the friendship between the two Harrys (Hari Prasad and Har Dayal). Too often dropped in at the house between his various duties and engagements to spend time with Harry. He really enjoyed his company. Mostly Sumitra wasn’t home, there were so many places where she was needed, but her husband had nothing whatsoever to do and was always available for a drink and a chat. Too matched him drink for drink, but whereas Harry was soon wrapped in the haze that alone enabled him to carry on his existence, Too gave no sign of diminution of energy—on the contrary, he became more alert, more vigorous, and more loudly appreciative of the poetry Harry recited to him. Monica often joined them; she also enjoyed Too’s company and he loved having her with them, treating her as if she were a child, his child, and indeed he called her “Beti,” daughter. At the same time he regarded her as his intellectual superior—not out of flattery, but admiring her because she went to college and could answer his questions, such as whether nineteenth-century Turkestan was part of Russia or China. And if she didn’t know the answer, she looked it up next day in one of her textbooks, so in the evening she was ready for him and all three had a discussion about the Afghan wars or the three battles of Panipat. Too told them about his own military adventures, which were often of a secret nature such as smuggling sentry posts into enemy territory, or taking a detachment of troops to help quell a palace revolution in a neighboring kingdom.
These evenings were so enjoyable that Too sometimes forgot about an official function where he was expected; and once, when he did remember, it was already too late and he said, To hell with it, and stayed to dine with Harry and Monica. So it happened that when Sumitra returned from her official function, she found Too still in her house, with her husband and daughter. “Oh my goodness,” she said, “aren’t you supposed to be at the Admiral’s dinner?”
In one way, she was put out by his dereliction of duty, for in order to succeed to the post she wanted for him, he had to keep up his connections. But it also suited her to have him at home when she arrived. There was, as always, something she had to discuss with him—the war widows’ fund, of which she wanted him to be the patron-in-chief. Harry was tired, he yawned, excused himself and went to bed. She sent Monica upstairs too—“Don’t you have an early class tomorrow, Moni?” But as soon as they were alone, Too got up and said he had to leave.
“Why?” she said—reproachfully, for it seemed so unfair to her when she and Harry hadn’t slept together in years and were in separate bedrooms, with the doors of their connecting dressing room shut and, if she wanted, locked.
But Too would not stay—he wouldn’t even kiss her goodnight. “Not here,” he said when she clung to him.
“Who’s there to see?” she whispered, but he disengaged himself and went out to where his car and driver were waiting.
When she went upstairs, pulling hairpins out of her hair so that it tumbled angrily around her shoulders, she found Monica standing at the top of the stairs. “Go to bed,” Sumitra told her, but Monica would not relinquish her post until her mother was inside her bedroom with the door closed behind her.
But Sumitra was aware of Too’s frustration and that he yearned for her as she did for him. It took her some time to realize that, in spite of his training in military maneuvers, in everyday affairs he was straightforward to the point of being simple, and it was up to her to devise a way. Now, whenever there was a function they had to attend together, she drove herself there in her little sports car; and when he arrived, he sent his car home, so that it was left to her to drive him back to his house. Only it was not there that they drove but beyond the confines of the city—this was before it had crept up with rows of government housing, and also before pollution from industrial plants and noxious fumes from decrepit buses had cast a pall over the Delhi sky. The stars were still visible and pure, and moonlight washed like ice water over the tombs and palaces and the desert into which they had been sinking for undisturbed centuries. Sumitra parked the car, and they crept up the stairwell of a deserted pleasure pavilion (only the bats stirred and squeaked). They carried a mat and cushions that she had brought, and spread them on a balcony with a railing of stone arabesques. Music was missing, but the air was laden with the scent of plants mysteriously flowering in the desert dust. Their lovemaking—undisturbed now, unbridled—was charged with the energy of those male and female divinities who between them are responsible for creating and upholding the world.
But when the schools were closed and his children on holiday, nothing could keep Too in New Delhi. Sumitra argued with him, pleaded the importance of his being in the capital at this time, when only a few months were left before the retirement of the current commander-in-chief. She pointed out that Too had to be constantly seen in the right circles to remind those who mattered of the superiority of his claim. But Too wouldn’t listen to Sumitra. He took all his accumulated leave and returned to his home state for several of the crucial weeks when he should have been in the capital advancing his career.
It was left to Sumitra to keep his interests alive, and at this time she made herself particularly indispensable to the Minister of Defense, who was in overall charge of the top military appointments. This portfolio had been assigned to him not because he was in any way qualified for it but because some such cabinet post was due to his political standing. He however coveted another Ministry—that of Foreign Affairs—for which he was even less suitable. He was a peasant who had worked his way up from his village council through the political machinery of his native state, and from there, by shrewdness and cunning and the majority of votes he commanded, to a position at the national centre. In New Delhi he had been allotted one of the stately requisitioned mansions, but he had no idea how to live in it. His family were left behind in the village to look after their fields and their herd of buffalo (he had been, and still was, the local milk supplier). Like others, he turned to Sumitra to help him furnish his ministerial residence and, on diplomatic occasions, to act as his hostess. He made use of all her skills; and of her time too—she had hardly arrived home at night when there was a note from him to accompany him in the morning to the airport where some VIP had to be received with garlands. Or he telephoned—here he never made use of an intermediary but his own voice oozed down the line in the unctuous tone he had adopted with her, suggesting a wealth of understanding between them. And there was such understanding—when she urged Too’s claim to him, he nodded to reassure her that he was ready to fulfill his part of whatever bargain it was they had made with each other.
Harry scorned him—he called him the Milkman, and whenever his peon arrived with a note, Harry told Sumitra, “Here’s another love letter from your Milkman.” She retorted angrily that he knew very well how all her efforts were to help their friend Too; and Harry shrugged and said yes, Too was a decent chap, one of their own sort, but the Minister was not. Sumitra defended the Minister, holding him up to Harry as an example of that manly ambition that was so lacking in Harry himself.
“What a pity he’s so ugly,” Harry said.
She shouted, “How does that matter? I’m not going to bed with him!”
“You’re not?” Harry taunted her—aware that this would make her more furious than anything, the suggestion that anyone so squat and ugly and stinking of peasant fodder might be thought to aspire to her bed.
Yet later—many years later—that was what her daughter Monica alleged. With outsiders, Monica always spoke in glowing terms of her mother’s contribution to her country and boasted of the honors she had received. But to her daughter Kuku she said, “How do you think she did it! By sleeping with people of course . . . Well, what else!” she added, as though Kuku had contradicted her. “How do you think she got her appointment to the UN—or her Padma Bhushan or whatever medal it was they gave her.”
Kuku protested, “It was on merit; because she wa
s so extraordinary for her time, so absolutely modern.”
“Oh yes, so absolutely modern that she’d sleep with anyone—even the Milkman,” Monica sneered. She still called him that, as her father had done, although he had filled some of the highest offices, and when he died, schools and government departments had been closed for two days as a mark of respect.
Kuku asked, “What about Too? Did she—”
“Oh, I’m sure she’d have liked to, but he wouldn’t look at her. He was our friend—Papa’s and mine.”
Certainly, when Too returned to Delhi, his first visit was to Harry and Monica. It was the day of his arrival and he showed up unexpectedly and stood in the doorway, declaiming, “‘The nightingale has heard good news: the rose has come.’”
All three laughed with the pleasure of being reunited. It was teatime, but when the tray was brought, Harry said, “Do we really want this?” so only Monica drank tea while the other two recalled the servant to bring out the drinks of their preference. “Much too early of course,” Harry admitted, “so it’s lucky for us that she’s at the All India WC”—this being his facetious name for the All India Women’s Conference, of which Sumitra was the president.
Too had a lot to tell them—about his children, especially his eldest daughter who was already such a good shot that he was thinking of entering her for the Ladies Olympic team. Oh yes, and he himself had shot another tiger: not a man-eater this time, but the villagers had complained of some goats being killed, so he had gone out with his gun-bearer. He knew of its whereabouts because of the monkeys.
“The monkeys?”
“Yes, the monkeys. When they know a tiger’s near, they run up to hide in the trees, shivering and chattering, and all the tiger has to do is walk around and around the tree. Around and around—around and around—and they become so completely paralyzed with fright, they drop off the branches like apples, one by one they come down: plop,” and Too raised his arms and let himself drop out of the chair onto the carpet.
At that moment Sumitra entered, and he quickly got up, laughing uproariously to hide his confusion. Whatever her feelings at the unexpected sight of him, she showed nothing but the pleasure of greeting an old friend and became at once the gracious hostess: “Have you had tea—ah good, they brought the tray.”
Harry raised his vodka glass to her: “Yes, have some . . . Too was telling us about the monkeys and the tiger. And how to shoot a croc. Do you know how to shoot a croc?” he asked Sumitra.
“In the eye,” Too said, raising an imaginary rifle. “Straight in the eye.”
Harry said, “Bang bang,” then turned to Sumitra, “How dull it’s been without him—we told him it was really high time he came back.”
“Yes, high time,” Sumitra confirmed with her hostess’ courteous smile.
Only two days later an important reception was given by the Minister of Defense (the Milkman) to honor the visiting president of a neighboring country. This man had seized power after a coup d’état, and executing friends and enemies alike, had made himself dictator. He had been a general in the army—he was still known as the General—and, on his visit to India, was particularly interested in meeting members of the military establishment. This of course included Too, and Sumitra anticipated that his presence at this reception would clinch his triumph over his rival for the post of commander-in-chief. Her heart leaped with pride as soon as he entered—Too eclipsed not only his rival but everyone there except the visiting General, who was even taller than Too and had more medals on his chest.
Sumitra worked very hard for this party. She knew that the Minister as well as Too had to prove himself on this occasion, when the Prime Minister, the Vice-President, and members of the cabinet were guests in his house. She had had the place polished in every corner, changed the curtains, brought in additional carpets, lent her own silver and china and crystal and raided Too’s house for more. The result made it clear to all present that the Minister’s establishment and his style of entertaining were of a standard to do honor to his country, if he were to represent it as its Minister of Foreign Affairs. He himself unfortunately fell short—literally, for though strong and fat, he was of stunted growth. With his muscular build, like that of a wrestler, Sumitra had suggested to him a different mode of dress from the usual farmer’s dhoti that left his stout calves bare. There was not much she could do about his manners—he ate with noisy relish and had not yet quite mastered the use of cutlery; but he was determined to please his guests and showed the intelligent concern of a practised host, sharp-eyed for every detail. He and Sumitra worked different parts of the reception area, both of them charging around with tremendous energy and sometimes signaling to each other across a room. It was always the Minister’s eye she caught, wanting her to do something or seeking her advice, even when she was looking around for Too.
And she was often obliged to look around for him. Although this was the occasion for him to outshine his rival, it was the latter who was everywhere visible. Searching out Too, she at last found him sitting alone and morose on a back verandah. “Why are you here? The PM is asking for you, he wants to talk to you, you know about what.”
“I don’t know about what. I don’t have anything to say to him. Or any of them. Not a blasted thing,” he said and took a long draught from his glass, as though it alone contained what was healthy and clean.
She wanted to remind him how hard she was working for him, how much she was doing on his behalf; but there was something else that took precedence. She stepped closer to him: “Did you send your car away? . . . Why not? I’ve brought the MG for us.”
“Where did you want us to go—in this?” He was right: it was the monsoon season and rain fell in torrents over the Minister’s garden, as it would be falling in torrents over the ruins of the pleasure pavilion and its latticed balcony on which they had spent their fragrant summer nights.
“There’s that guest-house out there.”
“With a hundred spies inside it.” Again he was right: this guesthouse—the converted mausoleum of a medieval prince—served as a secret rendezvous for so many important officials that the staff were all in the pay of foreign embassies needing incriminating information.
“We could drive to Gurgaon,” she pleaded. “There are any number of little hotels where no one would guess or care who we were.”
“To Gurgaon: and arrive there tomorrow morning if we’re lucky and don’t get stuck in the mud. Do you have any idea what the roads are like with these rains?”
“And do you have any idea how I’ve missed you?”
She had stepped even closer to him but now quickly drew back: for the Minister had appeared in the doorway to the verandah, beckoning to her. His intelligent eyes darted from her to Too, taking in whatever there was to take in; it did not in the least divert him from his business with her.
“The General is leaving,” he informed her, causing her to hurry inside where a bustle of aides-de-camp and security men were clearing a path for this departure. Sumitra saw that Too’s rival had made himself very prominent and had the General’s attention. She did not hesitate to cut in on them: it was her privilege, as hostess, to have the last word of gratitude and farewell with the guest of honor and to accompany him to the front door. She mustered all her grace and her little courtly ways for this ceremony and was rewarded by a swift glance of appreciation from those vulture eyes (the General preferred blondes but was known to have a weakness for all feminine charm). She was also rewarded by the Minister: he patted her arm in a gesture that was not in the least disrespectful but expressed his gratitude, and also perhaps his promise of return for the service she had rendered him.
It was only a week later that Too was offered, over the head of his rival, the appointment of commander-in-chief. He turned it down, saying nothing about it to anyone. He spent most of that day with Harry and Monica, drinking, discussing their usual variety of interesting topics, and appreciating Harry’s poetry recital over their glasses of vodka: �
�‘Respect the cup you hold—the clay it’s made from was the skulls of buried kings.’”
“Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha,” said Too in applause.
He stayed for dinner but left early and went home and to bed, sinking immediately into his usual deep sleep from which nothing could wake him.
It was the servants who were roused by Sumitra—first the armed Gurkha, whose rifle she contemptuously pushed aside, then the bearer, and finally the batman, whom she stepped over where he lay at the door of Too’s bedroom. She made a lot of noise and so did the dogs and the servants trying to stop her, but Too did not wake till she shook him hard by the shoulder: “What have you done!” she cried.
He started up at once, like a soldier in ambush ready to face the enemy who has taken him by surprise; but the enemy was Sumitra.
He sent the servants back to their posts, calming them with his own unruffled manner. It was more difficult to calm Sumitra, but he managed to persuade her to wait for him in the drawing room. He wore his robe over his pajamas and brushed his hair with his silver brushes, planning his strategy. By the time he joined her, he was ready with his defense but she launched out immediately: “I couldn’t believe my ears when he told me! After all I did, after all he did, pulling all those strings for you—”
His face darkened: “I want no strings pulled for me by a person like him.”
“Why? Because he’s not a raja—because he hasn’t been to Sandhurst and can’t speak your kind of English—all right, our kind—”
“No. Because he’s not a decent chap.”
Although he said nothing more, she knew what he was referring to. There was some scandal involving the Minister about contracts for army equipment, rumors of bribes taken—but good heavens, there were always rumors, always scandals, that was what political life was like: accusations and counter-accusations, intrigues and counter-intrigues.
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