?'
'Sahib.' Mansoor was nonplussed.
'What have you put in it ?'
'Sugar, Sahib.'
'You buffoon! I have my nimbu pani made with salt, not sugar,' roared Dr Kishen Chand Seth. 'Sugar is poison for me. I have diabetes, like your Burri Memsahib. How many times have I told you that ?'
Mansoor was tempted to reply, 'Never,' but thought better of it. Usually Dr Seth had tea, and he brought the milk and sugar separately.
Dr Kishen Chand Seth rapped his stick on the floor. 'Go. Why are you staring at me like an owl ?'
'Yes, Sahib. I'll make another glass.'
'Leave it. No. Yes - make another glass.'
'With salt, Sahib.' Mansoor ventured to smile. He had quite a nice smile.
'What are you laughing at like a donkey ?' asked Dr Seth. 'With salt, of course.'
'Yes, Sahib.'
'And, idiot -'
'Yes, Sahib?'
'With pepper too.'
'Yes, Sahib.'
Dr Kishen Chand Seth veered around towards his daughter. She wilted before him.
'What kind of daughter do I have ?' he asked rhetorically. Rupa Mehra waited for the answer, and it was not long in coming. 'Ungrateful!' Her father bit into an arrowroot biscuit for emphasis. 'Soggy !' he added in disgust.
Mrs Rupa Mehra knew better than to protest.
Dr Kishen Chand Seth went on :
'You have been back from Calcutta for a week and you haven't visited me once. Is it me you hate so much or your stepmother ?'
47Since her stepmother, Parvati, was considerably younger j than herself, Mrs Rupa Mehra found it very difficult to , think of her other than as her father's nurse and, later, mistress. Though fastidious, Mrs Rupa Mehra did not entirely resent Parvati. Her father had been lonely for three decades after her mother had died. Parvati was good to him and (she supposed) good for him. Anyway, thought Mrs Rupa Mehra, this is the way things happen in the « world. It is best to be on good terms with everyone.
'But I only arrived here yesterday,' she said. She had told him so a minute ago, but he evidently did not believe '
her.
'Hunh!' said Dr Seth dismissively.
'By the Brahmpur Mail.'
'You wrote in your letter that you would be coming last
week.'
'But I couldn't get reservations, Baoji, so I decided to stay in Calcutta another week.' This was true, but the pleasure of spending time with her three-year-old granddaughter Aparna had also been a factor in her delay.
'Have you heard of telegrams ?'
'I thought of sending you one, Baoji, but I didn't think it was so important. Then, the expense….'
'Ever since you became a Mehra you have become completely evasive.'
This was an unkind cut, and could not fail to wound. Mrs Rupa Mehra bowed her head.
'Here. Have a biscuit,' said her father in a conciliatory
manner.
Mrs Rupa Mehra shook her head.
'Eat, fool!' said her father with rough affection. 'Or are you still keeping those brainless fasts that are so bad for
your health ?'
'It is Ekadashi today.' Mrs Rupa Mehra fasted on the eleventh day of each lunar fortnight in memory of her
husband.
'I don't care if it's ten Ekadashis,' said her father with some heat. 'Ever since you came under the influence of the Mehras you have become as religious as your ill-fated
48mother. There have been too many mismatched marriages in this family.'
The combination of these two sentences, loosely coupled in several possible wounding interpretations, was too much for Mrs Rupa Mehra. Her nose began to redden. Her husband's family was no more religious than it was evasive. Raghubir's brothers and sisters had taken her to their heart in a manner both affecting and comforting to a sixteenyear-old bride, and still, eight years after her husband's death, she visited as many of them as possible in the course of what her children
'Sahib.' Mansoor was nonplussed.
'What have you put in it ?'
'Sugar, Sahib.'
'You buffoon! I have my nimbu pani made with salt, not sugar,' roared Dr Kishen Chand Seth. 'Sugar is poison for me. I have diabetes, like your Burri Memsahib. How many times have I told you that ?'
Mansoor was tempted to reply, 'Never,' but thought better of it. Usually Dr Seth had tea, and he brought the milk and sugar separately.
Dr Kishen Chand Seth rapped his stick on the floor. 'Go. Why are you staring at me like an owl ?'
'Yes, Sahib. I'll make another glass.'
'Leave it. No. Yes - make another glass.'
'With salt, Sahib.' Mansoor ventured to smile. He had quite a nice smile.
'What are you laughing at like a donkey ?' asked Dr Seth. 'With salt, of course.'
'Yes, Sahib.'
'And, idiot -'
'Yes, Sahib?'
'With pepper too.'
'Yes, Sahib.'
Dr Kishen Chand Seth veered around towards his daughter. She wilted before him.
'What kind of daughter do I have ?' he asked rhetorically. Rupa Mehra waited for the answer, and it was not long in coming. 'Ungrateful!' Her father bit into an arrowroot biscuit for emphasis. 'Soggy !' he added in disgust.
Mrs Rupa Mehra knew better than to protest.
Dr Kishen Chand Seth went on :
'You have been back from Calcutta for a week and you haven't visited me once. Is it me you hate so much or your stepmother ?'
47Since her stepmother, Parvati, was considerably younger j than herself, Mrs Rupa Mehra found it very difficult to , think of her other than as her father's nurse and, later, mistress. Though fastidious, Mrs Rupa Mehra did not entirely resent Parvati. Her father had been lonely for three decades after her mother had died. Parvati was good to him and (she supposed) good for him. Anyway, thought Mrs Rupa Mehra, this is the way things happen in the « world. It is best to be on good terms with everyone.
'But I only arrived here yesterday,' she said. She had told him so a minute ago, but he evidently did not believe '
her.
'Hunh!' said Dr Seth dismissively.
'By the Brahmpur Mail.'
'You wrote in your letter that you would be coming last
week.'
'But I couldn't get reservations, Baoji, so I decided to stay in Calcutta another week.' This was true, but the pleasure of spending time with her three-year-old granddaughter Aparna had also been a factor in her delay.
'Have you heard of telegrams ?'
'I thought of sending you one, Baoji, but I didn't think it was so important. Then, the expense….'
'Ever since you became a Mehra you have become completely evasive.'
This was an unkind cut, and could not fail to wound. Mrs Rupa Mehra bowed her head.
'Here. Have a biscuit,' said her father in a conciliatory
manner.
Mrs Rupa Mehra shook her head.
'Eat, fool!' said her father with rough affection. 'Or are you still keeping those brainless fasts that are so bad for
your health ?'
'It is Ekadashi today.' Mrs Rupa Mehra fasted on the eleventh day of each lunar fortnight in memory of her
husband.
'I don't care if it's ten Ekadashis,' said her father with some heat. 'Ever since you came under the influence of the Mehras you have become as religious as your ill-fated
48mother. There have been too many mismatched marriages in this family.'
The combination of these two sentences, loosely coupled in several possible wounding interpretations, was too much for Mrs Rupa Mehra. Her nose began to redden. Her husband's family was no more religious than it was evasive. Raghubir's brothers and sisters had taken her to their heart in a manner both affecting and comforting to a sixteenyear-old bride, and still, eight years after her husband's death, she visited as many of them as possible in the course of what her children
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