felt lost without him, helpless and clumsy.
‘There is another thing,’ he said, remembering the post of Professor of English.
‘But come in, Mister Rusty . . .’
It was the first time she had used his name, and the gesture immediately placed them on equal terms. She was a graceful woman, much younger than Kapoor; her features had a clear, classic beauty, and her voice was gentle but firm. Her hair was tied in a neat bun and laced with a string of jasmine flowers.
‘Come in . . .’
‘About teaching Kishen,’ mumbled Rusty.
‘Come and play carom,’ said Kishen from the couch. ‘We are none of us any good. Come and sit down, pardner.’
‘He fancies himself as an American,’ said Meena. ‘If ever you see him in the cinema, drag him out.’
The carom board was brought in from the next room, and it was arranged that Rusty partner Mr Kapoor. They began play, but the game didn’t progress very fast because Kapoor kept leaving the table in order to disappear behind a screen, from the direction of which came a tinkle of bottles and glasses. Rusty was afraid of Kapoor getting drunk before he could be approached about the job of teaching Kishen.
‘My wife,’ said Kapoor in a loud whisper to Rusty, ‘does not let me drink in public any more, so I have to do it in a cupboard.’
He looked sad; there were tear-stains on his cheeks; the tears were caused not by Meena’s scolding, which he ignored, but by his own self-pity; he often cried for himself, usually in his sleep.
Whenever Rusty pocketed one of the carom men, Kapoor exclaimed, ‘Ah, nice shot, nice shot!’ as though it were a cricket match they were playing. ‘But hit it slowly, slowly . . .’ And when it was his turn, he gave the striker a feeble push, moving it a bare inch from his finger.
‘Play properly,’ murmured Meena, who was intent on winning the game; but Kapoor would be up from his seat again, and the company would sit back and wait for the tune of clinking glass.
It was a very irritating game. Kapoor insisted on showing Rusty how to strike the men; and whenever Rusty made a mistake, Meena said ‘thank you’ in an amused and conceited manner that angered the boy. When she and Kishen had cleared the board of whites, Kapoor and Rusty were left with eight blacks.
‘Thank you,’ said Meena sweetly.
‘We are too good for you,’ scoffed Kishen, busily arranging the board for another game.
Kapoor took sudden interest in the proceedings, ‘Who won, I say, who won?’
Much to Rusty’s disgust, they began another game, and with the same partners; but they had just started when Kapoor flopped forward and knocked the carom board off the table. He had fallen asleep. Rusty took him by the shoulders, eased him back into the chair. Kapoor’s breathing was heavy; saliva had collected at the sides of his mouth, and he snorted a little.
Rusty thought it was time he left. Rising from the table, he said, ‘I will have to ask another time about the job . . .’
‘Hasn’t he told you as yet?’ said Meena.
‘What?’
‘That you can have the job.’
‘Can I!’ exclaimed Rusty.
Meena gave a little laugh. ‘But of course! Certainly there is no one else who would take it on. Kishen is not easy to teach. There is no fixed pay, but we will give you anything you need. You are not our servant. You will be doing us a favour by giving Kishen some of your knowledge and conversation and company, and in return we will be giving you our hospitality. You will have a room of your own, and your food you will have with us. What do you think?’
‘Oh, it is wonderful!’ said Rusty.
And it was wonderful, and he felt gay and light-headed, and all the troubles in the world scurried away. He even felt successful: he had a profession. And Meena Kapoor was smiling at him, and looking more beautiful than she really was, and Kishen was saying: ‘Tomorrow you must stay till twelve o’clock, all right, even if Daddy goes to sleep. Promise
‘There is another thing,’ he said, remembering the post of Professor of English.
‘But come in, Mister Rusty . . .’
It was the first time she had used his name, and the gesture immediately placed them on equal terms. She was a graceful woman, much younger than Kapoor; her features had a clear, classic beauty, and her voice was gentle but firm. Her hair was tied in a neat bun and laced with a string of jasmine flowers.
‘Come in . . .’
‘About teaching Kishen,’ mumbled Rusty.
‘Come and play carom,’ said Kishen from the couch. ‘We are none of us any good. Come and sit down, pardner.’
‘He fancies himself as an American,’ said Meena. ‘If ever you see him in the cinema, drag him out.’
The carom board was brought in from the next room, and it was arranged that Rusty partner Mr Kapoor. They began play, but the game didn’t progress very fast because Kapoor kept leaving the table in order to disappear behind a screen, from the direction of which came a tinkle of bottles and glasses. Rusty was afraid of Kapoor getting drunk before he could be approached about the job of teaching Kishen.
‘My wife,’ said Kapoor in a loud whisper to Rusty, ‘does not let me drink in public any more, so I have to do it in a cupboard.’
He looked sad; there were tear-stains on his cheeks; the tears were caused not by Meena’s scolding, which he ignored, but by his own self-pity; he often cried for himself, usually in his sleep.
Whenever Rusty pocketed one of the carom men, Kapoor exclaimed, ‘Ah, nice shot, nice shot!’ as though it were a cricket match they were playing. ‘But hit it slowly, slowly . . .’ And when it was his turn, he gave the striker a feeble push, moving it a bare inch from his finger.
‘Play properly,’ murmured Meena, who was intent on winning the game; but Kapoor would be up from his seat again, and the company would sit back and wait for the tune of clinking glass.
It was a very irritating game. Kapoor insisted on showing Rusty how to strike the men; and whenever Rusty made a mistake, Meena said ‘thank you’ in an amused and conceited manner that angered the boy. When she and Kishen had cleared the board of whites, Kapoor and Rusty were left with eight blacks.
‘Thank you,’ said Meena sweetly.
‘We are too good for you,’ scoffed Kishen, busily arranging the board for another game.
Kapoor took sudden interest in the proceedings, ‘Who won, I say, who won?’
Much to Rusty’s disgust, they began another game, and with the same partners; but they had just started when Kapoor flopped forward and knocked the carom board off the table. He had fallen asleep. Rusty took him by the shoulders, eased him back into the chair. Kapoor’s breathing was heavy; saliva had collected at the sides of his mouth, and he snorted a little.
Rusty thought it was time he left. Rising from the table, he said, ‘I will have to ask another time about the job . . .’
‘Hasn’t he told you as yet?’ said Meena.
‘What?’
‘That you can have the job.’
‘Can I!’ exclaimed Rusty.
Meena gave a little laugh. ‘But of course! Certainly there is no one else who would take it on. Kishen is not easy to teach. There is no fixed pay, but we will give you anything you need. You are not our servant. You will be doing us a favour by giving Kishen some of your knowledge and conversation and company, and in return we will be giving you our hospitality. You will have a room of your own, and your food you will have with us. What do you think?’
‘Oh, it is wonderful!’ said Rusty.
And it was wonderful, and he felt gay and light-headed, and all the troubles in the world scurried away. He even felt successful: he had a profession. And Meena Kapoor was smiling at him, and looking more beautiful than she really was, and Kishen was saying: ‘Tomorrow you must stay till twelve o’clock, all right, even if Daddy goes to sleep. Promise
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