multitudinous unbearable evenings. It was a little humiliating not to be able to find a companion on his own, but he had to admit there were some things he could not do. This was a very intimate area, and his body showed him who was master every single time.
He came from a traditional background. What was wrong with thinking of a woman from home? His sister would consider the girl’s age, education, looks, adaptability and lack of encumbrances. In a way the ground would be cleared. His friends might wonder at his choice, but Westerners, thank god, were not nosy, inquisitive, prying and pushy with their insane curiosity about other people’s lives.
His uncle’s comments about Diwali now appeared in a more forceful light. If you reject it all, then who are you?
In his anxiety to establish himself he had turned his back on India and Indians. He hadn’t been home in seven years. It was time to return.
iv
Nina had not realised that being thirty would be so difficult. Actually she had expected to go on feeling young, alone and strong till she died. Then her body stepped in to make a difference to her mind.
She detected a tiny wrinkle near her eyelid.
‘I don’t see it,’ said her mother.
‘You are obsessed with wrinkles,’ said Zenobia.
This was not true. The wrinkle was the future and she was afraid. She looked carefully and found its companions around her lips, in the folds of her neck and on her forehead. She grimaced, stretched her mouth to exercise her skin, lathered on rejuvenating cream at night, but the faint lines were faithful to their nature and refused to leave.
Invisible to all except her, these indentations had tentacles that reached into her soul.
She hesitated to discuss this further with Zen. To be so concerned about ageing was weak minded and Zen herself was forty one. But she had lived, her divorce reflected there had been choices in her life. What did Nina have? Socially she was nothing. If she were in her own flat like her friend, if she possessed a little more enabling money, then she too could be brave. Anywhere else but in B-26 Jangpura Extension amidst the heat and damp, ugly walls, the concrete garden, the windows, with the peeling varnish and the grey, splintered wood beneath.
She was only human. Only human, she assured herself, as she witnessed her youth end and her courage ebb.
‘What’s this all about, Ma?’ asked Nina as the weekend approached, and the mother reached for the silver tea set, the one wrapped in an old sari towards the back of the top shelf of the Godrej almirah.
‘Somebody is coming for tea.’
‘Who?’
‘A woman, that’s who.’
‘Somebody’s relative?’
‘Might be.’
‘Whose?’
‘A boy’s sister.’
‘Sister?’
‘Both the parents are dead, so it is left to the older sister to look out for him, poor, poor boy.’
A sister, representing a suitor, followed by another bout of hope with the inevitable disappointment. Why did this have to be her fate? Always hovering on the threshold, never crossing through. She glared at her mother, the most convenient person to glare at. ‘Why are you so sorry for a stranger?’ she asked sharply.
‘One can feel for people, no?’
‘You want me to be someone’s nursemaid?’
The mother too had her feelings. What had she done to be saddled by a daughter so difficult? Any possibility on the horizon was accompanied by tension and tantrums. ‘You are very unreasonable,’ she now protested, ‘With this attitude what is the use of calling anybody over? You have to try, you don’t even try. ’
‘Ma, that’s not fair. I have seen every man you wanted me to. Can I help it if it never worked out?’
In no meeting had Mr Batra managed to produce anyone she was sure would make her daughter happy. And without that certainty, she could insist on nothing.
‘We have to keep on looking. You want to remain single for the rest of your life?’
Nina looked down, and with her finger traced the fortunes of
He came from a traditional background. What was wrong with thinking of a woman from home? His sister would consider the girl’s age, education, looks, adaptability and lack of encumbrances. In a way the ground would be cleared. His friends might wonder at his choice, but Westerners, thank god, were not nosy, inquisitive, prying and pushy with their insane curiosity about other people’s lives.
His uncle’s comments about Diwali now appeared in a more forceful light. If you reject it all, then who are you?
In his anxiety to establish himself he had turned his back on India and Indians. He hadn’t been home in seven years. It was time to return.
iv
Nina had not realised that being thirty would be so difficult. Actually she had expected to go on feeling young, alone and strong till she died. Then her body stepped in to make a difference to her mind.
She detected a tiny wrinkle near her eyelid.
‘I don’t see it,’ said her mother.
‘You are obsessed with wrinkles,’ said Zenobia.
This was not true. The wrinkle was the future and she was afraid. She looked carefully and found its companions around her lips, in the folds of her neck and on her forehead. She grimaced, stretched her mouth to exercise her skin, lathered on rejuvenating cream at night, but the faint lines were faithful to their nature and refused to leave.
Invisible to all except her, these indentations had tentacles that reached into her soul.
She hesitated to discuss this further with Zen. To be so concerned about ageing was weak minded and Zen herself was forty one. But she had lived, her divorce reflected there had been choices in her life. What did Nina have? Socially she was nothing. If she were in her own flat like her friend, if she possessed a little more enabling money, then she too could be brave. Anywhere else but in B-26 Jangpura Extension amidst the heat and damp, ugly walls, the concrete garden, the windows, with the peeling varnish and the grey, splintered wood beneath.
She was only human. Only human, she assured herself, as she witnessed her youth end and her courage ebb.
‘What’s this all about, Ma?’ asked Nina as the weekend approached, and the mother reached for the silver tea set, the one wrapped in an old sari towards the back of the top shelf of the Godrej almirah.
‘Somebody is coming for tea.’
‘Who?’
‘A woman, that’s who.’
‘Somebody’s relative?’
‘Might be.’
‘Whose?’
‘A boy’s sister.’
‘Sister?’
‘Both the parents are dead, so it is left to the older sister to look out for him, poor, poor boy.’
A sister, representing a suitor, followed by another bout of hope with the inevitable disappointment. Why did this have to be her fate? Always hovering on the threshold, never crossing through. She glared at her mother, the most convenient person to glare at. ‘Why are you so sorry for a stranger?’ she asked sharply.
‘One can feel for people, no?’
‘You want me to be someone’s nursemaid?’
The mother too had her feelings. What had she done to be saddled by a daughter so difficult? Any possibility on the horizon was accompanied by tension and tantrums. ‘You are very unreasonable,’ she now protested, ‘With this attitude what is the use of calling anybody over? You have to try, you don’t even try. ’
‘Ma, that’s not fair. I have seen every man you wanted me to. Can I help it if it never worked out?’
In no meeting had Mr Batra managed to produce anyone she was sure would make her daughter happy. And without that certainty, she could insist on nothing.
‘We have to keep on looking. You want to remain single for the rest of your life?’
Nina looked down, and with her finger traced the fortunes of
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