A Fine Family: A Novel by Gurcharan Das

pleased with what he saw, especially by the trim moustache. He felt that he looked like a man of substance, which reflected his own view of himself. He smiled at this thought and marched off briskly to his office rooms on the ground floor.
    His chambers were normally airy and bright. The whitewashed walls shone as the brilliant sunshine streamed in through the open window, which the servant opened daily when he came to dust in the morning. In the summers, espedally before the monsoon, they became too bright; so a straw mat of khus-khus grass was thrown across the window which cut the glare; periodically, cold water poured over the mat kept the room cool. The white fan on the ceiling drculated the cool air.
    To Bauji’s relief, his Munshi was not present, and so there wasn’t any bad news to start the day. The energetic Munshi delighted in showing him the ledgers first, and insisted on depressing him with a detailed account of all the debts which had not been paid. He never volunteered information on the other side—the income which had been received from numerous urban and rural properties.
    On an impulse, he pushed aside the straw curtain and looked out of the window. The brightness hurt his eyes at first. As they got accustomed to it he felt the same luminous quiet in the air caused by the blazing midday sun.
    He turned around, and for an instant luxuriated in the contrasting sensation produced by the cool and dark room. He walked over to his desk. Before sitting down, he gently felt the minute carving on the dark Burma teak chair. It had a woven cane bottom, which had been periodically restrung. He had got the chair twenty years ago when he had been a ‘promising young lawyer’, much talked about in the courts and in the club, because of two sensational murder cases that he had won in quick succession. The chair had been ordered from the fees of the first case. Every evening he had begun to visit the club to play tennis and bridge, and to talk. He used to enjoy being made much of, and felt he was one of the fortunate people alive.
    While he was no longer a ‘promising young man’, he was aware of his considerable achievements and public successes. He continued to be highly respected in the town and in his profession. He felt that he was much freer from the vanity, animosity and envy of his younger days. His bodily and mental powers, though, were somewhat diminished. His instincts especially were not as sharp as they used to be. But he certainly was not lacking in manly drives—in lustful passion, in moral indignation, in ambition and assertive-ness. However, he suffered less and less from the tyranny of these drives. There were exceptions, of course, such as during Karan’s visit.
    The first awareness of his loss in youthful vitality had been accompanied by a hurt to his narcissistic pride—especially when he compared himself to Karan. But that feeling was mostly behind him, although it could flare up on occasion when Karan came to visit. He had begun to deal with his age and his mortality. With the recognition of his own vulnerability had emerged a new empathy and compassion. The suffering of others had started to have a new meaning.
    He sat down to read the daily papers that were meticulously folded on his desk. After three-quarters-of-an-hour his reading was interrupted by the smell of onions and garlic frying in the kitchen upstairs. Soon the aroma of a dozen spices joined in, and he knew that the cook was putting the finishing touches to the roasted aubergine that Bhabo had ordered last night. He felt hungry.
    He liked to eat and feed his family well. That is why he personally selected fresh vegetables on the way back from his morning walk to the Company Bagh. Unfortunately, the cooking left much to be desired. Perhaps because there were too many in the house—at any time there were twenty to thirty mouths to feed, including servants, relatives and friends. Any visitor to Lyallpur from his village felt it