A Fine Family: A Novel by Gurcharan Das Page A

his right to stopat his house for a meal before returning to the village. Sometimes he felt that Bhabo had extra food cooked in order to serve leftovers to the poor. He didn’t mind feeding the poor, but why must they eat the same food as the rest of the family?
    To the earlier smells was now added the aroma of baked rotis, fresh out of the tandoor. And he knew lunch was ready. Fortunately, when it came to bread, there was no compromise because it was made by Bhua. Twenty years ago an impoverished widow from a ‘decent family’ in his village had arrived at his doorstep. He had given her shelter temporarily; but she had shown such skill in making rotis that she had stayed on. She had built a magnificent four-feet-tall tandoor out of baked clay. And she personally went to the bazaar to select the charcoal which was burned inside, and the whole wheat flour which she kneaded into dough. She began to address Bauji as ‘younger brother’ and she had become a member of the family.
    He got up and walked towards the dining room. At Big Uncle’s insistence a few years ago, they had converted one of the east rooms into a dining room, but he hadn’t liked the idea. The food always got cold by the time it reached them from the kitchen. It was a new fashionable idea amongst their class, which they had learned from the English. Since most of Big Uncle’s college friends ate in a dining room, they too had to eat in one. He much preferred eating in or near the kitchen. In the winters, they still ate in the kitchen, where it was nice and warm.
    About twenty famished people were already assembled eagerly waiting for their brass thalis to be filled with food when he reached the dining room. Apart from the immediate family, there were nephews, grandsons, aunts, friends of nephews, friends of friends, and a few others whose faces he did not recognize. But he hoped
someone
did. It became quiet as soon as he entered. The older people from the village had not joined in, as they felt uncomfortable sitting at a table; they ate near the kitchen on a straw mat. The meal started quietly and proceeded uneventfully. Just as he was about to remark on the delicate quality of the lentils, Bhabo suddenly burst out, ‘I am getting tired of your clients knocking down the door in the middle of the night when all godly people are fast asleep. The night before last we had a dozen from Akalgarh. We had to cook for them at midnight and prepare their beds. Is this some kind of inn? And would you believe it, one of them even complained about the salt in the food!’
    Since Bauji was in no mood to spoil his lunch over a subject they had discussed for the past twenty years, he merely smiled and concentrated on the aubergine. As the silence was uncomfortable, the others also smiled. But he felt contrite; he sympathized with poor Bhabo’s problem. It had become customary for a successful lawyer to feed and house his out-of-town clients. The lawyer more than made up for his trouble through his fees. It had probably started because there were no inns or hotels in Lyallpur. Even if there had been, rural clients were unwilling to stay at impersonal places. But this situation was getting out of hand because a client didn’t come alone; he sometimes brought half the village along, and they often stayed for weeks. The villagers were quite happy to enjoy the sights of the city free of cost, and were more than willing to offer false testimony in return. Bauji wanted to end this practice at his house, but he did not know how to do it. He was willing to lose the business, but he didn’t want his actions to reflect a lack of hospitality in the eyes of the world. Big Uncle, who sometimes returned late at night, would tell everyone the next morning how many beds he had found outside each lawyer’s house in the neighbourhood. It had become a status symbol and the number of charpais reflected a lawyer’s prosperity and standing.
    Bauji’s eyes fell on his fat and bald