brightly, as she remained standing safely on the step. ‘Indumati makes me tea when I’m not feeling well. With milk and honey, tulsi leaves, black pepper and ginger.’
The Professor winced slightly. ‘Ah, I see. The medicinal potion‚’ he said.
The woman emerged from the kitchen, a silver tray in her hands. On it was a white cup and saucer with small pink roses, and faint green leaves. A fine gold line could be seen around the rim. Matching this was a small jug with bits of steam curling out, and a round sugar bowl with a silver spoon standing straight up in it. On one side bulged the starched teacosy, with white flowers embroidered against a whiter background. Seeing her husband still talking to Virmati, the woman hesitated before him, holding the tray. He gestured inside, and turned again to the guest.
‘Are you sure that I have to be so rude as to send you back without anything to eat or drink?’
But the sight of the tea-tray, with its unfamiliar rigmarole, was enough to send Virmati urgently home – really, they are waiting – to the glass of hot milk that she could sip comfortably and slowly while warming her hands around it. When you talked to him, she thought, the Professor Sahib wasn’t formidable. He seemed quite friendly, offering her tea more than once. How was it that the woman was still in awe of him after all those years?
*
‘Pehnji?’
‘Yes, Paro?’ Virmati was lying on her bed, frowning in concentration before an English book. Her lips were moving, and her finger ran along the lines.
‘I got hurt. Look.’ And Paro pointed to her knee smudged with dirt and blood. She had been waiting for Virmati to come home from college and see for herself how hurt she was.
‘Oh, poor thing‚’ said Virmati caressing her half-heartedly. Her finger started moving again and Paro pulled at her dupatta.
‘Red medicine‚’ she started wailing. For while the other children had scraped and banged themselves with no after-luxury of medicine, Virmati had always tenderly looked after Paro’s hurts, cooking up haldi and ghee to smear on them. Of late she had taken to being more modern and buying red medicine, which was quicker to apply.
‘It’s not really so bad, Paro. Now don’t disturb me, I’m reading. Go and play with Vidya.’
Paro snatched the book from her hands, and threw it on the floor. Virmati leapt off the bed and slapped her.
Paro burst into tears, and fled. She wandered around the house crying, and when her sister still did not come, crept outside her room, and snivelled loudly next to the window. She wouldn’t stop until Virmati came and held her as she used to, until she put medicine on her knee as she used to.
Oh God, thought Virmati, what will the Professor Sahib think? I’ve kept his book for two weeks already, and he was asking me what I thought of it yesterday, and why did I say I’ve almost finished it, when I’m only beginning. It’s impossible to read in this house. She’s not even that badly hurt. No one looked at my hurts when I was her age. I’ve spoilt her. Anger rose inside Virmati, and Paro felt her hands hard and rough, instead of caring and tender, but looking at her sister’s face, she was too scared to complain further.
*
Virmati passed her FA with marks that were respectable enough for a girl, her parents thought. She now wanted to study further. Her parents thought that she had gone far enough. Her fiancé’s parents thought she was already well qualified to be the wife of their son, the canal engineer. They didn’t want too much education in their daughter-in-law, even though times were changing. Virmati wept and sulked.
‘What is the matter with her?’ said her mother. ‘She was never so keen before.’
‘The girl is serious. It is natural,’ said her grandfather to her mother.
‘For how long can she go on like this? There is Indumati to think of. We can afford to wait for the boys after Indu, but what about her?’
There was no
The Professor winced slightly. ‘Ah, I see. The medicinal potion‚’ he said.
The woman emerged from the kitchen, a silver tray in her hands. On it was a white cup and saucer with small pink roses, and faint green leaves. A fine gold line could be seen around the rim. Matching this was a small jug with bits of steam curling out, and a round sugar bowl with a silver spoon standing straight up in it. On one side bulged the starched teacosy, with white flowers embroidered against a whiter background. Seeing her husband still talking to Virmati, the woman hesitated before him, holding the tray. He gestured inside, and turned again to the guest.
‘Are you sure that I have to be so rude as to send you back without anything to eat or drink?’
But the sight of the tea-tray, with its unfamiliar rigmarole, was enough to send Virmati urgently home – really, they are waiting – to the glass of hot milk that she could sip comfortably and slowly while warming her hands around it. When you talked to him, she thought, the Professor Sahib wasn’t formidable. He seemed quite friendly, offering her tea more than once. How was it that the woman was still in awe of him after all those years?
*
‘Pehnji?’
‘Yes, Paro?’ Virmati was lying on her bed, frowning in concentration before an English book. Her lips were moving, and her finger ran along the lines.
‘I got hurt. Look.’ And Paro pointed to her knee smudged with dirt and blood. She had been waiting for Virmati to come home from college and see for herself how hurt she was.
‘Oh, poor thing‚’ said Virmati caressing her half-heartedly. Her finger started moving again and Paro pulled at her dupatta.
‘Red medicine‚’ she started wailing. For while the other children had scraped and banged themselves with no after-luxury of medicine, Virmati had always tenderly looked after Paro’s hurts, cooking up haldi and ghee to smear on them. Of late she had taken to being more modern and buying red medicine, which was quicker to apply.
‘It’s not really so bad, Paro. Now don’t disturb me, I’m reading. Go and play with Vidya.’
Paro snatched the book from her hands, and threw it on the floor. Virmati leapt off the bed and slapped her.
Paro burst into tears, and fled. She wandered around the house crying, and when her sister still did not come, crept outside her room, and snivelled loudly next to the window. She wouldn’t stop until Virmati came and held her as she used to, until she put medicine on her knee as she used to.
Oh God, thought Virmati, what will the Professor Sahib think? I’ve kept his book for two weeks already, and he was asking me what I thought of it yesterday, and why did I say I’ve almost finished it, when I’m only beginning. It’s impossible to read in this house. She’s not even that badly hurt. No one looked at my hurts when I was her age. I’ve spoilt her. Anger rose inside Virmati, and Paro felt her hands hard and rough, instead of caring and tender, but looking at her sister’s face, she was too scared to complain further.
*
Virmati passed her FA with marks that were respectable enough for a girl, her parents thought. She now wanted to study further. Her parents thought that she had gone far enough. Her fiancé’s parents thought she was already well qualified to be the wife of their son, the canal engineer. They didn’t want too much education in their daughter-in-law, even though times were changing. Virmati wept and sulked.
‘What is the matter with her?’ said her mother. ‘She was never so keen before.’
‘The girl is serious. It is natural,’ said her grandfather to her mother.
‘For how long can she go on like this? There is Indumati to think of. We can afford to wait for the boys after Indu, but what about her?’
There was no
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