to be ready? Well, actually, I met his mother in the market and I said you’d go over. And she said she wouldn’t tell Avinash and it would be a great surprise. Besides, he’s going away on tour on Wednesday.’
Sumit put down his cup, looked at his mother and said, ‘So you’ve already planned it all for me, anyway.’
‘Well if I didn’t, you’d be meeting him for two minutes on your way to the airport.’
Sumit seemed about to say something but thought better of it. Putting down the newspaper he said resignedly, ‘And what time have you told Avinash’s mother I would be there for this surprise visit?’
‘Oh, around six, six-thirty. I have to go to my Ladies’ Circle then. And I thought I could drop you off on the way there. The driver will be here at five-thirty. Now drink your tea before it gets cold. What do you want to have for dinner?’
‘Ma, I’m not even finished with breakfast,’ laughed Sumit.
Avinash’s house still looked the same except that it had been a dirty cream the last time he had seen it. Now it was yellow, its sun-bleached green shutters streaked with chalky white crow droppings. The wizened old neem tree in front of the house was still there, gasping for breath, as the shops all around seemed to crowd in on it. Sumit threaded past the gossiping maids and a loitering cow and rang the doorbell. A dog napping on the front step cocked its head and regarded him solemnly. There was no answer. One of the maids sitting on the porch, in a flowery synthetic sari, stopped in mid-story to inspect him. He pressed the doorbell again. Hard. He heard shuffling feet and an old grumbling voice.
‘Oof-oh. Coming, coming, I’m not deaf. Can’t you wait a minute? What is it now? Ringing the bell like the world is on fire.’
The door opened an inch and a wrinkled face peered out suspiciously.
‘What is it? Whom do you want?’ it demanded.
‘Oh, Mangala-di – how are you?’ answered Sumit.
Mangala adjusted her thick glasses and stared at Sumit. Then her jaw dropped. ‘Oh my goodness. If it is not our little Sumit. After all these years. I thought this old woman would never see you again. Bouma, look who’s here.’ With that she started sniffling. By the time Avinash’s mother emerged, Mangala’s eyes were streaming with tears as she stroked Sumit’s arm while the gaggle of maid-servants on the porch gaped at them, the thread of their gossip lost in the far more intriguing drama unfolding before them. Sumit knew that soon after he left Calcutta, Avinash’s father had suddenly died of a heart attack. Even so, seeing his friend’s mother in a widow’s plain white sari made him start. Like his own mother, her hair was more silver than black and she seemed to have physically shrunk. He had once been a little scared of her, the way she had ruled the household with an iron ladle. Now she seemed small, an old woman, faded and crumpled, crumbling into the old house itself. She smiled at him. A couple of teeth were missing.
‘If it is not Mr America-returned,’ said Avinash’s mother. ‘Do you still remember us ordinary people?’
‘Oh, what are you saying, Mashi?’ an embarrassed Sumit reached out to touch her feet in a sign of respect. ‘How could I forget you? You are like my own family.’
‘Let it be, let it be. You are just back from America. No more of these old-fashioned customs.’ But she did not quite stop him.
‘How tall he has grown,’ sighed Mangala, wiping her eyes. ‘Like a tree.’
‘Mangala-di,’ protested Sumit, ‘I was an adult when I left. I don’t think I grew any taller.’
‘No, you can’t fool your old Mangala-di. Then you were a boy. Now you are a man.’
‘So, where is the wedding invitation?’ Avinash’s mother stretched out her hand.
‘Wedding invitation?’
‘Oh my goodness, don’t you think it’s about time? What are you waiting for – till my last few teeth fall out? And think of your poor mother.’
Sumit smiled
Sumit put down his cup, looked at his mother and said, ‘So you’ve already planned it all for me, anyway.’
‘Well if I didn’t, you’d be meeting him for two minutes on your way to the airport.’
Sumit seemed about to say something but thought better of it. Putting down the newspaper he said resignedly, ‘And what time have you told Avinash’s mother I would be there for this surprise visit?’
‘Oh, around six, six-thirty. I have to go to my Ladies’ Circle then. And I thought I could drop you off on the way there. The driver will be here at five-thirty. Now drink your tea before it gets cold. What do you want to have for dinner?’
‘Ma, I’m not even finished with breakfast,’ laughed Sumit.
Avinash’s house still looked the same except that it had been a dirty cream the last time he had seen it. Now it was yellow, its sun-bleached green shutters streaked with chalky white crow droppings. The wizened old neem tree in front of the house was still there, gasping for breath, as the shops all around seemed to crowd in on it. Sumit threaded past the gossiping maids and a loitering cow and rang the doorbell. A dog napping on the front step cocked its head and regarded him solemnly. There was no answer. One of the maids sitting on the porch, in a flowery synthetic sari, stopped in mid-story to inspect him. He pressed the doorbell again. Hard. He heard shuffling feet and an old grumbling voice.
‘Oof-oh. Coming, coming, I’m not deaf. Can’t you wait a minute? What is it now? Ringing the bell like the world is on fire.’
The door opened an inch and a wrinkled face peered out suspiciously.
‘What is it? Whom do you want?’ it demanded.
‘Oh, Mangala-di – how are you?’ answered Sumit.
Mangala adjusted her thick glasses and stared at Sumit. Then her jaw dropped. ‘Oh my goodness. If it is not our little Sumit. After all these years. I thought this old woman would never see you again. Bouma, look who’s here.’ With that she started sniffling. By the time Avinash’s mother emerged, Mangala’s eyes were streaming with tears as she stroked Sumit’s arm while the gaggle of maid-servants on the porch gaped at them, the thread of their gossip lost in the far more intriguing drama unfolding before them. Sumit knew that soon after he left Calcutta, Avinash’s father had suddenly died of a heart attack. Even so, seeing his friend’s mother in a widow’s plain white sari made him start. Like his own mother, her hair was more silver than black and she seemed to have physically shrunk. He had once been a little scared of her, the way she had ruled the household with an iron ladle. Now she seemed small, an old woman, faded and crumpled, crumbling into the old house itself. She smiled at him. A couple of teeth were missing.
‘If it is not Mr America-returned,’ said Avinash’s mother. ‘Do you still remember us ordinary people?’
‘Oh, what are you saying, Mashi?’ an embarrassed Sumit reached out to touch her feet in a sign of respect. ‘How could I forget you? You are like my own family.’
‘Let it be, let it be. You are just back from America. No more of these old-fashioned customs.’ But she did not quite stop him.
‘How tall he has grown,’ sighed Mangala, wiping her eyes. ‘Like a tree.’
‘Mangala-di,’ protested Sumit, ‘I was an adult when I left. I don’t think I grew any taller.’
‘No, you can’t fool your old Mangala-di. Then you were a boy. Now you are a man.’
‘So, where is the wedding invitation?’ Avinash’s mother stretched out her hand.
‘Wedding invitation?’
‘Oh my goodness, don’t you think it’s about time? What are you waiting for – till my last few teeth fall out? And think of your poor mother.’
Sumit smiled
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