Don't Let Him Know by Sandip Roy Page A

sheepishly and changed the subject. ‘Where is Avinash?’
    ‘He just got back from the office and is changing. Come and sit down in the living room. Mangala, go tell Avinash to come down. But don’t tell him who is here. And ask him to bring Amit too.’
    Time seemed to have stopped in the living room. The old cuckoo clock that Avinash’s father had brought back from a trip to Europe was still there. The sofas still had the hideous bottle-green vinyl-like covering, now a bit shinier and balder with age. In the corner stood the dark wooden display case jammed with Avinash’s trophies and medals and little costume dolls from all over the world, most of them still cocooned in plastic wraps to protect them from the dust – diminutive Swedish Heidis with stiff flaxen pigtails crammed next to Rajasthani maidens with armfuls of silver bangles and swirling red skirts, their plastic bubbles turning grimy with age. A vase with plastic pink flowers tried to brighten up one corner of the room next to the telephone, with a burst of artificial cheer. Little half curtains with hand-embroidered flowers hung on the shuttered windows. Those were new. Sumit wondered if Avinash’s wife had made them. There was a side table with copies of India Today magazines, and the room had a new coat of paint – a rather bilious salmon. The only other thing that was new in the room was a big portrait of Avinash’s father looking very stern and professorial on the wall next to the cuckoo clock. It had a garland around it, the white flowers slightly wilting, the petals browning at the edges.
    Noticing him glance at it, Avinash’s mother said, ‘It was so sudden. He had just come back from college. I was in the kitchen getting dinner ready. He said, “I’m not feeling so well. I think I’ll go and lie down for a bit.” And the next thing I knew Mangala was screaming, “Bouma, Dada-babu has fallen down.”’ She sighed and then said, ‘Massive heart attack’ with the air of a judge handing down a sentence. ‘Two days in intensive care but it was no use.’ She flung open a window and repeated, ‘Massive heart attack’ with an air of grim satisfaction. Turning back to Sumit, she said, ‘We had the best cardiac specialist, Dr Biren Chandra. People even come from America to see him. We did all we could, no expense spared.’
    ‘Of course,’ Sumit said uneasily, not knowing quite what to say. Just then a little boy came hurtling into the room, took one look at him and promptly ran behind the old lady. ‘Who is that, Thama?’ he asked suspiciously.
    ‘It’s an uncle,’ she answered. ‘An uncle from far away who knew your father when he was not much older than you are now. Where is your father?’
    ‘Here,’ answered Avinash, walking into the room. Sumit turned around. Avinash’s mouth fell open. ‘You?’ he said incredulously.
    ‘Me,’ smiled Sumit. Avinash was showing his years – mostly around the middle. His hair had started to recede and he looked astonishingly like his father. In the old days he used to affect a beard (he called it his Leftist look). But now he just had a very corporate trimmed moustache. He somehow seemed shorter. Perhaps he was just stouter. Sumit wondered what he looked like to Avinash after all these years. He stepped forward unsure whether he should hug him. They paused awkwardly as if they had both bumped up against a wall neither had seen and then Avinash shook his hand formally.
    ‘My God – when did you get to India? I didn’t even know you were coming.’
    ‘Who is this uncle, Baba? Thama says he is from far away,’ said the little boy inching out from behind his grandmother.
    ‘This is your Uncle Sumit from America,’ answered his father. ‘I haven’t seen him in many years but we were best friends from when we were young boys.’
    ‘My friend Mintu says Mickey Mouse lives in America. Is that true?’
    ‘That’s right,’ answered Sumit. ‘And see what I got you from there.’ He