on her shoulder, she swung around, and with eyes glittering in the candlelight, said, ‘A good man, baba. A
good man. Just one who is a little angry.’
The next day, before Udaya and Rehan woke, the early morning joggers and walkers of Golf Links were treated to the spectacle of a dozen bouquets, half a spring almost, and at least two entire
flower shops – and not just roses, but orchids and lilies in May – encircling the watchman’s bunk at number 187.
And then, one cold winter day, almost in our present time, when Sethia’s hair had turned white, and he had grown it to shoulder length, during a period of his life that
Udaya described as ‘Menoporsche’, the opportunity to settle his ancient score arose.
That year, the World Economic Forum, due to the terrorist attacks in America, was being held in New York. Sethia was staying at the Four Seasons on 57th Street. After a breakfast session with
Musharraf, he returned to his room, turned on the television and picked up the phone to call Udaya. When the long, mournful ringing gave way to her voice, he put the television on mute. The images
flashed silently before him as Udaya’s energetic chatter filled the space that the television’s noise had left. She wanted to know what the weather was like; how was Musharraf? Did he
seem serious about peace with India? Had Amit bought the three bottles of Jo Malone’s Tuberose that she had asked for? Amit half-listened while resting his gaze on the television. Udaya was
trying to convince him to visit the college Rehan was due to attend that summer.
‘How can I, darling? It’s in Massachusetts.’
‘So?’
‘What do you mean “so?”? I’m in New York. It’s like asking someone to see a college in Amritsar on a trip to Delhi.’
‘You know, Amit, unless he feels you care . . .’
‘Tch, Udaya! I care, but I’m not going a hundred and fifty miles to see his college. Besides, they’re all the same, these liberal artsy places. If he really wants to do arts
and literature, he may as well do it in India. I don’t see why I should pay thirty thousand dollars a year for him to read novels in America.’
‘Suit yourself, but then don’t complain to me that . . .’
‘Wait, wait, Shhh, Udaya, one second.’
‘What is it?’
But there was no reply. The images now appearing on the television held Sethia’s attention so completely that it was a second before he realized the sound was off.
‘Amit?’
‘I’ll call you back,’ he said in a furtive whisper and absent-mindedly hung up. Then turning on the sound to the special hour-long remembrance, he watched and listened in
horror. Under a black and white oval photograph of a thirties beauty, it said ‘The Rajamata of Kusumapur, 1919–2002’.
The sky outside was grey; the wind thumped against his window; there was a hint of snow. The goose-down bed and the darkness of the room seemed to muffle him. On the television, images of the
Rajamata, as in a slideshow, went moodily in and out of focus. They showed her at Ascot. In chiffon and pearls, awarding a polo trophy. In white at the pyre of her dead husband. With Prince Philip
and the Queen. With Jackie Kennedy. Released from Tihar Jail after the Emergency. Sethia watched, as if waiting for an image from that fateful night to appear. But of course it never came. The
Rajamata was going, free of her sins, into that edited heaven of coffee-table books and one-hour specials.
Sethia should have gone back to the forum; there were other sessions to attend; but he found he didn’t have the will. He decided, in the hope of taking his mind off his shock at the
Rajamata’s death, to step out to buy Udaya’s perfume. Perhaps he would buy Rehan something too; Udaya would notice if he didn’t.
He dressed lightly despite the cold, and passing the full-length mirror on the way out was momentarily detained by his reflection. He was old. His body had shrunk, his shoulders had turned in at
the corners and a
good man. Just one who is a little angry.’
The next day, before Udaya and Rehan woke, the early morning joggers and walkers of Golf Links were treated to the spectacle of a dozen bouquets, half a spring almost, and at least two entire
flower shops – and not just roses, but orchids and lilies in May – encircling the watchman’s bunk at number 187.
And then, one cold winter day, almost in our present time, when Sethia’s hair had turned white, and he had grown it to shoulder length, during a period of his life that
Udaya described as ‘Menoporsche’, the opportunity to settle his ancient score arose.
That year, the World Economic Forum, due to the terrorist attacks in America, was being held in New York. Sethia was staying at the Four Seasons on 57th Street. After a breakfast session with
Musharraf, he returned to his room, turned on the television and picked up the phone to call Udaya. When the long, mournful ringing gave way to her voice, he put the television on mute. The images
flashed silently before him as Udaya’s energetic chatter filled the space that the television’s noise had left. She wanted to know what the weather was like; how was Musharraf? Did he
seem serious about peace with India? Had Amit bought the three bottles of Jo Malone’s Tuberose that she had asked for? Amit half-listened while resting his gaze on the television. Udaya was
trying to convince him to visit the college Rehan was due to attend that summer.
‘How can I, darling? It’s in Massachusetts.’
‘So?’
‘What do you mean “so?”? I’m in New York. It’s like asking someone to see a college in Amritsar on a trip to Delhi.’
‘You know, Amit, unless he feels you care . . .’
‘Tch, Udaya! I care, but I’m not going a hundred and fifty miles to see his college. Besides, they’re all the same, these liberal artsy places. If he really wants to do arts
and literature, he may as well do it in India. I don’t see why I should pay thirty thousand dollars a year for him to read novels in America.’
‘Suit yourself, but then don’t complain to me that . . .’
‘Wait, wait, Shhh, Udaya, one second.’
‘What is it?’
But there was no reply. The images now appearing on the television held Sethia’s attention so completely that it was a second before he realized the sound was off.
‘Amit?’
‘I’ll call you back,’ he said in a furtive whisper and absent-mindedly hung up. Then turning on the sound to the special hour-long remembrance, he watched and listened in
horror. Under a black and white oval photograph of a thirties beauty, it said ‘The Rajamata of Kusumapur, 1919–2002’.
The sky outside was grey; the wind thumped against his window; there was a hint of snow. The goose-down bed and the darkness of the room seemed to muffle him. On the television, images of the
Rajamata, as in a slideshow, went moodily in and out of focus. They showed her at Ascot. In chiffon and pearls, awarding a polo trophy. In white at the pyre of her dead husband. With Prince Philip
and the Queen. With Jackie Kennedy. Released from Tihar Jail after the Emergency. Sethia watched, as if waiting for an image from that fateful night to appear. But of course it never came. The
Rajamata was going, free of her sins, into that edited heaven of coffee-table books and one-hour specials.
Sethia should have gone back to the forum; there were other sessions to attend; but he found he didn’t have the will. He decided, in the hope of taking his mind off his shock at the
Rajamata’s death, to step out to buy Udaya’s perfume. Perhaps he would buy Rehan something too; Udaya would notice if he didn’t.
He dressed lightly despite the cold, and passing the full-length mirror on the way out was momentarily detained by his reflection. He was old. His body had shrunk, his shoulders had turned in at
the corners and a
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