where he had developed his taste for oriental poetry and French wine. Somewhat languid and passive, he let Sumitra woo him; that suited her too, for it was in her nature to initiate and take the leading part. It made him laugh and pleased him—at that time—the way Sumitra took charge of things. It pleased his father too and was useful to him, for she became his hostess—a part few women at that time were qualified to play, for most of them were like Sumitra’s mother, and Harry’s, who spoke little English and spent their time in their prayer rooms or closeted with their spiritual advisers to ward off evil influences. But Harry’s father was entering a new, a wider world than any known to them before. He was a brilliant lawyer who had defended Indian leaders and kept or sprung them out of jail. He lived with his family in his own large New Delhi residence built many years before Independence with his own wealth and in the style of the surrounding residences of high-ranking British administrators.
Before moving in with her boy friend, Kuku Malhotra had lived in this house, with her grandmother Sumitra and her mother Monica, who was Sumitra and Harry’s only child. By that time the other grand British-style villas around them had been requisitioned for ministerial residences or torn down for modern blocks of flats. Monica too would have liked to sell the house and land at huge profit, but this was impossible while her mother was still alive. Monica took over a plot of land at the rear—part of what had been extensive servants’ quarters—and here, under her supervision, a group of flats was built as rental units. Her mother Sumitra did not like this activity on her estate, and she squinted malevolently at the workmen trampling over her lawn. Monica, busy fighting with the contractor, ignored Sumitra’s resentment: now, at fifty, she felt free for the first time to do what she and not what her mother wanted.
Monica had always been eclipsed by her mother, in looks and personality. Yet Sumitra herself had not been beautiful, not even in her youth—she was short and had always tended to be plump and her facial features too were rounded. But her gestures were as graceful as an Indian dancer’s, and like a dancer, she jingled with golden bangles and with the anklets that it had become fashionable to wear along with other traditional Indian jewelry (Sumitra also tried a diamond nose stud but it didn’t suit her). The blouses she wore under her saris were copied from Indian miniatures—it was all part of the cultural renaissance—and they were very short, just sufficient to support her breasts, leaving bare a large expanse of her midriff, as smooth as beige satin.
As her father-in-law’s hostess, Sumitra had introduced an original style of entertaining, which was partly modern and partly derived from the traditional refinements of an Indian royal court. Later, after he died, she was greatly in demand at the official parties to which foreign dignitaries were invited. At that time, many of the cabinet ministers and even the President in his palace were peasant politicians with village wives and no idea how to function in society. Sumitra became New Delhi’s semi-official hostess. The food she ordered to be prepared was mostly Indian but with the spices so cunningly blended that only their exquisite fragrance and none of their sharpness remained. Often a classical musician or dancer was brought in to entertain, their art also toned down to appeal to blander tastes; and though the guests were encouraged to immerse themselves in this cultured Indian ambience, they did not have to sit on the floor reclining against bolsters but were provided with chairs and sofas to support their stiff European spines.
At first her husband Harry accompanied her to all these grand receptions. Tall and slim, handsome and educated, he was an asset to her, though all he did was talk to the second secretary of some embassy or a cultural attaché’s wife. This became very boring for him, and after a while he began to refuse to go with her; he said he couldn’t stand another set of speeches extolling the amity and friendship between two great nations. At first she coaxed him—laughingly agreed with him that yes, wasn’t it horrible, but if she could suffer why couldn’t he, and anyway please for her sake—till he said, oh all right, and put on his high-collared coat with the jeweled buttons. But more and more he preferred to stay at home and cultivate his own interests. He tried his hand at translating couplets of Urdu poetry—purely as an amateur of course, he wasn’t a poet, he wasn’t a scholar; and when collections of these verses were published by real poets and scholars, he was content to admire and retreat, claiming nothing more for himself than the pursuit of a hobby. And as with all hobbies, this one could be taken up and put down at will, which suited him for he liked to spend his time in his own way. He lay under the ceiling fan, thinking about translating Urdu poetry and reading English detective stories. With the cessation of imports, he could no longer cultivate his taste for fine wines so he took to stronger drink—whisky and vodka.
His daughter Monica became his most constant companion. By this time she was old enough to be aware of the increasing tension between her parents. There was a quarrel now every time Sumitra wanted Harry to accompany her to one of her important functions. She no longer coaxed, she begged, and then she commanded, and then she remonstrated: didn’t he realize that this was her work, her contribution to her country? That made him laugh: oh yes, wonderful contribution, to flirt around in her sari and jewels, like a professional—if he didn’t come out with the word, she challenged him: professional what? What? And she stood demanding an answer, and he said, Courtesan. It amused him the way she went wild. They no longer shared a bedroom but they had a connecting dressing room, and with her gorgeous brocade sari half tucked in and half trailing on the floor behind her, she stamped up and down between their two bedrooms, reproaching him with the difference between her sense of duty and his utter lack of responsibility. He hummed to himself, and the more she worked herself up the calmer he became. Once he playfully trod on the sari trailing behind her so that she tugged it furiously from under his foot and it tore, and she sat down on the bed and burst into tears and he did not comfort her.
She accepted her fate and went everywhere by herself and he accepted his and stayed home and drank and read and played snakes and ladders with Monica. Later he taught Monica whist and contract bridge; by this time she was at college—she read history and international affairs—but she spent all her evenings with her father and they ate their dinner together, usually the two of them alone while Sumitra was needed elsewhere. And she was really needed—even Harry admitted it, that she was there to lay down the social and cultural guidelines of her newly independent country. An official car and chauffeur were at her disposal and stood parked in their driveway. Sometimes she had to go at dawn to the airport to receive and be photographed with some foreign cabinet minister and his wife; later in the day she took the wife shopping for Indian handicrafts. She had become an arbiter of taste, an expert on all aspects of Indian culture. Almost singlehandedly she revived cottage industries to export the best in Indian textiles and craftsmanship. She was the chairwoman of a committee to rename New Delhi streets, which had once commemorated English statesmen and soldiers such as Lord Kitchener, in honor of Indian freedom fighters; also of another committee appointed to take down statues of Queen Victoria and arrange design competitions for sculptures of Mahatma Gandhi.
She and Harry had settled down to a sort of brother and sister relationship. He mocked her work—of which however he was also quite proud—and the busier she was the more languid he became. He drank steadily—only vodka now—and this wrapped him in a pleasant haze, which made him very tolerant. She saw to it that he always had clean linen; he had taken to wearing only Indian clothes, fine white shirts with embroidery at the shoulders and neckline. Before leaving for her many duties, she arranged her household and ordered the day’s meals for her husband and daughter. These two remained very close, and Sumitra was aware that this was partly the result of an alliance against herself. When Harry mocked Sumitra—he imitated the way she posed for the photographers while garlanding a VIP—Monica laughed loudly in her mother’s face; and she too mocked her, not in the good-natured way that Harry did but bitterly. She blamed her mother for many things. Later, whenever Kuku spoke admiringly of her grandmother’s achievements, Monica would pull a face: “She did it for herself,” she told Kuku. “To show off and be admired by people; by men,” she said.
In her mid-thirties, when she met Lieutenant-General Har Dayal, Sumitra was even
