stage. She rustled around in her brocades with masculine purpose and feminine grace; there was a somewhat set expression about her mouth now, which may have been the determination of a busy woman, an almost public personage, but also an indication of some disappointment. There was no one really she could open herself to fully: husband and daughter had ganged up against her, at best indifferent if not contemptuous of the great role she played. As for those among whom she played it—the politicians and higher bureaucrats—they were not of her background, not of her education, not of her class. There was no one, she felt, who understood her: except her husband, and he wilfully misinterpreted her. So she was ready for Lieutenant-General Har Dayal when he entered: for not only was he, like her husband, a man of education and refinement, he was also, unlike her husband, an important person—in fact, a sort of national hero. He was a career officer, among the last batch of Indians to be trained at Sandhurst where he had acquired the manners of a British gentleman. At the same time he was an Indian aristocrat, a minor raja in a minor state, not more than a large landowner but with an ancestral habit of command. He was of the traditional warrior caste and looked like a warrior: tall, broad, upright, manly and shining in his uniform. And he had just won a border war against a neighboring enemy country and had been decorated with the highest award for gallantry. Now he had been brought to army headquarters in New Delhi with a view to succeeding the present commander-in-chief.
Meanwhile he was an honored guest—an indispensable ornament like Sumitra herself—at all receptions and banquets for foreign dignitaries. He knew how to behave: to make conversation in English, to use the right cutlery, to let ladies precede him through a door. The Indian politicians still tended to rush in first and even to jostle and push their way to the front at the buffet table, so that Sumitra had to be on constant guard: it was mortifying to see a plate being snatched from the French ambassador’s wife by the Minister for Trade and Commerce. Sumitra and Lieutenant-General Har Dayal became allies, each signaling to the other to prevent or make up for some breach of manners; sometimes both rolled their eyes in mock despair.
Lieutenant-General Har Dayal—or Too, as he came to be known to Sumitra and her family—had been married for many years and had teenage children at boarding schools. After the first few months in New Delhi, his wife, unable to stand the sort of official life they led, had gone back to their estate. Theirs had been an arranged marriage and, like him, she was of a minor royal house of the warrior caste; she rode horses and hunted tigers and was more at home in deserts and jungles than in political drawing rooms. So Too was mostly alone, and lonely; and Sumitra was also lonely. It was easy for them to come to an understanding, not so easy to become lovers. At the conclusion of the social events at which they met, they were driven home in their respective official cars; and although no family members lived with him, he was surrounded by his family retainers. However late it was, his batman waited up for him, to take off his boots and help him change for bed; and in case Too wanted anything at night, he slept outside his door on a little string cot, the way he had done throughout their army years together.
By the time Sumitra came home, her husband Harry was asleep. His drinking made him breathe heavily, even snore, which disgusted her so much that she tried to wake him; but he only grunted and turned over onto his other side, his long nerveless arm flung out on the sheet. She shut the two doors of their connecting dressing room, and lay in bed thinking of Too. In the course of their evening together, they had managed not only to exchange glances but also surreptitiously to brush up against each other, the lightest of contact—of arms or hands—setting up a conflagration of nerves. It was fearful, painful, but also so exquisite that they kept finding opportunities to do it again. It was strange how they managed to contrive their understanding; neither of them had experience of secret affairs, they were innocent except in marriage. But it may have been that both had an ingrained habit of secrecy—of snatching moments of privacy out of communal living among family members, and the ever present family retainers, wakeful in service.
Night after night she lay in bed, longing for and plotting the next step beyond the secret touch of arm against arm. She liked to think that Too was lying in his house, in his bed, plotting in the same way. It was only later that she discovered how deep was his sleep, deeper than Harry’s and in his case not induced by drink but by an untroubled mind and a robust constitution. But at that time, at the beginning, she lay awake straining her ears for the sound of his arrival, certain that he was as tormented as she was and had contrived a way to come to her. But all she heard was dogs barking to each other across the dusty night, and sometimes the howl of jackals that still infested the unbuilt areas around the capital; and worst, though faint through two closed doors, her husband’s troubled alcoholic snores.
One night she could bear it no longer—she got up and let herself out and started up the little sports car she kept for her private use. She woke the watchman and put on such a stern preoccupied face that he unlocked the gate fast and without question. She drove through the wide and silent tree-lined streets. Too lived in an area of mansions requisitioned by the government of India for their own high-ranking officers; in the evening there were always many cars parked outside under the trees, for in almost every house there was some official function to which important guests came. But now all the parties were over and the houses shut up behind their high wrought-iron gates.
She reduced speed when she approached his house. She had vaguely planned to rouse his watchman in the same domineering manner as her own: but his watchman was not the usual sleepy old retainer with a blanket thrown over his shivering shoulders but a brisk little Gurkha soldier with a rifle that sprang alive in his hands as he shouted, “Who’s there!” At once the dogs started up—Too’s Alsatians, brought from his estate—and, frightened as any miscreant, Sumitra stepped on the accelerator and drove off. Tears of fury and frustration splashed on her wheel, and when she got home, she was so careless in her anger that she sounded the horn repeatedly to have the gates opened. As she parked the car, she saw that a light had come on in the house; she bit her lip, angry now with herself but also determined to face down anyone who dared to challenge her.
Monica stood at the top of the stairs, watching her mother walk up them. Sumitra was calm; she said, “What, aren’t you asleep yet, Moni?”
“Where have you been?” Monica said in the imperious way in which she often addressed her mother. It was to assert herself against Sumitra’s dominant personality, and also to counter the look of disappointment that was always in her mother’s eyes when they looked at her. It was there now—Sumitra couldn’t help it. Monica was lanky like her father, and her hair, her eyes, her complexion were dull: as if Sumitra had taken all the sparkle and warmth there was to be had and left none for her daughter.
“Goodness, I’m tired,” yawned Sumitra. “I thought no one was ever going home—why, Moni, you know there was that banquet for the King of Nepal. I told you—”
“You went to a banquet for the King of Nepal—in this?” Monica scornfully indicated the lilac robe Sumitra had thrown over her nightdress on her way to Too.
Sumitra had become skilled enough in the ways of diplomacy to know how to handle a mistake that could not be redeemed. One simply swept over it—the way Sumitra now swept past Monica and into her bedroom where she stood at the mirror applying the night cream she had already applied some hours ago before retiring to her restless bed. Monica had come up behind her; she had no diplomacy at all: “I’ll tell Papa,” she said.
Sumitra went on smoothing cream into her smooth skin. They could see each other in the mirror. After a while she replied, “What will you tell him? That Mummy couldn’t sleep and went for a drive? Yes, that’s a stupid thing to do but it’s not a crime, I hope.” She could see the grim expression on Monica’s face falter into doubt. She went on, “I get so exhausted with these interminable dinners that afterwards I can’t sleep; I toss and turn half the night and don’t know what to do with myself.” She unfastened her robe and, in a gesture of weariness, let it drop to the carpet. “Sometimes I go down to make myself a cup of tea, and if that doesn’t work, I take the car for a spin.” In the mirror she probed
