were you upset?”
“I told you! The strain! You don’t know, nobody knows what hard work it all is. They’re so stupid. No one has the faintest idea how to do anything—tonight, you won’t believe this, they were serving the fish with the soup—oh, I don’t want to think about it! Every time I ask myself, why am I doing this, why can’t I just stay home and eat my dinner in peace with you and Papa.” She laid her head on Monica’s shoulder. Monica put her arm around her—but cautiously, as if not quite trusting her mother and ready to retrieve her affectionate gesture. Before this could happen, Sumitra kissed her: “You must go to sleep now. It doesn’t matter about me, but you shouldn’t be missing out on your beauty sleep.” And when Monica hesitated—“I think I’m getting there too—at last. That drive must have done me good.” And she yawned to prove it and was altogether so tired, so needful of sleep that Monica had to leave her and go back to her own room. It was some time before either of them was really asleep, for Monica too was restless now, not knowing what to believe, or even to feel about her mother.
Sumitra never told Too about her nocturnal expedition, nor did she repeat it. She still waited for him to plot the right maneuver, but finally her desire was fulfilled without any plotting at all. A Chinese military delegation was on a visit to New Delhi, and Too was among those appointed to entertain them. He had the large establishment and many servants for handsome entertainment; but he had no hostess, and it was natural for him to turn to Sumitra for help. She came to his house on the day before to check up on the glasses, the china, the silver; everything was there in plenty, but arranging it for the following day took many hours, so that Sumitra had to stay in the house till late at night. Too, always a considerate master, sent the servants away to rest in their quarters; he told his batman that he would not be needing him, even slipping him some money with a wink that meant he could have his evening of enjoyment with the dancing girls of GB Road the way he liked to do once in a while. Too himself was very tired—he undid his regimental tie and opened his shirt and fell down on his bed, saying “Phoo” in exhaustion. Sumitra stood above him: “Come on, what do you think you’re doing, I still haven’t been through the dessert plates or the coffee cups!”
“Golly, I can’t keep up with you,” he said, letting himself sink into his satin bedcover. She tried to tug him up, but he only sank in deeper and half shut his eyes as if about to fall asleep. But his pupils glinted at her, and when she tugged at him again, he let his limbs go limp like those of a dead man. Laughing and scolding, she tried to pull him up—till suddenly his limp arms tautened and he grabbed her and brought her down, and at last they were where they wanted to be with each other.
The next day was brilliant—it was a garden party and all Too’s roses were in bloom and pigeons and parrots flew about between the deep green trees and the deep blue sky. There were also some kites, but these were kept away by servants vigorously flapping starched dinner napkins at them. All Sumitra’s arrangements worked splendidly, so that the guests of honor relaxed enough to let down their stoic silent guard (but a few months later they attacked several border posts and penetrated into Indian territory). Monica was studying Chinese history and current affairs—it was her optional subject in her college course—so she had come along, escorted by her father. Of course they were entirely on the periphery of the party while Sumitra held the centre. She summoned the servants to bring platters of oven-baked chickens and fish kebabs and then instructed the Chinese guests to eat them Indian style with their fingers. She did this so charmingly that they all tried it and laughed at each other in Chinese while she laughed at them in English and the interpreter interpreted and all were comrades together.
Too was pleased with the success of his party but couldn’t quite keep pace—no one could, when Sumitra was making a party go—so he wandered away from the buffet tables and found himself next to Harry, who stood admiring the roses with a glass in his hand. “I’m Harry,” Harry introduced himself, and Too said, “I’m Harry too.” They both laughed and it was from this time, that is from the first moment of their acquaintance, that Harry Too became Too.
“I belong to her,” Harry said, pointing to Sumitra in the distance. For a moment they both glanced at her—mature and fully ripened like Too’s roses—then Harry turned back to these latter in their beds, and pointing to a particularly large and luscious specimen, “What’s that one?” he asked. Too wasn’t sure, he had to get down to read the label. But Harry was no longer interested. “Rose,” he said, “it’s called rose; eternal rose,” and he quoted: “‘The nightingale has heard good news: the rose has come.’”
“Ah,” said Too, getting up and dusting the earth from his knees; he didn’t know much poetry but he loved hearing it.
This was the beginning of the friendship between the two Harrys (Hari Prasad and Har Dayal). Too often dropped in at the house between his various duties and engagements to spend time with Harry. He really enjoyed his company. Mostly Sumitra wasn’t home, there were so many places where she was needed, but her husband had nothing whatsoever to do and was always available for a drink and a chat. Too matched him drink for drink, but whereas Harry was soon wrapped in the haze that alone enabled him to carry on his existence, Too gave no sign of diminution of energy—on the contrary, he became more alert, more vigorous, and more loudly appreciative of the poetry Harry recited to him. Monica often joined them; she also enjoyed Too’s company and he loved having her with them, treating her as if she were a child, his child, and indeed he called her “Beti,” daughter. At the same time he regarded her as his intellectual superior—not out of flattery, but admiring her because she went to college and could answer his questions, such as whether nineteenth-century Turkestan was part of Russia or China. And if she didn’t know the answer, she looked it up next day in one of her textbooks, so in the evening she was ready for him and all three had a discussion about the Afghan wars or the three battles of Panipat. Too told them about his own military adventures, which were often of a secret nature such as smuggling sentry posts into enemy territory, or taking a detachment of troops to help quell a palace revolution in a neighboring kingdom.
These evenings were so enjoyable that Too sometimes forgot about an official function where he was expected; and once, when he did remember, it was already too late and he said, To hell with it, and stayed to dine with Harry and Monica. So it happened that when Sumitra returned from her official function, she found Too still in her house, with her husband and daughter. “Oh my goodness,” she said, “aren’t you supposed to be at the Admiral’s dinner?”
In one way, she was put out by his dereliction of duty, for in order to succeed to the post she wanted for him, he had to keep up his connections. But it also suited her to have him at home when she arrived. There was, as always, something she had to discuss with him—the war widows’ fund, of which she wanted him to be the patron-in-chief. Harry was tired, he yawned, excused himself and went to bed. She sent Monica upstairs too—“Don’t you have an early class tomorrow, Moni?” But as soon as they were alone, Too got up and said he had to leave.
“Why?” she said—reproachfully, for it seemed so unfair to her when she and Harry hadn’t slept together in years and were in separate bedrooms, with the doors of their connecting dressing room shut and, if she wanted, locked.
But Too would not stay—he wouldn’t even kiss her goodnight. “Not here,” he said when she clung to him.
“Who’s there to see?” she whispered, but he disengaged himself and went out to where his car and driver were waiting.
When she went upstairs, pulling hairpins out of her hair so that it tumbled angrily around her shoulders, she found Monica standing at the top of the stairs. “Go to bed,” Sumitra told her, but Monica would not relinquish her post until her mother was inside her bedroom with the door closed behind her.
But
