on his visit to India, was particularly interested in meeting members of the military establishment. This of course included Too, and Sumitra anticipated that his presence at this reception would clinch his triumph over his rival for the post of commander-in-chief. Her heart leaped with pride as soon as he entered—Too eclipsed not only his rival but everyone there except the visiting General, who was even taller than Too and had more medals on his chest.
Sumitra worked very hard for this party. She knew that the Minister as well as Too had to prove himself on this occasion, when the Prime Minister, the Vice-President, and members of the cabinet were guests in his house. She had had the place polished in every corner, changed the curtains, brought in additional carpets, lent her own silver and china and crystal and raided Too’s house for more. The result made it clear to all present that the Minister’s establishment and his style of entertaining were of a standard to do honor to his country, if he were to represent it as its Minister of Foreign Affairs. He himself unfortunately fell short—literally, for though strong and fat, he was of stunted growth. With his muscular build, like that of a wrestler, Sumitra had suggested to him a different mode of dress from the usual farmer’s dhoti that left his stout calves bare. There was not much she could do about his manners—he ate with noisy relish and had not yet quite mastered the use of cutlery; but he was determined to please his guests and showed the intelligent concern of a practised host, sharp-eyed for every detail. He and Sumitra worked different parts of the reception area, both of them charging around with tremendous energy and sometimes signaling to each other across a room. It was always the Minister’s eye she caught, wanting her to do something or seeking her advice, even when she was looking around for Too.
And she was often obliged to look around for him. Although this was the occasion for him to outshine his rival, it was the latter who was everywhere visible. Searching out Too, she at last found him sitting alone and morose on a back verandah. “Why are you here? The PM is asking for you, he wants to talk to you, you know about what.”
“I don’t know about what. I don’t have anything to say to him. Or any of them. Not a blasted thing,” he said and took a long draught from his glass, as though it alone contained what was healthy and clean.
She wanted to remind him how hard she was working for him, how much she was doing on his behalf; but there was something else that took precedence. She stepped closer to him: “Did you send your car away? . . . Why not? I’ve brought the MG for us.”
“Where did you want us to go—in this?” He was right: it was the monsoon season and rain fell in torrents over the Minister’s garden, as it would be falling in torrents over the ruins of the pleasure pavilion and its latticed balcony on which they had spent their fragrant summer nights.
“There’s that guest-house out there.”
“With a hundred spies inside it.” Again he was right: this guesthouse—the converted mausoleum of a medieval prince—served as a secret rendezvous for so many important officials that the staff were all in the pay of foreign embassies needing incriminating information.
“We could drive to Gurgaon,” she pleaded. “There are any number of little hotels where no one would guess or care who we were.”
“To Gurgaon: and arrive there tomorrow morning if we’re lucky and don’t get stuck in the mud. Do you have any idea what the roads are like with these rains?”
“And do you have any idea how I’ve missed you?”
She had stepped even closer to him but now quickly drew back: for the Minister had appeared in the doorway to the verandah, beckoning to her. His intelligent eyes darted from her to Too, taking in whatever there was to take in; it did not in the least divert him from his business with her.
“The General is leaving,” he informed her, causing her to hurry inside where a bustle of aides-de-camp and security men were clearing a path for this departure. Sumitra saw that Too’s rival had made himself very prominent and had the General’s attention. She did not hesitate to cut in on them: it was her privilege, as hostess, to have the last word of gratitude and farewell with the guest of honor and to accompany him to the front door. She mustered all her grace and her little courtly ways for this ceremony and was rewarded by a swift glance of appreciation from those vulture eyes (the General preferred blondes but was known to have a weakness for all feminine charm). She was also rewarded by the Minister: he patted her arm in a gesture that was not in the least disrespectful but expressed his gratitude, and also perhaps his promise of return for the service she had rendered him.
It was only a week later that Too was offered, over the head of his rival, the appointment of commander-in-chief. He turned it down, saying nothing about it to anyone. He spent most of that day with Harry and Monica, drinking, discussing their usual variety of interesting topics, and appreciating Harry’s poetry recital over their glasses of vodka: “‘Respect the cup you hold—the clay it’s made from was the skulls of buried kings.’”
“Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha,” said Too in applause.
He stayed for dinner but left early and went home and to bed, sinking immediately into his usual deep sleep from which nothing could wake him.
It was the servants who were roused by Sumitra—first the armed Gurkha, whose rifle she contemptuously pushed aside, then the bearer, and finally the batman, whom she stepped over where he lay at the door of Too’s bedroom. She made a lot of noise and so did the dogs and the servants trying to stop her, but Too did not wake till she shook him hard by the shoulder: “What have you done!” she cried.
He started up at once, like a soldier in ambush ready to face the enemy who has taken him by surprise; but the enemy was Sumitra.
He sent the servants back to their posts, calming them with his own unruffled manner. It was more difficult to calm Sumitra, but he managed to persuade her to wait for him in the drawing room. He wore his robe over his pajamas and brushed his hair with his silver brushes, planning his strategy. By the time he joined her, he was ready with his defense but she launched out immediately: “I couldn’t believe my ears when he told me! After all I did, after all he did, pulling all those strings for you—”
His face darkened: “I want no strings pulled for me by a person like him.”
“Why? Because he’s not a raja—because he hasn’t been to Sandhurst and can’t speak your kind of English—all right, our kind—”
“No. Because he’s not a decent chap.”
Although he said nothing more, she knew what he was referring to. There was some scandal involving the Minister about contracts for army equipment, rumors of bribes taken—but good heavens, there were always rumors, always scandals, that was what political life was like: accusations and counter-accusations, intrigues and counter-intrigues.
It was useless to expect Too to have any understanding of these realities. She dropped the subject of the Minister and took up her own—and his: “As commander-in-chief you would be in Delhi all the time—we would see each other whenever we want . . .” But his face remained closed, his eyes fixed on some distant place above her head. She broke down: “What’s the matter? Ever since you’ve come back, it’s been like this—as if you don’t want to be back; as if you don’t want to be with me.”
He did not reply but began to pace the room in thought. It was a large room, with sofa-sets imported from England, hunting trophies on the walls, and family photographs in silver frames scattered over occasional tables. He circled it several times, but his pacing brought him nothing—he still had no idea how to deal with the situation.
Again it was she
