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 Sumitra was aware of Too’s frustration and that he yearned for her as she did for him. It took her some time to realize that, in spite of his training in military maneuvers, in everyday affairs he was straightforward to the point of being simple, and it was up to her to devise a way. Now, whenever there was a function they had to attend together, she drove herself there in her little sports car; and when he arrived, he sent his car home, so that it was left to her to drive him back to his house. Only it was not there that they drove but beyond the confines of the city—this was before it had crept up with rows of government housing, and also before pollution from industrial plants and noxious fumes from decrepit buses had cast a pall over the Delhi sky. The stars were still visible and pure, and moonlight washed like ice water over the tombs and palaces and the desert into which they had been sinking for undisturbed centuries. Sumitra parked the car, and they crept up the stairwell of a deserted pleasure pavilion (only the bats stirred and squeaked). They carried a mat and cushions that she had brought, and spread them on a balcony with a railing of stone arabesques. Music was missing, but the air was laden with the scent of plants mysteriously flowering in the desert dust. Their lovemaking—undisturbed now, unbridled—was charged with the energy of those male and female divinities who between them are responsible for creating and upholding the world.
But when the schools were closed and his children on holiday, nothing could keep Too in New Delhi. Sumitra argued with him, pleaded the importance of his being in the capital at this time, when only a few months were left before the retirement of the current commander-in-chief. She pointed out that Too had to be constantly seen in the right circles to remind those who mattered of the superiority of his claim. But Too wouldn’t listen to Sumitra. He took all his accumulated leave and returned to his home state for several of the crucial weeks when he should have been in the capital advancing his career.
It was left to Sumitra to keep his interests alive, and at this time she made herself particularly indispensable to the Minister of Defense, who was in overall charge of the top military appointments. This portfolio had been assigned to him not because he was in any way qualified for it but because some such cabinet post was due to his political standing. He however coveted another Ministry—that of Foreign Affairs—for which he was even less suitable. He was a peasant who had worked his way up from his village council through the political machinery of his native state, and from there, by shrewdness and cunning and the majority of votes he commanded, to a position at the national centre. In New Delhi he had been allotted one of the stately requisitioned mansions, but he had no idea how to live in it. His family were left behind in the village to look after their fields and their herd of buffalo (he had been, and still was, the local milk supplier). Like others, he turned to Sumitra to help him furnish his ministerial residence and, on diplomatic occasions, to act as his hostess. He made use of all her skills; and of her time too—she had hardly arrived home at night when there was a note from him to accompany him in the morning to the airport where some VIP had to be received with garlands. Or he telephoned—here he never made use of an intermediary but his own voice oozed down the line in the unctuous tone he had adopted with her, suggesting a wealth of understanding between them. And there was such understanding—when she urged Too’s claim to him, he nodded to reassure her that he was ready to fulfill his part of whatever bargain it was they had made with each other.
Harry scorned him—he called him the Milkman, and whenever his peon arrived with a note, Harry told Sumitra, “Here’s another love letter from your Milkman.” She retorted angrily that he knew very well how all her efforts were to help their friend Too; and Harry shrugged and said yes, Too was a decent chap, one of their own sort, but the Minister was not. Sumitra defended the Minister, holding him up to Harry as an example of that manly ambition that was so lacking in Harry himself.
“What a pity he’s so ugly,” Harry said.
She shouted, “How does that matter? I’m not going to bed with him!”
“You’re not?” Harry taunted her—aware that this would make her more furious than anything, the suggestion that anyone so squat and ugly and stinking of peasant fodder might be thought to aspire to her bed.
Yet later—many years later—that was what her daughter Monica alleged. With outsiders, Monica always spoke in glowing terms of her mother’s contribution to her country and boasted of the honors she had received. But to her daughter Kuku she said, “How do you think she did it! By sleeping with people of course . . . Well, what else!” she added, as though Kuku had contradicted her. “How do you