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 her daughter’s indecisive face, then turned around to her: “I try to be very quiet and not wake you or Papa—but tonight I’m sorry I was so upset—”
“Why 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