for her time, so absolutely modern.”
“Oh yes, so absolutely modern that she’d sleep with anyone—even the Milkman,” Monica sneered. She still called him that, as her father had done, although he had filled some of the highest offices, and when he died, schools and government departments had been closed for two days as a mark of respect.
Kuku asked, “What about Too? Did she—”
“Oh, I’m sure she’d have liked to, but he wouldn’t look at her. He was our friend—Papa’s and mine.”
Certainly, when Too returned to Delhi, his first visit was to Harry and Monica. It was the day of his arrival and he showed up unexpectedly and stood in the doorway, declaiming, “‘The nightingale has heard good news: the rose has come.’”
All three laughed with the pleasure of being reunited. It was teatime, but when the tray was brought, Harry said, “Do we really want this?” so only Monica drank tea while the other two recalled the servant to bring out the drinks of their preference. “Much too early of course,” Harry admitted, “so it’s lucky for us that she’s at the All India WC”—this being his facetious name for the All India Women’s Conference, of which Sumitra was the president.
Too had a lot to tell them—about his children, especially his eldest daughter who was already such a good shot that he was thinking of entering her for the Ladies Olympic team. Oh yes, and he himself had shot another tiger: not a man-eater this time, but the villagers had complained of some goats being killed, so he had gone out with his gun-bearer. He knew of its whereabouts because of the monkeys.
“The monkeys?”
“Yes, the monkeys. When they know a tiger’s near, they run up to hide in the trees, shivering and chattering, and all the tiger has to do is walk around and around the tree. Around and around—around and around—and they become so completely paralyzed with fright, they drop off the branches like apples, one by one they come down: plop,” and Too raised his arms and let himself drop out of the chair onto the carpet.
At that moment Sumitra entered, and he quickly got up, laughing uproariously to hide his confusion. Whatever her feelings at the unexpected sight of him, she showed nothing but the pleasure of greeting an old friend and became at once the gracious hostess: “Have you had tea—ah good, they brought the tray.”
Harry raised his vodka glass to her: “Yes, have some . . . Too was telling us about the monkeys and the tiger. And how to shoot a croc. Do you know how to shoot a croc?” he asked Sumitra.
“In the eye,” Too said, raising an imaginary rifle. “Straight in the eye.”
Harry said, “Bang bang,” then turned to Sumitra, “How dull it’s been without him—we told him it was really high time he came back.”
“Yes, high time,” Sumitra confirmed with her hostess’ courteous smile.
Only two days later an important reception was given by the Minister of Defense (the Milkman) to honor the visiting president of a neighboring country. This man had seized power after a coup d’état, and executing friends and enemies alike, had made himself dictator. He had been a general in the army—he was still known as the General—and, 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