Don't Let Him Know (7 page)

‘Of course,’ Sumit said uneasily, not knowing quite what to say. Just then a little boy came hurtling into the room, took one look at him and promptly ran behind the old lady. ‘Who is that, Thama?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘It’s an uncle,’ she answered. ‘An uncle from far away who knew your father when he was not much older than you are now. Where is your father?’

‘Here,’ answered Avinash, walking into the room. Sumit turned around. Avinash’s mouth fell open. ‘You?’ he said incredulously.

‘Me,’ smiled Sumit. Avinash was showing his years – mostly around the middle. His hair had started to recede and he looked astonishingly like his father. In the old days he used to affect a beard (he called it his Leftist look). But now he just had a very corporate trimmed moustache. He somehow seemed shorter. Perhaps he was just stouter. Sumit wondered what he looked like to Avinash after all these years. He stepped forward unsure whether he should hug him. They paused awkwardly as if they had both bumped up against a wall neither had seen and then Avinash shook his hand formally.

‘My God – when did you get to India? I didn’t even know you were coming.’

‘Who is this uncle, Baba? Thama says he is from far away,’ said the little boy inching out from behind his grandmother.

‘This is your Uncle Sumit from America,’ answered his father. ‘I haven’t seen him in many years but we were best friends from when we were young boys.’

‘My friend Mintu says Mickey Mouse lives in America. Is that true?’

‘That’s right,’ answered Sumit. ‘And see what I got you from there.’ He held out a packet of Mickey Mouse colouring pens. The boy stepped forward. ‘Oh no – first you have to tell me your name.’

‘Amit Mitra,’ answered the boy.

‘And how old are you, Mr Amit Mitra?’

‘I am six years old,’ the boy said, holding up six fingers as additional proof.

‘And which school do you go to, Mr Amit Mitra?’

‘St John’s School for Boys.’

‘Like father, like son,’ said Sumit looking at Avinash.

‘Oh, he was lucky he got in. You can’t imagine what it is like to get a boy into school these days. I had to take three days off work. They interviewed both Romola and me. I tell you, it was tougher than landing a job.’

‘Are any of the old teachers still there?’

‘A few. Father Rozario, though he’s not quite the old terror he used to be.’

‘Yes, I can imagine. He must be quite old now.’

‘Anyway, sit, sit,’ said Avinash, ‘and tell me, how is America? Where are you now? Boston?’

‘No, I moved to California two years ago.’

‘San Francisco or Los Angeles?’

‘Well, about thirty miles from San Francisco.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Avinash. ‘And how’s the job?’

Sumit smiled. ‘It’s all right. Busy. And yours?’

‘Getting by. Getting by.’

‘Avinash got a promotion last month,’ his mother piped in. ‘He is now a manager.’

‘Oh, Ma,’ said Avinash flushing. ‘Sumit earns millions of dollars. Don’t bore him with all this manager nonsense.’

Sumit smiled and said, ‘Hardly millions.’ The conversation slid to a halt. Seeing both Avinash and his mother look at him expectantly, he tried to pick up the threads. ‘So how are our friends – Madhu and Subir and . . .’ his voice trailed off.

‘I’ve kind of lost touch with most people,’ said Avinash quickly. ‘Work keeps me so busy and I have to constantly go on tour. And when I am at home there’s Amit’s homework. You can’t believe the amount of homework they give six-year-olds these days.’

‘I see,’ said Sumit. He didn’t know what to say any more. He didn’t know anything about being an executive in a pharmaceutical company and even less about homework for six-year-olds. Then he tried again. ‘Speaking of friends, I met Abhijit’s brother once. He said Abhijit had died in an accident. I was thinking of visiting his mother.’

As soon as he said it Avinash went still.

‘Accident?’ Avinash said dully, his voice so low it was almost a whisper.

‘That’s what his brother said,’ replied Sumit. ‘Something about falling off the roof.’

Avinash just continued to stare at him.

‘Abhijit committed S-U-I-C-I-D-E,’ said his mother leaning forward, spelling out the word in a hushed tone, glancing at her grandson. ‘Of course his family had to say it was an accident. But everyone knows the truth. It was terrible. That poor young wife. They had been married less than a month. Thank God, girls these days get educated. I hear she is teaching at some girls’ school. But what a tragedy. His mother almost went mad with grief. Avinash here did a lot for them. He was distraught too. Only natural. After all, you had all gone to college together. People said he had a love affair. I tell you these are modern times. He could have just told his parents. I mean how bad could it be – maybe she was older than him or of a different religion or something like that. Eventually his family would have adjusted.’ She shook her head.

‘Oh,’ said Sumit. ‘I had no idea.’

‘You used to know him fairly well – didn’t you work with him on that college magazine of yours? You were quite a little group,’ Avinash’s mother pressed on. ‘Did he have some secret romance? Was he depressed?’

‘Ma,’ said Avinash hurriedly, ‘let it be. It’s over now. Why dredge it up again?’

‘I’m just saying,’ said his mother. ‘You all were so close then. I remember how you’d say we won’t ever get married. We’ll look after each other like some kind of a boys’ club. Such boyish silliness.’

‘No,’ said Sumit, slowly looking at her. ‘He never seemed that depressed when we knew him. No more than the rest of us, at least.’

He turned to look at Avinash who dropped his eyes and fiddled with the magazine lying on the side table. ‘I’d lost touch with him,’ Avinash said almost defensively. ‘You know, marriage and then Amit. Things just got so hectic. It was hard to keep in touch. How is your mother, by the way?’

‘She is well, just getting older. Her blood sugar is a little high.’

‘I keep meaning to go see her. So how long are you here for?’

‘A month.’

‘Good, good. You must come over for dinner soon. Romola is a wonderful cook. Amit, can you go and see if your mother is finished with her phone call? Tell her to come down.’

‘I don’t want to go,’ pouted Amit, who was trying out his new pens. ‘I want to sit here with Mickey Mouse Uncle.’

‘Mickey Mouse Uncle won’t go anywhere,’ said Avinash smiling. ‘Now hurry up and call your mother.’

The boy ran off, hollering for his mother.

‘It changes everything, having a child,’ smiled Avinash. ‘Tell me, are you going to live in America for good?’

‘Oh no, no,’ exclaimed his mother. ‘How can you say that? Who will look after your mother? No, no, you must come back and marry a nice girl. You have stayed there long enough. Enough of dollars and cars. We are not getting any younger. We need our sons near us.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Sumit uncomfortably. ‘I haven’t made up my mind.’

‘So who is this Mickey Mouse Uncle?’ said a young woman as she was dragged into the room by Amit. Sumit stood up, his hands folded in greeting. She was dressed in a plain blue cotton sari, her hair loosely knotted in a bun.

‘My wife, Romola,’ said Avinash rather stiffly. ‘This is Sumit, my old and very dear friend.’

‘Oh,’ said Romola, her eyes suddenly sharp and questioning. But then she folded her hands in greeting and smiled and said, ‘The notorious Sumit from America?’

‘Notorious?’

‘Well, when we came back from America, your friend was so distraught that you had moved there. I think we just missed each other.’

‘But I did . . .’ began Sumit but Romola interrupted him. ‘Anyway, do sit down. Let me get you some tea and sweets.’

‘Oh, don’t bother with sweets.’

‘No, no, no,’ Avinash’s mother would hear none of it. ‘Coming here after all these years – you must have something sweet. I will not take no for an answer. Romola, see what we have, otherwise send Mangala to the store. See if they have that lemon sandesh – Sumit used to love those.’

Romola left the room ignoring Sumit’s protestations.

‘Oh,’ said Avinash. ‘You never said no to sweets before. Are you on some diet? I hear everyone in America is on a diet. Actually, you look quite slim.’

‘Well, you have to take care of yourself, you know,’ replied Sumit. ‘As we keep saying, we aren’t getting any younger.’

Avinash’s mother laughed. ‘He has to keep trim because he is not married yet. Once you get married and taste your wife’s cooking all that exercise business ends. Look at Avinash here – he used to do yoga and morning walks when you knew him. Now the only exercise he gets is climbing up the stairs and maybe a walk in the park at night.’

‘Really? What park?’ asked Sumit.

‘Oh just . . .’ Avinash suddenly turned to his son and said, ‘Amit, go see if your mother is done with the tea. So tell me Sumit, you must have a car. What kind do you drive?’

They spoke of cars and jobs and whether Sumit had learned to cook in America. By now Sumit knew all these conversations as if by heart. He had had them so many times with so many relatives he could almost predict the next question. He looked at Avinash, mystified that that was all they had left between them. But Avinash’s eyes were opaque. He just kept talking as if anything was better than silence. And when he paused, his mother jumped in, the swirls of conversation eddying around them, dragging them into ever safer waters. Sumit suddenly craved a cigarette though he had given up smoking three years ago.

Romola came back bearing a tray with a teapot and four cups. They were part of a matching set – white with a pattern of pink peonies. Sumit had never seen peonies till he went to America. He had actually never been one to notice much about gardens anyway. Now he had a little kitchen garden. He was growing herbs there – basil, mint, rosemary. On summer afternoons he liked to sit around in his kitchen garden with friends. He remembered the smell of freshly cut grass, the tang of fresh lemonade with crushed mint leaves from his garden and Russell making martinis with a flourish. It all seemed so far away. Russell? What was he doing now? He wondered if all that had really existed or if this was reality, this man in front of him, his son’s homework and the mother sipping tea in a living room that kept time at bay, where life as they had known it was carefully preserved under a dustcover.

Romola placed a cup in front of him and said, ‘Have some biscuits.’ She held out a little plate with a matching peony pattern in front of Sumit and a glass of water. ‘I’m afraid we have only Horlicks biscuits. If you’d only let us know a little in advance. But Mangala has gone to get some sweets.’

‘Really,’ protested Sumit, ‘you shouldn’t fuss so much over me.’ He put the glass of water down. He didn’t know how to ask whether it was boiled or not. Instead he mumbled, ‘I’ll just have tea.’

‘Oh man,’ said Avinash. ‘You can’t drink the water here any more? Don’t tell me you’ve become so delicate in America.’

‘It’s not that,’ Sumit said feebly. ‘I’ve been sick. Stomach problems, you know. I don’t want to get sick here again.’

‘So,’ Romola sat down across from him. ‘Tell us about America. Doesn’t it get lonely there? No wife, no children, no family. I can’t imagine how you can live so far away by yourself. I was there for only a year or so after our marriage and I told your friend, “Better starve in India among friends and family than live here all alone like a vagabond.”’

‘Well, one gets used to it,’ Sumit said a little defensively. ‘You make friends. There are things to do – films, theatre. But it was lonely at first when I didn’t know anyone. I would wonder what it would have been like if you, I mean both of you, had still been there.’

‘Well,’ said Avinash, his voice suddenly sharp, ‘you never wrote to me. I thought you were just too busy enjoying being Mr American.’

‘I did too,’ replied Sumit. ‘I never heard back and . . .’

‘Oh the mail,’ exclaimed Romola with a laugh. ‘Can anyone rely on it for anything? Do you know I still haven’t got my cousin’s wedding invitation they mailed ten days ago? And they live just across town.’

‘So do you still write poetry?’ Sumit asked Avinash.

‘Poetry?’ laughed Romola, looking at her husband incredulously. ‘When did you write poetry? You never told me that. Did I miss all the romance? My, my, I wonder what other hidden talents you have.’

Avinash flushed and said, ‘It was just a stupid childish hobby. You grow out of these things.’

‘No, no,’ protested Sumit looking at Romola. He felt as if he was being challenged in a game whose rules he didn’t quite get. ‘He used to be pretty good. I don’t know if he ever took you to Manali. I still have some of the poems he wrote there.’

‘Oh Manali,’ said Romola, her lips curling in a smile though its light didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Isn’t that the most beautiful place on earth? I went there with my parents once and I thought to myself I must come back here with my husband someday. And walk under the pine trees down to the river. And those beautiful mountains and cherry orchards. I wanted to go there for our honeymoon but your friend here said, “No, I’ve been there already with Sumit. I don’t want to go there again.” My goodness – I thought at that time if this man doesn’t realize the difference between going to Manali with his friend and going there with his new wife, there is no hope for him.’