The Green of Bengal and Other Stories by Gautam Benegal

Author:Gautam Benegal
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2014-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

7

THE HOUSE GUEST

‘When is he coming did you say? When?’ asked my mother, a dangerous edge to her voice.

Dad peered at the letter he was holding and mumbled, ‘Eighth, that’s what it says here.’

‘Today is the eighth,’ said my mother, ‘and we are getting to know this only now?’

Dad muttered something vaguely about the whole thing escaping his mind because of the workload in the office, but he was beginning to look hunted.

‘Who is coming?’ I asked, licking mutton gravy off my fingers. Everyone ignored me.

My mother went on, ‘The whole house is a mess. Are we in any condition to receive guests?’

My dad hastened to reassure her. ‘Don’t worry about that. Dinkar is a very informal sort of guy. And he was a bachelor till very recently.’

This made matters worse.

‘I’ll feel bad. I’ll feel self-conscious. And everybody notices untidiness and just pretends not to because they are being polite. Unless they are inhuman. Or they think being a messy bachelor is a desirable sort of thing.’

My dad chewed furiously, making like he was deep in thought. These were dangerous waters.

My elder brother asked keenly, waving a bone for emphasis, ‘A bachelor till recently? You said he was your classmate. And you are fifty. And ... this guy got married now? Wow! Who married him? How old is his wife?’

‘What does Dinkar do?’ I asked.

We were all very curious about this childhood friend of dad’s who had suddenly popped up after thirty-two years. The last time they had met was when they were eighteen and if he was an informal sort of guy at that age, well that’s not saying much. So were my brother’s friends. Come to think of it, they had been terribly informal during New Year’s Eve.

So anyway, it turned out that Dinkar Rao had sent a letter to Dad a couple of weeks ago, informing him that he was coming to Calcutta because he had to do some kind of research work at the National Library. He wrote that he would be glad if he could renew ties with his old friend, and hoped it would be possible to stay at our place. They would talk of growing up together and the school they went to in Hyderabad. And Dad had stuffed the letter in his sketchbook and forgotten all about it, because it had been an especially hectic week at the office. Also, really, artists aren’t expected to remember every niggling little detail, are they?

‘Not Dinkar. You should call him Dinkar bappa.’ Dad frowned. ‘He teaches English in a school in Panchgani. That’s what he wrote in his letter.’ Dad got up to wash his hands. ‘Oh, and he got married last year to a widow, a Muslim lady with four teenage daughters.’

My brother was blinking. ‘That’s like going from zero to 100 kmph in sixty seconds! That’s like ... like...’

I think he was going to say something very colourful, but just then the doorbell rang. Dad bounded to the front door, and flung it open.

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