‘With a sauce of Aligarh added to it.’

‘How so?’ exclaimed Kamala Nehru.

‘Well, you know I spent a year at Aligarh?’10

‘What, that too?’ asked Panditji.

‘And before that, did you know, I was at the Madrasa-i-Aliya?’11

‘Do you know Persian, then?’ he challenged.

‘I’ve some Muslim theology,’ I answered. ‘But no Persian.’

‘And a vegetarian.’ Panditji laughed. ‘We Kashmiris, we eat meat like our Vedic ancestors did. Did you know that?’

‘And pray, who invented the Brahmins?’ I teased.

‘The south Indians, of course,’ he said, and we all joined in a common laughter. The day seemed so bright, so simple.

‘Now let’s examine his Urdu,’ said Panditji. ‘What’s afternoon in Deccani Urdu?’

‘Do-pahar,’ I answered proudly.

‘And late afternoon?’

‘Oh, that I’m afraid I do not remember.’

‘Tisre-pahar,’ said Panditji, victorious. The game was worth it. Kamala Nehru was smiling all the time, sipping her tea.

‘And what does do-pahar mean, anyway?’

‘I’m done for,’ I said. ‘Sorry, I do not know.’

‘Well, well—pahar simply means change of guard.’

‘So, do-pahar means the second change of guard.’

‘Now, let’s go on to the second question. What do they say for an idol in Deccani Urdu?’

‘Murti,’ I said.

‘We, we say budh,’ he remarked proudly. ‘Well, budh may come from the Buddha, and so perhaps the Buddhists did introduce image worship in India.’

‘The Greeks, you mean?’ I queried. But he was not there. His mind was already making excursions into history and may be philosophy.

‘You’re too hard on a south Indian,’ remarked Kamala Nehru, to break the silence.

‘Well, it’s not too bad for a south Indian, certainly. And he speaks French. And English. And Kannada . . .’

‘Do you write in French?’ asked Kamala Nehru.

‘Oh, so little!’ I answered. ‘It’s not worth mentioning. French is such a dangerous language to handle.’

‘So is English, for that matter,’ added Panditji.

‘And Urdu,’ I said, and we all burst out laughing.

Outside, on the hills, the day was deepening into clouds.

The clouds were deepening into dark shining air. The forests were all black, as if huddled in some cosmic fear. Was there going to be a storm?

‘Perhaps it will snow,’ said Panditji.

‘No, no. It’s too early. It’s just the middle of October.’

‘The weather is full of moods here. You never know,’ said Kamala Nehru.

‘It’s better I leave before it’s dark,’ I said.

‘No, no. It’s not that. It might rain,’ warned Panditji.

I rose quietly. I made a profound namaskar to Kamala Nehru. She seemed so like a figure from the Ramayana or the Mahabharata—simple, wise, dedicated, timeless. To her, acceptance seemed the very breath of beauty. She lay unafraid of the darkness of the clouds, the solitude of the hills, the cruelty of Hitlerite mankind. For one to be—was to glow. One could not imagine darkness when her silence spoke.