Just before the Alipore Bridge the taxi ran into a traffic jam and came squealing to a halt. Sonali turned to Urmila. 'What was it you wanted to ask me about?' she said, her voice rattling to the rhythm of the idling car.
'About some of Phulboni's early stories,' Urmila said.
Sonali raised her eyebrows. 'But why me?' she said. 'Who told you to ask me, of all people?'
Urmila hesitated. 'Someone I know,' she said.
'Who?' said Sonali.
'You know her too,' said Urrnila. 'Or at least you did. She talks about you a lot, anyway.'
'Who is it?' said Sonali. 'You're making me curious.'
'Mrs Aratounian.' Urmila said the name with a warm smile.
'Mrs Aratounian?' cried Sonali. 'You mean Mrs Aratounian of Dutton's Nursery on Russell Street?'
'Yes,' said Urmila. 'The same Mrs Aratounian. Do you remember her?'
Sonali nodded, but the truth was that she hadn't seen Mrs Aratounian in years and was just barely able to recall a neat, rather forbidding woman, dressed in a black skirt and gold-rimmed glasses. She'd always reminded Sonali of the Irish nuns at her convent schooclass="underline" she had just that kind of ringing voice and abrupt manner. She was from an Armenian family that had been in Calcutta for generations, Sonali remembered: they'd owned Dutton's Nursery for ever.
'My God!' she exclaimed…'Dutton's! It must be years since I last went there.'
'But you know,' Urmila said, in a rush, 'the first time I ever saw you was at Dutton's.'
'At Dutton's?' Sonali glanced at her in astonishment. 'Why, I didn't know we'd met before I started working at Calcutta .'
'We didn't exactly meet.' Urmila was embarrassed now; she wished she hadn't mentioned it.
It had happened years ago: Urmila was in her last year in school and the reason she was at Dutton's Nursery that morning was that she was the student representative on the Grounds and Gardens Committee. She'd been taken there by the teacher-members of the committee, in the school van.
She was nervous: Mrs Aratounian scared her with her flinty voice and her drill-sharp eyes. The last time she was at the Nursery she'd put out a hand to touch a rose, when she felt someone's gaze boring into her. She spun guiltily around, snatching back her hand, and sure enough, Mrs Aratounian was watching her from the far side of the room. 'That's a plant, not a dog,' she said, with a glint of her goldrimmed bifocals, 'and the reason it has thorns is that it doesn't want to be petted.' Urmila had felt so small she'd wanted to erase herself, like a smudge of chalk.
On this occasion the visit began well. Mrs Aratounian went out of her way to be kind. She pointed to a stand of potted chrysanthemums and said: 'Pick one out, dear, and I'll let you have it. Just this once.'
Urmila was looking over the chrysanthemums when there was a sudden commotion at the door. She turned to see Sonali Das walking in.
Dutton's was full of people – it was the time of year when everyone was buying seeds and plants. Sonali's entrance created a sensation: she had just published her book and her picture was everywhere. She was dressed in a green and white chiffon sari, with a huge pair of sunglasses pushed back over her hair, looking every bit the film-star.
Urmila had recently seen one of her films: she watched her open mouthed, shrinking back into the chrysanthemums, mortified at the thought of being seen in her grimy school uniform and her two thin braids.
While talking to Mrs Aratounian, Sonali was joined by a tall, powerfully built man, with a massive, heavy-jawed face. His jaw and eyebrows stood out in sharp outline, under a head that was almost completely bald. It was evident that the two of them had come together.
He seemed old for her, Urmila decided, but he wasn't bad looking, in a thuggish way. She wondered who he was.
Then the man said something to Mrs Aratounian. To Urmila's utter horror, Mrs Aratounian turned and pointed in her direction, at the chrysanthemums. For a brief moment Urmila stood undecided. By the time she had recovered, it was too late. They were standing right in front of her and Sonali was craning around, reaching for a flowerpot.
Urmila sidestepped quickly, ducking out of her way. But in her hurry she jogged Sonali's hand. The pot fell to the ground and shattered with a terrific crash, showering the floor with leaves, petals and earth.
Aghast, Urmila dropped to her knees. She began to sweep up the scattered earth and pottery, keeping her eyes on the floor, not daring to look up. She was near tears.
Then a very large pair of hands descended to the floor, in front of her, filling her entire field of vision. The hands were matted with thick, curly hair and the knuckles were the size of walnuts. Distracted though she was, Urmila noticed that one of the hands was partly paralysed, with the thumb, lying stiffly curled against the palm. Then the hands began to help her, awkwardly sweeping the earth together.
Urmila raised her head and found herself looking at the man who had followed Sonali into the shop. He was staring at her – not angrily, but with a fixed, appraising gaze. Something about his look frightened Urmila and she dropped her eyes.
The next thing she knew, Sonali's arms were around her, helping her up. 'Poor thing,' she was saying to Mrs Aratounian. 'It's not her fault: I'll pay.'
Urmila got a terrific scolding on the way back to school, in the van. But soon enough her teachers lost interest in her and began to gossip about Sonali Das and the man she was with.
Urmila discovered to her surprise that she knew his name: it was Romen Haldar. She'd heard him talked about at home: he lived in a huge house just down the road from their flat. She knew he was a wealthy builder and contractor, and that he had a lot of influence in a major club. Her younger brother, who dreamt of playing in the First Division, often talked of him.
Now, recalling the incident, Urmila was able to laugh. 'It was years ago,' she told Sonali. 'I knocked a pot of flowers out of your hand: chrysanthemums.'
'I don't remember,' said Sonali.
'Of course not,' said Urmila. 'But you were very nice about it. So was Mrs Aratounian. She became a real friend after that.'
'So you know Mrs Aratounian well?' Sonali asked.
'I visit her occasionally,' Urmila said, 'at her flat on Robinson Street. She's always been very kind to me. She's very interesting in her own crusty way. Besides, her flat is so peaceful – with all those plants and comfortable chairs and sofas. It's nice to escape from the magazine every once in a while. I drop in whenever I can.'
'I heard Mrs Aratounian retired and sold Dutton's,' Sonali said. 'Must have made a fortune, with that location.'
'I don't know,' Urmila said. 'I never asked. But actually I think she's having trouble making ends meet;'now that she's retired. She's always thinking up little schemes for making extra money. "I've been in business all my life," she says – you know how she talks – "and as sure as an egg's an egg, I'm not going to stop now.'''
Sonali laughed. 'What are her schemes?' she said.
'Her latest is that she's going to take in paying guests and turn her flat into a businessman's guest house.'
'No!' Sonali exclaimed in disbelief.
'Yes,' Urmila continued. 'She's even stuck a board on her door. The trouble is, no one ever sees it unless they're going up the stairs, so she hasn't had any guests yet.'
'What made her think of it?' Sonali asked.
'I asked her that,' said Urmila. 'And she said she got the idea because an old house on the other side of Robinson Street is being turned into a hotel, by a developer. She said: "The blackguard actually has the cheek to hang a sign on the lawn. Plain as a wart on the nose. 'Site for the Robinson Hotel.' If he can do it, why can't I?'"
And then suddenly Urmila froze in an attitude of dismay with her hands clapped over her open mouth.