The Immortals Read Online Free PDF

that they’d met, in fact, on the ship. Two lonely Indians on deck, they’d begun to talk; and Prashanta Neogi still spoke about it with a wifely shrug of the shoulders that went oddly with his large frame. Later, they’d shared a cold room in Croydon for a couple of days, and, the first morning, to his horror, Prashanta had discovered that Apurva had used his toothbrush by mistake. Prashanta spoke of this with bafflement and indulgence, as if it had sealed their friendship for the future.
    The Neogis lived on the outskirts; in a house on a lane off Gorbunder Road. A low two-storeyed building; a small dusty driveway; the railway lines visible beyond the houses on the opposite side of the road – it was a very different kind of life from the one the Senguptas had now begun to lead. The Neogis were tenants who occupied the ground-floor flat; their lives were casually artistic and unconventional; neither Prashanta nor his wife Nayana ever wore anything but hand-crafted clothes; they smoked heavily and drank in the evening as a matter of course; there were long, involved sessions of bridge and rummy in the evening. There were almost always guests in the house – filmmakers who were passing through; painters – and one might catch them in the morning, wandering in their pyjamas. ‘But that’s the way we like it,’ Nayana would say, a woman with a sweet, round Bengali face, made unusual and striking by her height and largeness. ‘We like people in our house.’ ‘People!’ Mallika Sengupta would say to her husband. ‘It’s a strange house – not a moment of silence!’
    The Neogis were the first to know. Mallika Sengupta called them and said: ‘I have some news.’
    ‘Yes, tell me all about it!’ said Nayana, feigning eagerness.
    ‘Apurva has had a promotion. Poor Mr Deb died suddenly, you know. Mr Dyer called Apurva day before yesterday to his office and told him to take Mr Deb’s position.’
    ‘O that’s wonderful!’ sang Nayana; she sounded pleased. Both she and her husband had a soft spot for Apurva, the ‘boy’ who’d once erred in using Prashanta’s toothbrush. ‘Thank God that man Dyer has some sense! The things I hear about him . . .’
    Of course, Nayana and her husband had an interest in the matter. Their dear friend Apurva’s former boss – Kishen Arora – whose company he’d left to join this one: this former boss was a dear friend of theirs. Kishen Arora: a man from Delhi, with a squint, a tall Czech wife, and a cultivated manner. A man who said little. Apurva had realised that his prospects, working under him, were bleak. But when it came to changing jobs, the Neogis had dissuaded him: ‘That’s what Kishen’s like , silly! He seems distant. But he’s a man of his word.’
    That’s why every advance Apurva Sengupta made in his new job brought the Neogis both happiness and a momentary embarrassment.

 
* * *
     
    T HAT DAY , as Motilalji and Shyamji came out from Mrs Sengupta’s house, Shyamji had wondered for a moment what the meaning of the expedition had been. Why had Motilalji taken him there?
    He was difficult to fathom, this man.
    The answer was obvious, though. Motilalji wanted to impress his brother-in-law. He wanted to show off.
    Pyarelal was sitting on the divan in Motilalji’s house. He seemed to have been sitting there for a while; he had been eating something. When Shyamji saw him, he blanched slightly; the man always made his pulse beat a little faster. As the two entered, Pyarelal got up, and went quickly to the kitchen to deposit his plate and glass. Always busy, darting from here to there, as if he didn’t have a moment’s respite; as if he wasn’t the parasite he really was. Shyamji couldn’t stand his nervous energy, his constant compulsion to turn the humdrum into theatre. But Shyamji called out to him wearily:
    ‘Pyareji!’
    He came rushing toward him. He was short – a little more than five feet. In his loose pyjamas and white kurta, all movement.