The Old Masters 

Amit Chaudhuri

He glanced at his watch and made an attempt to finish the tea in his cup; he was waiting for a call, and it was his second cup of tea. Five minutes later, the phone began to ring.

‘Pramathesh?’ said the voice at the other end; and he could tell, from its slight note of insouciance and boredom, that it was Ranjit.

‘I was waiting for your call, old man,’ he said, trying to muffle his irritation with his usual show of joviality. ‘You were supposed to call half an hour ago.’ He didn’t know why he even bothered to mention this, since Ranjit, who was never known to acknowledge he was late, would take this to be an unnecessarily pedantic remark, a remark that pointed to the actual, if generally concealed, gulf that distinguished their temperaments.

‘Trying to send the boy off to school . . . didn’t want to go this morning,’ he muttered. ‘That boy’ll cost me my job one of these days.’

‘Come, come, don’t blame it on poor Mithu. He has enough troubles being an innocent bystander in your life. Are we ready?’

‘Of course I’m ready! Should we say ten minutes?’ As an afterthought, a change of register: ‘Sorry I didn’t call earlier.’

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