Free House of the Sun by Meira Chand

futures for his daughters, and a career for his son. The weight of these thoughts sat heavily upon him, as he waited for his lunch.
    Mohan crawled out from beneath the dining table. ‘I think it will hold now,’ he said, standing up to view a long crack in the glass top that he had strengthened with a wide strip of pink Elastoplast.
    The glass-topped table had been an impractical decision at a time of prosperity years ago. Mrs Watumal had insisted that their home be redecorated in the style of Mrs Murjani, and Mr Watumal had been glad to indulge her. She had secretly ascertained the design of the Murjanis’ furniture, the colour of coverings, and the pattern of their moulded ceilings. She had avoided the expensive place in Churchgate Mrs Murjani patronized, and had found instead a cheap cabinet-maker in Chor Bazaar. His wood was inferior but his effect was good, which had seemed to Mrs Watumal the more important thing.
    Mrs Murjani had not been pleased with this close imitation of her taste, and refused for months to speak to Mrs Watumal. But since that time Mrs Murjani had changed her interiors twice, and had reached such a peak of extravagance with the Maharajah’s crystal chairs that she had placed herself in a league beyond all mimicry. And Mrs Watumal had had no further opportunity to develop her decorative skills. Her husband’s fortunes had swiftly declined. His factory had union troubles, and problems with supplies of steel. Mr Watumal turned to the business of money-lending to provide for his family. Had he had more to lend, he might have done better.
    Mohan had recently discovered the strength and durability of Elastoplast as a home support, in preference to Sellotape, which dried and curled quickly. There was much need of it. Besides the glass dining table, chairs carved in unseasoned wood had cracked, and needed its support. The loose handles of saucepans gained from its use, as did the legs of coffee tables. In the bathroom it held a mirror in place, and small snippets secured to walls and ceilings the green tentacles of the devil’s-tongue plants Lata liked to grow. Through circumstances and Mohan’s dexterity, the Watumals’ residence had come to acquire a forlorn and bandaged look. But things held together, and Mr Watumal was not required to stretch meagre funds to finance unnecessary repairs.
    Mrs Watumal, hobbling painfully, emerged from the bedroom where she had been closeted with Mrs Bhagwandas since her return from Burmawalla. There was a look of suppressed excitement about both women. As Mrs Bhagwandas left, Mrs Watumal collapsed on a chair beside her husband.
    ‘Speak clearly now, wife. You have explained nothing. You are only shutting yourself up with Mrs Bhagwandas and whispering. We are all waiting,’ Mr Watumal demanded.
    ‘First, let us eat,’ Lata insisted. With the help of a servant she had already dished up the meal.
    Mr Watumal pulled his big-boned frame out of the sofa, his flesh hung upon him in a tired way. He wore a loose, checked bush shirt over a dhoti and scratched his crotch as he stood. Beside him Sunita rose awkwardly from the floor; weight made her ungainly. She had once enjoyed tennis and had taken lessons in cookery – now nothing seemed to interest her. She sat about in a housecoat with a box of sweetmeats and a magazine . She no longer helped with the cooking but left everything to Lata.
    ‘Only two days ago we had the same thing,’ she complained, ambling up to her place at the table, surveying the potato patties and steaming bowls of rice and Sindhi curry.
    ‘It was more than a week ago,’ Lata corrected.
    ‘Get up and do something yourself,’ Mohan scolded. ‘You’ve become so fat and lazy.’
    ‘Only quarrelling all the time, like children, when already you should have given us grandchildren.’ Mr Watumal sighed, and took his place at the table. The Elastoplast ran beneath his plate, he stared down at it in silence.
    ‘There would soon have been such