Mr. Mitra Character Analysis

“Well, what should we do?” Mr. Mitra’s face, as he turned to look at his wife, was pained, as if he was annoyed she hadn’t immediately come up with the answer.

“Do what you want to do quickly,” she said, dabbing her cheek with her sari. “We’re already late.” She looked at the small dial of her watch. He sighed; his wife never satisfied him when he needed her most; and quite probably it was the same story the other way around.

He was wearing a white cotton shirt and terrycotton trousers because of the heat, and shoes; he now regretted the shoes. He remembered he hadn’t been able to find his sandals in the cupboard. His feet, swathed in socks, were perspiring.

Her marriage, sixteen years ago, had been seen to be appropriate. Usually, it’s said, Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, and Saraswati, of learning, two sisters, don’t bless the same house; but certainly that wasn’t true of the Poddars, who had two bars-at-law in the generation preceding this one, and a social reformer in the lineage, and also a white four-storied mansion on a property near Salt Lake where they used to have garden parties. Anjali had married Gautam Poddar very soon after taking her M.A. in history from Calcutta University.

As they passed a petrol pump, Mr. Mitra wondered what view traditional theology took of this matter, and how the rites accommodated events such as this — she had jumped from a third-floor balcony — which couldn’t, after all, be entirely uncommon. Perhaps there was no ceremony. In his mind’s eye, when he tried to imagine the priest, or the long rows of tables at which people were fed, he saw a blank.

They didn’t expect it would be a proper shraddh ceremony; they didn’t think people would be fed. So Mrs. Mitra had told the boy at home, firmly so as to impress her words upon him, “We’ll be back by one o’clock! Cook the rice and keep the daal and fish ready!” Without mentioning it clearly, they’d decided they must go to the club afterward and get some cookies for tea.

It was clear from the size of the cramped compound, with the ceiling overhanging the porch only a few feet away from the adjoining wall, that Nishant had been erected where some older house once was, and which had been sold off to property developers and contractors.

He'd held some sort of important position in an old British industrial company that had turned into a large public-sector concern a decade after independence: British Steel, renamed National Steel. He was now standing next to a television set, whose convex screen was dusty, and talking to someone.

Mr. Mitra seemed to remember that Mr. Talukdar had two sons in America, and that the sons had children. But Anjali had no children, and that might have made things worse for her.

He felt bored; and he noticed a few others, too, some of whom he knew, looking out of place. Shraddh ceremonies weren’t right without their mixture of convivial pleasure and grief; and he couldn’t feel anything as complete as grief. He’d known Anjali slightly; how well do you know your wife’s distant relations, after all? He’d known more about her academic record, one or two charming anecdotes to do with her success at school, her decent first-class degree, and about her husband, Gautam Poddar, diversifying into new areas of business, than about her.

Below him was a porch to the left, and the driveway, which seemed quite close. A young woman, clearly not a maidservant, was hanging towels from the railing in one of the balconies opposite.

Did it happen here? He looked at the woman attach clips to another towel. Apparently those who always threaten to, don’t.

He had a vaguely unsatisfying feeling, as if the last half hour had lacked definition.

Once inside the car, he said to his wife, “I don’t know about you, but I’m quite ravenous.”

“Well, what should we do?” Mr. Mitra’s face, as he turned to look at his wife, was pained, as if he was annoyed she hadn’t immediately come up with the answer.

“Do what you want to do quickly,” she said, dabbing her cheek with her sari. “We’re already late.” She looked at the small dial of her watch. He sighed; his wife never satisfied him when he needed her most; and quite probably it was the same story the other way around.

He was wearing a white cotton shirt and terrycotton trousers because of the heat, and shoes; he now regretted the shoes. He remembered he hadn’t been able to find his sandals in the cupboard. His feet, swathed in socks, were perspiring.

Her marriage, sixteen years ago, had been seen to be appropriate. Usually, it’s said, Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, and Saraswati, of learning, two sisters, don’t bless the same house; but certainly that wasn’t true of the Poddars, who had two bars-at-law in the generation preceding this one, and a social reformer in the lineage, and also a white four-storied mansion on a property near Salt Lake where they used to have garden parties. Anjali had married Gautam Poddar very soon after taking her M.A. in history from Calcutta University.

As they passed a petrol pump, Mr. Mitra wondered what view traditional theology took of this matter, and how the rites accommodated events such as this — she had jumped from a third-floor balcony — which couldn’t, after all, be entirely uncommon. Perhaps there was no ceremony. In his mind’s eye, when he tried to imagine the priest, or the long rows of tables at which people were fed, he saw a blank.

They didn’t expect it would be a proper shraddh ceremony; they didn’t think people would be fed. So Mrs. Mitra had told the boy at home, firmly so as to impress her words upon him, “We’ll be back by one o’clock! Cook the rice and keep the daal and fish ready!” Without mentioning it clearly, they’d decided they must go to the club afterward and get some cookies for tea.

It was clear from the size of the cramped compound, with the ceiling overhanging the porch only a few feet away from the adjoining wall, that Nishant had been erected where some older house once was, and which had been sold off to property developers and contractors.

He'd held some sort of important position in an old British industrial company that had turned into a large public-sector concern a decade after independence: British Steel, renamed National Steel. He was now standing next to a television set, whose convex screen was dusty, and talking to someone.

Mr. Mitra seemed to remember that Mr. Talukdar had two sons in America, and that the sons had children. But Anjali had no children, and that might have made things worse for her.

He felt bored; and he noticed a few others, too, some of whom he knew, looking out of place. Shraddh ceremonies weren’t right without their mixture of convivial pleasure and grief; and he couldn’t feel anything as complete as grief. He’d known Anjali slightly; how well do you know your wife’s distant relations, after all? He’d known more about her academic record, one or two charming anecdotes to do with her success at school, her decent first-class degree, and about her husband, Gautam Poddar, diversifying into new areas of business, than about her.

Below him was a porch to the left, and the driveway, which seemed quite close. A young woman, clearly not a maidservant, was hanging towels from the railing in one of the balconies opposite.

Did it happen here? He looked at the woman attach clips to another towel. Apparently those who always threaten to, don’t.

He had a vaguely unsatisfying feeling, as if the last half hour had lacked definition.

Once inside the car, he said to his wife, “I don’t know about you, but I’m quite ravenous.”