A Suitable Boy

  ‘Why doesn’t she have a name-tag?’ she asked. ‘Dr Evans always insisted on name-tags, in case babies got lost or exchanged by mistake.’ Meenakshi’s little earrings glinted as she shook her head at the frightful thought.

  Mrs Rupa Mehra got irritated. ‘I am here to ensure that nothing happens. Mothers should stay with their children. Who can steal the baby when her cot is in this room?’

  ‘Of course, things are much better arranged in Calcutta,’ continued Meenakshi. ‘In the Irwin Nursing Home, where Aparna was delivered, there’s a separate nursery where the babies are kept, and you can only view them through glass—to prevent infection, of course. Here everyone breathes and talks above the baby, and the air is full of germs. She could easily fall ill.’

  ‘Savita is trying to rest,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra severely. ‘These are not very restful thoughts, Meenakshi.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Kakoli. ‘I think things are run splendidly here. In fact, I think it would be rather fun if babies got exchanged. Like in The Prince and the Gipsy.’ This was a romantic potboiler that Kuku had recently read. ‘In fact,’ she continued, ‘this particular baby looks rather too red and crinkled for my liking. I’d ask for a replacement.’ She giggled.

  ‘Kuku,’ said Lata, ‘how’s your singing and piano going? And how is Hans?’

  ‘I think I want to go to the bathroom, Ma—could you help me?’ asked Savita.

  ‘Let me help,’ said Meenakshi and Kakoli simultaneously.

  ‘Thanks, but Ma and I are used to things,’ said Savita with calm authority. It was difficult for her to walk to the bathroom; the stitches made everything more painful. Once she closed the door, she told Mrs Rupa Mehra that she was rather tired, and that Meenakshi and Kakoli should be told to return in the evening at visiting time.

  Meenakshi and Kakoli, meanwhile, had been talking to Lata, and had decided that they would come and see that afternoon’s rehearsal of Twelfth Night.

  ‘I wonder what it must have been like to be married to Shakespeare,’ breathed Meenakshi, ‘and have him say such wonderful poetic things to one all the time—about love and life—’

  ‘He didn’t say much to Anne Hathaway,’ said Lata. ‘He wasn’t there most of the time. And according to Professor Mishra, his sonnets imply that he was interested in other people too—more than one.’

  ‘But who isn’t?’ said Meenakshi, then suddenly stopped, recalling that Lata was, after all, Arun’s sister. ‘In any case, I’d forgive Shakespeare anything. It must be so wonderful to be married to a poet. To be his muse, to make him happy. I was just saying so to Amit the other day, but he’s so modest, he only said: “I think my wife would have a hell of a time.”’

  ‘Which is nonsense, of course,’ said Kakoli. ‘Amit has a lovely nature. Why, Cuddles bites him less often than anyone else.’

  Lata said nothing. Meenakshi and Kuku were being remarkably unsubtle, and their talk about Amit irritated her. She felt fairly sure that Amit could not have acquiesced in this mission. She looked at her watch, and realized that she was almost late for a class.

  ‘See you at three o’clock at the auditorium,’ she said. ‘Don’t you want to see Pran as well?’

  ‘Pran? Oh, yes.’

  ‘He’s in room 56. On the ground floor. Where are you staying?’

  ‘With Mr Maitra in Civil Lines. He’s a sweet old man, but completely senile. Dipankar stayed with him as well. It’s become the Chatterji hostel in Brahmpur.’

  ‘I wish you were staying with us,’ said Lata. ‘But you see how difficult things are at present.’

  ‘Now, don’t worry about us, Lata,’ said Kuku kindly. ‘Just tell us how to occupy ourselves between now and three o’clock. I think we’ve had our fill of the baby for the moment.’

  ‘Well, you could go to the Barsaat Mahal,’ said Lata. ‘I know it’s hot at this time of day, but it’s as beautiful as they say it is, and much more so than any of the photographs.’

  ‘Oh, monuments!—’ said Meenakshi, yawning.

  ‘Isn’t there something livelier in Brahmpur?’ asked Kakoli.

  ‘Well, there’s the Blue Danube café on Nabiganj. And the Red Fox. And the movies, though the English ones are a couple of years out of date. And the bookstores—’ Even as she spoke, Lata realized how dreary Brahmpur must seem to the ladies of Calcutta. ‘I’m really sorry, I have to run now. My lecture.’

  And Kuku was left wondering at Lata’s enthusiasm for her studies.

  13.17

  What with the activity surrounding Pran’s illness and the baby’s arrival, Lata’s own reticence and Malati’s protective presence at rehearsals, Lata and Kabir had merely exchanged Shakespeare’s lines, and none of their own, for the last few days. Lata longed to tell him how much she sympathized with him about his mother, but did not know how to do so without eliciting an intensity of feeling on both sides that she feared would shake her—and probably him—too painfully. So she said nothing. But Mr Barua noticed that Olivia was kinder to Malvolio than he thought the script merited, and he tried to correct her.

  ‘Now, Miss Mehra, do try that again. “O you are sick of self-love, Malvolio—”’

  Lata cleared her throat for a second attempt. ‘O you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite—’

  ‘No, no, Miss Mehra like this: “O you are sick—” and so on. Slightly sharp, slightly tired. You are irritated by Malvolio. It is he who is mooning over you.’

  Lata tried to think of how angry she had been when she saw Kabir at the first rehearsal. She began once more:

  ‘O you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon-bullets—’

  ‘Ah, yes, much better, much better. But you seem rather too annoyed. Tone it down, Miss Mehra, if you would, tone it down a little. That way, when he seems to be really mad later on, even offensive, you’ll have an unused range of emotions that you can bring into play. Do you see what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, yes I think I do, Mr Barua.’

  Kakoli and Meenakshi had been chatting to Malati for a while, but she suddenly disappeared. ‘My cue,’ she explained, and bounced into the wings to come on as Maria.

  ‘What do you think, Kuku?’ said Meenakshi.

  ‘I think she has a soft spot for that Malvolio chap.’

  ‘Malati assured us she hadn’t,’ said Meenakshi. ‘She even called him a cad. Seemed a strange word to use. A cad.’

  ‘I think he’s delicious. He looks so broad-shouldered and soulful. I wish he’d shoot a cannon-bullet at me. Or his bird-bolt.’

  ‘Really, Kuku, you have no decency at all,’ said Meenakshi.

  ‘Lata has certainly opened up since she was in Calcutta,’ said Kakoli thoughtfully. ‘If Amit is to stand a chance, he can’t continue to lie low—’

  ‘The early worm catches the bird,’ said Meenakshi.

  Kakoli giggled.

  Mr Barua turned around in annoyance.

  ‘Er, would the two young ladies at the back—’

  ‘But it’s so amusing—the lines, I mean—under your direction,’ said Kakoli with brazen sweetness. Some of the boys laughed, and Mr Barua turned around, blushing.

  But after a few minutes of foolery by Sir Toby, both Kakoli and Meenakshi got bored, and left.

  That evening, the two sisters went to the hospital. They spent a few seconds with Pran, whom they found unattractive and negligible—‘I knew it the minute I saw him at the wedding,’ said Meenakshi—and most of their time upstairs in Savita’s room. Meenakshi advised Savita about her feeding times. Savita listened carefully, thinking about other matters. Lots of other people came in, and the room became as crowded as a concert. Meenakshi and Kakoli, pheasants among the Brahmpur pigeons, looked around them with unfeigned contempt, especially at the Rudhia relatives and Mrs Mahesh Kapoor. Some of these people were incapable of speaking English. And the way they dres
sed!

  Mrs Mahesh Kapoor for her part could not believe that these two shamelessly bare-waisted and bold-mouthed girls were the sisters of that nice boy Dipankar, who was so simple in his dress, amiable in his manners, and spiritual in his tastes. She was upset that Maan appeared to be hovering fascinatedly nearby. Kuku was looking at him with liquid eyes. Meenakshi’s eyes held a look of come-hither disdain which was as challenging as Kuku’s was appealing. Perhaps because she did not understand much English, Mrs Mahesh Kapoor was able more keenly to observe the unobvious undercurrents of hostility and attraction, contempt and admiration, tenderness and indifference that tied together the twenty or so people talking non-stop in this room.

  Meenakshi was telling a story, punctuated by her bell-like laugh, about her own pregnancy. ‘It had to be Dr Evans, of course. Dr Matthew Evans. Really, if one has to have a baby in Calcutta, there’s no other choice. Such a charming man. Absolutely the best gynaecologist in Calcutta. He has such a nice way with his patients.’

  ‘Oh, Meenakshi, you’re only saying that because he flirts with his patients shamelessly,’ interrupted Kakoli. ‘He pats them on their bottoms.’

  ‘Well, he certainly cheers them up,’ said Meenakshi. ‘That’s part of his bedside manner.’

  Kakoli giggled. Mrs Rupa Mehra looked at Mr Mahesh Kapoor, who seemed to be going through a paroxysm of self-control.

  ‘Of course he’s terribly terribly expensive—his fee for Aparna was 750 rupees. But even Ma, who’s so penny-pinching, agrees he was worth every paisa. Don’t you, Ma?’

  Mrs Rupa Mehra did not agree, but did not say so. When Dr Evans had heard that Meenakshi was in labour, he had merely said, as if sighting the Armada: ‘Tell her to hold on. I’m finishing my game of golf.’

  Meenakshi was continuing. ‘The Irwin Nursing Home is spotless. And there’s a nursery too. The mother isn’t exhausted by having the baby with her all the time in a cot, yelling and needing its nappy changed. It’s just brought to her at feeding times. And they’re strict about the number of visitors there.’ Meenakshi looked rather pointedly at the riff-raff from Rudhia.

  Mrs Rupa Mehra was too embarrassed by Meenakshi’s behaviour to say anything.

  Mr Mahesh Kapoor said: ‘Mrs Mehra, this is very fascinating, but—’

  ‘Do you think so?’ said Meenakshi. ‘I do think childbirth is so—so ennobling.’

  ‘Ennobling?’ said Kuku, astonished.

  Savita was beginning to look pale.

  ‘Well, don’t you think one shouldn’t miss out on the whole thing?’ Meenakshi hadn’t thought so when she had actually been pregnant.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Kakoli. ‘I’m not pregnant—yet.’

  Maan laughed, and Mr Mahesh Kapoor almost choked.

  ‘Kakoli!’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra in a warning voice.

  ‘But not everyone knows when they’re pregnant,’ continued Kakoli. ‘Remember Brigadier Guha’s wife in Kashmir? She didn’t go through the ennobling experience.’

  Meenakshi laughed at the memory.

  ‘What about her?’ said Maan.

  ‘Well—’ began Meenakshi.

  ‘She was—’ began Kakoli simultaneously.

  ‘You tell it,’ said Meenakshi.

  ‘No, you tell it,’ said Kakoli.

  ‘All right,’ said Meenakshi. ‘She was playing hockey in Kashmir, where she’d gone for a holiday to celebrate her fortieth birthday. She fell down, and got hurt, and had to return to Calcutta. When she got back, she began to feel shooting pains every few minutes. They called the doctor—’

  ‘Dr Evans,’ added Kakoli.

  ‘No, Kuku, Dr Evans came later, this was another one. So she said, “Doctor, what is this?” And he said, “You’re going to have a baby. We’ve got to get you to the nursing home at once.”’

  ‘It really caused shock waves in Calcutta society,’ said Kakoli to the assembled company. ‘When they told her husband he said: “What baby? Bloody nonsense!” He was fifty-five years old.’

  ‘You see,’ continued Meenakshi, ‘when she stopped having periods, she thought it was her menopause. She couldn’t imagine she was going to have a baby.’

  Maan, noticing his father’s frozen face, began to laugh uncontrollably, and even Meenakshi graced him with a smile. The baby too appeared to be smiling, but it was probably just wind.

  13.18

  The baby and mother got along very well over the next couple of days. What was most surprising to Savita about the baby was her softness. She was almost unbearably soft, especially the soles of her feet, the inside of her elbows, the back of her neck—here she was even more amazingly, heartbreakingly tender! Sometimes she laid the baby beside her on the bed and looked at her admiringly. The baby appeared satisfied with life; she was quite a hungry baby, but not a noisy one. When she had had her fill, she would look at her mother with half-opened eyes: a snug, smug expression. Savita found that, being right-handed, it was easier to feed her from the left breast. This fact had never struck her before.

  She had even begun to consider herself a mother now.

  Cushioned by her mother, daughter, and sister in a feminine and loving world, Savita felt the days pass placidly and happily. But from time to time a wave of deep depression swept over her. Once this happened when it was raining outside and a couple of pigeons were cooing on the window ledge. Sometimes she would think of the student who had died in this very hospital a few days ago, and wonder about the world into which she had brought her daughter. Once, when she heard how Maan had dispatched the crazed monkey, she burst into tears. The depth of her sudden sadnesses was unaccountable.

  Or perhaps it was not as unaccountable as it seemed to her. With Pran’s heart trouble hanging over the family, they would always live under a shadow of uncertainty. Savita began to feel more and more that she had to learn a profession, no matter what Pran’s father might say.

  Notes passed between Pran and Savita as usual, but most of them these days were about suitable names for the baby. Both agreed that she should be named soon; it was not necessary to wait for her character to develop in order to pick a suitable name.

  Everyone made suggestions of one kind or another. Eventually, Pran and Savita decided by correspondence on Maya. Its two simple syllables meant, among other things: the goddess Lakshmi, illusion, fascination, art, the goddess Durga, kindness, and the name of the mother of the Buddha. It also meant: ignorance, delusion, fraud, guile, and hypocrisy; but no one who named their daughter Maya ever paid any attention to these pejorative possibilities.

  When Savita announced the baby’s name to the family, there was an appreciative murmur from the dozen or so people in the room. Then Mrs Rupa Mehra said:

  ‘You cannot name her Maya, and that is that.’

  ‘Why ever not, Ma?’ said Meenakshi. ‘It’s a very Bengali name, a very nice name.’

  ‘Because it is just impossible,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘Ask Pran’s mother,’ she added in Hindi.

  Veena too, who, like Meenakshi, had just become an aunt by virtue of this baby and felt that she had some rights in the matter, thought the name was a good one. She turned to her mother in surprise.

  But Mrs Mahesh Kapoor agreed with Mrs Rupa Mehra.

  ‘No, Rupaji, you are quite right, it won’t do.’

  ‘But why, Ammaji?’ asked Veena. ‘Do you think Maya is inauspicious?’

  ‘It isn’t that, Veena. It’s just that—as Savita’s mother is thinking—you must not name a child after a living relative.’

  Savita’s aunt in Lucknow was called Maya.

  No amount of arguing by the younger generation could budge either of the grandmothers.

  ‘But this is gross superstition,’ said Maan.

  ‘Superstition or not, it is our way. You know, Veena, when you were young, Minister Sahib’s mother did not even allow me to call you by your name. One should never call the eldest child by her real name, she said, and I had to obey.’

  ‘So what did you call me?’ s
aid Veena.

  ‘Bitiya, or Munni, or—I can’t remember all the names I called you to get around it. But it was very hard to keep it up. Anyway, I think that is all blind belief. And when my mother-in-law passed away, I dropped it.’

  ‘Well, if you call that blind belief, what do you think this is?’ said Veena.

  ‘This has reason to it. How can you scold the child without invoking your aunt? That is very bad. Even if you call her by some other name, it will still be Maya you are scolding in your heart.’

  It was no use arguing. The parents were overruled, the name Maya had to be scratched, and the search for a new name began.

  Pran, when Maan told him of the veto, took it philosophically.

  ‘Well, I was never a Maya-vadi,’ he said. ‘I never believed that the whole universe was illusion. Certainly, my cough is real. Like Doctor Johnson, I could refute it thus. So what do the two grandmothers want her to be named?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Maan. ‘They only agreed on what was not acceptable.’

  ‘This reminds me of my committee work,’ said Pran. ‘Well, Maan, you’d better rack your brains as well. And why not consult the magical masseur? He’s never short of ideas.’

  Maan promised to do so.

  Sure enough, a few days later, when Savita was fit enough to go home with the baby, she received a card from Mr Maggu Gopal. The picture on the card was one of Lord Shiva complete with his family. In the card Maggu Gopal stated that he had known that Savita would have a daughter despite everyone’s opinion to the contrary. He assured her that only the following three names were sufficiently auspicious, given what he had seen of her husband’s hand: Parvati, Uma, and Lalita. And he asked whether Pran had replaced sugar with honey ‘for all the daily necessaries’. He hoped for Pran’s speedy recovery, and reassured him once more that his married life would be a comedy.