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A Suitable Boy

Vikram Seth


  But these were merely two constituencies. There were nearly four thousand in the country as a whole. The candidates for these had now been selected, the nominations had been filed, the party symbols chosen, the teeth bared. Already the Prime Minister had paid a few flying visits here and there to speak on behalf of the Congress Party; and soon electioneering in Purva Pradesh too would begin in earnest.

  And then finally it would be the voters who mattered, the great washed and unwashed public, sceptical and gullible, endowed with universal adult suffrage, six times as numerous as those permitted to vote in 1946. It was in fact to be the largest election ever held anywhere on earth. It would involve a sixth of its people.

  Mahesh Kapoor, having been denied Misri Mandi and Rudhia (West), had managed at least to be selected as the Congress candidate from Salimpur-cum-Baitar. He would never have imagined such an outcome a few months earlier. Now, because of Maan and L.N. Agarwal and the Nawab Sahib and Nehru and Bhaskar and S.S. Sharma and Jha and probably a hundred other known and unknown agents, he was about to fight for his political life and ideals from a constituency where he was a virtual stranger. To say that he was anxious was to put it mildly.

  Part Sixteen

  16.1

  Kabir’s face lit up when he saw Malati enter the Blue Danube. He had drunk two cups of coffee already and had ordered a third. Outside the frosted glass the streetlights of Nabiganj glowed brightly but indistinctly, and the shadowy forms of pedestrians wandered past.

  ‘Ah, so you’ve come.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. I got your note this morning.’

  ‘I haven’t chosen a bad time for you?’

  ‘No worse than any other,’ said Malati. ‘Oh, that sounds bad. What I meant was that life is so hectic I don’t know why I don’t simply collapse. When I was in Nainital and far away from anyone whom I knew I was quite at peace.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind sitting in a corner? We could change.’

  ‘No, I prefer it.’

  ‘Well, what’ll you have?’ asked Kabir.

  ‘Oh, just a cup of coffee, nothing more. I have to go to a wedding. That’s why I’m so overdressed.’

  Malati was wearing a green silk sari with a broad border in a darker green and gold. She was looking ravishing. Her eyes were a deeper green than usual.

  ‘I like what you’re wearing,’ said Kabir, impressed. ‘Green and gold—quite dazzling. And that necklace with those little green things and that paisley pattern.’

  ‘Those little green things are emeralds,’ said Malati, laughing a little, indignantly but delightfully.

  ‘Oh, well, you see, I’m not used to this stuff. It looks lovely, though.’

  The coffee came. They sipped it and talked to each other about the photographs of the play, which had come out well, about the hill stations they had both been to, about skating and riding, about recent politics and other events, including the religious riots. Malati was surprised how easy Kabir was to talk to, how likable he was, how very handsome. Now that he was no longer Malvolio, it was easier to take him seriously. On the other hand, since he had once been Malvolio, she felt something of a sense of guild solidarity with him.

  ‘Did you know that there’s more snow and ice in India than anywhere else in the world other than the poles?’

  ‘Really?’ said Malati. ‘No I didn’t.’ She stirred her coffee. ‘But I don’t know lots of things. Such as, for instance, what this meeting’s about.’

  Kabir was forced to come to the point.

  ‘It’s about Lata.’

  ‘I thought as much.’

  ‘She won’t see me, she won’t answer my notes. It’s as if she hates me.’

  ‘Of course she doesn’t, don’t be melodramatic,’ laughed Malati. ‘She likes you, I think,’ she said more seriously. ‘But you know what the problem is.’

  ‘Well, I can’t stop thinking about her,’ said Kabir, his spoon going round and round his cup. ‘I’m always wondering when she’ll meet someone else, just like she met me—whom she’ll get to like more than me. Then I won’t have any chance at all. I just can’t stop thinking of her. And I feel so strangely low, it’s no joke. I must have walked around the college grounds five times yesterday, thinking she was here—or she wasn’t here—the bench, the slope down to the river, the steps of the exam hall, the cricket field, the auditorium—she’s really getting me annoyed. That’s why I want you to help me.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. I must be crazy to love anyone so much. Not crazy, well. . . .’ Kabir looked down, then continued quietly. ‘It’s difficult to explain, you know, Malati. With her I had a sense of joy—of happiness, which, really, I hadn’t had for at least a year. But it lasted for no time at all. She’s so cool towards me now. Tell her I’ll run away with her if she wants—no, that’s ridiculous, tell her—how can she—she’s not even religious.’ He paused. ‘I’ll never be able to forget the look on her face when she realized I was Malvolio! She was furious!’ He started laughing, then sobered up again. ‘So it’s all up to you.’

  ‘What can I do?’ asked Malati, wanting to pat his head. He seemed in his confusion to believe that she had endless power over Lata, which was quite flattering.

  ‘You can intercede with her on my behalf.’

  ‘But she’s just gone to Calcutta with her family.’

  ‘Oh.’ Kabir looked thoughtful. ‘Calcutta again? Well, write to her then.’

  ‘Why do you love her?’ asked Malati, looking at him strangely. In the course of a year, the number of Lata-lovers had shot up from zero to at least three. At this rate it would hit the double digits by next year.

  ‘Why?’ Kabir looked at Malati in amazement. ‘Why? Because she has six toes. I have no idea why I love her, Malati—anyway, that’s irrelevant. Will you help me?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘All this is having the strangest effect on my batting,’ continued Kabir, not even pausing to thank her. ‘I’m hitting more sixes, but getting out sooner. But I performed well against the Old Brahmpurians when I knew she was watching. Odd, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very odd,’ said Malati, trying to restrict her smile to her eyes.

  ‘I’m not exactly an innocent, you know,’ said Kabir, a bit piqued at her amusement.

  ‘I should hope not!’ said Malati, laughing. ‘Good, I’ll write to Calcutta. Just remain at the crease.’

  16.2

  Arun managed to keep his mother’s birthday party a secret from her. He had invited a few older ladies for tea—her Calcutta friends with whom she occasionally played rummy—and he had generously forborne from inviting the Chatterjis.

  The tip of the tail of the cat was let out of the bag by Varun, however, who, ever since sitting for his IAS exams, had been feeling that he had fulfilled enough of his duty to last a decade. The Winter Season was on, and the beat of galloping hooves was pounding in his ears.

  One day he looked up from the racing form and said: ‘But I won’t be able to go on that day, because that’s when your party—oh!’

  Mrs Rupa Mehra, who was saying, ‘3, 6, 10, 3, 6, 20,’ looked up from her knitting and said, ‘What is that, Varun? . . . You’ve disturbed my counting. What party?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Varun, ‘I was talking to myself, Ma. My friends are, you know, well, throwing a party and it will interfere with a race-meeting.’ He looked relieved that he had covered up so well.

  Mrs Rupa Mehra decided that she wanted to be surprised after all, so she did not follow up the matter. But she was in a state of suppressed excitement for the next few days.

  On the morning of her birthday she opened all her cards (a good two-thirds of which were illustrated with roses) and read each one out to Lata and Savita and Pran and Aparna and the baby. (Meenakshi had made good her escape.) Then she complained of eye-strain, and asked Lata to reread them back to her. The one from Parvati read as follows:

  Dearest Rupa,

  Your father and I wish you millions of happinesses on the occas
ion of your birthday, and hope that you are recovering well in Calcutta. Kishy joins me in saying Happy New Year in advance as well.

  With fondest affection,

  Parvati Seth

  ‘And what am I supposed to be recovering from?’ demanded Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘No, I don’t want that one read again.’

  In the evening, Arun left work early. He collected the cake that he had ordered from Flury’s and a large number of pastries and patties. While waiting at an intersection, he noticed a man selling roses by the dozen. Arun rolled down his window and asked him the price. But the first price the man mentioned was so shocking that Arun yelled at him and began to roll up his window. He continued to glower even though the man was now shaking his head apologetically and pushing the flowers up against the pane.

  But now that the car was moving, Arun thought of his mother again, and was almost tempted to tell the driver to halt. But no! it would have been intolerable to go back to the flower seller and haggle with him. He had been absolutely mad angry, and he was still furious.

  He thought of a colleague of his father’s, about ten years his father’s senior, who had recently shot himself out of rage just after his retirement. One evening his drink had been brought upstairs by his old servant, and he had flown into a fury because it had been brought without a tray. He had shouted at the servant, called his wife up, and told her to fire him immediately. This sort of thing had happened often enough in the past, and his wife told the servant to go down. Then she told her husband that she would speak to the servant in the morning, and that he should drink his whisky in the meantime. ‘You only care for your servants,’ he told her. She went down and, as was her habit, turned on the radio.

  A few minutes later, she was startled by the sound of a shot. As she went upstairs, she heard another shot. She found her husband lying in a pool of blood. The first shot, applied immediately to his head, had glanced off and grazed his ear. The second had gone through his throat.

  No one else in the Mehra family, when they heard the shocking news, had been able to understand the logic of it, least of all the appalled Mrs Rupa Mehra, who had known the man; but Arun felt that he understood it all too well. Rage did act like this. Sometimes he felt so angry that he wanted to kill himself or someone else, and he cared neither what he said nor what he did.

  Once again Arun thought of what his life would have been like had his father been alive. A great deal more carefree than it was today, he thought—with everyone to support financially as he now had to; with Varun to place in a job somehow, since he was bound not to get through the IAS exam; with Lata to get married off to someone suitable before Ma got her married off to this Haresh fellow.

  By now he had arrived home. He had the confectionery taken to the kitchen through the back. Then, humming to himself, he greeted his mother once again. Her eyes filled with tears and she hugged him. ‘You came back early just for me,’ she exclaimed. He noticed that she was wearing her rather nice fawn silk sari, and this puzzled him. But when the guests arrived, she displayed a very satisfying astonishment and delight.

  ‘And I’m not even properly dressed—my sari’s all crushed! Oh, Asha Di, how sweet of you to come—how sweet of Arun to have invited you—and I had no idea, none!’ she exclaimed.

  Asha Di was the mother, as it happened, of one of Arun’s old flames, and Meenakshi insisted on telling her how domesticated Arun had become. ‘Why, he spends half his evenings on the floor, doing jigsaw puzzles with Aparna.’

  A wonderful time was had by all. Mrs Rupa Mehra ate more chocolate cake than her doctor would have advised. Arun told her that he had tried to get her some roses on the way home but had not succeeded.

  When the guests had left, Mrs Rupa Mehra began opening her gifts. Arun, meanwhile, with only a word to Meenakshi, drove off in the Austin to try to locate the flower seller again.

  But when she opened the gift from Arun and Meenakshi she burst into injured tears. It was a very expensive Japanese lacquer box, which someone had given Meenakshi, and which Meenakshi had once, within earshot of her mother-in-law, described as being ‘utterly ugly, but I suppose I can always give it away’.

  Mrs Rupa Mehra had retreated from the drawing room and was sitting on her bed in the small bedroom with a hunted expression on her face.

  ‘What’s the matter, Ma?’ said Varun.

  ‘But the box is beautiful, Ma,’ said Savita.

  ‘You can keep the lacquer box, I don’t care,’ sobbed Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘I don’t care whether I have the flowers or not, I know what he was feeling, what love he has for me, you can say anything you like, but I know. You can say anything you like, now you all go away, I want to be by myself.’

  They looked at her with incredulity—it was as if Garbo had decided to join the Pul Mela.

  ‘Oh, Ma’s just being difficult. Arun treats her much better than he treats me,’ said Meenakshi.

  ‘But, Ma—’ said Lata.

  ‘You also, go now. I know him, he is like his father. For all his tempers, his tantrums, his blow-ups, his fussiness, he has a big heart. But Meenakshi, for all her style, her thankyous, her goodbyes, her elegant laughter, her lacquer boxes, her Ballygunge Chatterjis, doesn’t care for anyone. And least of all for me.’

  ‘That’s right, Ma—’ said Meenakshi. ‘If at first you don’t succeed, cry, cry again.’

  Impossible! she thought to herself, and walked out of the bedroom.

  ‘But, Ma—’ said Savita, turning the box around in her hands.

  Mrs Rupa Mehra shook her head.

  Slowly, with puzzled looks, her children filed out.

  Mrs Rupa Mehra started weeping again and hardly noticed or cared. No one understood her, none of her children, no one, not even Lata. She wanted never to see another birthday. Why had her husband gone and died when she had loved him so much? No one would ever hold her again as a man holds a woman, no one would cheer her up as one cheers up a child, her husband was eight years dead, and soon he would be eighteen years dead, and soon twenty-eight.

  She had wanted to have some fun in life when she was young. But her mother had died and she had had to take care of the younger children. Her father had always been impossible. She had had a few happy years of married life, and then Raghubir had died. Life had pressed in on her, a widow with too many encumbrances.

  She was seized with anger against her late husband, who used to bring her an armful of red roses every birthday, and against fate, and against God. Where is there justice in this world, she said, when I have to observe our birthdays and our anniversary each year in loneliness that even my children can’t understand? Take me soon from this horrible world, she prayed. Just let me see this stupid Lata married and Varun settled in a job, and my first grandson, and then I can die happily.

  16.3

  Dipankar stepped out of his hut in the garden after having meditated for an hour or so. He had come to a decision about the next step in his life. This decision was irrevocable unless he changed his mind.

  The old gardener and the short, dark, cheerful young fellow who assisted him were at work among the roses. Dipankar stopped to talk to them, and heard disturbing complaints. The driver’s ten-year-old son had been at his destruction again; he had lopped the heads off a few of the chrysanthemums that were still blooming against the creeper-covered fence which hid the servants’ quarters. Dipankar, for all his non-violence and meditation, felt like cuffing the boy. It was so pointless and idiotic. Speaking to the boy’s father had done no good. The driver had merely looked resentful. The fact was that the mother ruled the roost, and let the boy do what he wanted.

  Cuddles bounded towards Dipankar, barking hoarsely. Dipankar, though his mind was on other matters, threw him a stick. Back bounded Cuddles, demanding affection: he was a strange dog, murderous and loving by turns. A bedraggled myna tried to dive-bomb Cuddles; Cuddles appeared to take this in his stride.

  ‘Can I take him for a walk, Dada?’ said Tapan, who had just come down the steps from
the verandah. Tapan was looking, as he had been ever since he had returned for the winter holidays, even more disoriented than he usually did after the long train journey.

  ‘Yes, of course. Keep him out of Pillow’s way. . . . What’s the matter with you, Tapan? It’s been a fortnight since you returned, and you’re still looking miserable. I know you haven’t been calling Ma and Baba “Ma’am” and “Sir” for the past week—’

  Tapan smiled.

  ‘—but you’re still keeping out of everyone’s way. Come and help me in the garden if you don’t know what to do with yourself, but don’t just sit in your room reading comics. Ma says she’s tried to talk to you but you say that nothing’s the matter, that you just want to leave school and never go back again. Well, why? What’s wrong with Jheel? I know you’ve had a few migraines these last few months, and they’re very painful, but that could happen anywhere—’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Tapan, rubbing his fist on Cuddles’ furry white head. ‘Bye, Dada. See you at lunch.’

  Dipankar yawned. Meditation often had this effect on him. ‘So what if you’ve just got a bad report? Your last term’s report wasn’t much good either, and you weren’t behaving like this. You haven’t even spent a day with your Calcutta friends.’

  ‘Baba was very stern when he saw my report.’

  Mr Justice Chatterji’s gentle reproof carried a great deal of weight with the boys in the family. With Meenakshi and Kuku, it was duck’s water.

  Dipankar frowned. ‘Perhaps you should meditate a bit.’

  A look of distaste spread across Tapan’s face. ‘I’m taking Cuddles for a walk,’ he said. ‘He looks restless.’

  ‘You’re talking to me,’ said Dipankar. ‘I’m not your Amit Da; you can’t fob me off with excuses.’

  ‘Sorry, Dada. Yes.’ Tapan tensed.

  ‘Come up to my room.’ Dipankar had once been a prefect at Jheel School, and at one level knew how to exercise authority—though now he did it in a sort of dreamy way.