A Suitable Boy

  ‘Some women, perhaps,’ said Meenakshi. ‘Does Shireen say that?’

  ‘I’d rather not discuss Shireen,’ said Billy stiffly.

  By now Billy was as eager to cure Meenakshi as she was to be cured. About fifteen minutes later, he was lying, panting and pleasantly exhausted, upon her, his head nuzzling her neck. Meenakshi was much sweeter when she was making love than at any other time. She was almost affectionate! He began to withdraw.

  ‘No, Billy, just stay where you are,’ said Meenakshi in a sighing voice. ‘You feel so nice.’ Billy had been at his tenderly athletic best.

  ‘All right,’ Billy consented.

  After a few minutes though, as he softened, he had to pull out.

  ‘Whoops!’ said Billy.

  ‘That was lovely,’ said Meenakshi. ‘What was the “whoops” for?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Meenakshi—but the thing’s slipped off. It’s still inside you.’

  ‘But it can’t be! I can’t feel it.’

  ‘Well, it’s not on me, and I could feel it slip off.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Billy,’ said Meenakshi sharply. ‘It’s never happened before—and do you think I wouldn’t feel it if it was still there?’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Billy. ‘I think you’d better go and check.’ Meenakshi went for a shower, and came out furious.

  ‘How dare you?’ she said.

  ‘How dare I what?’ responded Billy, looking troubled.

  ‘How dare you let it slip off! I’m not going through all that again,’ said Meenakshi, and burst into tears. How horribly, horribly tawdry, she thought.

  Poor Billy was very worried by now. He tried to console her by putting his arms around her wet shoulders, but she shook him off angrily. She was trying to work out if today fell within her most vulnerable week. Billy was a real fool.

  ‘Meenakshi, I just can’t go on with this sort of thing,’ he was saying.

  ‘Oh, do be quiet, and let me think. My headache’s come back,’ said Meenakshi.

  Billy nodded contritely. Meenakshi was putting on her sari again—rather violently.

  By the time she had worked out that she was probably safe anyway, she was in no mood to relinquish Billy. She told him so.

  ‘But after Shireen and I are married—’ began Billy.

  ‘What does marriage have to do with it?’ asked Meenakshi. ‘I’m married, aren’t I? You enjoy it, I enjoy it; that’s all there is to it. Next Thursday, then.’

  ‘But Meenakshi—’

  ‘Don’t gape, Billy. It makes you look like a fish. I’m trying to be reasonable.’

  ‘But Meenakshi—’

  ‘I can’t stay to discuss all this,’ said Meenakshi, putting the finishing touches to her face. ‘I’d better be getting home. Poor Arun will be wondering what on earth’s happened to me.’

  16.17

  ‘Put off the light,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra to Lata as she came out of the bathroom. ‘Electricity does not grow on trees.’

  Mrs Rupa Mehra was seriously annoyed. It was New Year’s Eve and, instead of spending it with her mother as she ought to, Lata was behaving like a Young Person and going out with Arun and Meenakshi for a round of parties. Mischief was afoot, and Mrs Rupa Mehra could sense it.

  ‘Will Amit be going with you?’ she demanded of Meenakshi.

  ‘Well, Ma, I hope so—and Kuku and Hans too if we can persuade them,’ Meenakshi added as camouflage.

  Mrs Rupa Mehra was not deceived. ‘Well, then, you will have no objection to Varun going as well,’ she asserted. She promptly instructed her younger son to go along with them. ‘And do not leave the party for a moment,’ she warned him sternly.

  Varun was not happy at all with this state of affairs. He had hoped to spend his New Year with Sajid, Jason, Hot-ends and his other Shamshuing and gambling acquaintances. But there was that in Mrs Rupa Mehra’s eye which brooked no counter-squeak. ‘And I do not want Lata to go off by herself,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra when she got Varun by himself for a moment. ‘I do not trust your brother and Meenakshi.’

  ‘Oh, why not?’ asked Varun.

  ‘They will be having much too good a time to keep an eye on Lata,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra evasively.

  ‘I suppose I shouldn’t have a good time myself,’ said Varun with gloomy annoyance.

  ‘No. Not if your sister’s future is at stake. What would your father say?’

  At the memory of his father Varun felt a sudden sense of resentment of the kind he often had towards Arun. Then, almost immediately, he felt bad about it, and was overcome by a sense of guilt. What kind of son am I? he thought.

  Mrs Rupa Mehra and the rump of the family—Pran, Savita, Aparna and Uma—were to go over to Ballygunge that evening to spend New Year’s Eve with the senior Chatterjis, including old Mr Chatterji. Dipankar and Tapan would be at home too. It would be a quiet family evening, thought Mrs Rupa Mehra, not like this endless gallivanting that seemed to be the craze these days. Frivolous, that was the word for Meenakshi and Kakoli; and their frivolity was a disgrace in a city as poor as Calcutta—a city moreover where Pandit Nehru had just arrived to talk about the Congress and the freedom struggle and socialism. Mrs Rupa Mehra told Meenakshi exactly what she thought.

  Meenakshi’s response was a couplet disguised as ‘Deck the hall with boughs of holly’, of which there had been a good deal too much on the radio recently:

  ‘End the year with fun and frivol.

  Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!

  All the rest is drab and drivel.

  Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!’

  ‘You are a very irresponsible girl, Meenakshi, I can tell you that,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘How dare you sing to me like that?’

  But Mrs Arun Mehra was in too good a mood to be put off by her mother-in-law’s ill-temper and, surprisingly and suddenly, gave her a kiss for New Year. Such a sign of affection was rare in Meenakshi, and Mrs Rupa Mehra accepted it with glum grace.

  Then Arun, Meenakshi, Varun and Lata whizzed off to enjoy themselves.

  They went to several parties, and landed up after eleven o’clock at Bishwanath Bhaduri’s, where Meenakshi saw the back of Billy’s head.

  ‘Billy!’ Meenakshi cooed in a carrying vibrato from halfway across the room.

  Billy looked around and his face fell. But Meenakshi traversed the room and managed to detach him as blatantly and flirtatiously as possible from Shireen. When she had got him alone in a corner, she said:

  ‘Billy, I can’t make it on Thursday. The Shady Ladies just phoned to say they’re having a special meeting.’

  Billy’s face expressed relief. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ he said.

  ‘So it will have to be Wednesday.’

  ‘I can’t!’ pleaded Billy. Then he became annoyed. ‘Why did you get me away from my friends?’ he said. ‘Shireen will begin to suspect me.’

  ‘She will not,’ said Meenakshi gaily. ‘But it’s good your back’s turned to her at the moment. If she saw you looking so angry, she certainly would. And indignation doesn’t suit you. In fact nothing suits you. Only your birthday suit. Don’t blush, Billy, or I shall be forced to kiss you passionately an hour before your New Year kiss is due. Wednesday then. Don’t evade your irresponsibilities.’

  Billy was horribly unhappy, but he didn’t know what to do.

  ‘Did you watch the Test match today?’ asked Meenakshi, changing the subject. Poor Billy, he looked so dejected.

  ‘What do you think?’ said Billy, cheering up at the memory. India had not done too badly, having managed to get England out for 342 in the first innings.

  ‘So you’ll be there tomorrow?’ Meenakshi said.

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m looking forward to seeing what Hazare will do with their bowling. The MCC have sent a second-rate team out to India, and I’ll be happy to see them taught a lesson. Well, it’ll be a pleasant way to spend New Year’s Day.’

  ‘Arun has a few tickets,’ said Meenakshi. ‘I think I’ll go and watch the match
tomorrow.’

  ‘But you aren’t interested in cricket—’ protested Billy.

  ‘Ah—there’s another woman waving at you,’ said Meenakshi. ‘You haven’t been seeing other women, have you?’

  ‘Meenakshi!’ said Billy, so deeply shocked that Meenakshi was forced to believe him.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re still faithful. Faithfully unfaithful,’ said Meenakshi. ‘Or unfaithfully faithful. No, it’s me she’s waving at. Should I deliver you back to Shireen?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Billy mutedly.

  16.18

  Varun and Lata were talking to Dr Ila Chattopadhyay in another part of the room. Dr Ila Chattopadhyay enjoyed the company of all sorts of people—and the fact that they were young did not count against them in her view. In fact this was one of her strengths as a teacher of English. Another was her devastating braininess. Dr Ila Chattopadhyay was as crazy and opinionated with her students as with her colleagues. Indeed, she respected her students more than her colleagues. They were, she thought, much more intellectually innocent, and much more intellectually honest.

  Lata wondered what she was doing at this party: was she also chaperoning someone? If so, she was performing her duties laxly. At the moment she was entirely absorbed in conversation with Varun.

  ‘No, no,’ she was saying, ‘don’t join the IAS—it’s just another one of those Brown Sahib professions, and you’ll turn into a variant of your odious brother.’

  ‘But what should I do?’ Varun was saying. ‘I’m not good for anything.’

  ‘Write a book! Pull a rickshaw! Live! Don’t make excuses,’ said Dr Ila Chattopadhyay with hectic enthusiasm, shaking her grey hair vigorously. ‘Renounce the world like Dipankar. No, he’s joined a bank, hasn’t he? How did you do in your exams anyway?’ she added.

  ‘Terribly!’ said Varun.

  ‘I don’t think you’ve done so badly,’ said Lata. ‘I always think I’ve done worse than I actually have. It’s a Mehra trait.’

  ‘No, I really have done terribly,’ said Varun, pulling a morose face and gulping down his whisky. ‘I’m sure I’ve failed. I shall certainly not be called for the interview.’

  Dr Ila Chattopadhyay said: ‘Don’t worry. It could be far worse. A good friend of mine has just had her daughter die of TB.’

  Lata looked at Ila Chattopadhyay in amazement. Next she’ll say: ‘Now don’t worry. Just think—it could be far worse. A sister of mine has just had her two-year-old triplets decapitated by her alcoholic husband.’

  ‘You have the most extraordinary expression on your face,’ said Amit, who had joined them.

  ‘Oh, Amit! Hello,’ said Lata. It was good to see him.

  ‘What were you thinking of?’

  ‘Nothing—nothing at all.’

  Dr Ila Chattopadhyay was telling Varun about the idiocy of Calcutta University in making Hindi a compulsory subject at the B.A. level. Amit joined the discussion for a bit. He sensed that Lata’s thoughts were still quite far away. He wanted to talk to her a little about her poem. But he was accosted by a woman who said: ‘I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Well, here I am,’ said Amit.

  ‘My name is Baby,’ said the woman, who looked about forty.

  ‘Well, mine is Amit.’

  ‘I know that, I know that, everyone knows that,’ said the woman. ‘Are you trying to impress me with your modesty?’ She was in a quarrelsome mood.

  ‘No,’ said Amit.

  ‘I love your books, especially The Fever Tree. I think of it all night. I mean The Fever Bird. You look smaller than your photographs. You must be very leggy.’

  ‘What do you do?’ asked Amit, not knowing what to make of her last few words.

  ‘I like you,’ said the lady decisively. ‘I know whom I like. Visit me in Bombay. Everyone knows me. Just ask for Baby.’

  ‘All right,’ said Amit. He had no plans to go to Bombay.

  Bishwanath Bhaduri came over to say hello to Amit. He ignored Lata almost completely. He even ignored the predatory Baby. He was in raptures about some new woman, whom he pointed out: someone who was dressed in black and silver.

  ‘One feels she has such a beautiful soul,’ said Bish.

  ‘Repeat that,’ said Amit.

  Bishwanath Bhaduri drew back. ‘One doesn’t say such things in order to repeat them,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, but one doesn’t get to hear such things very often.’

  ‘You’ll use it for your novel. One shouldn’t, you know.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t one?’

  ‘It’s just Calcutta chit-chat.’

  ‘It’s not chit-chat—it’s poetic; very poetic; suspiciously so.’

  ‘You’re making fun of me,’ said Bishwanath Bhaduri. He looked around. ‘One needs a drink,’ he murmured.

  ‘One needs to escape,’ said Amit quietly to Lata. ‘Two need to.’

  ‘I can’t. I have a chaperone.’

  ‘Who?’

  Lata’s eyes indicated Varun. He was talking to a couple of young men, who were clinging to his words.

  ‘I think we can give him the slip,’ said Amit. ‘I’ll show you the lights on Park Street.’

  As they walked behind Varun they heard him say: ‘Marywallace, of course, for the Gatwick; and Simile for the Hopeful. I have no idea about the Hazra. And for the Beresford Cup it’s best to go for My Lady Jean. . . .’

  They eluded him with ease and walked down the stairs, laughing.

  16.19

  Amit hailed a taxi.

  ‘Park Street,’ said Amit.

  ‘Why not Bombay?’ asked Lata, laughing. ‘To meet Baby.’

  ‘She is a thorn in my neck,’ said Amit, shaking his knees together rapidly.

  ‘In your neck?’

  ‘As Biswas Babu would say.’

  Lata laughed. ‘How is he?’ she asked. ‘Everyone talks about him, but I’ve never met him.’

  ‘He’s been telling me to get married—to produce, he hopes, a fourth generation of Chatterji judge. I suggested that Aparna was half a Chatterji and might easily rise to the bench, given her precocity. He said that that was a different kettle of tea.’

  ‘But his advice ran off your back like duck’s water.’

  ‘Exactly so.’

  They had been driving along Chowringhee, parts of which were lit up—especially the larger stores, the Grand Hotel, and Firpo’s. Now they were at the crossing of Park Street. Here, a large reindeer complete with Santa and sleigh was illuminated by large coloured bulbs. Several people were strolling along the side of Chowringhee adjacent to the Maidan, enjoying the festive atmosphere. As the taxi turned into Park Street, Lata was taken aback by its unaccustomed brilliance. On both sides, multicoloured strings of lights and brightly coloured festoons of crêpe hung from the fronts of shops and restaurants: Flury’s, Kwality, Peiping, Magnolia. It was lovely, and Lata turned to Amit with delight and gratitude. When they got to the tall Christmas tree by the petrol pump she said:

  ‘Electricity growing on trees.’

  ‘What was that?’ said Amit.

  ‘Oh, that’s Ma. “Turn off the lights. Electricity doesn’t grow on trees.”’

  Amit laughed. ‘It’s very nice to see you again,’ he said.

  ‘I feel the same way,’ said Lata. ‘Mutatis mutandis.’

  Amit looked at her in surprise. ‘The last time I heard that was at the Inns of Court.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Lata, smiling. ‘I must have picked it up from Savita. She’s always cooing such phrases to the baby.’

  ‘By the way, what were you thinking of when I interrupted you and Varun?’ asked Amit.

  Lata told him about Dr Ila Chattopadhyay’s remark.

  Amit nodded, then said: ‘About your poem.’

  ‘Yes?’ Lata grew tense. What was he going to say about it?

  ‘I sometimes feel that it’s a consolation in times of deep grief to know that the world, by and large, does not care.’

  Lata was quiet. It was an odd sentiment
, though a relevant one. After a while she said: ‘Did you like it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Amit. ‘As a poem.’ He recited a couple of lines.

  ‘The cemetery’s on this street, isn’t it?’ said Lata.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very different from the other end.’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘That was a curious sort of spiral pillar on Rose Aylmer’s tomb.’

  ‘Do you want to see it by night?’

  ‘No! It would be strange, seeing all those stars. A night of memories and of sighs.’

  ‘I should have pointed them out to you by day,’ said Amit.

  ‘Pointed what out?’

  ‘The stars.’

  ‘By day?’

  ‘Well, yes. I can tell you roughly where the various stars are by day. Why not? They’re still in the sky. The sun only blinds us to them. It’s midnight. May I?’

  And before she could protest, Amit had kissed her.

  She was so surprised she didn’t know what to say. She was also a bit annoyed.

  ‘Happy New Year,’ said Amit.

  ‘Happy New Year,’ she answered, hiding her annoyance. She had, after all, conspired to evade her chaperone. ‘You didn’t plan this, did you?’

  ‘Of course not. Do you want me to deliver you back to Varun? Or should we take a walk by the Victoria Memorial?’

  ‘Neither. I’m feeling tired. I’d like to go to sleep.’ After a pause she said: ‘1952: how new it seems. As if each digit were polished.’

  ‘A leap year.’

  ‘I’d better go back to the party. Varun really will panic if he finds me gone.’

  ‘I’ll drop you back home, then go back to the party myself to tell Varun. How’s that?’

  Lata smiled to think of Varun’s expression when he realized his charge had flown.

  ‘All right. Thank you, Amit.’

  ‘You aren’t annoyed with me? New Year’s licence. I couldn’t help it.’

  ‘So long as you don’t claim poetic licence the next time.’

  Amit laughed, and good relations were restored.

  But why don’t I feel anything? she asked herself. She did know that Amit was fond of her, but her chief emotion at the kiss was still astonishment.