A Suitable Boy, Page 22

  Mr Nowrojee stopped, coughed, and looked down at the sheet of paper in front of him. His skin itself appeared to be as thin as paper.

  He went on: ‘1,698th meeting. Poetry recitation of their own poetry by members of the society. Copies, I see, have been handed out. Next week Professor O.P. Mishra of the English Department will present to us a paper on the subject: “Eliot: Whither?”’

  Lata, who enjoyed Professor Mishra’s lectures despite the pinkness with which he was now invested in her mind, looked interested, though the title was a bit mystifying.

  ‘Three poets will be reading from their own work today,’ continued Mr Nowrojee, ‘following which I hope you will join us for tea. I am sorry to see that my young friend Mr Sorabjee has not been able to make the time to come,’ he added in tones of gentle rebuke.

  Mr Sorabjee, fifty-seven years old, and—like Mr Nowrojee himself—a Parsi, was the Proctor of Brahmpur University. He rarely missed a meeting of the literary societies of either the university or the town. But he always managed to avoid meetings where members read out their own literary efforts.

  Mr Nowrojee smiled indecisively. ‘The poets reading today are Dr Vikas Makhijani, Mrs Supriya Joshi—’

  ‘Shrimati Supriya Joshi,’ said a booming female voice. The broad-bosomed Mrs Joshi had stood up to make the correction.

  ‘Er, yes, our, er, talented poetess Shrimati Supriya Joshi—and, of course, myself, Mr R.P. Nowrojee. As I am already seated at the table I will avail myself of the chairman’s prerogative of reading my own poems first—by way of an aperitif to the more substantial fare that is to follow. Bon appétit.’ He allowed himself a sad, rather wintry, chuckle before clearing his throat and taking another sip of water.

  ‘The first poem that I would like to read is entitled “Haunting Passion”,’ said Mr Nowrojee primly. And he read the following poem:

  I’m haunted by a tender passion,

  The ghost of which will never die.

  The leaves of autumn have grown ashen:

  I’m haunted by a tender passion.

  And spring-time too, in its own fashion,

  Burns me with love’s sweet song—so I—

  I’m haunted by a tender passion,

  The ghost of which will never die.

  As Mr Nowrojee completed his poem, he seemed to be manfully holding back his tears. He looked out towards the garden, towards the sundial, and, pulling himself together, said:

  ‘That is a triolet. Now I will read you a ballade. It is called “Buried Flames”.’

  After he had read this and three other poems in a similar vein with diminishing vigour, he stopped, spent of all emotion. He then got up like one who has completed an infinitely distant and exhausting journey, and sat down on a stuffed chair not far from the speaker’s table.

  In the brief interval between him and the next reader Kabir looked inquiringly at Lata and she looked quizzically back at him. They were both trying to control their laughter, and looking at each other was not helping them do this.

  Luckily, the happy, plump-faced man who had handed them the poems that he planned to read now rushed forward energetically to the speaker’s table and, before sitting down, said the single word:

  ‘Makhijani.’

  After he had announced his name, he looked even more delighted than before. He riffled through his sheaf of papers with an expression of intense and pleasurable concentration, then smiled at Mr Nowrojee, who shrank in his chair like a sparrow cowering in a niche before a gale. Mr Nowrojee had tried at one stage to dissuade Dr Makhijani from reading, but had met with such good-natured outrage that he had had to give in. But having read a copy of the poems earlier in the day, he could not help wishing that the banquet had ended with the aperitif.

  ‘A Hymn to Mother India,’ said Dr Makhijani sententiously, then beamed at his audience. He leaned forward with the concentration of a burly blacksmith and read his poem through, including the stanza numbers, which he hammered out like horseshoes.

  1. Who a child has not seen drinking milk

  At bright breasts of Mother, rags she wears or silks?

  Love of mild Mother like rain-racked gift of cloud.

  In poet’s words, Mother to thee I bow.

  2. What poor gift when doctor patient treats.

  Hearts he hears but so much his heart bleats?

  Where is doctor that can cure my pains?

  Why suffers Mother? Where to base the blame?

  3. Her raiments rain-drenched with May or Monsoon,

  Like Savitri sweet she wins from Yama her sons,

  Cheating death with millions of population,

  Leading to chaste and virtuous nation.

  4. From shore of Kanyakumari to Kashmir,

  From tiger of Assam to rampant beast of Gir,

  Freedom’s dawn now bathing, laving her face,

  Tremble of jetty locks is Ganga’s grace.

  5. How to describe bondage of Mother pure

  By pervert punies chained through shackles of law?

  British cut-throat, Indian smiling and slave:

  Such shame will not dispense till a sweating grave.

  While reading the above stanza, Dr Makhijani became highly agitated, but he was restored to equanimity by the next one:

  6. Let me recall history of heroes proud,

  Mother-milk fed their breasts, who did not bow.

  Fought they fiercely, carrying worlds of weight,

  Establishing firm foundation of Indian state.

  Nodding at the nervous Mr Nowrojee, Dr Makhijani now lauded his namesake, one of the fathers of the Indian freedom movement:

  7. Dadabhai Naoroji entered Parliament,

  As MP from Finsbury, grace was heaven-sent.

  But he forgot not Mother’s plumpy breasts:

  Dreams were of India, living in the West.

  Lata and Kabir looked at each other in mingled delight and horror.

  8. B.G. Tilak from Maharashtra hailed.

  ‘Swaraj my birthright is’ he ever wailed.

  But cruel captors sent him to the sweltry jail

  In Forts of Mandalay, a six-year sail.

  9. Shame of the Mother bold Bengal reviled.

  Terrorist pistol in hand of the Kali child.

  Draupadi’s sari twirling off and off—

  White Duryodhanas laugh to scorn and scoff.

  Dr Makhijani’s voice trembled with belligerence at these vivid lines. Several stanzas later he descended on figures of the immediate past and present:

  26. Mahatma came to us like summer ‘andhi’,

  Sweeping the dungs and dirt, was M.K. Gandhi.

  Murder has mayhemed peace beyond understanding.

  Respect and sorrow leave me soiled and standing.

  At this point Dr Makhijani stood up as a mark of veneration, and remained standing for the final three stanzas:

  27. Then when the British left after all,

  We had as PM our own Jawahar Lal.

  Like rosy shimmers to the throne he came,

  And gave to our India a glorious name.

  28. Muslim, Hindu, Sikh, Christian, revere him.

  Parsis, Jains, Buddhists also endear him.

  Cynosure of eyes, he stalks with regal mien

  Breathing spirit of a splendid scene.

  29. We are all masters, each a Raja or Rani.

  No slave, or high or low, says Makhijani.

  Liberty equality fraternity justice as in Constitution.

  In homage of Mother we will find all solutions.

  In the tradition of Urdu or Hindi poetry, the bard had imbedded his own name in the last stanza. He now sat down, wiping the sweat from his forehead, and beaming.

  Kabir had been scribbling a note. He passed it on to Lata; their hands touched accidentally. Though she was in pain with her attempt to suppress her laughter, she felt a shock of excitement at his touch. It was he who, after a few seconds, moved his hand away, and she saw what he had written:

  Promp
t escape from 20 Hastings Road

  Is my desire, although prized poets’ abode.

  Desert not friendship. Renegade with me

  From raptured realm of Mr Nowrojee.

  It was not quite up to Dr Makhijani’s efforts, but it got its point across. Lata and Kabir, as if at a signal, got up quickly and, before they could be intercepted by a cheated Dr Makhijani, got to the front door.

  Out on the sober street they laughed delightedly for a few minutes, quoting back at each other bits of Dr Makhijani’s patriotic hymn. When the laughter had died down, Kabir said to her:

  ‘How about a coffee? We could go to the Blue Danube.’

  Lata, worried that she might meet someone she knew and already thinking of Mrs Rupa Mehra, said, ‘No, I really can’t. I have to go back home. To my Mother,’ she added mischievously.

  Kabir could not take his eyes off her.

  ‘But your exams are over,’ he said. ‘You should be celebrating. It’s I who have two papers left.’

  ‘I wish I could. But meeting you here has been a pretty bold step for me.’

  ‘Well, won’t we at least meet here again next week? For “Eliot: Whither?”’ Kabir made an airy gesture, rather like a foppish courtier, and Lata smiled.

  ‘But are you going to be in Brahmpur next Friday?’ she asked. ‘The holidays . . .’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Kabir. ‘I live here.’

  He was unwilling to say goodbye, but did so at last.

  ‘See you next Friday then—or before,’ he said, getting on to his bike. ‘Are you sure I can’t drop you anywhere—on my bicycle made for two? Smudged or unsmudged, you do look beautiful.’

  Lata looked around, blushing.

  ‘No, I’m sure. Goodbye,’ she said. ‘And—well—thank you.’

  3.10

  When Lata got home she avoided her mother and sister and went straight to the bedroom. She lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling just as, a few days before, she had lain on the grass and stared at the sky through the jacaranda branches. The accidental touch of his hand as he had passed her the note was what she most wanted to recall.

  Later, during dinner, the phone rang. Lata, sitting closest to the telephone, went to pick up the receiver.

  ‘Hello?’ said Lata.

  ‘Hello—Lata?’ said Malati.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lata happily.

  ‘I’ve found out a couple of things. I’m going away tonight for a fortnight, so I thought I’d better tell you at once. Are you by yourself?’ Malati added cautiously.

  ‘No,’ said Lata.

  ‘Will you be by yourself within the next half hour or so?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Lata.

  ‘It isn’t good news, Lata,’ said Malati, seriously. ‘You had better drop him.’

  Lata said nothing.

  ‘Are you still there?’ asked Malati, concerned.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lata, glancing at the other three seated around the dining table. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, he’s on the university cricket team,’ said Malati, reluctant to break the ultimate bad news to her friend. ‘There’s a photograph of the team in the university magazine.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Lata, puzzled. ‘But what—’

  ‘Lata,’ said Malati, unable to beat about the bush any further. ‘His surname is Durrani.’

  So what? thought Lata. What does that make him? Is he a Sindhi or something? Like—well—Chetwani or Advani—or . . . or Makhijani?

  ‘He’s a Muslim,’ said Malati, cutting into her thoughts. ‘Are you still there?’

  Lata was staring straight ahead. Savita put down her knife and fork, and looked anxiously at her sister.

  Malati continued: ‘You haven’t a chance. Your family will be dead set against him. Forget him. Put it down to experience. And always find out the last name of anyone with an ambiguous first name. . . . Why don’t you say something? Are you listening?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lata, her heart in turmoil.

  She had a hundred questions, and more than ever she needed her friend’s advice and sympathy and help. She said, slowly and evenly, ‘I’d better go now. We’re in the middle of dinner.’

  Malati said, ‘It didn’t occur to me—it just didn’t occur to me—but didn’t it occur to you either? With a name like that—though all the Kabirs I know are Hindu—Kabir Bhandare, Kabir Sondhi—’

  ‘It didn’t occur to me,’ said Lata. ‘Thanks, Malu,’ she added, using the form of Malati’s name she sometimes used out of affection. ‘Thank you for—well—’

  ‘I’m so sorry. Poor Lata.’

  ‘No. See you when you return.’

  ‘Read a P.G. Wodehouse or two,’ said Malati by way of parting advice. ‘Bye.’

  ‘Bye,’ said Lata and put down the receiver carefully.

  She returned to the table but she could not eat. Mrs Rupa Mehra immediately tried to find out what the matter was. Savita decided not to say anything at all for the moment. Pran looked on, puzzled.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Lata said, looking at her mother’s anxious face.

  After dinner, she went to the bedroom. She couldn’t bear to talk with the family or listen to the late news on the radio. She lay face down on her bed and burst into tears—as quietly as she could—repeating his name with love and with angry reproach.

  3.11

  It did not need Malati to tell her that it was impossible. Lata knew it well enough herself. She knew her mother and the deep pain and horror she would suffer if she heard that her daughter had been seeing a Muslim boy.

  Any boy was worrisome enough, but this was too shameful, too painful, to believe. Lata could hear Mrs Rupa Mehra’s voice: ‘What did I do in my past life that I have deserved this?’ And she could see her mother’s tears as she faced the horror of her beloved daughter being given over to the nameless ‘them’. Her old age would be embittered and she would be past consoling.

  Lata lay on the bed. It was getting light. Her mother had gone through two chapters of the Gita that she recited every day at dawn. The Gita asked for detachment, tranquil wisdom, indifference to the fruits of action. This was a lesson that Mrs Rupa Mehra would never learn, could never learn. The lesson did not suit her temperament, even if its recitation did. The day she learned to be detached and indifferent and tranquil she would cease to be herself.

  Lata knew that her mother was worried about her. But perhaps she attributed Lata’s undisguisable misery over the next few days to anxiety about the results of the exams.

  If only Malati were here, Lata said to herself.

  If only she had not met him in the first place. If only their hands had not touched. If only.

  If only I could stop acting like a fool! Lata said to herself. Malati always insisted that it was boys who behaved like morons when they were in love, sighing in their hostel rooms and wallowing in the Shelley-like treacle of ghazals. It was going to be a week before she met Kabir again. If she had known how to get in touch with him before then, she would have been even more torn with indecision.

  She thought of yesterday’s laughter outside Mr Nowrojee’s house and angry tears came to her eyes again. She went to Pran’s bookshelf and picked up the first P.G. Wodehouse she saw: Pigs Have Wings. Malati, though flippant, both meant and prescribed well.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Savita.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lata. ‘Did it kick last night?’

  ‘I don’t think so. At least I didn’t wake up.’

  ‘Men should have to bear them,’ said Lata, apropos of nothing. ‘I’m going for a walk by the river.’ She assumed, correctly, that Savita was in no state to join her down the steep path that led from the campus to the sands.

  She changed her slippers for sandals, which made walking easier. As she descended the clayey slope, almost a mud cliff, to the shore of the Ganga, she noticed a troupe of monkeys cavorting in a couple of banyan trees—two trees that had fused into one through the intertwining of their branches. A small orange-smeared stat
ue of a god was jammed between the central trunks. The monkeys were usually pleased to see her—she brought them fruits and nuts whenever she remembered to. Today she had forgotten, and they made clear their displeasure. A couple of the smaller ones pulled at her elbow in request, while one of the larger ones, a fierce male, bared his teeth in annoyance—but from a distance.

  She needed to be distracted. She suddenly felt very gentle towards the animal world—which seemed to her, probably incorrectly, to be a simpler place than the world of humans. Though she was halfway down the cliff, she walked back up again, went to the kitchen, and got a paper bag full of peanuts and another filled with three large musammis for the monkeys. She knew they did not like them as much as oranges, but in the summer only the thicker-skinned green sweet-limes were available.

  They were, however, entirely delighted. Even before she said ‘Aa! Aa!’—something she had once heard an old sadhu say to entice them—the monkeys noticed the paper bags. They gathered around, grabbing, grasping, pleading, clambering up the trees and down the trees in excitement, even hanging down from the branches and suspended roots and stretching their arms. The little ones squeaked, the big ones growled. One brute, possibly the one who had bared his teeth at her earlier, stored some of the peanuts in his cheek pouches while he tried to grab more. Lata scattered a few, but fed them mainly by hand. She even ate a couple of peanuts herself. The two smallest monkeys, as before, grabbed—and even stroked—her elbow for attention. When she kept her hands closed to tease them, they opened them quite gently, not with their teeth but with their fingers.

  When she tried to peel the musammis, the biggest monkeys would have none of it. She usually succeeded in a democratic distribution, but this time all three musammis were grabbed by fairly large monkeys. One went a little farther down the slope, and sat on a large root to eat it: he half peeled it, then ate it from the inside. Another, less particular, ate his skin and all.

  Lata, laughing, finally swung what was left of the bag of peanuts around her head, and it flew off into the tree; it was caught in a high branch, but then came free, fell a little more, and got caught on a branch again. A great red-bottomed monkey climbed towards it, turning around at intervals to threaten one or two others who were climbing up the other root-branches that hung down from the main body of the banyan tree. He grabbed the whole packet and climbed higher to enjoy his monopoly. But the mouth of the bag suddenly came open and the nuts scattered all around. Seeing this, a thin baby monkey leapt in its excitement from one branch to another, lost its hold, banged its head against the trunk, and dropped down to the ground. It ran off squeaking.