A Suitable Boy, Page 64

  Cuddles gave a blood-curdling growl.

  ‘What’s the matter with you now?’ asked Tapan. ‘Will you hold this for a second?’ he asked Lata, handing her the leash.

  Cuddles subsided into silence.

  Tapan bent down and looked carefully at Cuddles’ ear.

  ‘He hasn’t had his walk yet,’ said Tapan. ‘And I haven’t had my milkshake.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Amit. ‘Well, the rain’s let up. Let’s just look at the second great poetic relic and then we’ll go out on to the Maidan and the two of you can get as muddy as you like. And on the way back we’ll stop at Keventers.’ He continued, turning to Lata: ‘I was thinking of taking you to Rabindranath Tagore’s house in North Calcutta, but it’s quite far and a bit slushy and it can wait for another day. But you haven’t told me if there’s anything particular that you’d like to see.’

  ‘I’d like to see the university area some day,’ said Lata. ‘College Street and all that. But nothing else really. Are you sure you can spare the time?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Amit. ‘And here we are. It was in that small building there that Sir Ronald Ross discovered what caused malaria.’ He pointed to a plaque affixed to the gate. ‘And he wrote a poem to celebrate it.’

  Everyone got down this time, though Tapan and Cuddles took no interest in the plaque. Lata read it through with a great deal of curiosity. She was not used to the comprehensible writings of scientists, and did not know what to expect.

  This day relenting God

  Hath placed within my hand

  A wondrous thing; and God

  Be praised. At his command,

  Seeking his secret deeds

  With tears and toiling breath,

  I find thy cunning seeds

  O million-murdering death.

  I know this little thing

  A myriad men will save.

  O death where is thy sting?

  Thy victory, O grave?

  Lata read it a second time. ‘What do you think of it?’ asked Amit.

  ‘Not much,’ said Lata.

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Lata. ‘I just don’t. “Tears and toiling”, “million-murdering”—it’s too alliterative. And why should “God” be allowed to rhyme with “God”? Do you like it?’

  ‘Well, yes, in a way,’ said Amit. ‘I do like it. But equally I can’t defend that feeling. Perhaps I find it moving that a Surgeon-Major should write so fervently and with such religious force about something he’d done. I like the quaint chiasmus at the end. Ah, I’ve just created a pentameter,’ he said, pleased.

  Lata was frowning slightly, still looking at the plaque, and Amit could see she was not convinced.

  ‘You’re quite severe in your judgement,’ he said with a smile. ‘I wonder what you’d say about my poems.’

  ‘Maybe some day I’ll read them,’ said Lata. ‘I can’t imagine the kind of poetry you write. You seem so cheerful and cynical.’

  ‘I’m certainly cynical,’ said Amit.

  ‘Do you ever recite your poetry?’

  ‘Almost never,’ said Amit.

  ‘Don’t people ask you to?’

  ‘Yes, all the time,’ said Amit. ‘Have you listened to poets reading their work? It’s usually awful.’

  Lata thought back to the Brahmpur Literary Society and smiled broadly. Then she thought again of Kabir. She felt confused and sad.

  Amit saw the swift change of expression on her face. He hesitated for a few seconds, wanting to ask her what had brought it about, but before he could do so she asked, pointing to the plaque:

  ‘How did he discover it?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Amit, ‘he sent his servant to get some mosquitoes, then got the mosquitoes to bite him—his servant, that is—and when he got malaria soon afterwards, Ross realized that it was mosquitoes that caused it. O million-murdering death.’

  ‘Almost a million and one,’ said Lata.

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean. But people have always treated their servants strangely. Landor of the memories and sighs once threw his cook out of a window.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like Calcutta poets,’ said Lata.

  7.31

  After the Maidan and the milkshake, Amit asked Lata if she had time for a cup of tea at his house before returning home. Lata said she did. She liked the fertile turmoil of that house, the piano, the books, the verandah, the large garden. When Amit asked that tea for two be sent up to his room, the servant Bahadur, who took a proprietorial interest in Amit, asked him if there was someone else to drink it with him.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Amit, ‘I’m going to drink both cups myself.’

  ‘You mustn’t mind him,’ said Amit later, when Bahadur had looked at Lata appraisingly as he set the tea tray down. ‘He thinks that I plan to marry everyone I have tea with. One or two?’

  ‘Two please,’ said Lata. She continued mischievously, since the question was riskless: ‘And do you?’

  ‘Oh, not so far,’ said Amit. ‘But he doesn’t believe it. Our servants haven’t given up trying to run our lives. Bahadur has seen me staring at the moon at odd hours, and wants to cure me by getting me married within the year. Dipankar has been dreaming of surrounding his hut with papaya and banana plants, and the mali has been lecturing him about herbaceous borders. The Mugh cook almost gave notice because Tapan, when he came back from boarding school, insisted on eating lamb chops and mango ice-cream for breakfast for a whole week.’

  ‘And Kuku?’

  ‘Kuku drives the driver cuckoo.’

  ‘What a crazy family you are,’ said Lata.

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Amit. ‘We’re a hotbed of sanity.’

  7.32

  When Lata returned home towards evening Mrs Rupa Mehra did not ask her for a detailed account of where she had been and what she had seen. She was too distressed to do so. Arun and Varun had had a grand flare-up, and the smell of combustion was still thick in the air.

  Varun had returned to the house with his winnings in his pocket. He was not drunk yet, but it was clear where his windfall was going to go. Arun had told him he was irresponsible; he should contribute the winnings to the family kitty and never go to the racetrack again. He was wasting his life, and didn’t know the meaning of sacrifice and hard work. Varun, who knew that Arun had been at the races himself, had told him what he could do with his advice. Arun, purple-faced, had ordered him to get out of the house. Mrs Rupa Mehra had wept and pleaded and acted as an exacerbating intermediary. Meenakshi had said she couldn’t live in such a noisy family and had threatened to go back to Ballygunge. She was glad, she said, that it was Hanif’s day off. Aparna had started bawling. Even her ayah had not been able to pacify her.

  Aparna’s bawling had calmed everyone down, perhaps even made them feel a little ashamed. Now Meenakshi and Arun had just left for a party, and Varun was sitting in his small half-room, muttering to himself.

  ‘I wish Savita was here,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘Only she can control Arun when he is in one of his moods.’

  ‘It’s good she isn’t here, Ma,’ said Lata. ‘Anyway, Varun’s the one I’m more worried about. I’m going to see how he is.’ It seemed to her that her advice to him in Brahmpur had been futile.

  When she knocked at his door and entered, she found him sprawled on the bed with the Gazette of India lying open in front of him.

  ‘I’ve decided to improve myself,’ Varun said in a nervous manner, looking this way and that. ‘I’m going through the rules for the IAS exams. They’re to be held this September, and I haven’t even begun studying. Arun Bhai thinks I’m irresponsible, and he’s right. I’m terribly irresponsible. I’m wasting my life. Daddy would have been ashamed of me. Look at me, Luts, just look at me. What am I?’ He was growing more and more agitated. ‘I’m a bloody fool,’ he concluded, with the Arun-like condemnation pronounced in an Arun-like tone of dismissal. ‘Bloody fool!’ he repeated for good measure. ‘Don’t you think so too?’ he asked
Lata hopefully.

  ‘Shall I make you some tea?’ asked Lata, wondering why he, in the manner of Meenakshi, had called her ‘Luts’. Varun was far too easily led.

  Varun looked gloomily at the Pay Scales, the lists of Optional and Compulsory Papers, the Standard and Syllabus of the Examinations, even the List of Scheduled Castes.

  ‘Yes. If you think that’s best,’ he said at last.

  When Lata came back with the tea, she found him plunged into renewed despair. He had just read the paragraph on the Viva Voce:

  The candidate will be interviewed by a Board who will have before them a record of his/her career. He/she will be asked questions on matters of general interest. The object of the interview is to assess his/her suitability for the Service for which he/she is entered, and in framing their assessment the Board will attach particular importance to his/her intelligence and alertness, his/her vigour and strength of character and his/her potential qualities of leadership.

  ‘Read this!’ said Varun. ‘Just read this.’ Lata picked up the Gazette and began to read it with interest.

  ‘I don’t have a chance,’ continued Varun. ‘I have such a poor personality. I don’t make a good impression on anyone. I don’t make an impression at all. And the interview counts for 400 marks. No. I may as well accept it. I’m not fit for the civil service. They want people with qualities of leadership—not fifth-class bloody fools like me.’

  ‘Here, have some tea, Varun Bhai,’ said Lata.

  Varun accepted with tears in his eyes. ‘But what else can I do?’ he asked her. ‘I can’t teach, I can’t join a managing agency, all the Indian business firms are family run, I don’t have the guts to set up in business on my own—or to get the money to do so. And Arun shouts at me all the time. I’ve been reading How to Win Friends and Influence People,’ he confided. ‘To improve my personality.’

  ‘Is it working?’ asked Lata.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Varun. ‘I can’t even judge that.’

  ‘Varun Bhai, why didn’t you listen to what I told you that day at the zoo?’ asked Lata.

  ‘I did. I’m going out with my friends now. And see where that has led me!’ said Varun.

  There was a pause. They sipped tea silently together in the little room. Then Lata, who had been scanning the Gazette, sat up with sudden indignation. ‘Listen to this,’ she said. ‘“For the Indian Administrative Service and the Indian Police Service the Government of India may not select a woman candidate who is married and might require a woman to resign from the service in the event of her marrying subsequently.”’

  ‘Oh,’ said Varun, who was not sure what was wrong with that. Jason was, or had been, a policeman, and Varun wondered whether any woman, married or not, should be permitted to do his kind of brutal work.

  ‘And it gets worse,’ continued Lata. ‘“For the Indian Foreign Service a woman candidate is eligible only if she is unmarried or a widow without encumbrances. If such a candidate is selected, she will be appointed on the express condition that she might be called upon to resign the service on marriage or remarriage.”’

  ‘Without encumbrances?’ said Varun.

  ‘That means children, I suppose. Presumably you can be a widower with encumbrances and handle both your family life and your work. But not if you’re a widow. . . . I’m sorry, I’ve taken over the Gazette.’

  ‘Oh, no, no, you read it. I’ve suddenly remembered I must go out. I promised.’

  ‘Promised whom?’ said Lata. ‘Sajid and Jason?’

  ‘No, not exactly,’ said Varun shiftily. ‘Anyway, a promise is a promise and never should be broken.’ He laughed weakly; he was quoting one of his mother’s adages. ‘But I’ll tell them that I can’t see them any more. I’m too busy studying. Will you talk to Ma for a little while?’

  ‘While you slip out?’ said Lata. ‘No fears.’

  ‘Please, Luts, what can I say to her? She’s bound to ask me where I’m going.’

  ‘Tell her you’re going to get disgustingly drunk on Shamshu.’

  ‘It won’t be Shamshu today,’ said Varun, cheering up.

  After he had left, Lata went to her room with the Gazette. Kabir had said that he wanted to sit for the IFS exams after he had got his degree. She had no doubt that if he got to that stage, he would do well in the interview. He certainly had leadership qualities and vigour. She could imagine what a good impression he would make on the Board. She could picture his alertness, his open smile, the ready way in which he would admit to not knowing something.

  She looked through the rules, wondering which optional subjects he might select. One was described simply as: ‘World History. 1789 to 1939.’

  Once more she wondered whether she should reply to his letter, and once more she wondered what she could possibly say. She looked idly down the list of optionals till her eye fell on an item a few lines further on. At first it puzzled her, then it made her laugh, and finally it helped somewhat to restore her equilibrium. It read as follows:

  Philosophy. The subject covers the history and the theory of Ethics, Eastern and Western, and includes moral standards and their application, the problems of moral order and progress of Society and the State, and theories of punishment. It includes also the history of Western Philosophy and should be studied with special reference to the problems of space, time and causality, evolution and value and the nature of God.

  ‘Child’s play,’ said Lata to herself, and decided to go and talk to her mother, who was sitting alone in the next room. All of a sudden she began to feel quite light-headed.

  7.33

  My sweet Rat, my sweetest sweetest Rat,

  I dreamed of you all last night. I woke up twice and each time it was from a dream of you. I don’t know why you insist on coming into my mind so often, and inflicting memories and sighs on me. I was determined after our last meeting not to think of you, and your letter annoys me still. How can you write so coolly when you know what you mean to me and what I thought I meant to you?

  I was in a room—at first it was a dark room with no way out. After a while a window appeared, and I saw a sundial through it. Then, somehow, the room was lit, and there was furniture in it—and before I knew it, it was the room at 20 Hastings Road, complete with Mr Nowrojee and Shrimati Supriya Joshi and Dr Makhijani, but, strangely enough, there was no door anywhere, so I assumed that they must have climbed in through the window. And how had I come in myself? Anyway, before I could puzzle all this out, a door did appear just where it should have been, and someone knocked at it—casually, but impatiently. I knew it was you—though I’ve never heard you knock on a door, in fact we’ve only met out of doors except that once—and, yes, also at Ustad Majeed Khan’s concert. I was convinced it was you, and my heart started beating so fast I could hardly bear it, I was looking forward to seeing you so much. Then it turned out to be someone else, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Dearest Kabir, I am not going to mail this letter, so you needn’t worry about my becoming passionately fond of you and disturbing all your plans for the Indian Foreign Service and Cambridge and the rest of it. If you think I was unreasonable, well, perhaps I was, but I’ve never been in love before and it is certainly an unreasonable feeling too—and one that I never want to feel again for you or for anyone.

  I read your letter sitting among spider-lilies, but all I could think about was gulmohur flowers at my feet, and your telling me that I’d forget about all my troubles in five years. Oh, yes, and shaking kamini flowers out of my hair and crying.

  The second dream—well, why don’t I tell you, since it won’t reach your eyes anyway. We were lying together by ourselves on a boat far away from both shores, and you were kissing me, and—oh, it was absolute bliss. Then later you got up and said, ‘I’ve got to go now and swim four lengths; if I do, our team will win the match, and if I don’t it won’t,’ and you left me alone in the boat. My heart sank, but you were quite determined to leave. Luckily the boat didn’t sink, and I rowed it alone to t
he shore. I think I have finally got rid of you. At least I hope I have. I have decided to remain a spinster without encumbrances, and to devote my time to thinking about space, time and causality, evolution and value and the nature of God.

  So Godspeed, sweet prince, sweet Rat-prince, and may you emerge near the dhobi-ghat, safe but bedraggled, and do brilliantly in life.

  With all my love too, my darling Kabir,

  Lata.

  Lata folded the letter into an envelope, and wrote Kabir’s name on it. Then, instead of writing his address, she wrote his name here and there on the envelope a few more times for good measure. Then she drew a stamp on the corner of the envelope (‘Waste not, want not’) and marked it ‘Postage Due’. Finally, she tore the whole thing into tiny pieces and began crying.

  If I achieve nothing else in life, thought Lata, I shall at least have turned into one of the World’s Great Neurotics.

  7.34

  Amit asked Lata to lunch and tea the next day at the Chatterjis.

  ‘I thought I’d ask you over so that you could see us Brahmos at our clannish best,’ he said. ‘Ila Chattopadhyay, whom you met the other day, will be there, as will an aunt and uncle on my mother’s side and all their brood. And of course now you’re part of the clan by marriage.’

  So the next day at Amit’s house they sat down to a traditional Bengali meal, unlike the party fare of the previous week. Amit assumed that Lata had eaten this sort of food before. But when she saw a small helping of karela and rice—and nothing else—in front of her, she appeared so surprised that he had to tell her that there were other courses coming.

  It was odd, thought Amit, that she shouldn’t have known. Before Arun and Meenakshi had got married, though he himself had been in England, he knew that the Mehras had been invited once or twice to the Chatterjis’. But perhaps it hadn’t been to this sort of meal.

  Lunch had begun a little late. They had waited for Dr Ila Chattopadhyay, but had eventually decided to eat because the children were hungry. Amit’s uncle Mr Ganguly was an extremely taciturn man whose energies went entirely into eating. His jowls worked vigorously, swiftly, almost twice a second, and only occasionally pausing, while his mild, bland, bovine eyes looked at his hosts and fellow-guests who were doing the talking. His wife was a fat, highly emotional woman who wore a great deal of sindoor in her hair and had a very large bindi of equally brilliant red in the middle of her forehead. She was a shocking gossip and in between extracting fine fishbones from her large paan-stained mouth she impaled the reputations of all her neighbours and any of her relatives who were not present. Embezzlement, drunkenness, gangsterism, incest: whatever could be stated was stated and whatever could not be was implied. Mrs Chatterji was shocked, pretended to be even more shocked than she was, and enjoyed her company greatly. The only thing that worried her was what Mrs Ganguly would say about their family—especially about Kuku—once she had left the house.