A Suitable Boy

  Maan looked worn out and knew it. Sometimes he still couldn’t believe where he had been; at other times he couldn’t believe that he was, at least for a while, free again.

  ‘We hardly meet these days,’ said Lata, who had not been able to concentrate on conversation for the last hour.

  Maan began to laugh. ‘No, we hardly do,’ he said.

  Malati could see that something was the matter with Lata. She attributed it to the presence of the Poet. Malati had been keen to examine this contender for Lata’s hand. She decided that Amit was not very impressive: he was bent on making small talk. The Cobbler, who (as Malati had been told) had got angry when called mean, had shown far more spirit—even if, she decided, of a rather zany kind.

  Malati did not know that Amit, especially after reading his poems or writing a serious one, would often switch into an entirely different mood: cynical and sometimes trivializing. He had been leached of any pretence at profundity. Though no Kuku-couplets flapped away like freed pigeons from his mouth this evening, he began to talk in a light-hearted manner about elected politicians and the way they subverted the system by winning favours for themselves and their families. Mrs Rupa Mehra, who switched off whenever the talk turned to politics, had gone into the other room to put Uma to bed.

  ‘Mr Maitra, with whom I’m staying, has been explaining to me his prescription for Utopia,’ said Amit. ‘The country should be run by only children—unmarried only children—whose parents are dead. At any rate, he says, all Ministers should be childless.’

  Noticing that no one was taking up the subject, Amit continued: ‘Otherwise, of course, they’re bound to try to get their children out of whatever scrapes they’ve got themselves into.’ He stopped, suddenly realizing what he was saying.

  Since everyone was looking at him without speaking, he quickly added: ‘Of course, Ila Kaki says it isn’t just in politics that this sort of thing happens—academia is just as bad—full of—how does she put it?—“sordid nepotisms and antagonisms”. It sounds just like the literary world.’

  ‘Ila?’ said Pran.

  ‘Oh, Ila Chattopadhyay,’ said Amit, relieved that the points had been switched on the tracks. ‘Dr Ila Chattopadhyay.’

  ‘The one who writes about Donne?’ asked Pran.

  ‘Yes. Didn’t you meet her when you were in Calcutta? Not even at our place? I suppose not. Anyway, she was telling me about a textbook scandal at some university where a professor got a book prescribed as a compulsory textbook when he himself had written it under a pseudonym. She got extremely excited about the whole business.’

  ‘Doesn’t she tend to?’ asked Lata with a smile.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Amit, pleased that Lata was at last taking part in the conversation. ‘Yes, she does. She’s coming to Brahmpur in a few days, as it happens, so you’ll have a chance to meet,’ he added to Pran. ‘I’ll tell her to look you up. You’ll find her very interesting.’

  ‘The baby’s sleeping,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, returning to the room. ‘Very soundly, very sweetly.’

  ‘Well, I thought her book on Donne was very good,’ said Pran. ‘What’s she coming here for?’

  ‘She’s sitting on some committee or other—I don’t think she mentioned what,’ said Amit. ‘And I’m not sure, given her erratic ways, that she herself will remember.’

  Mrs Rupa Mehra said: ‘Yes, she is one of these very intelligent women. Very modern in her views. She was advising Lata against getting married.’

  Pran hesitated before saying: ‘Was it a selection committee by any chance?’

  Amit tried to remember. ‘I think so. I’m not sure, but I think that’s what it was. Yes, she was talking about the poor calibre of most of the candidates, so it must have been.’

  ‘I don’t think I’d better meet her, in that case,’ said Pran. ‘She’ll probably be deciding my fate. I think I’m one of those candidates she was referring to.’

  In the straits in which the family now found itself, Pran’s possible promotion had become still more important. Even his retention of this house, the conferral of which had been rather ad hoc, could well depend on it.

  ‘Your fate! That sounds very dramatic,’ said Amit. ‘I should think that with Professor Mishra firmly on your side, Fate would think twice about misbehaving with you.’

  Savita leaned forward eagerly. ‘What did you say? Professor Mishra?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Amit. ‘He spoke most fulsomely about Pran when I told him I was having dinner here.’

  ‘There, darling,’ said Savita.

  Pran said: ‘If I had been born a cockroach, I wouldn’t wonder: “What will the selection committee decide?” “What’s happening to India?” “Is the cheque in the mail?” “Will I live to see my daughter grow up?” Why on earth am I so concerned about all these things?’

  Everyone except Amit looked at Pran with varying degrees of surprise and concern.

  ‘Don’t you care what happens to me?’ Maan asked suddenly.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Pran, taking his argument through its paces. ‘But I doubt a cockroach would care about what happened to his brother. Or father for that matter.’

  ‘Or mother,’ added Maan, getting up immediately to go. He looked as if he could not bear any more such talk.

  ‘Maan,’ said Savita, ‘don’t take it like that. Pran too has been under a lot of strain. And he didn’t mean any harm by that remark. Darling, please don’t talk like that. It was quite a peculiar thing to say, and it’s not like you at all; I’m not surprised Maan’s upset.’

  Pran, with a look of tired affection, yawned and said: ‘I’ll try to be careful about what I say. In my own house and with my own family.’

  Seeing Savita’s expression of hurt he wished he had left the second sentence unsaid. She, after all, succeeded in being careful without appearing constricted, without at all losing her sense of ease. She had never known him in perfect health. Even before the baby had been born, he could sense how much she loved him by the quiet of her footsteps in the room where he was sleeping—by the fact that she might begin to hum and suddenly become quiet. She would never have considered this to be a constraint. Sometimes he used to keep his eyes closed even though he was awake—just for the pleasure of feeling that someone cared for him so much. He supposed she was right: his remark had been a thoughtless one. Perhaps even childish.

  Lata was looking at Savita and thinking: Savita was made to be married. She’s happy to do all the things a house and a family require, all the small and serious things of life. She’s only taken up law because it’s been forced upon her by Pran’s health. Then the thought struck her that Savita would have loved anyone whom she had married, anyone who was basically a good man, no matter how difficult he was, no matter how different he was from Pran.

  18.5

  ‘What were you thinking?’ Amit asked Lata after dinner, lingering over his coffee. The other guests were being seen to the door by Pran and Savita, and Mrs Rupa Mehra had gone into her room for a few minutes.

  ‘That I really liked your reading,’ said Lata. ‘It was very affecting. And I enjoyed the question-and-answer session afterwards. Especially the statistical appendix—and the tearing of the tomes. You should advise Savita to deal as brutally with her law-books.’

  ‘I didn’t know you knew young Durrani,’ said Amit.

  ‘I didn’t know he’d invited you.’

  There was a few seconds’ pause. Then Amit said: ‘I meant, what were you thinking just now?’

  ‘When?’ said Lata.

  ‘When you were looking at Pran and Savita. Over the pudding.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ said Lata with a smile.

  Amit laughed.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’ asked Lata.

  ‘I like making you feel uncomfortable, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh. Why?’

  ‘—Or happy—or puzzled—just to see your change of mood. It’s such fun.
I pity you!’

  ‘Why?’ said Lata, startled.

  ‘Because you’ll never know what a pleasure it is to be in your company.’

  ‘Do stop talking like that,’ said Lata. ‘Ma will come in any minute.’

  ‘You’re quite right. In that case: will you marry me?’

  Lata dropped her cup. It fell on the floor and broke. She looked at the broken pieces—luckily, it had been empty—and then at Amit.

  ‘Quick!’ said Amit. ‘Before they come running to see what’s happened. Say yes.’

  Lata had knelt down; she was gathering the bits of the cup together and placing them on the delicately patterned blue-and-gold saucer.

  Amit joined her on the floor. Her face was only a few inches away from his, but her mind appeared to be somewhere else. He wanted to kiss her but he sensed that there was no question of it. One by one she picked up the shards of china.

  ‘Was it a family heirloom?’ asked Amit.

  ‘What? I’m sorry—’ said Lata, snapped out of her trance by the words.

  ‘Well, I suppose I’ll have to wait. I was hoping that by springing it on you like that I’d surprise you into agreeing.’

  ‘I wish—’ said Lata, putting the last piece of the shattered cup on to the saucer.

  ‘What?’ asked Amit.

  ‘I wish I would wake up one day and find I’d been married to someone for six years. Or that I had a wild affair with someone and never got married at all. Like Malati.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ said Amit. ‘Ma might come in at any moment. Anyway, I wouldn’t advise an affair with Malati,’ he added.

  ‘Do stop being idiotic, Amit,’ said Lata. ‘You’re so brilliant, do you have to be so stupid as well? I should only take you seriously in black and white.’

  ‘And in sickness and health.’

  Lata laughed. ‘For better and for worse,’ she added. ‘Far worse, I suppose.’

  Amit’s eyes lit up. ‘You mean yes?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Lata. ‘I don’t mean anything. And nor, I assume, do you. But why are we kneeling here facing each other like Japanese dolls? Get up, get up. Here comes Ma, just as you said.’

  18.6

  Mrs Rupa Mehra was less sharp with Amit, however, than he had expected, for she was having second thoughts about Haresh.

  For fear of having her own judgement called into question, she did not speak her thoughts out aloud. But she was not skilled in dissimulation; and over the next few days, when Amit had left Brahmpur, it was her want of enthusiasm for, rather than her actual criticism of, Haresh that indicated to Lata that all was not at ease in her mind with respect to her former favourite.

  That he had been so upset by Lata calling him ‘mean’ bewildered Mrs Rupa Mehra. On the other hand, it must have been Lata’s fault in some way, she decided. What she could not understand was that Haresh had not said goodbye to her, Mrs Rupa Mehra, his self-appointed mother-in-law-to-be. Several days had passed between the altercation and their hurried return to Brahmpur; yet during that time he had not visited or telephoned or written. It was not right; she was hurt; and she did not see why he should have continued to treat her so insensitively. If only he had called, she would have forgiven him immediately and tearfully. Now she was not in a forgiving mood at all.

  It also struck her that some of her friends, when she had mentioned that Haresh was involved in the shoe trade, had made remarks such as, ‘Well, of course, things have changed nowadays,’ and ‘Oh! Dear Rupa—but everything is for the best, and Praha is of course Praha.’ In the first flush of vicarious romance, such veiled or consolatory comments had not struck home. But now the memory of them caused her to suffer a rush of embarrassment. Who could have predicted that the daughter of the potential Chairman of the Railway Board might be linked to the lowly lineage of leather?

  ‘But such is Fate,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra to herself; and this led to a thought which an advertisement in the next morning’s Brahmpur Chronicle translated into action. For there she noticed, under the heading ‘Astrologer-Royal: Raj Jyotishi’, the photograph of a plump and beaming middle-aged man, his hair cut short and parted in the middle. Underneath were the words:

  The greatest Astrologer, Palmist and Tantrik. Pandit Kanti Prasad Chaturvedi, Jyotishtirtha, Tantrikacharya, Examiner, Government Board of Astrological Studies. Highly praised and honoured with unwanted testimonials. Very speedy results.

  Very speedily—in fact the same afternoon—Mrs Rupa Mehra made her way to the Astrologer-Royal. He was unhappy that she knew only the place and date of Haresh’s birth, not the exact time of day. But he promised to see what he could do. It would require certain extra assumptions, certain extra calculations, and even the use of the adjustment factor of Uranus, which was not standard in Indian astrology; and the use of Uranus was not costless. Mrs Rupa Mehra paid up and he told her to return two days later.

  She felt quite guilty about these proceedings. After all, as she had complained to Lata when Mrs Mahesh Kapoor had asked for Savita’s horoscope: ‘I don’t believe in all this matching. If it had been true, my husband and I. . . .’ But now she told herself that perhaps the fault lay in the lack of skill of particular astrologers, not in the science itself. And the Astrologer-Royal had been very persuasive. He had explained why her gold wedding ring would ‘reinforce and concentrate the power of Jupiter’; he had advised her to wear a garnet because it would control the ecliptic node of Rahu and confer mental peace; he had praised her wisdom, which was patent to him from both her palm and her expression; and a large silver-framed photograph on his desk, facing clientwards, showed him shaking hands with the Governor himself.

  When they next met, the Astrologer-Royal said: ‘You see, in this man’s seventh house, the Jupiter is aspected by Mars. The whole impression is yellow and red, which in combination you may consider to be orange or golden, therefore his wife will be very beautiful. Then you see, the moon is surrounded by lots of planets, that is also a sign of the same thing. But the seventh house has Aries in it, who is very stubborn, and Jupiter, who is strong, which will enhance the stubbornness. So therefore he will marry a beautiful but difficult woman. Is your daughter such a one?’

  Mrs Rupa Mehra thought about the matter for a few seconds, then, hoping for better luck elsewhere, said: ‘But what about all the other houses?’

  ‘The seventh house is the House of the Wife.’

  ‘But are there no problems at all? In the matching of the two horoscopes, I mean?’ His eyes were very piercing, and she was forced to concentrate on the middle parting in his hair.

  The Astrologer-Royal looked at her for a few seconds, smiling speculatively, then said: ‘Yes, certain problems surely exist. I have examined the totality of the picture, taking into consideration the information of both your daughter and the Prospective. It is quite problematical, I would say. Kindly come and collect the problematical details this evening. I will write them down.’

  ‘And Uranus?’ asked Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘What does Uranus say?’

  ‘The effect did not prove to be significant,’ said the Astrologer-Royal. ‘But of course the calculations had to be made anyway,’ he added hastily.

  18.7

  As they entered the Haridas College of Music together, Malati’s friend said: ‘Well, there have been no more sightings of the quarry. But if there are, I’ll keep you informed.’

  ‘What are you gabbling about?’ asked Malati. ‘I hope we’re not too late.’ Ustad Majeed Khan was in an impatient mood these days.

  ‘Oh, you know, the woman he met at the Blue Danube.’

  ‘Who met?’

  ‘Kabir, of course.’

  Malati stopped and turned towards her friend:

  ‘But you said the Red Fox.’

  Her friend shrugged. ‘Did I? I might have. It’s quite confusing. But what difference does it make whether you shoot someone in Chowk or in Misri Mandi? . . . What’s the matter with you?’

  For Malati had seized her friend’s arm;
her face had gone white.

  ‘What was this woman like? What was she wearing?’ she asked.

  ‘Amazing! You didn’t want to know anything then, but now—’

  ‘Tell me. Quickly.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t there, but this girl Purnima—I don’t think you know her, she’s from Patna and she’s doing history—it was she who noticed them. She was sitting a few tables away, though, and you know what it’s like with these dimmed lights—’

  ‘But what was she wearing? The woman, I mean, not this wretched girl.’

  ‘Malati, what’s the matter with you? It’s been weeks—’

  ‘What was she wearing?’ asked Malati desperately.

  ‘A green sari. Wait, I’d better make sure I get my colours right this time, or you’ll kill me. Yes, Purnima said she was wearing a green sari—and lots of flashy emeralds. And she was tall and quite fair—that’s about all—’

  ‘Oh, what have I done—’ said Malati. ‘Oh, poor fellow—poor Kabir. What a terrible mistake. What have I done, what have I done?’

  ‘Malati,’ said Ustad Majeed Khan, ‘carry the tanpura with respect, with both hands. It isn’t the offspring of a cat. What is the matter with you?’

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked Lata, as Malati burst into her room.

  ‘It was me he was with—’ said Malati.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Kabir—that day in the Red Fox, I mean the Blue Danube.’

  A pang of literally green-eyed jealousy shot through Lata.

  ‘No—I don’t believe it. Not you!’

  The cry was so vehement that Malati was taken aback. She almost feared Lata would attack her.

  ‘I don’t mean that—I don’t mean that at all,’ said Malati. ‘I mean that he wasn’t seeing some other girl. He hasn’t been seeing anyone else. I was told the name of the wrong place. I should have waited to hear more. Lata, I blame myself. It’s entirely my fault. I can imagine what you’ve gone through. But please, please don’t take my mistake out on him—and on yourself.’