A Suitable Boy

  ‘Saeeda Begum, what would I do if I didn’t play?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Saeeda Bai, tickling the little parakeet’s beak. ‘There’s probably nothing the matter with your hand. You don’t have plans to go off for a wedding in the family, do you? Or to leave town until your famous explosion at the radio station is forgotten?’

  If Ishaq was injured by this painful reference or these unjust suspicions, he did not show it. Saeeda Bai told him to fetch Motu Chand, and the three of them soon began to make music for Maan’s pleasure. Ishaq bit his lower lip from time to time as his bow moved across the strings, but he said nothing.

  Saeeda Bai sat on a Persian rug with her harmonium in front of her. Her head was covered with her sari, and she stroked the double string of pearls hanging around her neck with a finger of her left hand. Then, humming to herself, and moving her left hand on to the bellows of the harmonium, she began to play a few notes of Raag Pilu. After a little while, and as if undecided about her mood and the kind of song she wished to sing, she modulated to a few other raags.

  ‘What would you like to hear?’ she asked Maan gently.

  She had used a more intimate ‘you’ than she had ever used so far—‘tum’ instead of ‘aap’. Maan looked at her, smiling.

  ‘Well?’ said Saeeda Bai, after a minute had gone by.

  ‘Well, Saeeda Begum?’ said Maan.

  ‘What do you want to hear?’ Again she used tum instead of aap and sent Maan’s world into a happy spin. A couplet he’d heard somewhere came to his mind:

  Among the lovers the Saki thus drew distinction’s line,

  Handing the wine-cups one by one: ‘For you, Sir’; ‘Yours’; and ‘Thine’.

  ‘Oh, anything,’ said Maan. ‘Anything at all. Whatever you feel is in your heart.’

  Maan had still not plucked up the courage to use ‘tum’ or plain ‘Saeeda’ with Saeeda Bai, except when he was making love, when he hardly knew what he said. Perhaps, he thought, she just used it absent-mindedly with me and will be offended if I reciprocate.

  But Saeeda Bai was inclined to take offence at something else.

  ‘I’m giving you the choice of music and you are returning the problem to me,’ she said. ‘There are twenty different things in my heart. Can’t you hear me changing from raag to raag?’ Then, turning away from Maan, she said:

  ‘So, Motu, what is to be sung?’

  ‘Whatever you wish, Saeeda Begum,’ said Motu Chand happily.

  ‘You blockhead, I’m giving you an opportunity that most of my audiences would kill themselves to receive and all you do is smile back at me like a weak-brained baby, and say, “Whatever you wish, Saeeda Begum.” What ghazal? Quickly. Or do you want to hear a thumri instead of a ghazal?’

  ‘A ghazal will be best, Saeeda Bai,’ said Motu Chand, and suggested ‘It’s just a heart, not brick and stone’ by Ghalib.

  At the end of the ghazal Saeeda Bai turned to Maan and said: ‘You must write a dedication in your book.’

  ‘What, in English?’ asked Maan.

  ‘It amazes me,’ said Saeeda Bai, ‘to see the great poet Dagh illiterate in his own language. We must do something about it.’

  ‘I’ll learn Urdu!’ said Maan enthusiastically.

  Motu Chand and Ishaq Khan exchanged glances. Clearly they thought that Maan was quite far gone in his fascination with Saeeda Bai.

  Saeeda Bai laughed. She asked Maan teasingly, ‘Will you really?’ Then she asked Ishaq to call the maidservant.

  For some reason Saeeda Bai was annoyed with Bibbo today. Bibbo seemed to know this, but to be unaffected by it. She came in grinning, and this reignited Saeeda Bai’s annoyance.

  ‘You’re smiling just to annoy me,’ she said impatiently. ‘And you forgot to tell the cook that the parakeet’s daal was not soft enough yesterday—do you think he has the jaws of a tiger? Stop grinning, you silly girl, and tell me—what time is Abdur Rasheed coming to give Tasneem her Arabic lesson?’

  Saeeda Bai felt safe enough with Maan to mention Tasneem’s name in his presence.

  Bibbo assumed a satisfactorily apologetic expression and said:

  ‘But he’s here already, as you know, Saeeda Bai.’

  ‘As I know? As I know?’ said Saeeda Bai with renewed impatience. ‘I don’t know anything. And nor do you,’ she added. ‘Tell him to come up at once.’

  A few minutes later Bibbo was back, but alone.

  ‘Well?’ said Saeeda Bai.

  ‘He won’t come,’ said Bibbo.

  ‘He won’t come? Does he know who pays him to give tuition to Tasneem? Does he think his honour will be unsafe if he comes upstairs to this room? Or is it just that he is giving himself airs because he is a university student?’

  ‘I don’t know, Begum Sahiba,’ said Bibbo.

  ‘Then go, girl, and ask him why. It’s his income I want to increase, not my own.’

  Five minutes later Bibbo returned with a very broad grin on her face and said, ‘He was very angry when I interrupted him again. He was teaching Tasneem a complicated passage in the Quran Sharif and told me that the divine word would have to take precedence over his earthly income. But he will come when the lesson is over.’

  ‘Actually, I’m not sure I want to learn Urdu,’ said Maan, who was beginning to regret his sudden enthusiasm. He didn’t really want to be saddled with a lot of hard work. And he hadn’t expected the conversation to take such a practical turn so suddenly. He was always making resolutions such as, ‘I must learn polo’ (to Firoz, who enjoyed introducing his friends to the tastes and joys of his own Nawabi lifestyle), or ‘I must settle down’ (to Veena, who was the only one in the family who was capable of ticking him off to some effect), or even ‘I will not give swimming lessons to whales’ (which Pran considered ill-judged levity). But he made these resolutions safe in the knowledge that their implementation was very far away.

  By now, however, the young Arabic teacher was standing outside the door, quite hesitantly and a little disapprovingly. He did adaab to the whole company, and waited to hear what was required of him.

  ‘Rasheed, can you teach my young friend here Urdu?’ asked Saeeda Bai, coming straight to the point.

  The young man nodded a little reluctantly.

  ‘The understanding will be the same as with Tasneem,’ said Saeeda Bai, who believed in getting practical matters sorted out quickly.

  ‘That will be fine,’ said Rasheed. He spoke in a somewhat clipped manner, as if he were still slightly piqued by the earlier interruptions to his Arabic lesson. ‘And the name of the gentleman?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m sorry,’ said Saeeda Bai. ‘This is Dagh Sahib, whom the world so far knows only by the name of Maan Kapoor. He is the son of Mahesh Kapoor, the Minister. And his elder brother Pran teaches at the university, where you study.’

  The young man was frowning with a sort of inward concentration. Then, fixing his sharp eyes on Maan he said, ‘It will be an honour to teach the son of Mahesh Kapoor. I am afraid I am a little late already for my next tuition. I hope that when I come tomorrow we can fix up a suitable time for our lesson. When do you tend to be free?’

  ‘Oh, he tends to be free all the time,’ said Saeeda Bai with a tender smile. ‘Time is not a problem with Dagh Sahib.’

  6.5

  One night, exhausted from marking examination papers, Pran was sleeping soundly when he was awakened with a jolt. He had been kicked. His wife had her arms around him, but she was sleeping soundly still.

  ‘Savita, Savita—the baby kicked me!’ said Pran excitedly, shaking his wife’s shoulder.

  Savita opened a reluctant eye, felt Pran’s lanky and comforting body near her, and smiled in the dark, before sinking back to sleep.

  ‘Are you awake?’ asked Pran.

  ‘Uh,’ said Savita. ‘Mm.’

  ‘But it really did!’ said Pran, unhappy with her lack of response.

  ‘What did?’ said Savita sleepily.

  ‘The baby.’

  ‘Wh
at baby?’

  ‘Our baby.’

  ‘Our baby did what?’

  ‘It kicked me.’

  Savita sat up carefully, kissed Pran’s forehead, rather as if he were a baby himself, and gave him a hug. ‘It couldn’t have. You’re dreaming. Go back to sleep. And I’ll also go back to sleep. And so will the baby.’

  ‘It did,’ said Pran, a little indignantly.

  ‘It couldn’t have,’ said Savita, lying down again. ‘I’d have felt it.’

  ‘Well it did, that’s all. You probably don’t feel its kicks any more. And you sleep very soundly. But it kicked me through your belly, it definitely did, and it woke me up.’ He was very insistent.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Savita. ‘Have it your way. I think he must have known that you were having bad dreams, all about chiasmus and Anna—whatever her name is.’

  ‘Anacoluthia.’

  ‘Yes, and I was having good dreams and he didn’t want to disturb me.’

  ‘Excellent baby,’ said Pran.

  ‘Our baby,’ said Savita. Pran got another hug.

  They were silent for a while. Then, as Pran was drifting off to sleep, Savita said:

  ‘He seems to have a lot of energy.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Pran, half asleep.

  Savita, now wide awake with her thoughts, was in no mood to cut off this conversation.

  ‘Do you think he will turn out to be like Maan?’ she asked.

  ‘He?’

  ‘I sense he’s a boy,’ said Savita in a resolved sort of way.

  ‘In what sense like Maan?’ asked Pran, suddenly remembering that his mother had asked him to talk to his brother about the direction of his life—and especially about Saeeda Bai, whom his mother referred to only as ‘woh’—that woman.

  ‘Handsome—and a flirt?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Pran, his mind on other matters.

  ‘Or an intellectual like his father?’

  ‘Oh, why not?’ said Pran, drawn back in. ‘He could do worse. But without his asthma, I hope.’

  ‘Or do you think he’ll have the temper of my grandfather?’

  ‘No, I don’t think it was an angry sort of kick. Just informative. “Here I am; it’s two in the morning, and all’s well.” Or perhaps he was, as you say, interrupting a nightmare.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll be like Arun—very dashing and sophisticated.’

  ‘Sorry, Savita,’ said Pran. ‘If he turns out to be like your brother, I’ll disown him. But he’ll have disowned us long before that. In fact, if he’s like Arun, he’s probably thinking at this very moment: “Awful service in this room; I must speak to the manager so that I can get my nutrients on time. And they should adjust the temperature of the amniotic fluid in this indoor swimming pool, as they do in five-star wombs. But what can you expect in India? Nothing works at all in this damned country. What the natives need is a good solid dose of discipline.” Perhaps that’s why he kicked me.’

  Savita laughed. ‘You don’t know Arun well enough,’ was her response.

  Pran merely grunted.

  ‘Anyway, he might take after the women in this family,’ Savita went on. ‘He might turn out to be like your mother or mine.’ The thought pleased her.

  Pran frowned, but this latest flight of Savita’s fancy was too taxing at two in the morning. ‘Do you want me to get you something to drink?’ he asked her.

  ‘No, mm, yes, a glass of water.’

  Pran sat up, coughed a little, turned towards the bedside table, switched on the bedside lamp, and poured out a glass of cool water from the thermos flask.

  ‘Here, darling,’ he said, looking at her with slightly rueful affection. How beautiful she looked now, and how wonderful it would be to make love with her.

  ‘You don’t sound too good, Pran,’ said Savita.

  Pran smiled, and passed his hand across her forehead. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I worry about you.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Pran lied.

  ‘You don’t get enough fresh air, and you use your lungs too much. I wish you were a writer, not a lecturer.’ Savita drank the water slowly, savouring its coolness in the warm night.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Pran. ‘But you don’t get enough exercise either. You should walk around a bit, even during your pregnancy.’

  ‘I know,’ said Savita, yawning now. ‘I’ve been reading the book my mother gave me.’

  ‘All right, goodnight, darling. Give me the glass.’

  He switched off the light and lay in the dark, his eyes still open. I never expected to be as happy as this, he told himself. I’m asking myself if I’m happy, and it hasn’t made me cease to be so. But how long will this last? It isn’t just me but my wife and child who are saddled with my useless lungs. I must take care of myself. I must take care of myself. I must not overwork. And I must get to sleep quickly.

  And in five minutes he was in fact asleep again.

  6.6

  The next morning a letter from Calcutta arrived in the post. It was written in Mrs Rupa Mehra’s inimitable small handwriting, and went as follows:

  Dearest Savita and Pran,

  I have just a little while ago received your dear letter and it is needless to say how delighted I am to get it. I was not expecting a letter from you Pran as I know you are working very hard and could hardly get any time to write letters so the pleasure of receiving it is even greater.

  I am sure inspite of difficulties Pran dearest your dreams in the department will come true. You must have patience, it is a lesson I have learned in life. One must work hard and everything else is not in one’s hands. I am blessed that my sweetheart Savita has such a good husband, only he must take care of his health.

  By now the baby must be kicking even more and tears come into my eyes that I cannot be there with you my Savita to share the joy. I remember when you were kicking it was so gentle a kick and Daddy bless him was there and put his hand on my stomach and could not even feel it. Now my darlingest S, you are yourself to be a mother. You are so much in my thoughts. Sometimes Arun says to me you only care for Lata and Savita but it is not true, I care for all four of my children boys or girls and take an interest in all they do. Varun is so troubled this year in his maths studies that I am very worried for him.

  Aparna is a sweetheart and so fond of her grandmother. I am often left with her in the evenings. Arun and Meenakshi go out and socialise, it is important for his job I know—and I am happy to play with her. Sometimes I read. Varun comes back very late from college, in the past he used to entertain her and that was good because children should not spend all their time with their ayahs, it can be bad for their upbringing. So now it has fallen to me and Aparna has grown so attached to me. Yesterday she said to her mother who had dressed up to go out to dinner: ‘You can go, I don’t care; if Daadi stays here I don’t care two hoots.’ Those were her exact words and I was so proud of her that at three years she could say so much. I am teaching her not to call me ‘Grandma’ but ‘Daadi’ but Meenakshi thinks if she does not learn correct English now when will she learn?

  Meenakshi sometimes I find has moods, and then she stares at me and then Savita dearest I feel that I am not wanted in the house. I want to stare back but sometimes I start crying. I can’t help it at all. Then Arun says to me, ‘Ma, don’t start the waterworks, you are always making a fuss over nothing.’ So I try not to cry, but when I think about your Daddy’s gold medal the tears are there.

  Lata is nowadays spending a lot of time with Meenakshi’s family. Meenakshi’s father Mr Justice Chatterji thinks highly of Lata I think, and Meenakshi’s sister Kakoli is also fond of her. Then there are the three boys Amit and Dipankar and Tapan Chatterji, who all seem more and more strange to me. Amit says Lata should learn Bengali, it is the only truly civilised language in India. He himself as you know writes his books in English so why does he say that only Bengali is civilised and Hindi is not? I don’t know, but the Chatterjis are an unusual family. They have a piano but the father wears a dhoti q
uite a lot in the evenings. Kakoli sings Rabindrasangeet and also western music, but her voice is not to my taste and she has a modern reputation in Calcutta. Sometimes I wonder how my Arun got married into such a family but all is for the best as I have my Aparna.

  Lata I fear was very angry and hurt with me when we first came to Calcutta and also worried about her exam results and not like herself at all. You must telegram the results as soon as they come, no matter whether good or bad. It was that boy K of course and nothing else whom she met in Brahmpur and he was clearly a bad influence. Sometimes she made a bitter remark to me and sometimes only gave minimum answers to my questions, but can you imagine if I had let things go on in that way? I had no help or sympathy from Arun at all in this but now I have told him to introduce Lata to his covenanted and other friends and let us see. If only I could find a husband like Pran for my Lata, I would die contented. If Daddy had seen you Pran, he would have known that his Savita was in good hands.

  One day I was so hurt that I said to Lata, it was all very well to have non-cooperation in Gandhiji’s time against the British, but I am your own mother, and it is very stubborn of you that you are doing this. Doing what? she said—and it was so indifferent that I felt my heart had broken. My dearest Savita, I pray, if you have a daughter—although actually it is time for a grandson in the family—then she will not ever be so cold to you. But at other times, she forgets she is angry with me—and then she is quite affectionate until she remembers.

  May God Almighty keep you well and happy to carry out all your plans. And soon in the Monsoon I will see you, D.V.

  Lots and lots of love to both of you from me, Arun, Varun, Lata, Aparna and Meenakshi and a big hug and kiss as well. Don’t worry about me, my blood sugar is all right.

  From your everloving Ma

  P.S. Please give my love to Maan, Veena, Kedarnath and also Bhaskar and Kedarnath’s mother and your own parents Pran (I hope the neem blossoms are less troublesome now)—and my father and Parvati—and of course to the Baby Expected. Also give my salaams to Mansoor and Mateen and the other servants. It is so hot in Calcutta but it must be worse in Brahmpur and in your condition Savita you must remain very cool and not go out in the sun or take unnecessary exercise. You must get plenty of rest. When in doubt about what to do, you must remember to do nothing. After the birth you will be busy enough, believe me, my dearest Savita, and you must conserve your strength.