A Suitable Boy

  Arun sighed.

  ‘I’ve been dreaming about you,’ lied Meenakshi.

  ‘You have?’ asked Arun, mollified. ‘Let’s—’

  ‘Oh, later, don’t you think, darling?’ said Meenakshi coolly. ‘We have to go out this evening.’

  ‘Isn’t there any bloody evening when we don’t go out?’ asked Arun.

  Meenakshi shrugged, as if to say that most of the engagements were not of her making.

  ‘I wish I were a bachelor again.’ Arun had said it without meaning to.

  Meenakshi’s eyes flamed. ‘If you want to be like that—’ she began.

  ‘No, no, I don’t mean it. It’s just this bloody stress. And my back’s playing up again.’

  ‘I don’t find Varun’s bachelor life all that admirable,’ said Meenakshi.

  Nor did Arun. He shook his head again, and sighed. He looked exhausted.

  Poor Arun, thought Meenakshi. ‘Tea—or a drink, darling?’ she said.

  ‘Tea,’ said Arun. ‘Tea. A nice cup of tea. A drink can wait.’

  7.44

  Varun had not yet returned because he was busy gambling and smoking in Sajid’s house in Park Lane, a street that was seedier than it sounded. Sajid, Jason, Varun and a few other friends were sitting on Sajid’s huge bed upstairs, and playing flush: starting from one anna blind, two annas seen. Today, as on a few other occasions, they were joined by Sajid’s downstairs tenants, Paul and his sister Hortense. Hortense (referred to by Sajid and his friends among themselves as ‘Hot-Ends’) was sitting on the lap of her boyfriend (a ship’s purser) and playing on his behalf from that position. The stakes had risen to four annas blind, eight annas seen—the maximum they ever allowed themselves. Everyone was jittery, and people were packing in their hands left and right. Eventually only Varun, who was extremely nervous, and Hot-Ends, who was extremely calm, were left.

  ‘Just Varun and Hortense alone together,’ said Sajid. ‘It’ll really hot up now.’

  Varun flushed deep red and almost dropped his cards. It was common knowledge among the friends (but not to Hortense’s boyfriend the purser) that Paul—who was otherwise unemployed—pimped for his sister whenever her boyfriend was out of town. God knows where he went to get his customers, but he would sometimes come back late in the evening with a businessman in a taxi, and stand, smoking Rhodes Navy Cut, at the foot of the stairs or outside on the steps while Hortense and her client got on with it.

  ‘A royal flush,’ said Jason, referring to Varun’s expression.

  Varun, trembling with nervous tension and glancing at his cards for reassurance, whispered, ‘I’ll stay in.’ He put an eight-anna coin in the kitty, which now contained almost five rupees.

  Hot-Ends, without glancing at her cards, or at anyone, and with as blasé an expression as she could manage, wordlessly pushed another eight annas into the pool. Her boyfriend moved his finger up and down the hollow of her throat, and she leaned back.

  Varun, his tongue passing nervously over his lips and his eyes glazed with excitement, staked another eight annas. Hot-Ends, looking straight at him this time, and holding his frightened and fascinated glance with her own, said, as huskily as possible: ‘Oh you greedy boy! You just want to take advantage of me. Well, I’ll give you what you want.’ And she put another eight annas into the kitty.

  Varun could bear it no longer. Weak with suspense and terrified by what her hand might reveal, he asked for a show. Hot-Ends had a King, Queen and Jack of spades. Varun almost collapsed with relief. He had an Ace, King and Queen of diamonds.

  But he looked as shattered as if he had lost. He begged his friends to excuse him and let him go home.

  ‘Not a chance!’ said Sajid. ‘You can’t just make a packet and disappear. You have to fight to keep it.’

  And Varun promptly lost all his winnings (and more) over the next few games. Everything I do goes wrong, he thought to himself as he returned home in the tram. I am a useless person—useless—and a disgrace to the family. Thinking of how Hot-Ends had looked at him, he began to get nervous again, and wondered if more trouble was not in store for him if he continued to associate with his Shamshu friends.

  7.45

  The morning that Mrs Rupa Mehra was about to leave for Delhi, the Mehra family was sitting at the breakfast table. Arun as usual was doing the crossword. After a while he looked at a few other pages.

  ‘You could at least talk to me,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘I am leaving today, and you are hiding behind your newspaper.’

  Arun looked up. ‘Listen to this, Ma,’ he said. ‘Just the thing for you.’ And he read out an advertisement from the paper in a sarcastic voice:

  ‘Diabetes cured in Seven Days. No matter how severe or longstanding, Diabetes can be completely cured by VENUS CHARM, the very latest Scientific Discovery. Some of the main symptoms of this disease are Abnormal thirst and hunger, Excess sugar in urine and Itching etc. In its serious form it causes Carbuncles, Boils, Cataract and other complications. Thousands have escaped from the gallows of death by using VENUS CHARM. The very next day it eradicates sugar and normalises specific gravity. Within 2 or 3 days you will feel more than half cured. No dietary restrictions. Price per phial of 50 tablets 6 rupees 12 annas. Postage free. Available from Venus Research Laboratory (N.H.) Post Box 587. Calcutta.’

  Mrs Rupa Mehra had begun weeping silently. ‘I hope you never get diabetes,’ she said to her elder son. ‘Make as much fun of me as you like now, but—’

  ‘But when you are dead and gone—the pyre—the empty chair—yes, yes, we know the rest,’ continued Arun rather brutally.

  His back had been acting up the previous night, and Meenakshi had not been satisfied with his performance.

  ‘Shut up, Arun Bhai!’ said Varun, his face white and twitching with anger. He went to his mother and put his arm around her shoulder.

  ‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ said Arun, getting up and advancing menacingly towards Varun. ‘“Shut up”? Did you say “Shut up” to me? Get out at once. Get out!’ He was working himself into a fit of rage. ‘Get out!’ he bellowed once more.

  It was unclear whether he wanted Varun out of the room, the house or his life.

  ‘Arun Bhai, really—’ protested Lata indignantly.

  Varun flinched, and retreated to the other side of the table.

  ‘Oh do sit down, both of you,’ said Meenakshi. ‘Let’s have breakfast in peace.’

  Both of them sat down. Arun glared at Varun, Varun glared at his egg.

  ‘And he won’t even provide me with a car to get to the station,’ continued Mrs Rupa Mehra, reaching into her black bag for a handkerchief. ‘I have to depend on the charity of strangers.’

  ‘Really, Ma,’ said Lata, putting her arm around her mother and kissing her. ‘Amit is hardly a stranger.’

  Mrs Rupa Mehra’s shoulders became tense.

  ‘You also,’ she said to Lata. ‘You have no care for my feelings.’

  ‘Ma!’ said Lata.

  ‘You will be gallivanting around merrily. Only my darling Aparna will be sorry to see me go.’

  ‘Ma, do be reasonable. Varun and I will be going with you to the homoeopath’s and then to the station. And Amit will be here in fifteen minutes with the car. Do you want him to see you in tears?’

  ‘I don’t care what he sees or does not see,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra with a snappish edge to her voice.

  Amit arrived on time. Mrs Rupa Mehra had washed her face, but her nose was still red with emotion. When she said goodbye to Aparna, both of them began to cry. Luckily Arun had already left for work, so he could not make unhelpful comments from the sidelines.

  Dr Nuruddin, the homoeopath, was a middle-aged man with a long face, a jovial manner, and rather a drawling voice. He greeted Mrs Rupa Mehra warmly, obtained her general particulars and her medical history, looked at her blood sugar charts, talked for a minute or two about Kakoli Chatterji, stood up, sat down again, and then embarked upon a disconcerting line of questioning.

/>   ‘You have reached menopause?’

  ‘Yes. But why—’

  ‘Yes?’ asked Dr Nuruddin, as of a fractious child.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra meekly.

  ‘Do you find yourself easily irritable, upset?’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

  Dr Nuruddin smiled. ‘Many people do. Do you, Mrs Mehra?’

  ‘Yes. This morning at breakfast—’

  ‘Tears?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you sometimes feel extreme sadness? Abject despair, uncompromising melancholy?’

  He pronounced these as one would medical symptoms like itching or intestinal pain. Mrs Rupa Mehra looked at him in perplexity.

  ‘Extreme? How extreme?’ she faltered.

  ‘Any answer you can give me will be helpful.’

  Mrs Rupa Mehra thought before replying: ‘Sometimes I feel very despairing. Whenever I think of my late husband.’

  ‘Are you thinking of him now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And are you in despair?’

  ‘Not just now,’ confessed Mrs Rupa Mehra.

  ‘What are you feeling just now?’ asked Dr Nuruddin.

  ‘How peculiar all this is.’

  Translated, this meant: ‘That you are mad. And so am I, for putting up with these questions.’

  Dr Nuruddin touched the eraser on his pencil to the tip of his nose before asking: ‘Mrs Mehra, do you think my questions are not pertinent? That they are impertinent?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘I assure you that they are very pertinent for understanding your condition. In homoeopathy we try to deal with the whole system, we do not merely confine ourselves to the physical side. Now tell me, do you suffer from loss of memory?’

  ‘No. I always remember the names and birthdays of friends, and other important things.’

  Dr Nuruddin wrote something down on a small pad. ‘Good, good,’ he said. ‘And dreams?’

  ‘Dreams?’

  ‘Dreams.’

  ‘Yes?’ asked Mrs Rupa Mehra in bewilderment.

  ‘What dreams do you have, Mrs Mehra?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘You don’t remember?’ he responded with genial scepticism.

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, gritting her teeth.

  ‘Do you grind your teeth in your sleep?’

  ‘How do I know? I’m sleeping. What does all this have to do with my diabetes?’

  Dr Nuruddin continued jovially: ‘Do you ever wake up thirsty at night?’

  Mrs Rupa Mehra, frowning, replied: ‘Yes, quite often. I keep a jug of water by my bedside.’

  ‘Do you feel more tired in the morning or in the evening?’

  ‘In the morning, I think. Until I do my recitations from the Gita. Then I feel stronger.’

  ‘Are you fond of mangoes?’

  Mrs Rupa Mehra stared at Dr Nuruddin across the table: ‘How do you know?’ she demanded.

  ‘It was only a question, Mrs Mehra. Does your urine smell of violets?’

  ‘How dare you?’ cried Mrs Rupa Mehra, outraged.

  ‘Mrs Mehra, I am trying to help you,’ said Dr Nuruddin, laying his pencil down. ‘Will you answer my questions?’

  ‘I will not answer such questions. My train is leaving from Howrah in under an hour. I have to go.’

  Dr Nuruddin took down his copy of the Materia Medica and opened it to the relevant page. ‘You see, Mrs Mehra,’ he said, ‘I am not conjuring up these symptoms out of my head. But even the strength of your resistance to my questions has been helpful to me in my diagnosis. Now I have only one further question.’

  Mrs Rupa Mehra tensed up. ‘Yes?’ she asked.

  ‘Do the tips of your fingers ever itch?’ asked Dr Nuruddin.

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, and breathed a deep sigh.

  Dr Nuruddin stroked the bridge of his nose with his two index fingers for a minute, then wrote out a prescription, and handed it to his dispensing assistant, who began to grind various materials up into a white powder, which he distributed into twenty-one tiny paper packets.

  ‘You will not eat onions or ginger or garlic, and you will take one small packet of powder before each meal. At least half an hour before each meal,’ said Dr Nuruddin.

  ‘And this will improve my diabetes?’

  ‘Inshallah.’

  ‘But I thought you would give me those small pills,’ protested Mrs Rupa Mehra.

  ‘I prefer powders,’ said Dr Nuruddin. ‘Come back in seven days, and we will see—’

  ‘I am leaving Calcutta. I won’t be back for months.’

  Dr Nuruddin, not quite so jovially, said: ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘You didn’t ask me. I’m sorry, Doctor.’

  ‘Yes. And where are you going to?’

  ‘To Delhi, and then to Brahmpur. My daughter Savita is expecting,’ confided Mrs Rupa Mehra.

  ‘When will you be in Brahmpur?’

  ‘In a week or two.’

  ‘I don’t like to prescribe for long periods,’ said Dr Nuruddin, ‘but there doesn’t seem to be much choice.’ He spoke to his assistant before continuing:

  ‘I am giving you medicines for two weeks. You must write to me at this address after five days, telling me how you are feeling. And in Brahmpur you must visit Dr Baldev Singh. Here is his address. I will write him a note about you later today. Please pay and collect your medicines at the front. Goodbye, Mrs Mehra.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.

  ‘Next,’ called Dr Nuruddin cheerfully.

  7.46

  Mrs Rupa Mehra was unusually quiet on the way to the station. When asked by her children how the appointment with the doctor had gone, she said: ‘It was peculiar. You can tell Kuku that.’

  ‘Are you going to follow his prescription?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘I was not brought up to waste money.’ She sounded as if she was irritated by their presence.

  Throughout a long traffic jam on Howrah Bridge, while precious minutes ticked by, and the Humber inched its way forward through a raucous, horn-blowing, yelling, deafening throng of buses, trams, taxis, cars, motorcycles, carts, rickshaws, bicycles and—above all—pedestrians, Mrs Rupa Mehra, who would normally have been in a desperate, bangle-clutching panic, hardly seemed to be aware that her train would be leaving in less than fifteen minutes.

  Only after the traffic had miraculously got moving and she was ensconced with all her suitcases in her compartment and had had a good chance to look at the other passengers did Mrs Rupa Mehra’s natural emotions reassert themselves. Kissing Lata with tears in her eyes she told her that she had to take care of Varun. Kissing Varun with tears in her eyes, she told him that he had to take care of Lata. Amit stood a little apart. Howrah Station with its crowds and smoke and bustle and blare and all-pervasive smell of decaying fish was not his favourite place in the world.

  ‘Really, Amit, it was very nice of you to let us have the car,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, attempting to be gracious.

  ‘Not at all, Ma, it happened to be free. Kuku, by some miracle, hadn’t reserved it.’

  ‘Yes. Kuku,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, suddenly flustered. Though she was in the habit of telling people that she was invariably called Ma and that she liked it, she was not happy at present to hear herself thus addressed by Amit. She looked at her daughter with alarm. She thought of Lata when she had been as old as Aparna. Who could have thought she would have grown up so quickly?

  ‘Give my best love to your family,’ she said to Amit in a voice that carried very little conviction.

  Amit was puzzled by what seemed to be—but perhaps he had only imagined it?—an undercurrent of hostility. What, he wondered, had happened at the homoeopath’s to upset Lata’s mother? Or was she upset with him?

  On the way back home, all of them agreed that Mrs Rupa Mehra had been in a most peculiar mood.

  Amit said: ‘I feel I’ve done something to upset your mother.
I should have brought you back on time that evening.’

  Lata said: ‘It isn’t you. It’s me. She wanted me to go with her to Delhi, and I didn’t want to go.’

  Varun said: ‘It’s because of me. I know it. She looked so unhappy with me. She can’t bear to see me waste my life. I’ve got to turn over a new leaf. I can’t disappoint her again. And when you see me going back to my old ways, Luts, you have to get angry with me. Really angry. Shout at me. Tell me I’m a damn fool and have no leadership qualities. None!’

  Lata promised to do so.

  Part Eight

  8.1

  No one saw off Maan and his Urdu teacher Abdur Rasheed at the Brahmpur Railway Station. It was noon. Maan was in such unhappy spirits in fact that even the presence of Pran or Firoz or his more disreputable student companions would not have soothed him much. He felt that he was being exiled, and he was quite right: that was exactly how both his father and Saeeda Bai saw matters. His father’s ultimatum to get out of town had been direct, Saeeda Bai’s solution had been more artful. One had coerced him and one had cajoled him. Both liked Maan, and both wanted him out of the way.

  Maan did not blame Saeeda Bai, or not much; he felt that his absence would be very hard on her, and that by suggesting that he go to Rudhia instead of back to Banaras, she was keeping him as close to herself as, under the circumstances, she could hope to. He was furious with his father, though, who had thrown him out of Brahmpur for hardly any reason at all, had refused to listen to his side of things, and had grunted in a satisfied way when told that he would be going off to his Urdu teacher’s village.

  ‘Visit our farm while you’re there—I’d like to hear how things are getting on,’ was what his father had said. Then, after a pause, he had added, needlessly: ‘That is, if you can make the time to travel a few miles. I know what an industrious student you will turn out to be.’

  Mrs Mahesh Kapoor had merely hugged her son and told him to come back soon. Sometimes, thought Maan, bridling and frustrated, even his mother’s affection was unbearable. It was she who was unshakably set against Saeeda Bai.