A Suitable Boy

  9.2

  Meanwhile, Kalpana tried her best to ferret out likely prospects for Lata. In all she found seven, which was not bad at such short notice. Three were friends or acquaintances, three were friends or acquaintances of friends or acquaintances, and one was the friend of a friend of a friend.

  The first, a lively and friendly young man, had been with her at university, and had acted with her in plays. He was rejected by Mrs Rupa Mehra as being too rich. ‘You know our circumstances, Kalpana,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.

  ‘But he is sure not to want a dowry. He’s very flush,’ said Kalpana.

  ‘They are far too well-to-do,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra with decision. ‘There’s no point talking about it. Even their normal expectations for the wedding will be too high. We’ll have to feed a thousand people. Of those, probably seven hundred will be guests from their side. And we’ll have to put them up, and give all the women saris.’

  ‘But he’s a good boy,’ persisted Kalpana, ‘at least look at him.’

  Her flu had improved, and she was as energetic as ever.

  Mrs Rupa Mehra shook her head. ‘If I liked him it would only upset me. He may be good, but he lives with his whole family. Lata will always be compared with the other daughters-in-law—she’ll be the poor relation. I won’t have it. She won’t be happy.’

  And so the first prospect was excluded.

  The second, whom they went to see, spoke good English and seemed a sober fellow. But he was too tall. He would tower over Lata. He would not do. ‘If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra to Kalpana, though she herself had begun to feel disheartened.

  The third boy was also problematic.

  ‘Too dark, too dark,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.

  ‘But Meenakshi—’ began Kalpana Gaur.

  ‘Don’t talk to me about Meenakshi,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra in a tone that brooked no argument.

  ‘Ma, let Lata decide what she thinks of him.’

  ‘I will not have black grandchildren,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.

  ‘You said exactly that when Arun got married—and see how fond you are of Aparna. And she isn’t even dark—’

  Mrs Rupa Mehra said: ‘Aparna is different.’ After a pause she thought of something else. ‘The exception proves the rule,’ she added.

  Kalpana Gaur said: ‘Lata isn’t all that fair herself.’

  ‘All the more reason,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. What this meant was unclear; what was clear was that her mind had been made up.

  The fourth prospect was the son of a jeweller who had a prosperous shop in Connaught Circus. Within five minutes of their meeting his parents mentioned a dowry of two lakh rupees. Mrs Rupa Mehra stared at Kalpana in astonishment.

  When they got out of the house, Kalpana said: ‘Honestly, Ma, I didn’t know they were like that. I don’t even know the boy myself. A friend simply told me that they had a son for whom they were seeking a bride. I’d never have put you through all that if I’d known.’

  ‘If my husband was alive,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, still smarting, ‘he might have been Chairman of the Railway Board, and we’d never have to lower our heads before anyone, certainly not people like these.’

  The fifth candidate, though decent enough, could not speak English properly. Try, try again.

  The sixth was wanting—harmless, quite pleasant, but slightly deficient. He smiled innocently throughout the interview which Mrs Rupa Mehra conducted with his parents.

  Mrs Rupa Mehra, thinking of Robert Bruce and the spider, was convinced that the seventh man would be the one for her daughter.

  The seventh, however, had whisky on his breath and his uncertain laugh reminded her uncomfortably of Varun.

  Mrs Rupa Mehra was deeply discouraged and, having exhausted her contacts in Delhi, decided that Kanpur, Lucknow, and Banaras (in each of which she or her late husband had relatives) would have to be dredged before she returned to try her luck in Brahmpur (where, however, lurked the undesirable Kabir). But what if Kanpur, Lucknow, and Banaras proved equally fruitless?

  By now Kalpana had suffered a relapse and fallen quite seriously ill (though the doctors were puzzled about the diagnosis; she had stopped sneezing, but seemed to be weak and sleepy all the time). Mrs Rupa Mehra decided to spend a few days nursing her before she left Delhi for the rest of her slightly premature Annual Trans-India Rail Pilgrimage.

  9.3

  One evening, a rather short but energetic young man appeared at the door and was greeted by Mr Gaur.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Gaur—I wonder if you remember me. I’m Haresh Khanna.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ said Mr Gaur.

  ‘I knew Kalpana at St Stephen’s. We studied English together.’

  ‘Weren’t you the one who went to England to study physics or something? I don’t think I’ve seen you in years.’

  ‘Shoes.’

  ‘Oh. Shoes. I see.’

  ‘Is Kalpana in?’

  ‘Well, yes—but she isn’t very well.’ Mr Gaur pointed his stick at the tonga, which had a suitcase on it together with a briefcase and a bedding roll. ‘Were you thinking of staying here?’ he asked, rather alarmed.

  ‘No—no—not at all. My father lives near Neel Darvaza. I’ve come straight from the station. I work in Cawnpore. I thought I’d drop by and see Kalpana before I went to Baoji’s house. But if she isn’t well. . . . What is the matter? Nothing serious, I hope?’ Haresh smiled, and his eyes disappeared.

  Mr Gaur frowned at him for a few seconds, then spoke.

  ‘The doctors can’t agree. But she keeps yawning. Health is the most precious possession, young man.’ (He had forgotten Haresh’s name.) ‘Don’t forget that.’ He paused. ‘Well, come in.’

  Even though her father had been surprised by his sudden, unannounced arrival, Kalpana, when she entered the drawing room, could not have been more happy than to see Haresh. They had corresponded off and on for a year or so after they left college, but time and distance had taken their toll, and the crush she had had on him had slowly faded. Then had come her unhappy affair and broken engagement. Haresh had heard of this through friends, and he told himself that the next time he was in Delhi he would go over and say hello.

  ‘You!’ said Kalpana Gaur, reviving.

  ‘Me!’ said Haresh, pleased with his restorative powers.

  ‘You’re every bit as good-looking as when I used to admire you during Dr Mathai’s lectures on Byron.’

  ‘And you’re just as charming as when all of us were laying ourselves and our cloaks under your feet.’

  A slight tinge of sadness entered the smile on Kalpana Gaur’s face. Since she had been one of the few girls at St Stephen’s, she had been in natural demand. She was quite pretty too in those days; indeed, perhaps she still was. But for some reason none of her boyfriends remained boyfriends for long. She had a very decided personality and fairly soon took to telling them what they should do with their lives and studies and work. She began to mother them or perhaps brother them (since she was something of a tomboy)—and this sooner or later took the edge off their romantic excitement. They even began to find her vivacity overpowering, and sooner or later edged away from her—with guilt on their side and pain on hers. This was a great pity, for Kalpana Gaur was a lively, affectionate, and intelligent woman, and deserved some recompense for the help and happiness she gave others.

  In Haresh’s case, she had never really stood a chance. He was very fond of her at college, but his heart was then—as it was now—with Simran, a Sikh girl, the sweetheart of his adolescence whose family was determined that she should not marry him because he was not a Sikh.

  Mutual compliments having been exchanged, Haresh and Kalpana started talking about the old days even before catching up on what had happened to them since they had last written to each other two years ago. Mr Gaur had gone inside; young people, he found, had remarkably little of interest to say.

  Suddenly Kalpana Gaur got up. ‘Do you remember my good-looking aunt?’ She
sometimes referred to Mrs Rupa Mehra as her aunt although, strictly speaking, she was nothing of the kind.

  ‘No,’ said Haresh. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met her. But I remember you used to talk about her.’

  ‘Well, she’s staying with us at the moment.’

  ‘I’d like to meet her,’ said Haresh.

  Kalpana went to fetch Mrs Rupa Mehra, who had been writing letters in her room.

  She was dressed in a brown-and-white cotton sari, slightly crushed—she had been resting half an hour before—and Haresh thought her very fine-looking. His eyes crinkled into a smile as he stood up; Kalpana introduced them.

  ‘Khanna?’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, wheels whirring.

  The young man, she noted, was well dressed, in a cream-coloured silk shirt and a pair of fawn trousers. He had a pleasant, squarish face. And he was fairly fair.

  Mrs Rupa Mehra for once didn’t say much during the ensuing conversation. Although Haresh had been to Brahmpur just a few months ago, it didn’t come up, and nor did any common names, so there was no obvious point of entry for her. Anyway, Kalpana Gaur had steered the conversation towards Haresh’s recent history, and Mrs Rupa Mehra listened with growing interest. Haresh, for his part, was happy to regale Kalpana with some of his recent achievements and exploits. He was an energetic man, with a great deal of optimism and self-confidence, and was not hindered by too delicate a sense of modesty.

  Haresh found his work at the Cawnpore Leather & Footwear Company fascinating, and assumed that everyone else would too. ‘I’ve only been at CLFC a year, but I’m establishing a whole new department—and I’ve got them orders that they didn’t have the know-how or the initiative to get themselves. But there’s no future in it, that’s the trouble. Ghosh is the top man, and it’s all family owned, and I can’t aspire to anything really. All of them are Bengalis.’

  ‘Bengali entrepreneurs?’ said Kalpana Gaur.

  ‘Sounds odd, doesn’t it?’ agreed Haresh. ‘Ghosh is an impressive man, though. Tall, self-made. He has a construction business that he runs from Bombay. This is only one of his interests.’

  Mrs Rupa Mehra nodded in approval. She liked the idea of self-made people.

  ‘Anyway, I’m not a political fellow,’ continued Haresh, ‘and there’s far too much politics among the officers at CLFC. Far too much office politics and not enough work. And three hundred and fifty a month is not much for the kind of work I’m doing. It’s just that I had to find the first job I could when I came back from England. I was broke, so I had no choice.’ The memory did not appear to disturb him.

  Mrs Rupa Mehra looked at Haresh anxiously.

  He smiled. His eyes now crinkled up almost completely. He had once been promised ten rupees by his college friends to keep his eyes open when he smiled, and he had not been able to earn it.

  Mrs Rupa Mehra couldn’t help smiling back.

  ‘So I’ve come to Delhi not just on work but also to look around.’ Haresh passed his hand across his forehead. ‘I’ve brought all my certificates and testimonials and so on, and I have an interview with a firm here. Of course Baoji thinks I should stick with a sure thing, and Umesh Uncle doesn’t think much of anything I do, but I’m determined to give it a try. So, Kalpana, do you know of any jobs available in my line? Anyone whom I should see in Delhi? I’ll be staying at Neel Darvaza with the family as usual.’

  ‘I don’t, but if I hear of anything that might suit you—’ began Kalpana. Then, in a sudden flash of inspiration, she said: ‘Listen, do you really have your testimonials and so on here?’

  ‘They’re in the tonga outside. I came straight from the station.’

  ‘You did?’ Kalpana beamed at Haresh.

  Haresh threw up his hands in a gesture that could have meant that Kalpana’s charm was an irresistible beacon to the weary traveller, or merely that he had decided to get long-deferred social business over with before he got caught up with the family and the world.

  ‘Well, then, let’s see them; fetch them.’

  ‘Fetch them?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Haresh. We want to see them even if you don’t want to show them.’ Kalpana gestured towards Mrs Rupa Mehra, who nodded quite vigorously.

  But Haresh was only too willing to show off his certificates. He got his briefcase from the tonga, and brought out all his diplomas from the Midlands College of Technology together with a couple of glowing testimonials, one of them from the Principal himself. Kalpana Gaur read out several of these, and Mrs Rupa Mehra listened with close attention. From time to time Haresh mentioned a relevant fact or two, for example that he had topped the list in the examination for pattern-cutting or had won some medal or other. He was not at all bashful about his achievements.

  At the end of it, Mrs Rupa Mehra said to Haresh: ‘You should be very proud.’

  She would have liked to talk with them further, but she had to go out that evening for dinner and had not yet changed out of her crushed sari. Excusing herself, she got up. As she was about to leave the room, Haresh said: ‘Mrs Mehra, it’s been a great pleasure to meet you. But are you sure we haven’t met before?’

  Mrs Rupa Mehra said: ‘I never forget a face. I am sure I would have remembered if we had met.’ She left the room, looking pleased but slightly preoccupied.

  Haresh rubbed his forehead. He felt convinced that he had seen her before, but he couldn’t remember where.

  9.4

  When Mrs Rupa Mehra returned from dinner, she said to Kalpana Gaur:

  ‘Of all the boys we have met, Kalpana, I like that young man the most. Why didn’t you introduce me to him before? Was there some, well, particular reason?’

  ‘Well, no, Ma, I didn’t even think of him. He just happened to arrive from Kanpur.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Kanpur. Of course.’

  ‘Incidentally, he was much taken by you. He thinks you’re very attractive. He said you were “strikingly good-looking”.’

  ‘You are a very naughty girl to call me your good-looking aunt.’

  ‘But very truthful.’

  ‘What does your father think of him?’

  ‘My father only met him for a minute. But you really liked him?’ continued Kalpana, with a speculative expression.

  Mrs Rupa Mehra had indeed liked Haresh. She had liked the fact that he was energetic, that he was independent of his family (though affectionate towards them), and that he clearly took great care with his appearance. Nowadays, many boys looked so scruffy. And one crucial point in Haresh’s favour was his name. Being a Khanna, he was bound to be a khatri.

  ‘We must fix up a meeting,’ she said. ‘Is he—you know—’

  ‘Available?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, he was in love with a Sikh girl once,’ said Kalpana Gaur quietly. ‘I don’t know what came of it.’

  ‘Oh. Why didn’t you ask him about it when I left? You talked like old friends.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure at the time that you were so interested in him,’ said Kalpana Gaur, her face reddening a little.

  ‘I am. He might be just the boy for Lata, don’t you think? I’ll telegram her to come to Delhi immediately. Immediately.’ Mrs Rupa Mehra furrowed her forehead. ‘Do you know Meenakshi’s brother?’

  ‘No. I only met Meenakshi at the wedding—’

  ‘He’s causing no end of worry to me.’ Mrs Rupa Mehra clicked her tongue.

  ‘Isn’t he the poet, Amit Chatterji?’ asked Kalpana. ‘He’s quite famous, you know, Ma.’

  ‘Famous! All he does is sit in his father’s house and stare out of the upstairs window. A young man should do a job and earn his living.’ Mrs Rupa Mehra enjoyed the poetry of Patience Strong, Wilhelmina Stitch, and various other writers, but that the creation of it involved any activity—or necessary inactivity—she found incomprehensible. ‘Lata has been seeing far too much of him.’

  ‘You’re not saying that there’s a chance—’ laughed Kalpana, looking at Mrs Rupa Mehra’s expression. ‘Well, Ma, at least let him write a
couple of poems to Lata.’

  ‘I am not saying anything and I am not speculating,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, upset by the thought of the developments in Calcutta. ‘I am tired now. Why must I run from city to city? I think I must have eaten too much, and I have forgotten to take my homoeopathic medicine.’ She got up, turned to speak again, thought better of it, and picked up her big black bag.

  ‘Goodnight, Ma,’ said Kalpana. ‘I’ve put a jug of water by your bed. If there’s anything you want, please tell me—Ovaltine or Horlicks or anything. And I’ll get in touch with Haresh tomorrow.’

  ‘No, darling, you must rest now. It’s very late, and you are not very well.’

  ‘Actually, Ma, I’m feeling a lot better than I felt earlier today. Haresh and Lata—Lata and Haresh. Well, no harm trying.’

  But the next morning, Kalpana Gaur was not feeling at all well, and spent the day listless and yawning. And the day after, when she sent a message to Neel Darvaza, she found that Haresh Khanna had already returned to Kanpur.

  9.5

  In the train from Calcutta to Kanpur Lata had plenty of time to wonder about her sudden summons. The telegram from Mrs Rupa Mehra had been cryptic, as the best telegrams are, and had required her to come to Kanpur in two days’ time.

  It was a day journey, though a long one. Arun had got up early to drop her at Howrah Station. Howrah Bridge was uncrowded. When they got to the station with its familiar smell of smoke, urine and fish, Arun made sure she was well settled in her ladies’ compartment.

  ‘What’ll you read on the way?’

  ‘Emma.’

  ‘Not like our saloons, is it?’

  ‘No,’ said Lata with a smile.

  ‘I’ve telegrammed Brahmpur, so Pran ought to be at the station. Maybe Savita too. Look out for them.’

  ‘All right, Arun Bhai.’

  ‘Now, be good. It won’t be the same without you at home. Aparna will be much more difficult.’