Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

There was no obvious answer to this. Mahesh Kapoor had always been dismissive of other people’s illnesses and bodily pain, and had disappeared from town whenever his wife had been about to give birth. He could not stand ‘the mess and the fuss and so on’.

Lately, Mrs Mahesh Kapoor had been much exercised by one issue which seemed to aggravate her condition. This was Maan’s involvement with Saeeda Bai, and his loitering around in Brahmpur when he had work and other obligations in Banaras. When his fiancée’s family sent an indirect inquiry through a relative about fixing a date for the marriage, Mrs Mahesh Kapoor had begged Pran to speak to him. Pran had told her that he had very little control over his younger brother. ‘He only listens to Veena,’ he had said, ‘and even then he goes and does exactly as he pleases.’ But his mother had looked so unhappy that he had agreed to talk to Maan. He had, however, put it off now for several days.

Right, said Pran to himself. I’ll talk to him today. And it’ll be a good opportunity to visit Prem Nivas.

It was already too hot to walk, so they went by tonga. Savita sat smiling silently and — Pran thought — quite mysteriously. In fact she was merely pleased to be visiting her mother-in-law, whom she liked, and with whom she enjoyed discussing neem trees and vultures and lawns and lilies.

When they got to Prem Nivas they found that Maan was still asleep. Leaving Savita with Mrs Mahesh Kapoor, who looked a little better than before, Pran went off to wake his brother up. Maan was lying in his room with his face buried in his pillow. A ceiling fan was going round and round, but the room was still quite warm.

‘Get up! Get up!’ said Pran.

‘Oh!’ said Maan, trying to ward off the light of day.

‘Get up! I have to talk to you.’

‘What? Oh! Why? All right, let me wash my face.’

Maan got up, shook his head several times, examined his face in the mirror quite carefully, did a respectful adaab to himself when his brother was not watching and, after splashing some water upon himself, came back and lay down flat on the bed once more — but on his back.

‘Who’s told you to speak to me?’ said Maan. Then, remembering what he had been dreaming about, he said, regretfully: ‘I was having the most wonderful dream. I was walking near the Barsaat Mahal with a young woman — not so young really, but her face was unlined still—’

Pran started smiling. Maan looked a little hurt.

‘Aren’t you interested?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Well, why have you come, Bhai Sahib? Why don’t you sit down on the bed — it’s much more comfortable. Oh yes,’ he said, remembering: ‘you’ve come to speak to me. Who has put you up to it?’

‘Does someone have to have put me up to it?’

‘Yes. You never proffer brotherly advice as a rule, and I can tell from your face that I am in for some proffering. All right, all right, go ahead. It’s about Saeeda Bai, I suppose.’

‘You’re absolutely right.’

‘Well, what’s there to say?’ said Maan, with a sort of happy hangdog look. ‘I’m terribly in love with her. But I don’t know if she cares for me at all.’

‘Oh, you idiot,’ said Pran affectionately.

‘Don’t make fun of me. I can’t bear it. I’m feeling very low,’ said Maan, gradually convincing himself of his romantic depression. ‘But no one believes me. Even Firoz says—’

‘And he’s quite right. You’re feeling nothing of the kind. Now tell me, do you really think that that kind of person is capable of loving?’

‘Oh?’ asked Maan. ‘Why not?’

He thought back to the last evening that he had spent in Saeeda Bai’s arms, and began to feel fuzzily amorous once more.

‘Because it’s her job not to,’ replied Pran. ‘If she fell in love with you it wouldn’t be at all good for her work — or her reputation! So she won’t. She’s too hard-headed. Anyone with one good eye can see that, and I’ve seen her for three Holis in succession.’

‘You just don’t know her, Pran,’ said his brother ardently.

This was the second time in a few hours that someone had told Pran that he just didn’t understand someone else, and he reacted impatiently.

‘Now listen, Maan, you’re making a complete fool of yourself. Women like that are brought up to pretend they’re in love with gullible men — to make their hearts light and their purses even lighter. You know that Saeeda Bai is notorious for this sort of thing.’

Maan just turned over on to his stomach and pressed his face into the pillow.

Pran found it very difficult to be righteous with his idiot of a brother. Well, I’ve done my duty, he thought. If I say anything further it’ll have just the opposite reaction to what Ammaji wants.

He tousled his brother’s hair and said: ‘Maan — are you in difficulties with money?’

Maan’s voice, slightly muffled by the pillow, said: ‘Well, it isn’t easy, you know. I’m not a client or anything, but I can’t just go empty-handed. So, well, I’ve given her a few gifts. You know.’

Pran was silent. He did not know. Then he said: ‘You haven’t eaten into the money you came to Brahmpur to do business with, have you, Maan? You know how Baoji would react if he came to know of that.’

‘No,’ said Maan, frowning. He had turned around again, and was looking up at the fan. ‘Baoji, you know, said something sharp to me a few days ago — but I’m sure he doesn’t really mind at all about Saeeda Bai. After all, he’s had quite a lively youth himself — and, besides, he’s invited her several times to sing at Prem Nivas.’

Pran said nothing. He was quite certain that his father was very displeased.

Maan went on: ‘And just a few days ago I asked him for money—“for this and for that”—and he gave me quite a generous amount.’

Pran reflected that whenever his father was occupied with a piece of legislation or some other project, he hated being disturbed, and almost paid people off so as to be able to get on with his own work.

‘So you see,’ said Maan, ‘there isn’t a problem at all.’ Having made the problem disappear, he went on: ‘But where is my lovely bhabhi? I’d much rather be scolded by her.’

‘She’s downstairs.’

‘Is she angry with me too?’

‘I’m not exactly angry with you, Maan,’ said Pran. ‘All right, get ready and come down. She’s looking forward to seeing you.’

‘What’s happening about your job?’ asked Maan.

Pran made a gesture with his right hand which was the equivalent of a shrug.

‘Oh, yes, and is Professor Mishra still furious with you?’

Pran frowned. ‘He’s not the sort of man who forgets little acts of kindness such as yours. Do you know, if you had been a student and did what you did at Holi, I might, as a member of the student welfare committee, have had to recommend your expulsion.’

‘Your students sound a very lively lot,’ said Maan approvingly.

After a while he added, with a happy smile on his face:

‘Do you know that she calls me Dagh Sahib?’

‘Oh, really?’ said Pran. ‘Very charming. I’ll see you downstairs in a few minutes.’

One evening after a longish day in the High Court, Firoz was on his way to the cantonment for some polo and a ride when he noticed his father’s secretary, Murtaza Ali, bicycling down the road with a white envelope in his hand. Firoz halted the car and called out, and Murtaza Ali stopped.

‘Where are you off to?’ asked Firoz.

‘Oh, nowhere, just within Pasand Bagh.’

‘Who’s that envelope for?’

‘Saeeda Bai Firozabadi,’ said Murtaza Ali rather reluctantly.

‘Well, that’s on my way. I’ll drop it off.’ Firoz looked at his watch. ‘It shouldn’t make me late.’