Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘With myself, perhaps,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. She did not look at the medal-melter, but glanced across at Lata, who was gazing out of the window at the small garden. Lata was more than usually quiet this morning, and Mrs Rupa Mehra told herself that she had to get the silly girl to snap out of this mood. Well, tomorrow there was a party at the Chatterjis’, and, like it or not, Lata would have to go.

A car horn sounded loudly outside, and Varun flinched.

‘I should fire that bloody driver,’ said Arun. Then he laughed and added: ‘But he certainly makes me aware when it’s time to leave for the office. Bye, darling.’ He swallowed a gulp of coffee and kissed Meenakshi. ‘I’ll send the car back in half an hour. Bye, Ugly.’ He kissed Aparna and rubbed his cheek against hers. ‘Bye, Ma. Bye, everyone. Don’t forget, Basil Cox will be coming for dinner.’

Carrying his jacket over one arm and his briefcase in the other, he walked, rather, strode out to the little sky-blue Austin outside. It was never clear until the last moment whether Arun would take the newspaper with him to the office; it was part of the general uncertainty of living with him, just as were his sudden switches from anger to affection to urbanity. Today, to everyone’s relief, he let the newspaper remain.

Normally Varun and Lata would both have made a grab for it, and today Varun was disappointed when Lata did not. The atmosphere had lightened since Arun’s departure. Aparna now became the focus of attention. Her mother fed her incompetently, then called for the Toothless Crone to handle her. Varun read bits of the news to her, and she listened with a careful pretence at comprehension and interest.

All Lata could think of was when and where, in this household of two and a half bedrooms and no privacy to speak of, she would find time and space to read her letter. She was thankful that she had been able to take possession of what (though Mrs Rupa Mehra would have disputed this) belonged to her alone. But as she looked out of the window towards the small, brilliantly green lawn with its white tracery of spider lilies, she thought of its possible contents with a mixture of longing and foreboding.

Meanwhile there was work to be done in preparation for the evening’s dinner. Basil Cox, who would be coming over with his wife Patricia, was Arun’s department head at Bentsen & Pryce. Hanif was dispatched to Jaggubazaar to get two chickens, a fish, and vegetables, while Meenakshi — accompanied by Lata and Mrs Rupa Mehra — went off to New Market in the car, which had just returned from Arun’s office.

Meenakshi bought her fortnightly stores — her white flour, her jam and Chivers Marmalade and Lyle’s Golden Syrup and Anchor Butter and tea and coffee and cheese and clean sugar (‘Not this dirty ration stuff’) — from Baboralley, a couple of loaves of bread from a shop in Middleton Row (‘The bread one gets from the market is so awful, Luts’), some salami from a cold store in Free School Street (‘The salami from Keventers is dreadfully bland, I’ve decided never to go there again’), and half a dozen bottles of Beck’s beer from Shaw Brothers. Lata tagged along everywhere, though Mrs Rupa Mehra refused to enter either the cold store or the liquor shop. She was astonished by Meenakshi’s extravagance, and by the whimsical nature of some of her purchases (‘Oh, Arun is bound to like that, yes, I’ll take two,’ said Meenakshi whenever the shopkeeper suggested something that he thought Madam would appreciate). All the purchases went into a large basket which a ragged little boy carried on his head and finally took to the car. Whenever she was accosted by beggars, Meenakshi looked straight through them.

Lata wanted to visit a bookshop on Park Street, and spent about fifteen minutes there while Meenakshi chafed impatiently. When she found that Lata hadn’t in fact bought anything, she thought it very peculiar. Mrs Rupa Mehra was content to browse timelessly.

Upon their return home, Meenakshi found Hanif in a flap. He was not sure about the exact proportions for the soufflé, and as for the hilsa, Meenakshi would have to instruct him about the kind of fire it needed to be smoked on. Aparna too was sulking because of her mother’s absence. She now threatened to throw a tantrum. This was too much for Meenakshi, who was getting late for the canasta which she played with her ladies’ club — the Shady Ladies — once a week, and which (Basil Cox or no Basil Cox) she could not possibly miss. She got into a flap herself and shouted at Aparna and the Toothless Crone and the cook. Varun locked himself in his small room and covered his head with a pillow.

‘You should not get into a temper for nothing,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra unhelpfully.

Meenakshi turned towards her in exasperation. ‘That’s a big help, Ma,’ she said. ‘What do you expect me to do? Miss my canasta?’

‘No, no, you will not miss your canasta,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘That I am not asking you to do, Meenakshi, but you must not shout at Aparna like that. It is not good for her.’ Hearing this, Aparna edged towards her grandmother’s chair.

Meenakshi made an impatient sound.

The impossibility of her position suddenly came home to her. This cook was a real incompetent. Arun would be terribly, terribly angry with her if anything went wrong this evening. It was so important for his job too — and what could she do? Cut out the smoked hilsa? At least this idiot Hanif could handle the roast chicken. But he was a temperamental fellow, and had been known even to misfry an egg. Meenakshi looked around the room in wild distress.

‘Ask your mother if you can borrow her Mugh cook,’ said Lata with sudden inspiration.

Meenakshi gazed at Lata in wonder. ‘What an Einstein you are, Luts!’ she said, and immediately telephoned her mother. Mrs Chatterji rallied to her daughter’s aid. She had two cooks, one for Bengali and one for western food. The Bengali cook was told that he would have to prepare dinner in the Chatterji household that evening, and the Mugh cook, who came from Chittagong and excelled in European food, was dispatched to Sunny Park within the half hour. Meanwhile, Meenakshi had gone off for her canasta lunch with the Shady Ladies and had almost forgotten the tribulations of existence.

She returned in the middle of the afternoon to find a rebellion on her hands. The gramophone was blaring and the chickens were cackling in alarm. The Mugh cook told her as snootily as he could that he was not accustomed to being farmed out in this manner, that he was not used to working in such a small kitchen, that her cook-cum-bearer had behaved insolently towards him, that the fish and chickens that had been bought were none too fresh, and that he needed a certain kind of lemon extract for the soufflé which she had not had the foresight to provide. Hanif for his part was glaring resentfully, and was on the verge of giving notice. He was holding a squawking chicken out in front of him and saying: ‘Feel, feel its breast — Memsahib — this is a young and fresh chicken. Why should I work below this man? Who is he to boss me around in my own kitchen? He keeps saying, “I am Mr Justice Chatterji’s cook. I am Mr Justice Chatterji’s cook.”’

‘No, no, I trust you, I don’t need to—’ cried Meenakshi, shuddering fastidiously and drawing back her red-polished fingernails as her cook pushed the chicken’s feathers aside and offered its breast for her to assay.

Mrs Rupa Mehra, while not displeased at Meenakshi’s discomfiture, did not want to jeopardize this dinner for the boss of her darling son. She was good at making peace between refractory servants, and she now did so. Harmony was restored, and she went into the drawing room to play a game of patience.