Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

Meenakshi: Silly Billy! Of course not. Fetlock is the hair somewhere. It’s what you catch a horse by, I think. I think it’s the part of the mane at the base of the neck. Hair equals lock.

Billy: Well then, tell me, how can you sprain a fetlock or break one? You keep hearing of a horse having to be shot because it’s broken a fetlock. By the way, are you going to the races tomorrow at Tolly?

Meenakshi: Yes, as it happens. Arun just called me from the office. Basil Cox has invited us. So will I see you there?

Billy: I’m not sure I’m going tomorrow. But we’re all meeting this evening aren’t we, for cocktails at the Finlays’—and then dinner and dancing somewhere?

Meenakshi: But I won’t get a chance to say a word to you — what with Shireen guarding you like an emerald egg, and Arun — and my sister-in-law.

Billy: Your sister-in-law?

Meenakshi: She’s quite nice; she needs to be brought out a bit, though. I thought we’d throw her in with Bish, and see how they get along.

Billy: And did you call me an emerald egg?

Meenakshi: Yes. You are rather like an emerald egg. And that brings me to the point. Arun is going to be out in Puttigurh or somewhere until seven o’clock or so. What are you doing this afternoon? I know it’s Friday, so don’t say you’re working.

Billy: Actually, I have lunch first, then a game of golf.

Meenakshi: What? In this weather? You’ll be swept out to sea. So let’s meet — for tea and so on.

Billy: Well — I’m not sure all this is such a good idea.

Meenakshi: Let’s go to the zoo. It’ll be pouring with rain so we won’t meet the usual good citizen. We’ll meet a horse — or a zebra and we’ll ask him if he’s sprained his hair or his neck. I’m so funny, aren’t I?

Billy: Yes, hilarious. Well, I’ll meet you at four thirty. At the Fairlawn Hotel. For tea.

Meenakshi: For tea and so on.

Billy [rather reluctantly]: And so on. Yes.

Meenakshi: At three o’clock.

Billy: Four o’clock.

Meenakshi: Four o’clock. Four o’clock. Perhaps you were thinking of forelock when you said fetlock.

Billy: Perhaps I was.

Meenakshi: Or foreskin.

Billy: I wouldn’t grab a horse by that.

Meenakshi: Silly Billy! But what is a fetlock then?

Billy: Look up a dictionary — and tell me this afternoon. Or show me.

Meenakshi: Naughty.

Billy [with a sigh]: You’re far naughtier than I am, Meenakshi. I don’t think this is at all a good idea.

Meenakshi: Four o’clock then. I’ll take a taxi. Bye.

Billy: Bye.

Meenakshi: I don’t love you a bit.

Billy: Thank God.

When Meenakshi returned from her assignation with Billy, it was half-past six, and she was smiling contentedly. She was so pleasant to Mrs Rupa Mehra that it quite unsettled her, and she asked Meenakshi if something was the matter. Meenakshi assured her that nothing at all was the matter.

Lata couldn’t decide what to wear for the evening. She entered the drawing room carrying a light-pink cotton sari, a part of which she had draped over her shoulder. ‘What do you think of this, Ma?’ she said.

‘Very nice, darling,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, and fanned a fly away from Aparna’s sleeping head.

‘What nonsense, Ma, it’s absolutely awful,’ said Meenakshi.

‘It is not at all awful,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra defensively. ‘Pink was your father-in-law’s favourite colour.’

‘Pink?’ Meenakshi started laughing. ‘He liked wearing pink?’

‘On me. When I wore it!’ Mrs Rupa Mehra was angry. Meenakshi had changed from nice to nasty in an instant. ‘If you don’t have any respect for me, at least have respect for my husband. You have no sense of proportion. Going off gallivanting to New Market and leaving Aparna for the servants to take care of.’

‘Now, Ma, I’m sure pink looked lovely on you,’ said Meenakshi in a conciliatory manner. ‘But it’s absolutely the wrong thing for Luts’s complexion. And for Calcutta, and for the evening, and for this kind of society. And cotton just won’t do. I’ll see what Luts has and help her choose something that will make her look her best. We’d better hurry, Arun will be home at any moment, and then we won’t have time for anything. Come on, Luts.’

And Lata was taken in hand. She was finally dressed in one of Meenakshi’s deep-blue chiffon saris which happened to go with one of her own blue blouses. (She had to tuck the sari in considerably more than Meenakshi, since she was a few inches shorter.) A peacock brooch of light blue, dark blue and green enamel, also belonging to Meenakshi, pinned her sari to her blouse. Lata had never worn a brooch in her life, and had to be scolded by Meenakshi into it.

Meenakshi next overruled the tight bun into which Lata usually coiled her hair. ‘That style looks simply too prim, Luts,’ said her mentor. ‘It really isn’t flattering to you. You have to leave it open.’

‘No, I can’t do that,’ protested Lata. ‘It just isn’t proper. Ma would have a fit.’

‘Proper!’ exclaimed Meenakshi. ‘Well, let’s at least soften up the front of it so that you don’t look so schoolmarmish.’

Finally, Meenakshi marched Lata off to the dressing table in her bedroom, and put the final touches to her face with a bit of mascara. ‘This will make your eyelashes look longer,’ she said.

Lata fluttered her eyelashes experimentally. ‘Do you think they’ll fall like flies?’ she asked Meenakshi, laughing.

‘Yes, Luts,’ said Meenakshi. ‘And you must keep smiling. Your eyes really do look appealing now.’

And when she looked at herself in the mirror, Lata had to admit they did.

‘Now what perfume would suit you?’ said Meenakshi aloud to herself. ‘Worth seems about right for you.’

But before she could come to a final decision, the doorbell rang impatiently. Arun was back from Puttigurh. Everyone hopped around and danced attendance on him for the next few minutes.

When he was ready, he became frustrated that Meenakshi was taking so long. When she did finally emerge, Mrs Rupa Mehra stared at her in outrage. She was wearing a sleeveless, low-cut, magenta blouse in open-back choli style, with a bottle-green sari of exquisitely fine chiffon.

‘You can’t wear that!’ gasped Mrs Rupa Mehra, making what in the Mehra family were known as big-big eyes. Her glance veered from Meenakshi’s cleavage to her midriff to her entirely exposed arms. ‘You can’t, you — you can’t. It is even worse than last night at your parents’ house.’

‘Of course I can, Maloos dear, don’t be so old-fashioned.’

‘Well? Are you finally ready?’ asked Arun, looking pointedly at his watch.

‘Not quite, darling. Would you close the clasp on my choker for me?’ And Meenakshi with a slow, sensuous gesture passed her hand across her neck just below her thick gold choker.

Her mother-in-law averted her eyes.

‘Why do you allow her to wear this?’ she asked her son. ‘Can’t she wear a decent blouse like other Indian girls?’

‘Ma, I’m sorry, we’re getting late,’ said Arun.

‘One can’t tango in a dowdy choli,’ said Meenakshi. ‘Come, Luts.’

Lata gave her mother a kiss. ‘Don’t worry, Ma, I’ll be fine.’

‘Tango?’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra in alarm. ‘What is tango?’

‘Bye, Ma,’ said Meenakshi. ‘Tango. A dance. We’re going to the Golden Slipper. Nothing to worry about. There’s just a large crowd and a band and dancing.’