Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘And Kuku?’

‘Kuku drives the driver cuckoo.’

‘What a crazy family you are,’ said Lata.

‘On the contrary,’ said Amit. ‘We’re a hotbed of sanity.’

When Lata returned home towards evening Mrs Rupa Mehra did not ask her for a detailed account of where she had been and what she had seen. She was too distressed to do so. Arun and Varun had had a grand flare-up, and the smell of combustion was still thick in the air.

Varun had returned to the house with his winnings in his pocket. He was not drunk yet, but it was clear where his windfall was going to go. Arun had told him he was irresponsible; he should contribute the winnings to the family kitty and never go to the racetrack again. He was wasting his life, and didn’t know the meaning of sacrifice and hard work. Varun, who knew that Arun had been at the races himself, had told him what he could do with his advice. Arun, purple-faced, had ordered him to get out of the house. Mrs Rupa Mehra had wept and pleaded and acted as an exacerbating intermediary. Meenakshi had said she couldn’t live in such a noisy family and had threatened to go back to Ballygunge. She was glad, she said, that it was Hanif’s day off. Aparna had started bawling. Even her ayah had not been able to pacify her.

Aparna’s bawling had calmed everyone down, perhaps even made them feel a little ashamed. Now Meenakshi and Arun had just left for a party, and Varun was sitting in his small half-room, muttering to himself.

‘I wish Savita was here,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘Only she can control Arun when he is in one of his moods.’

‘It’s good she isn’t here, Ma,’ said Lata. ‘Anyway, Varun’s the one I’m more worried about. I’m going to see how he is.’ It seemed to her that her advice to him in Brahmpur had been futile.

When she knocked at his door and entered, she found him sprawled on the bed with the Gazette of India lying open in front of him.

‘I’ve decided to improve myself,’ Varun said in a nervous manner, looking this way and that. ‘I’m going through the rules for the IAS exams. They’re to be held this September, and I haven’t even begun studying. Arun Bhai thinks I’m irresponsible, and he’s right. I’m terribly irresponsible. I’m wasting my life. Daddy would have been ashamed of me. Look at me, Luts, just look at me. What am I?’ He was growing more and more agitated. ‘I’m a bloody fool,’ he concluded, with the Arun-like condemnation pronounced in an Arun-like tone of dismissal. ‘Bloody fool!’ he repeated for good measure. ‘Don’t you think so too?’ he asked Lata hopefully.

‘Shall I make you some tea?’ asked Lata, wondering why he, in the manner of Meenakshi, had called her ‘Luts’. Varun was far too easily led.

Varun looked gloomily at the Pay Scales, the lists of Optional and Compulsory Papers, the Standard and Syllabus of the Examinations, even the List of Scheduled Castes.

‘Yes. If you think that’s best,’ he said at last.

When Lata came back with the tea, she found him plunged into renewed despair. He had just read the paragraph on the Viva Voce:

The candidate will be interviewed by a Board who will have before them a record of his/her career. He/she will be asked questions on matters of general interest. The object of the interview is to assess his/her suitability for the Service for which he/she is entered, and in framing their assessment the Board will attach particular importance to his/her intelligence and alertness, his/her vigour and strength of character and his/her potential qualities of leadership.

‘Read this!’ said Varun. ‘Just read this.’ Lata picked up the Gazette and began to read it with interest.

‘I don’t have a chance,’ continued Varun. ‘I have such a poor personality. I don’t make a good impression on anyone. I don’t make an impression at all. And the interview counts for 400 marks. No. I may as well accept it. I’m not fit for the civil service. They want people with qualities of leadership — not fifth-class bloody fools like me.’

‘Here, have some tea, Varun Bhai,’ said Lata.

Varun accepted with tears in his eyes. ‘But what else can I do?’ he asked her. ‘I can’t teach, I can’t join a managing agency, all the Indian business firms are family run, I don’t have the guts to set up in business on my own — or to get the money to do so. And Arun shouts at me all the time. I’ve been reading How to Win Friends and Influence People ,’ he confided. ‘To improve my personality.’

‘Is it working?’ asked Lata.

‘I don’t know,’ said Varun. ‘I can’t even judge that.’

‘Varun Bhai, why didn’t you listen to what I told you that day at the zoo?’ asked Lata.

‘I did. I’m going out with my friends now. And see where that has led me!’ said Varun.

There was a pause. They sipped tea silently together in the little room. Then Lata, who had been scanning the Gazette , sat up with sudden indignation. ‘Listen to this,’ she said. ‘“For the Indian Administrative Service and the Indian Police Service the Government of India may not select a woman candidate who is married and might require a woman to resign from the service in the event of her marrying subsequently.”’

‘Oh,’ said Varun, who was not sure what was wrong with that. Jason was, or had been, a policeman, and Varun wondered whether any woman, married or not, should be permitted to do his kind of brutal work.

‘And it gets worse,’ continued Lata. ‘“For the Indian Foreign Service a woman candidate is eligible only if she is unmarried or a widow without encumbrances. If such a candidate is selected, she will be appointed on the express condition that she might be called upon to resign the service on marriage or remarriage.”’

‘Without encumbrances?’ said Varun.

‘That means children, I suppose. Presumably you can be a widower with encumbrances and handle both your family life and your work. But not if you’re a widow. . I’m sorry, I’ve taken over the Gazette .’

‘Oh, no, no, you read it. I’ve suddenly remembered I must go out. I promised.’

‘Promised whom?’ said Lata. ‘Sajid and Jason?’

‘No, not exactly,’ said Varun shiftily. ‘Anyway, a promise is a promise and never should be broken.’ He laughed weakly; he was quoting one of his mother’s adages. ‘But I’ll tell them that I can’t see them any more. I’m too busy studying. Will you talk to Ma for a little while?’

‘While you slip out?’ said Lata. ‘No fears.’

‘Please, Luts, what can I say to her? She’s bound to ask me where I’m going.’

‘Tell her you’re going to get disgustingly drunk on Shamshu.’

‘It won’t be Shamshu today,’ said Varun, cheering up.

After he had left, Lata went to her room with the Gazette. Kabir had said that he wanted to sit for the IFS exams after he had got his degree. She had no doubt that if he got to that stage, he would do well in the interview. He certainly had leadership qualities and vigour. She could imagine what a good impression he would make on the Board. She could picture his alertness, his open smile, the ready way in which he would admit to not knowing something.

She looked through the rules, wondering which optional subjects he might select. One was described simply as: ‘World History. 1789 to 1939.’

Once more she wondered whether she should reply to his letter, and once more she wondered what she could possibly say. She looked idly down the list of optionals till her eye fell on an item a few lines further on. At first it puzzled her, then it made her laugh, and finally it helped somewhat to restore her equilibrium. It read as follows: