Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘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.

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.