Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘Khanna?’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, wheels whirring.

The young man, she noted, was well dressed, in a cream-coloured silk shirt and a pair of fawn trousers. He had a pleasant, squarish face. And he was fairly fair.

Mrs Rupa Mehra for once didn’t say much during the ensuing conversation. Although Haresh had been to Brahmpur just a few months ago, it didn’t come up, and nor did any common names, so there was no obvious point of entry for her. Anyway, Kalpana Gaur had steered the conversation towards Haresh’s recent history, and Mrs Rupa Mehra listened with growing interest. Haresh, for his part, was happy to regale Kalpana with some of his recent achievements and exploits. He was an energetic man, with a great deal of optimism and self-confidence, and was not hindered by too delicate a sense of modesty.

Haresh found his work at the Cawnpore Leather & Footwear Company fascinating, and assumed that everyone else would too. ‘I’ve only been at CLFC a year, but I’m establishing a whole new department — and I’ve got them orders that they didn’t have the know-how or the initiative to get themselves. But there’s no future in it, that’s the trouble. Ghosh is the top man, and it’s all family owned, and I can’t aspire to anything really. All of them are Bengalis.’

‘Bengali entrepreneurs?’ said Kalpana Gaur.

‘Sounds odd, doesn’t it?’ agreed Haresh. ‘Ghosh is an impressive man, though. Tall, self-made. He has a construction business that he runs from Bombay. This is only one of his interests.’

Mrs Rupa Mehra nodded in approval. She liked the idea of self-made people.

‘Anyway, I’m not a political fellow,’ continued Haresh, ‘and there’s far too much politics among the officers at CLFC. Far too much office politics and not enough work. And three hundred and fifty a month is not much for the kind of work I’m doing. It’s just that I had to find the first job I could when I came back from England. I was broke, so I had no choice.’ The memory did not appear to disturb him.

Mrs Rupa Mehra looked at Haresh anxiously.

He smiled. His eyes now crinkled up almost completely. He had once been promised ten rupees by his college friends to keep his eyes open when he smiled, and he had not been able to earn it.

Mrs Rupa Mehra couldn’t help smiling back.

‘So I’ve come to Delhi not just on work but also to look around.’ Haresh passed his hand across his forehead. ‘I’ve brought all my certificates and testimonials and so on, and I have an interview with a firm here. Of course Baoji thinks I should stick with a sure thing, and Umesh Uncle doesn’t think much of anything I do, but I’m determined to give it a try. So, Kalpana, do you know of any jobs available in my line? Anyone whom I should see in Delhi? I’ll be staying at Neel Darvaza with the family as usual.’

‘I don’t, but if I hear of anything that might suit you—’ began Kalpana. Then, in a sudden flash of inspiration, she said: ‘Listen, do you really have your testimonials and so on here?’

‘They’re in the tonga outside. I came straight from the station.’

‘You did?’ Kalpana beamed at Haresh.

Haresh threw up his hands in a gesture that could have meant that Kalpana’s charm was an irresistible beacon to the weary traveller, or merely that he had decided to get long-deferred social business over with before he got caught up with the family and the world.

‘Well, then, let’s see them; fetch them.’

‘Fetch them?’

‘Yes, of course, Haresh. We want to see them even if you don’t want to show them.’ Kalpana gestured towards Mrs Rupa Mehra, who nodded quite vigorously.

But Haresh was only too willing to show off his certificates. He got his briefcase from the tonga, and brought out all his diplomas from the Midlands College of Technology together with a couple of glowing testimonials, one of them from the Principal himself. Kalpana Gaur read out several of these, and Mrs Rupa Mehra listened with close attention. From time to time Haresh mentioned a relevant fact or two, for example that he had topped the list in the examination for pattern-cutting or had won some medal or other. He was not at all bashful about his achievements.

At the end of it, Mrs Rupa Mehra said to Haresh: ‘You should be very proud.’

She would have liked to talk with them further, but she had to go out that evening for dinner and had not yet changed out of her crushed sari. Excusing herself, she got up. As she was about to leave the room, Haresh said: ‘Mrs Mehra, it’s been a great pleasure to meet you. But are you sure we haven’t met before?’

Mrs Rupa Mehra said: ‘I never forget a face. I am sure I would have remembered if we had met.’ She left the room, looking pleased but slightly preoccupied.

Haresh rubbed his forehead. He felt convinced that he had seen her before, but he couldn’t remember where.

When Mrs Rupa Mehra returned from dinner, she said to Kalpana Gaur:

‘Of all the boys we have met, Kalpana, I like that young man the most. Why didn’t you introduce me to him before? Was there some, well, particular reason?’

‘Well, no, Ma, I didn’t even think of him. He just happened to arrive from Kanpur.’

‘Oh, yes, Kanpur. Of course.’

‘Incidentally, he was much taken by you. He thinks you’re very attractive. He said you were “strikingly good-looking”.’

‘You are a very naughty girl to call me your good-looking aunt.’

‘But very truthful.’

‘What does your father think of him?’

‘My father only met him for a minute. But you really liked him?’ continued Kalpana, with a speculative expression.

Mrs Rupa Mehra had indeed liked Haresh. She had liked the fact that he was energetic, that he was independent of his family (though affectionate towards them), and that he clearly took great care with his appearance. Nowadays, many boys looked so scruffy. And one crucial point in Haresh’s favour was his name. Being a Khanna, he was bound to be a khatri.

‘We must fix up a meeting,’ she said. ‘Is he — you know—’

‘Available?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, he was in love with a Sikh girl once,’ said Kalpana Gaur quietly. ‘I don’t know what came of it.’

‘Oh. Why didn’t you ask him about it when I left? You talked like old friends.’

‘I wasn’t sure at the time that you were so interested in him,’ said Kalpana Gaur, her face reddening a little.

‘I am. He might be just the boy for Lata, don’t you think? I’ll telegram her to come to Delhi immediately. Immediately.’ Mrs Rupa Mehra furrowed her forehead. ‘Do you know Meenakshi’s brother?’

‘No. I only met Meenakshi at the wedding—’

‘He’s causing no end of worry to me.’ Mrs Rupa Mehra clicked her tongue.

‘Isn’t he the poet, Amit Chatterji?’ asked Kalpana. ‘He’s quite famous, you know, Ma.’

‘Famous! All he does is sit in his father’s house and stare out of the upstairs window. A young man should do a job and earn his living.’ Mrs Rupa Mehra enjoyed the poetry of Patience Strong, Wilhelmina Stitch, and various other writers, but that the creation of it involved any activity — or necessary inactivity — she found incomprehensible. ‘Lata has been seeing far too much of him.’

‘You’re not saying that there’s a chance—’ laughed Kalpana, looking at Mrs Rupa Mehra’s expression. ‘Well, Ma, at least let him write a couple of poems to Lata.’

‘I am not saying anything and I am not speculating,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, upset by the thought of the developments in Calcutta. ‘I am tired now. Why must I run from city to city? I think I must have eaten too much, and I have forgotten to take my homoeopathic medicine.’ She got up, turned to speak again, thought better of it, and picked up her big black bag.