Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

Mrs Rupa Mehra wavered for a few seconds between suppression and placation, then murmured: ‘What is the harm, darling? I am not forcing anything on you. And day-after we will be leaving for Lucknow anyway and then back to Brahmpur the day after that.’

Lata looked at her mother, amazed that she should defend herself.

‘And it was for this — not because you were unwell or needed my help — that I was summoned from Calcutta.’ The tone of Lata’s voice was so unloving that Mrs Rupa Mehra’s nose reddened. But she pulled herself together and said:

‘Darling, I do need your help. Getting you married is not easy. And the boy is of our community.’

‘I don’t care what community he belongs to. I am not going to see him. I should never have left Calcutta.’

‘But he is a khatri — from U.P. originally,’ protested her mother.

This cast-iron argument had no effect on Lata. She said:

‘Ma, please. I know all your prejudices and I share none of them. You bring me up one way and you act in another.’

To this righteous attack her mother merely murmured: ‘You know, Lata, I have nothing against — against Mohammedans as such. It is only your future I am concerned about.’ Mrs Rupa Mehra had been expecting an outburst of sorts, and, with an effort, remained emollient.

Lata was silent. O, Kabir, Kabir, she thought.

‘Why aren’t you eating anything, dear? It’s been such a long journey.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Yes, you are,’ insisted Mrs Rupa Mehra.

‘Ma, you have brought me here under false pretences,’ said Lata, unpacking her suitcase and not looking at her mother. ‘You must have known that if you had given your reasons in the telegram I would never have come.’

‘Darling, it isn’t sensible to add words to a telegram. Telegrams have become terribly expensive these days. Unless of course you send a stock phrase like “Best wishes on a safe and pleasant journey” or “Heartiest Bijoya greetings” or some such thing. And he is such a nice boy. You’ll see.’

Lata was so exasperated that a couple of tears squeezed their way into her eyes. She shook her head, even angrier now with herself, her mother, and the unknown Haresh.

‘Ma, I hope I am not like you when I am your age,’ she said passionately.

Mrs Rupa Mehra’s nose immediately reddened again.

‘If you don’t believe me, at least believe Kalpana. I met him at her house. The boy is Kalpana’s friend. He has studied in England and has excellent results. He is good-looking, and he is interested in meeting you. If you are not interested in meeting him, how can I show my face to Kalpana who went through all the trouble of arranging this? Even Mr Gaur approves of him. If you don’t believe me, read this letter from her. It’s for you.’

‘I don’t need to read it,’ said Lata. ‘You can tell me what’s in it.’

‘How do you know I’ve read it?’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra indignantly. ‘Don’t you trust your own mother?’

Lata stood the empty suitcase in a corner. ‘Ma, there is guilt written all over your face,’ she said. ‘But I’ll read it all the same.’

Kalpana’s letter was brief and affectionate. Just as she had told Haresh that Lata was like a sister to her, she now told Lata that Haresh was like a brother to her. Kalpana, it seemed, had written to Haresh. Haresh had written back, saying that he couldn’t return to Delhi because he was required at the factory and had taken leave only recently, but that he would be very happy to meet Lata and Mrs Rupa Mehra in Kanpur. He had added that despite his affection for Simran, he had now come to realize that there was no hope for him there. As a result, he was not averse to meeting other girls. At the moment his life consisted of little but work; India was not England, where it was easy to get to know girls on their own.

As for a dowry [continued Kalpana in her curvaceously looped script], he isn’t the kind of man to ask for it, and there is no one to ask for it on his behalf. He is very attached to his father — his foster-father, actually, though he calls him Baoji — but (unlike his foster-brothers) he has established his independence early enough. He ran away from home once when he was fifteen, but you should not hold that against him. If the two of you like each other, you will not have to live with your in-laws. The joint family lives in Neel Darvaza in Delhi, and though I have been there once and like most of them, I know that that environment would not suit you, given the way you have been brought up.

I can tell you honestly, Lata, that I have always liked Haresh. At one time I even had a slight crush on him — we were in the same class at St Stephen’s. When my father read his recent letter, he said: ‘Well, it is a straightforward reply. At least he makes no bones about his earlier affections.’ And certainly, Ma seems set on him. She has been getting more and more worried lately. Perhaps this is the answer to her dreams as well as yours. At any rate, Lata, whatever you do or don’t do finally, do meet him, and don’t be annoyed with your mother, who has been going frantic trying to ensure your happiness (as she sees it).

Ma will have told you about my health. If I were not myself I would be amused by my own symptoms, which range from yawning to spells of dizziness to hot spots on the soles of my feet. These hot spots are particularly puzzling. Your mother swears by some Doctor Nuruddin in Calcutta, but he sounds like a quack. And anyway, I can’t travel. Why don’t you visit me after Kanpur and we’ll play Monopoly, just as we used to as children? It has been so long since I last saw you. My love to you and to Ma. Do pay some attention to her advice; I think that you are very lucky to be her daughter. Please report to me the moment you have something to report. Lying in bed all I can listen to is this painful classical music on the radio, which I know you don’t think is painful, and the gup-shup of empty-headed friends. A visit from you would do me good. .

Something in the tone of the letter made Lata think of the time at Sophia Convent when, as a schoolgirl, overcome by a sudden impulse, a strange, trance-like state, she had wanted to become a Christian and a nun. She had wanted to convert immediately and Arun had been summoned to Mussourie to talk some sense into her head. He had promptly declared that it was all ‘summer moonshine’. It was the first time that Lata had heard the phrase. Though she had been struck by it, she had refused to believe that these religious impulses were moonshine of any kind. She had been determined to go ahead with her resolve. It was in fact a nun at Sophia Convent who had finally sat her down on a bench and talked to her — a green bench some distance away from the school buildings. It had had a view of a slope covered with a well-kept lawn and beautiful flowers; at the foot of the slope was a cemetery in which nuns of the order, many of whom had taught at the school, lay buried. She had said: ‘Give yourself a few months, Lata. Wait at least till you leave school. You can always decide a little later. Don’t make an immediate commitment. Remember, it will be very hard on your mother, who is a young widow.’

Lata sat on the bed for a while with Kalpana’s letter in her hand, trying to avoid looking at her mother’s face. Mrs Rupa Mehra arranged her saris in a drawer, deliberately silent. After a minute Lata said:

‘All right, Ma. I’ll see him.’ She did not say anything further. She was angry still, but saw no point in expressing it. When some of the lines of anxiety on her mother’s forehead relaxed, she was glad she had left it at that.

For some time now, Haresh had kept a diary of sorts. These days he usually wrote it at night at a heavy writing desk in the rooms he rented at Elm Villa. He was browsing through it, glancing from time to time at the photograph standing in a silver frame on his desk.