Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

She is 5 ft. 5 in. tall, not very fair, but attractive and smart in an Indian sort of way. She looks forward, I think, to a quiet, sober life in the future. I have played with her as a child — she is like my own little sister, and has gone so far as to say: ‘If Kalpana thinks well of someone I’m pretty sure I will too.’

I have given you all the particulars. As Byron says, ‘Though women are angels, yet wedlock’s the devil.’ You may hold that view. All I can say is, even if you do not, you are not bound to say ‘yes’ just because I am saying it. Think it over; if you are interested, just let me know. Of course you must see her and she must see you — and then your reactions and her reactions will count. If you (1) are thinking of getting married (2) have no previous commitments, and (3) are interested in this particular individual, you can come over to Delhi. (I tried to get in touch with you before you left Delhi but was unsuccessful.) If you are not comfortable about staying with your family at Neel Darvaza you can stay with us if you like; your family need not know the purpose of your visit or even that you are here. Lata’s mother will be in Delhi for several more days, and tells me that Lata is planning to join her soon. She is a decent girl (if you are interested) and deserves a steady, honest and sincere type like her late father was.

So: the business being over, I should tell you that I am not at all well. I have been confined to bed since yesterday and the doctor does not know what is wrong. I yawn all the time and feel hot spots on the soles of my feet! I’m not allowed to move or talk very much. I’m writing this from bed, hence this terrible writing. I hope I get well soon, especially since Father’s leg is also giving him trouble. He is much troubled by the heat as well. He hates ill health and June with an equal passion. All of us are praying that the monsoon is not delayed.

Lastly — if you think I’ve done anything wrong in writing so frankly to you, you must forgive me. I have presumed upon our friendship in writing to you in this way. If I ought not to have, let’s just drop the matter and forget all about it.

I hope to hear from you soon or to see you. A telegram or letter — either would be fine.

Best wishes and everything,

Kalpana

Haresh’s eyes closed once or twice as he read through the letter. It would be interesting to meet this girl, he thought. If the mother was anything to go by, she ought to be attractive too. But before he could give the matter his complete consideration, he yawned, and yawned again, and all thoughts whatsoever were displaced by exhaustion. He was asleep in five minutes; it was a pleasant and dreamless sleep.

‘A call for you, Mr Khanna.’

‘Just coming, Mrs Mason.’

‘It’s a lady’s voice,’ added Mrs Mason helpfully.

‘Thank you, Mrs Mason.’ Haresh went to the drawing room that her three lodgers used in common. No one else was down, but Mrs Mason was engaged in looking from various angles at a flower vase filled with orange cosmos. She was an Anglo-Indian woman of seventy-five, a widow who lived with her middle-aged, unmarried daughter. She liked to keep tabs on her lodgers.

‘Hello. Haresh Khanna.’

‘Hello, Haresh, this is Mrs Mehra, you remember, we met at Kalpana’s in Delhi — Kalpana Gaur’s — and—’

‘Yes,’ said Haresh with a glance at Mrs Mason, who was standing by the vase in a meditative manner, a finger on her lower lip.

‘Do you — er, has Kalpana—’

‘Yes, indeed, welcome to Cawnpore. Kalpana telegrammed. I was expecting you. Both of you—’

Mrs Mason cocked her head to one side.

Haresh passed his hand over his forehead.

‘I cannot talk right now,’ said Haresh. ‘I’m a little late for work. When may I come over? I have the address. I’m so sorry I couldn’t come to the station to meet you, but I didn’t know which train you’d be on.’

‘We were on different trains,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘Can you come at eleven o’clock? I am very much looking forward to seeing you again. And so is Lata.’

‘So am I,’ said Haresh. ‘The time suits me very well. I have to buy some sheep — and then I’ll come over.’ Mrs Mason shifted the vase to another table, then decided that the first one was better.

‘Goodbye, Haresh. So we’ll see you soon?’

‘Yes. Goodbye.’

At the other end of the line Mrs Rupa Mehra turned to Lata and said: ‘He sounded very brusque. He didn’t even address me by name. And Kalpana says he called me Mrs Mehrotra in his letter to her.’ She paused. ‘And he wants to buy some sheep. I’m not sure I heard him right.’ She paused again. ‘But, believe me, he is a very nice boy.’

Haresh kept his bicycle, like his shoes and his comb and his clothes, in excellent condition, but he could not very well cycle down to meet Mrs and Miss Mehra at Mr Kakkar’s house. He stopped by the factory and persuaded the factory manager, Mr Mukherji, to lend him one of the two factory cars. There was a big limousine with a grand and impressive driver and a small, rather rickety car with a driver who talked to all his passengers. He liked Haresh because he had no hierarchical airs, and always chatted to him in a friendly way.

Haresh tried for the beauty but ended up with the beast. Well, it’s a car anyway, he said to himself.

He bought the sheepskin for the lining, and asked the supplier to ensure that it got to the factory. Then he stopped for a paan, which was something he always enjoyed. He combed his hair once again in the mirror of the car. And he gave the driver strict instructions that he was not to speak to anyone travelling in the car that day (including Haresh) unless he was spoken to.

Mrs Rupa Mehra was waiting for him with increasing nervousness. She had persuaded Mr Kakkar to join them in order to relieve the awkwardness of a first meeting. Mr Kakkar, both as a man and as an accountant, had been held in great respect by the late Raghubir Mehra, and it reassured Mrs Rupa Mehra that he, not she, would be playing nominal host.

She greeted Haresh warmly. Haresh was wearing almost the same clothes as when she had first met him at Kalpana’s house in Delhi: a silk shirt and fawn cotton gaberdine trousers. He also had on a pair of brown-and-white co-respondent shoes, which he considered exceptionally smart.

He smiled when he saw Lata seated on the sofa. A nice, quiet girl, he thought.

Lata was wearing a pale pink cotton sari with chikan embroidery from Lucknow. Her hair was in a bun. She wore no jewellery except a pair of plain pearl ear-tops. The first thing Haresh said to her was:

‘We’ve met before, Miss Mehra, haven’t we?’

Lata frowned. Her first impression of him was that he was shorter than she had expected. The next — when he opened his mouth to speak — was that he had been chewing paan. This was far from appealing. Perhaps, if he had been wearing kurta-pyjamas, a red-stained mouth would have been appropriate — if not acceptable. Paan did not go at all well with fawn gaberdine and a silk shirt. In fact paan did not go at all well with her idea of a husband. His whole mode of dressing struck her as being flashy. And flashiest of all were the co-respondent shoes. Whom was he trying to impress?

‘I don’t believe we have, Mr Khanna,’ she replied politely. ‘But I’m glad we’ve got the chance to meet.’

Lata had made an immediately favourable impression on Haresh by the simplicity and good taste of her dress. She didn’t have any make-up on, yet looked attractive and self-possessed, and her accent was not a heavy Indian accent, he was pleased to note, but light, almost British, because of her convent-school background.

Haresh, on the other hand, had surprised Lata by his accent, which bore traces both of Hindi and of the local Midlands dialect which he had been exposed to in England. Why, both her brothers spoke English better than he did. She could imagine what fun Kakoli and Meenakshi Chatterji might have mocking Haresh’s manner of speaking.