Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

Haresh passed his hand over his forehead. Surely he couldn’t be mistaken. The same large, beautiful eyes, the same oval face — the eyebrows, the nose, the lips, the same expression of intensity. Well, perhaps he had dreamed it, after all.

Mr Kakkar, a little nervous because of his undefined position as a host, asked him to sit down and offered him tea. For a while no one knew what to talk about, especially since it was quite obvious what the purpose of their meeting was. Politics? No. The weather? No. The morning’s news? Haresh had not had time to glance at the papers.

‘Did you have a comfortable journey?’ he asked.

Mrs Rupa Mehra looked at Lata, and Lata at Mrs Rupa Mehra. Each deferred to the other. Then Mrs Rupa Mehra said:

‘Well, go on, Lata, answer the question.’

‘I thought Mr Khanna was talking to you, Ma. Yes, thank you, I had a comfortable journey. Perhaps it was a little tiring.’

‘Where were you travelling from?’

‘From Calcutta.’

‘But you must be very tired then. The train arrives very early in the morning.’

‘No, I came by the day train, so I’ve slept in a proper bed and woken up at a reasonable hour,’ said Lata. ‘Is your tea all right?’

‘Yes, thank you, Miss Mehra,’ said Haresh, his eyes disappearing in a smile.

The smile was so warm and friendly that despite herself Lata could not help smiling too.

‘You should call each other Lata and Haresh,’ prompted Mrs Rupa Mehra.

‘Perhaps we should leave the young people to talk by themselves,’ suggested Mr Kakkar, who had an appointment.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra firmly. ‘They will be very happy to have our company. It is not often that one gets the chance to meet such a fine boy as Haresh.’

Lata winced inwardly at this remark, but Haresh did not seem at all uncomfortable to be thus described.

‘Have you ever been to Cawnpore, Miss Mehra?’ he asked.

‘Lata,’ corrected Mrs Rupa Mehra.

‘Lata.’

‘Just once. Usually I meet Kakkar Phupha when he comes to Brahmpur or Calcutta on work.’

There was a long pause. Much tea was stirred, much tea was sipped.

‘How is Kalpana?’ asked Haresh finally. ‘She didn’t seem in the best of health when I saw her, and her letters talk about strange symptoms. I hope the poor girl is all right. She’s been through such a lot these last few years.’

It was the right subject to choose. Mrs Rupa Mehra was off and running now. She described Kalpana’s symptoms in detail, both from what she had seen, and from what she had read in the letter to Lata. She also talked about the unsuitable boy whom Kalpana had once got herself involved with. He had turned out not to be sincere. She wanted Kalpana to meet a sincere man, a sincere man with good prospects. She valued sincerity as a quality in men. And in women too of course. Didn’t Haresh agree?

Haresh agreed. Being a frank and open-hearted fellow, he was about to talk about Simran, but stopped himself.

‘Do you have those wonderful certificates with you?’ asked Mrs Rupa Mehra suddenly.

‘No,’ said Haresh, surprised.

‘It would be so nice if Lata could read them. Don’t you think so, Lata?’

‘Yes, Ma,’ said Lata, thinking the opposite.

‘Tell me, why did you run away from home at fifteen?’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, dropping an extra tablet of saccharine in her tea.

Haresh was startled that Kalpana had mentioned this fact. At his meeting with Lata’s mother in Delhi, Kalpana, it seemed to him, had gone out of her way to show him in as favourable a light as possible.

‘Mrs Mehra,’ said Haresh, ‘I believe that a time can come when a young man may have to part company even with those who love him and whom he loves.’

Mrs Rupa Mehra looked rather doubtful, but Lata a little interested. She nodded by way of encouragement, and Haresh continued.

‘In this case an engagement was being forced upon me against my will by my father — well, my foster-father — and I could not accept it. I ran away. I had no money. In Mussourie I got a job cleaning a Praha shoe shop — it was my first experience of the shoe business, and not a pleasant one. Eventually I graduated to shop boy. I starved and I froze but I was determined not to go back.’

‘Didn’t you even write a letter home?’ asked Lata.

‘No, Miss Mehra, I did not. I was very stubborn.’

Mrs Rupa Mehra frowned at his retreat into the surname.

‘What happened in the end?’ Lata asked.

‘One of my foster-brothers from Neel Darvaza, the one whom I loved most of all, came to Mussourie for a holiday. He saw me in the shop. I pretended I was a customer, but the manager asked me quite sharply why I was gossiping when there was work to do. When my foster-brother realized the truth of the matter, he refused to go back home unless I came with him. You see, his mother had nursed me when my own mother died.’

This last sentence was not exactly an explanation of anything, but made sense to everyone.

‘But now I am neither starving nor freezing,’ continued Haresh proudly. ‘In fact, could I invite you all to my place for lunch, perhaps?’ He turned to Mrs Rupa Mehra: ‘Kalpana mentioned in her telegram that you are vegetarian.’

Mr Kakkar asked to be excused, but Mrs Rupa Mehra accepted with alacrity on behalf of Lata and herself.

On the way to Elm Villa, the driver was unusually quiet. The rickety car too behaved well.

‘How do you enjoy your job?’ asked Mrs Rupa Mehra.

‘I enjoy it,’ said Haresh. ‘You know the department I was telling you about in Delhi? Well, the machinery has all been moved in, and I should begin next week with the new order that I’ve managed to procure. I’ll take you around this afternoon. It’s very well organized now that I’ve taken things in hand.’

‘So you plan to live in Kanpur?’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.

‘I don’t know,’ said Haresh. ‘I can’t advance to the top in CLFC, and I don’t want to spend my life in a company where I can’t get to the top. I’ve been trying Bata and James Hawley and Praha and Flex and Cooper Allen and even a job or two in government enterprises. Let’s see what happens. I need a godfather to help me get a foot in the door. After that I can stand on my own abilities.’

‘My son too thinks the same,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘My elder son, Arun. He is with Bentsen Pryce — and well, Bentsen Pryce is Bentsen Pryce! Sooner or later he is bound to become a director. Maybe even the first Indian director.’ She savoured the vision for a few moments. ‘His late father would have been so proud of him,’ she added. ‘He, of course, would have been on the Railway Board by now. Possibly even the Chairman. We would always travel in saloons when he was alive.’

Lata was looking slightly disgusted.

‘Here we are. Elm Villa!’ said Haresh, rather as if he were announcing the Viceregal Lodge. They got down and went to the drawing room. Mrs Mason was out shopping, and they were alone except for a liveried bearer.

The drawing room was large and light, the liveried bearer extremely deferential. He bowed low and spoke softly. Haresh offered them nimbu pani, and the bearer brought the glasses on a plate, with doilies on the top: finely netted in white, with little glass beads hanging down from the edges. Two coloured prints of Yorkshire (which was where Mrs Mason traced her ancestry to) hung on the wall. The orange cosmos arranged in the vase added an additional touch of brightness to the flower-patterned sofa; it was one of the few flowers of the season that were not white. Haresh had told the cook the previous evening that he might be having guests for lunch, so there had been no need to make any last-minute arrangements.