Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘No,’ said Lata, laughing. ‘Unfortunately I am a bad girl. Ma, what will you do if I do get married and move away? Whom will you be able to tick off?’

‘I will tick you off just the same,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.

Mr Sahgal had entered meanwhile, and, having heard the last part of the conversation, said in a calm, avuncular voice: ‘Lata, you are not a bad girl, I know. I have heard all about your results and we are very proud of you. Sometime soon we must have a long talk about the future.’

Kiran stood up. ‘I am going to talk to Pushkar,’ she said.

‘Sit down,’ said Mr Sahgal, in the same calm voice.

Kiran, white-faced, sat down.

Mr Sahgal’s eyes wandered around the room.

‘Shall I put on the gramophone?’ asked his wife.

‘Do you have any hobbies?’ said Mr Sahgal to Lata.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘She has begun to sing classical music very beautifully. And she is a real bookworm.’

‘I enjoy photography,’ said Mr Sahgal. ‘When I was in England studying law, I began to take an interest in it.’

‘The albums?’ asked Mrs Sahgal, breathless with the possibility of being of service to him.

‘Yes.’

She laid them on the table before him. Mr Sahgal started showing them photographs of his English landladies and their daughters, other girls he had known there, then a few Indian photographs, followed by pages and pages of his wife and daughter, sometimes in poses that Lata found distasteful. In one, Mrs Sahgal had bent forward, and one of her breasts was almost spilling out of her blouse. Mr Sahgal carried on an explanation, gentle and measured, of the art of photography, about composition and exposure, grain and gloss, contrast and depth of field.

Lata glanced at her mother. Mrs Rupa Mehra was looking at the photographs with puzzled interest. Mrs Sahgal’s face was flushed with pride. Kiran was sitting rigid, as if she had been taken ill. Again she was biting the base of her thumb in that unusual and disturbing gesture. When she noticed Lata’s gaze on her, she looked at her with a mixture of shame and hatred.

After dinner Lata went straight to her room. She felt an acute sense of unease, and was glad they were leaving Lucknow the next day. Her mother, on the other hand, was thinking of postponing their departure, since both Mr and Mrs Sahgal were very keen that they stay on for a few days.

‘What is this?’ Mrs Sahgal had said at dinner. ‘You come for one day, and then you disappear for a year. Is this the way a sister should behave?’

‘I want to stay, Maya,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘But Lata’s term begins so soon. Otherwise we would have been very happy to stay with you and Sahgal Sahib. Next time we will stay longer.’

Pushkar had held his peace throughout dinner. He could just about feed himself with help from his father. Mr Sahgal had looked very tired by the end of the meal. He had then put Pushkar to bed.

Returning to the drawing room, he had wished everyone goodnight and gone immediately to his room at the near end of the long corridor. His wife’s room was opposite his. Then came the guest rooms, and finally, at the far end of the corridor, Pushkar’s and Kiran’s rooms. Since Pushkar was fond of a huge grandfather clock — a family heirloom — Mr Sahgal had installed it just outside his room. Sometimes Pushkar would sing out the chimes. He had even learned to wind it up himself.

Lata lay awake for a while. It was the height of summer, so there was only a sheet by way of covering. The fan was on, but there was no need yet for a mosquito net. The chimes on the quarter-hour were soft, but when the clock struck eleven, then midnight, it resounded along the corridor. Lata read a little by the weak light at her bedside, but the events of the last two days swam between her and the pages. Finally she put out the light and closed her eyes, and dreamed, half-awake, of Kabir.

Slow footsteps padded down the carpeted corridor. When they stopped outside her door, she sat up, startled. They were not her mother’s footsteps. The door opened, and she saw the silhouette of a man against the dim light in the corridor. It was Mr Sahgal.

Lata turned on the light. Mr Sahgal stood blinking mildly, shaking his head, protecting his eyes with his hand even from the weak light of the bedside lamp. He was dressed in a brown dressing gown tied with a brown rope with tassels. He looked very tired.

Lata looked at him in dismay and astonishment. ‘Are you all right, Mausaji?’ she asked. ‘Are you ill?’

‘No, not ill. But I have been working late. That is why — and I saw your light was on. But then you put it off. You are an intelligent girl — a great reader.’

He looked around the room, stroking his short-trimmed beard. He was quite a large man. In a thoughtful voice he said: ‘There is no chair here. I must speak to Maya about it.’ He sat himself down at the edge of the bed. ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked Lata. ‘Everything is all right, isn’t it? The pillows and everything? I remember when you were a little girl you used to like grapes. You were very young. And it is the season for them now. Pushkar also likes grapes. Poor boy.’

Lata tried to pull the sheet closer to cover herself better, but Mr Sahgal was sitting on one corner of it.

‘You are very good to Pushkar, Mausaji,’ she said, wondering what she could do or what conversation she could make. She could hear and feel her heart beating.

‘You see,’ said Mr Sahgal in a calm voice, his hands clutching the tassels of the band of his dressing gown, ‘living here there is no hope for him. In England they have special schools, special. . ’ He paused, looking at Lata’s face and neck. ‘That boy, Haresh — he was in England? Maybe he also has photos of his landladies?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Lata, thinking of Mr Sahgal’s suggestive photographs and trying to check her rising fear. ‘Mausaji, I am very sleepy, I have to go tomorrow—’

‘But you are leaving in the evening. We must have our talk now. You see there is no one to talk to in Lucknow. Now in Calcutta — or even Delhi — but I cannot leave Lucknow. My practice, you see.’

‘Yes,’ said Lata.

‘It would also not be good for Kiran. She already sees bad boys, reads bad books. I have to stop these habits. My wife is a saint, she does not see these things.’ He was explaining things gently to Lata, and Lata was nodding mechanically.

‘My wife is a saint,’ he repeated. ‘Every morning she does puja for an hour. She will do anything for me. Whatever food I want, she cooks with her own hands. She is like Sita — a perfect wife. If I want her to dance naked for me she will dance. She wants nothing for herself. She only wants Kiran to get married. But I feel that Kiran should complete her education — till then what is wrong with living at home? Once, a boy came to the house — actually to the house. I told him to get out — to get out!’ Mr Sahgal no longer looked tired but livid, though his voice was still low. Then he calmed down, and continued in a tone of explanation: ‘But who will marry Kiran when sometimes, you know, Pushkar makes such frightening noises. Sometimes I sense his rage. You don’t mind my confiding like this in you? Kiran is a good friend of yours, I know. You must also tell me about yourself, your plans. . ’ He sniffed in an appraising way. ‘That is the eau de cologne your mother uses. Kiran never uses eau de cologne. Natural things are best.’

Lata stared at him. Her mouth had become completely dry.

‘But I buy saris for her whenever I go to Delhi,’ continued Mr Sahgal. ‘During the War, society ladies used to wear saris with broad borders; even brocades and tissues. Before she became a widow I once saw your mother wearing her wedding tissue sari. But now all that has gone. Embroidery is considered so vulgar.’