Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

Pran looked at the twinkling eyes, the great nose, the sweetly pursed lips with reluctant admiration. University statutes required that the syllabus committee, like departmental committees of any kind, should consist of an odd number of members. But Professor Mishra, as head of the department, appointed the members of each committee within his purview in such a way as always to include someone who for reasons of health or research was likely to be indisposed or absent. With an even number of members present, committees were more reluctant than ever to bring things to the climax of a vote. And the head, with his control over the agenda and the pacing of a meeting, could in the circumstances gather even more effective power into his hands.

‘I think we have, as it were, expended enough time on item two,’ said Professor Mishra. ‘Shall we go on to chiasmus and anacoluthia?’ He was referring to a proposal, put forward by himself, that they eliminate too detailed a study of traditional figures of speech for the paper in Literary Theory and Criticism. ‘And then we have the question of symmetrical auxiliaries proposed by the junior member of the committee. Though this will, of course, depend upon other departments agreeing to our proposals. And finally, since the shades of night are falling,’ continued Professor Mishra, ‘I think we should, without prejudice to items five, six, and seven, wind up the meeting. We can take up those items next month.’

But Pran was unwilling to be dissuaded from pressing on with the unresolved question of Joyce. ‘I think we have now collected ourselves,’ he said, ‘and can approach the issue under discussion quite calmly. If I were willing to accept that Ulysses might be a bit, well, difficult for B.A. students, would the committee agree to include Dubliners on the syllabus as a first step? Dr Gupta, what do you think?’

Dr Gupta looked up at the slowly circulating fan. His ability to get speakers on Old and Middle English invited to the departmental seminar depended upon Professor Mishra’s goodwill: outside speakers entailed incidental expenses, and funds had to be approved by the head of the department. Dr Gupta knew as well as anyone what ‘as a first step’ implied. He looked up at Pran and said, ‘I would be willing—’

But he was swiftly interrupted in his sentence, whatever that might have been. ‘We are forgetting,’ Professor Mishra cut in, ‘something that even I, I must admit, did not bear in mind earlier in this discussion. I mean that, by tradition, the Modern British Literature paper does not include writers who were living at the time of the Second World War.’ This was news to Pran, who must have looked astonished, because Professor Mishra felt compelled to explain: ‘This is not altogether a matter for surprise. We need the distance of time objectively to appraise the stature of modern writers, to include them in our canon, as it were. Do remind me, Dr Kapoor. . when did Joyce die?’

‘1941,’ said Pran sharply. It was clear that the great white whale had known this all along.

‘Well, there you are. .’ said Professor Mishra helplessly. His finger moved down the agenda.

‘Eliot, of course, is still alive,’ said Pran quietly, looking at the list of prescribed authors.

The head of the department looked as if he had been slapped across the face. He opened his mouth slightly, then pursed his lips together. The jolly twinkle appeared again in his eyes. ‘But Eliot, Eliot, surely — we have objective criteria enough in his case — why, even Dr Leavis—’

Professor Mishra clearly responded to a different drummer from the Americans, reflected Pran. Aloud he said, ‘Dr Leavis, as we know, greatly approves of Lawrence too. . ’

‘We have agreed to discuss Lawrence next time,’ Professor Mishra expostulated.

Pran gazed out of the window. It was getting dark and the leaves of the laburnum now looked cool, not dusty. He went on, not looking at Professor Mishra: ‘. . and, besides, Joyce has a better claim as a British writer in Modern British Literature than Eliot. So if we—’

‘That, my young friend, if I may say so,’ cut in Professor Mishra, ‘could be considered a species of quibbling.’ He was recovering quickly from his shock. In a minute he would be quoting Prufrock.

What is it about Eliot, thought Pran irrelevantly, his mind wandering from the subject at hand, that makes him such a sacred cow for us Indian intellectuals? Aloud he said: ‘Let us hope that T.S. Eliot has many more years of life, of productive life. I am glad that, unlike Joyce, he did not die in 1941. But we are now living in 1951, which implies that the pre-war rule you mentioned, even if it is a tradition, could not be a very ancient one. If we can’t do away with it, why not update it? Surely its purpose is that we should revere the dead above the living — or, to be less sceptical, appraise the dead before the living. Eliot, who is alive, has been granted a waiver. I propose we grant Joyce one. A friendly compromise.’ Pran paused, then added: ‘As it were.’ He smiled. ‘Dr Narayanan, are you for “The Dead”?’

‘Yes, well, I think so,’ said Dr Narayanan with the faintest of responding smiles, before Professor Mishra could interrupt.

‘Dr Gupta?’ asked Pran.

Dr Gupta could not look Professor Mishra in the eye.

‘I agree with Dr Narayanan,’ said Professor Gupta.

There was silence for a few seconds. Pran thought, I can’t believe it. I’ve won. I’ve won. I can’t believe it.

And indeed, it seemed that he had. Everyone knew that the approval of the Academic Council of the university was usually a formality once the syllabus committee of a department had decided matters.

As if nothing in the least untoward had occurred, the head of the department gathered together the reins of the meeting. The great soft hands scuttled across the cyclostyled sheets. ‘The next item. .’ said Professor Mishra with a smile, then paused and began again: ‘but before we go on to the next item, I should say that I personally have always greatly admired James Joyce as a writer. I am delighted, needless to say—’

A couple of lines of poetry came terrifyingly unbidden to Pran’s mind:

Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar,

Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell?

and he burst into a fit of sudden laughter, incomprehensible even to himself, which went on for twenty seconds and ended in a spasm of coughing. He bent his head and tears streamed down his cheeks. Professor Mishra rewarded him with a look of unfeigned fury and hatred.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ muttered Pran as he recovered. Dr Gupta was thumping him vigorously on the back, which was not helpful. ‘Please continue — I was overcome — it sometimes happens. . ’ But to offer any further explanation was impossible.

The meeting was resumed and the next two points discussed quickly. There was no real disagreement. It was dark now; the meeting was adjourned. As Pran left the room Professor Mishra put a friendly arm around his shoulder. ‘My dear boy, that was a fine performance.’ Pran shuddered at the memory. ‘You are clearly a man of great integrity, intellectual and otherwise.’ Oh, oh, what is he up to now? thought Pran. Professor Mishra continued: ‘The Proctor has been badgering me since last Tuesday to submit a member of my department — it’s our turn, you know — to join the student welfare committee of the university. . ’ Oh no, thought Pran, there goes one day every week. ‘. . and I have decided to volunteer you.’ I didn’t know the verb was transitive, thought Pran. In the darkness — they were now walking across the campus — it was difficult for Professor Mishra entirely to disguise the active dislike in his high voice. Pran could almost see the pursed lips, the specious twinkle. He was silent, and that, to the head of the English Department, implied acceptance.