Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

1. Must catch up with news and world affairs.

Haresh felt he had not come off well on this account during his meetings with the Mehras. But his work kept him so busy that sometimes he hardly had time even to glance at the papers.

2. Exercise: at least 15 minutes each morning. How to find the time?

3. Make 1951 the deciding year of my life.

4. Pay off debts to Umesh Uncle in full.

5. Learn to control temper. Must learn to suffer fools, gladly or not.

6. Get brogue scheme with Kedarnath Tandon in Brahmpur working properly.

This he later crossed out and transferred to the work-related list.

7. Moustache?

This he crossed out, and then rewrote together with the question mark.

8. Learn from good people, like Babaram.

9. Finish reading major novels of T.H.

10. Try to keep my diary regularly as before.

11. Make notes of my five best and five worst qualities. Conserve latter and eradicate former.

Haresh read over this last sentence, looked surprised, and corrected it.

It was late when he got back to Elm Villa. Mrs Mason, however, who sometimes complained when Haresh came late for meals (on the grounds that it would upset the staff), was very welcoming.

‘Oh, you look so tired. My daughter has been telling me how busy you have been. And you didn’t leave word that you would be gone for more than a day. We prepared lunch for you. And dinner. And lunch again today. But no matter. You’re here, back at last, and that’s the main thing. It’s mutton. A good, hearty roast.’

Haresh was glad to hear it. Mrs Mason was bursting with curiosity, but refrained from asking questions while he ate his dinner. He had eaten nothing since morning.

After dinner Mrs Mason turned to Haresh to speak.

‘How is Sophie?’ interposed Haresh deftly. Sophie was the Masons’ beloved Persian cat, an unfailing subject of animated discourse.

After five minutes of the Sophie saga, Haresh yawned and said, ‘Well, goodnight, Mrs Mason. It was very kind of you to keep my dinner warm for me. I think I’ll turn in.’

And before Mrs Mason could veer the conversation around to Simran or the two visitors, Haresh had gone to his room.

He was very tired, but he kept awake long enough to write three letters. The rest he was forced to leave unwritten till the next day.

He was about to write to Lata when, sensing Simran’s eyes on him, he turned to a shorter and easier letter — a postcard in fact.

It was to Kedarnath Tandon’s son Bhaskar.

Dear Bhaskar,

I hope all is well with you. The words you want, according to a Chinese colleague of mine, are wan (to rhyme with ‘kaan’) and ee (to rhyme with ‘knee’). That will give you, in order of powers of ten: one, ten, hundred, thousand, wan, lakh, million, crore, ee, billion. A special word for ten to its own power you will have to invent for yourself. I suggest bhask.

Please give my regards to Dr Durrani, to your parents, and to your grandmother. Also, ask your father to send me the second sample of brogues that I was promised by the man in Ravidaspur. They should have arrived more than a week ago. Perhaps they are already on their way.

Affectionately,

Haresh Chacha.

Next he wrote a short letter of a page and a half to his father, in which he enclosed the small snapshot of Lata he had got off the Mehras. He had wanted to take a photograph of them himself, but they had felt a bit embarrassed, and he had not pressed the matter.

To Lata he wrote a three-page letter on his blue writing pad. Though he had almost been at the point of telling her (or, more strictly, them) over the cold chocolate that he knew that she was the right wife for him, something had held him back. Now he was glad of it. Haresh knew that despite his pragmatism he was highly impulsive. When he had decided to leave home at fifteen it had taken him a minute to decide and ten minutes to leave; it had been months before he had returned. In the market the other day he had almost hired Mr Lee, the designer, on the spot, though he had no real authority to do so; he knew that he was the right man to help design the new orders that he felt sure he could bring in.

So much for decisions that were (or would have been) if not laudable, at least admirable. The money that he once lent a friend of his in Patiala, however, was lent equally impulsively. It had been a good third of his assets, and he now knew that he would never get it back. But the decision that faced him at the present time dealt not with his assets but with himself. If he gave himself away he would not be able to retrieve himself.

He looked at Simran’s photograph — nothing would induce him to turn it away even while writing his first letter to Lata. He wondered what she would have said, what advice she would have given him. Her kindness and purity of heart would have led him in the right direction, he knew. She wanted his good as much as he wanted hers.

‘Look at it this way, Simran,’ he said. ‘I am twenty-eight. There is no possibility of anything between us. I will have to settle down one day. If I have to marry I may as well go ahead and do it. They like me. At least I’m confident the mother does; and that makes a change.’

Of the three pages of his letter to Lata, one and a half were about the Praha Shoe Company, the Czech-founded establishment with Indian headquarters in Calcutta and a huge factory at Prahapore fifteen miles away. Haresh wanted his name and copies of his certificates brought to the attention of someone whom Mrs Rupa Mehra had known socially over a period of years and who himself knew someone fairly high up in the company. Haresh saw three advantages in a job with Praha. He would have a better chance of rising to the top in a company that was professionally managed. He would be near Calcutta, which could be considered to be the Mehra home base, and where Lata, he had ascertained, would be spending her Christmas holidays. And finally, he thought his income would surely be larger than the one he was at present living on. The insulting offer of a weekly wage that he had previously received from Praha he was prepared to discount as their badgered response to a persistent series of letters from a man writing to them without any prior introduction. What he needed to do, Haresh believed, was to get the attention of someone at the top.

This business being over [continued Haresh], let me hope in the usual way that you had a comfortable journey home and that you were missed by all who met you after such a long absence from Brahmpur. [. .]

I must thank you for your visit to Cawnpore and the nice time we spent together. There was none of that bashfulness or undue modesty and I am convinced that we can be very friendly if nothing else. I quite appreciate your frankness and the way of putting things. I must admit that I have met few English girls who could speak English quite as well as you do. These qualities coupled with your way of dressing and personality make you a person far above the average. I think Kalpana was right in her praise of you. These may all seem flattering remarks but I write as I feel.

I have just today sent your photograph to my foster-father along with my impressions of you formed during our brief hours together. I shall let you know what he has to say.

A couple of final paragraphs about generalities, and the letter was over. Haresh addressed the envelope. As he lay on his bed a few minutes later it struck him that the Mehras would certainly have seen Simran’s silver-framed portrait on his writing table. When he had invited them to Elm Villa he had not thought about the photograph at all. It was as much a part of the room as his bed. Between themselves, mother and daughter would doubtless have discussed it — and particularly the fact that he had let it remain there. He wondered what they must have thought, what they could have said. But he was asleep too soon to wonder long.