Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘Thank you,’ said Kabir, yawning. ‘You have done a great deal. Well, yes, you can do one thing more. Would you take this note to an address in the university area?’

‘Certainly.’

It had struck Kabir that he might not be able to get through to his father by phone, and that a note to him would be useful. He wrote a few lines — his handwriting was something of a scrawl because of his tiredness — folded it in four, wrote the address on top, and handed it over to the fat man.

‘The sooner the better,’ he said.

The man nodded and left, humming mournfully to himself.

After he had done his rounds, Kabir picked up the telephone and asked the operator for Dr Durrani’s number. The lines were congested, and he was asked to try a little later. Ten minutes later he got through, and his father happened to be at home. Kabir informed him of the situation and asked him to ignore the note he would be getting.

‘I know he’s your friend, the mini-Gauss, and that his name’s Bhaskar. But where does he live?’

His father was at his absent-minded worst.

‘Oh, hmm, er—’ began Dr Durrani. ‘It’s very, er, difficult to say. Now what is his last, er, name?’

‘I thought that you might know,’ said Kabir. He could imagine his father scrunching up his eyes in concentration.

‘Now, er, I’m not exactly sure, you see, er, he comes and goes, various people, well, leave him here, and then we talk, and then, er, they come and pick him up. He was here last week—’

‘I know—’

‘And we were discussing Fermat’s conjecture about—’

‘Father—’

‘Oh, yes, and an, er, interesting variant of the Pergolesi Lemma. Something along the, er, lines of what my young colleague, er, I have an idea — why don’t we, er, er, ask him?’

‘Ask whom?’

‘Yes, Sunil Patwardhan, er, wouldn’t he know about the boy? It was his party, I believe. Poor Bhaskar. His, er, parents must be perplexed.’

Whatever this meant, Kabir realized that he would probably get more sense out of this new lead than out of his father. He got in touch with Sunil Patwardhan, who recalled that Bhaskar was Kedarnath Tandon’s son and Mahesh Kapoor’s grandson. Kabir phoned up Prem Nivas.

Mahesh Kapoor picked up the phone at the second ring.

‘Ji?’

‘May I speak to the Minister Sahib?’ said Kabir in Hindi.

‘You are speaking to him.’

‘Minister Sahib, I am speaking from the first-aid centre just below the eastern end of the Fort.’

‘Yes.’ The voice was like a taut spring.

‘We have your grandson, Bhaskar, here—’

‘Alive?’

‘Yes. We have just—’

‘Then bring him to Prem Nivas immediately. What are you waiting for?’ Mahesh Kapoor’s voice cut in.

‘Minister Sahib, I apologize, but I am on duty here. You will have to come down yourself.’

‘Yes, yes, of course, of course—’

‘And I should mention—’

‘Yes, yes, go on, go on—’

‘It may not be advisable to move him at present. Well, I shall expect you soon.’

‘Good. What is your name?’

‘Kabir Durrani.’

‘Durrani?’ Mahesh Kapoor’s voice expressed surprise before he told himself that disaster knows no religion. ‘Like the mathematician?’

‘Yes. I am his elder son.’

‘I apologize for my sharpness. We have all been very tense. I will come down immediately. How is he? Why can’t he be moved?’

‘I think it is best if you see for yourself,’ said Kabir. Then, realizing how terrifying these words might sound, he added: ‘He does not appear to have any external injury.’

‘The eastern end?’

‘The eastern end.’

Mahesh Kapoor put down the phone and turned to the family, which had been following every word at his end.

In fifteen minutes Veena had Bhaskar in her arms again. She held him so tight that they seemed to be a single being. The boy was still unconscious, although his face was calm. She touched her forehead to his and whispered his name again and again.

When her father introduced the tired young man at the first-aid centre as Dr Durrani’s son, she stretched her hands towards his head and blessed him.

Dipankar, who had been thinking of death and almost nothing but death since the meaningless disaster of the stampede, said: ‘Does it matter, Baba?’

‘Yes.’ The kind face looked down at the two rosaries, and the small eyes blinked, as if in amusement.

Dipankar had bought these rosaries, one for himself and one — for some reason that he could not explain even to himself — for Amit. He had asked Sanaki Baba to bless them before he left the Mela.

Sanaki Baba had taken them in his cupped hands, and had said: ‘What form, what power are you most attracted to? Rama? or Krishna? or Shiva? or Shakti? or Om itself?’

At first, Dipankar had hardly been able to register the question. His mind had reverted to the horror of what he had seen — experienced more than seen. Once more he saw the broken body of the old man a few feet away — the nagas stabbing at him, the crowd crushing him underfoot — the confusion and the madness. Was this what human life was about? Was this why he was here? How pathetic now appeared his hope to understand anything. He was more dismayed and horrified and bewildered than he had ever been.

Sanaki Baba placed his hand on his shoulder. Although he did not repeat his question, his touch brought Dipankar back to the present, back to the triviality, perhaps, of great concepts and great gods.

Now Sanaki Baba was waiting for his answer.

Dipankar thought to himself: Om is too abstract for me; Shakti too mysterious, and I get enough of it in Calcutta; Shiva is too fierce; and Rama too righteous. Krishna is the one for me.

‘Krishna,’ he said.

The answer seemed to please Sanaki Baba, but he merely repeated the name.

Then he said, taking both Dipankar’s hands in his own: ‘Now say after me: O God, today—’

‘O God, today—’

‘— on the bank of the Ganga at Brahmpur—’

‘— on the bank of the Ganga at Brahmpur—’

‘— on the auspicious occasion of the Pul Mela—’

‘— on the occasion of the Pul Mela,’ amended Dipankar.

‘— on the auspicious occasion of the Pul Mela,’ insisted Sanaki Baba.

‘— on the auspicious occasion of the Pul Mela—’

‘— at the hands of my guru—’

‘But are you my guru?’ asked Dipankar, suddenly sceptical.

Sanaki Baba laughed. ‘At the hands of Sanaki Baba, then,’ he said.

‘— at the hands of Sanaki Baba—’

‘— I take this, the symbol of all your names—’

‘— I take this, the symbol of all your names—’

‘— by which may all my sorrows be removed.’

‘— by which may all my sorrows be removed.’

‘Om Krishna, Om Krishna, Om Krishna.’ Sanaki Baba began to cough. ‘It’s the incense,’ he said. ‘Let’s go outside.’

‘Now, Divyakar,’ said Sanaki Baba, ‘I am going to explain how to use this. Om is the seed, the sound. It is shapeless and without form. But if you want a tree, you must have a sprout, and that is why people choose Krishna or Rama. Now you hold the rosary thus—’ and he gave one to Dipankar, who imitated his gestures. ‘Don’t use the second and fifth fingers. Hold it between your thumb and ring finger, and move it bead by bead with your middle finger while you say “Om Krishna”. Yes, that’s the way. There are 108 beads. When you get to the knot, don’t cross it, return and circle the other way. Like waves in the ocean, forwards and backwards.

‘Say “Om Krishna” on waking, on putting on your clothes, whenever you think of it. . Now I have a question for you.’