Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

The obtuseness of intelligent men, thought Savita with a smile, is half of what makes them lovable. She closed her eyes for a second to say a prayer for his health and her own and that of her unborn child.

On the morning of Holi, Maan woke up smiling. He drank not just one but several glasses of thandai laced with bhang and was soon as high as a kite. He felt the ceiling floating down towards him — or was it he who was floating up towards it? As if in a mist he saw his friends Firoz and Imtiaz together with the Nawab Sahib arrive at Prem Nivas to greet the family. He went forward to wish them a happy Holi. But all he could manage was a continuous stream of laughter. They smeared his face with colour and he went on laughing. They sat him down in a corner and he continued laughing until the tears rolled down his cheeks. The ceiling had now floated away entirely, and it was the walls that were pulsing in and out in an immensely puzzling way. Suddenly he got up and put his arms around Firoz and Imtiaz and made for the door, pushing them along with him.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Firoz.

‘To Pran’s,’ Maan replied. ‘I have to play Holi with my sister-in-law.’ He grabbed a couple of packets of coloured powder and put them in the pocket of his kurta.

‘You’d better not drive your father’s car in this state,’ Firoz said.

‘Oh, we’ll take a tonga, a tonga,’ Maan said, waving his arms around, and then embracing Firoz. ‘But first drink some thandai. It’s got an amazing kick.’

They were lucky. There weren’t many tongas out this morning, but one trotted up just as they got on to Cornwallis Road. The horse was nervous as he passed the crowds of stained and shouting merrymakers on the way to the university. They paid the tonga-wallah double his regular fare and smeared his forehead pink and that of his horse green for good measure. When Pran saw them dismounting he went up and welcomed them into the garden. Just outside the door on the verandah of the house was a large bathtub filled with pink colour and several foot-long copper syringes. Pran’s kurta and pyjama were soaked and his face and hair smeared with yellow and pink powder.

‘Where’s my bhabhi?’ shouted Maan.

‘I’m not coming out—’ said Savita from inside.

‘That’s fine,’ shouted Maan, ‘we’ll come in.’

‘Oh no you won’t,’ said Savita. ‘Not unless you’ve brought me a sari.’

‘You’ll get your sari, what I want now is my pound of flesh,’ Maan said.

‘Very funny,’ said Savita. ‘You can play Holi as much as you like with my husband, but promise me you’ll only put a bit of colour on me.’

‘Yes, yes, I promise! Just a smidgeon, no more, of powder — and then a bit on your pretty little sister’s face — and I’ll be satisfied — until next year.’

Savita opened the door cautiously. She was wearing an old and faded salwaar-kameez and looked lovely: laughing and cautious, half-poised for flight.

Maan held the packet of pink powder in his left hand. He now smeared a bit on his sister-in-law’s forehead. She reached into the packet to do the same to him.

‘—and a little bit on each cheek—’ Maan continued as he smeared more powder on her face.

‘Good, that’s fine,’ said Savita. ‘Very good. Happy Holi!’

‘—and a little bit here—’ said Maan, rubbing more on her neck and shoulders and back, holding her firmly and fondling her a bit as she struggled to get away.

‘You’re a real ruffian, I’ll never trust you again,’ said Savita. ‘Please let me go, please stop it, no, Maan, please — not in my condition. . ’

‘So I’m a ruffian, am I?’ said Maan, reaching for a mug and dipping it in the tub.

‘No, no, no—’ said Savita. ‘I didn’t mean it. Pran, please help me,’ said Savita, half laughing and half crying. Mrs Rupa Mehra was peeping in alarm through the window. ‘No wet colour, Maan, please—’ cried Savita, her voice rising to a scream.

But despite all her pleading Maan poured three or four mugs of cold pink water over her head, and rubbed the moist powder on to her kameez over her breasts, laughing all the while.

Lata was looking out of the window too, amazed by Maan’s bold, licentious attack — the licence presumably being provided by the day. She could almost feel Maan’s hands on her and then the cold shock of the water. To her surprise, and to that of her mother, who was standing next to her, she gave a gasp and a shiver. But nothing would induce her to go outside, where Maan was continuing his polychrome pleasures.

‘Stop—’ cried Savita, outraged. ‘What kind of cowards are you? Why don’t you help me? He’s had bhang, I can see it — just look at his eyes—’

Firoz and Pran managed to distract Maan by squirting several syringes full of coloured water at him, and he fled into the garden. He was not very steady on his feet as it was, and he stumbled and fell into the bed of yellow cannas. He raised his head among the flowers long enough to sing the single line: ‘Oh revellers, it’s Holi in the land of Braj!’ and sat down again, disappearing from view. A minute later, like a cuckoo clock, he got up to repeat the same line and sat down once more. Savita, bent on revenge, filled a small brass pot with coloured water and came down the steps into the garden. She made her way stealthily to the bed of cannas. Just at that moment Maan got up once again to sing. As his head appeared above the cannas he saw Savita and the lota of water. But it was too late. Savita, fierce and determined, threw the entire contents on his face and chest. Looking at Maan’s astonished expression she began to giggle. But Maan had sat down once again and was now crying, ‘Bhabhi doesn’t love me, my bhabhi doesn’t love me.’

‘Of course, I don’t,’ said Savita. ‘Why should I?’

Tears rolled down Maan’s cheeks and he was inconsolable. When Firoz tried to get him on to his feet he clung to him. ‘You’re my only real friend,’ he wept. ‘Where are the sweets?’

Now that Maan had neutralized himself, Lata ventured out and played a little mild Holi with Pran, Firoz and Savita. Mrs Rupa Mehra got smeared with a bit of colour too.

But all the while Lata kept wondering what it would have felt like to be rubbed and smeared by the cheerful Maan in such a public and intimate way. And this was a man who was engaged! She had never seen anyone behave even remotely like Maan — and Pran was very far from furious. A strange family, the Kapoors, she thought.

Meanwhile Imtiaz, like Maan, had got fairly stoned on the bhang in his thandai and was sitting on the steps, smiling at the world and murmuring repeatedly to himself a word that sounded like ‘myocardial’. Sometimes he murmured it, sometimes he sang it, at other times it seemed to be a question both profound and unanswerable. Occasionally he would touch the small mole on his cheek in a thoughtful manner.

A group of about twenty students — multicoloured and almost unrecognizable — appeared along the road. There were even a few girls in the group — and one of them was the now purple-skinned (but still green-eyed) Malati. They had induced Professor Mishra to join them; he lived just a few houses away. His whale-like bulk was unmistakable, and besides, he had very little colour on him.

‘What an honour, what an honour,’ said Pran, ‘but I should have come to your house, Sir, not you to mine.’

‘Oh, I don’t stand on ceremony in such matters,’ said Professor Mishra, pursing his lips and twinkling his eyes. ‘Now, do tell me, where is the charming Mrs Kapoor?’

‘Hello, Professor Mishra, how nice of you to have come to play Holi with us,’ Savita said, advancing with a little powder in her hand. ‘Welcome, all of you. Hello, Malati, we were wondering what had happened to you. It’s almost noon. Welcome, welcome—’