Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘You must think me a fool,’ said Lata.

‘Well, foolish,’ said Malati.

‘It’s terrible, Malati,’ Lata continued. ‘I want to meet him more than anything. And I’ve told my Co-respondent to correspond. He asked at the station, and I couldn’t bear to be mean to him when he’d been so helpful to Ma and me.’

‘Oh, there’s no harm in that,’ said Malati. ‘So long as you don’t either dislike or love him, you can correspond with him. And didn’t he make it clear that he was still half in love with someone else?’

‘Yes,’ said Lata, rather thoughtfully. ‘Yes, he did.’

Two days later Lata got a short note from Kabir asking her whether she was still annoyed with him. Couldn’t they meet at the Brahmpur Literary Society on Friday? He would only go if there was a chance of meeting her.

At first Lata thought of asking Malati once again what she should do. Then, partly because Malati could hardly be expected to manage her love-life in every detail, and partly because Malati would probably have told her not to go and to ignore the letter, Lata decided to consult herself and the monkeys.

She took a walk, scattered some peanuts to the monkeys on the cliff, and was the centre of their approving attention for a while. During the Pul Mela the monkeys had been royally feasted, but now it was back to normal lean times; and very few people paused to consider their welfare.

Having performed a generous action, Lata felt she could think more clearly. Kabir had once before waited for her in vain at the Brahmpur Literary Society. He had even had to eat some of Mrs Nowrojee’s cake. Lata felt she could not inflict such an experience on him again. She wrote him a short note:

Dear Kabir,

I have got your note, but will not be going to the Nowrojees’ this Friday. I got your letter too when I was in Calcutta. It made me think over and remember everything. I am not annoyed with you in any way; please do not think so. But I feel that there is no purpose at all in our writing or meeting. There would be a lot of pain and very little point.

Lata

After reading over her note three times, and wondering whether to rewrite it without the last sentence, Lata became impatient with herself and posted it as it was.

She did visit Prem Nivas that day, and was relieved to discover that Kabir was not visiting Bhaskar at the time.

A couple of days after the Monsoon Term began, Malati and Lata went to the auditions for Twelfth Night. A nervous young philosophy teacher with a lively interest in the theatre was directing the Annual Day play this year. The auditions — it was the day for female auditions — took place not in the university auditorium but in the staff room of the Philosophy Department. It was five o’clock in the afternoon. About fifteen girls were gathered there, chattering nervously in knots, or just looking at Mr Barua with fascinated anxiety. Lata recognized several girls from the English Department, a couple even from her year, but none whom she knew very well. Malati had come along with her in order to ensure that she didn’t back out at the last moment. ‘I’ll audition as well, if you want.’

‘But don’t you have some of your practicals in the afternoon?’ asked Lata. ‘If you get a part and have to rehearse—’

‘I won’t get a part,’ said Malati firmly.

Mr Barua made the girls stand up one by one and read various passages from the play. There were only three female parts and, besides, Mr Barua had not decided definitely that the part of Viola would go to a girl, so the competition was severe. Mr Barua read every role — male or female — other than the one that the auditioner was reading, and he read them so well, discarding entirely the nervousness of his ordinary manner, that many of the girls in the audience, and one or two who were auditioning, started giggling.

Mr Barua first made them read Viola’s part beginning: ‘Good madam, let me see your face.’ Then, depending upon what they made of it, he asked them to read something else, either from Olivia’s role or from Maria’s, but only in Lata’s case from both. Some girls read in a singsong voice or had some other irksome trait of speech; Mr Barua, reverting to his nervous manner, cut them off with: ‘Good, thank you, thank you very much, that was good, very good, very good indeed, I have an excellent idea now, well, good, good—’ until the girl who was reading got the idea, and (in a couple of cases, tearfully) returned to her chair.

After the auditions, Mr Barua said to Lata, within the hearing of a couple of other girls: ‘That was well read, Miss Mehra, I’m surprised I haven’t seen you on, well, on stage before.’ Overcome by embarrassment he turned to gather his papers.

Lata was delighted with the nervous compliment. Malati told her that she had better prepare Mrs Rupa Mehra for the fact that she was bound to get a part.

‘Oh, I’m not bound to get a part at all,’ said Lata.

‘Make sure that Pran’s in the room when you bring up the subject,’ said Malati.

Pran, Savita, Mrs Rupa Mehra, and Lata were sitting together after dinner that night when Lata said:

‘Pran, what do you think of Mr Barua?’

Pran paused in his reading. ‘The philosophy lecturer?’

‘Yes — he’s doing the Annual Day play this year, and I wanted to know whether you think he’ll direct it well.’

‘Mm, yes,’ said Pran. ‘I’d heard he was doing it. Twelfth Night or As You Like It or something. Makes a good contrast to Julius Caesar. He’s very good — he’s very good as an actor as well, you know,’ continued Pran. ‘But they say he’s rather poor as a lecturer.’

After a moment’s pause Lata said: ‘It’s Twelfth Night. I went to the auditions, and it’s possible I might get a part in it, so I thought I’d better be forewarned about things.’

Pran, Savita, and Mrs Rupa Mehra all looked up. Mrs Rupa Mehra paused in her sewing and took in her breath sharply.

‘Wonderful,’ said Pran enthusiastically. ‘Well done!’

‘Which part?’ asked Savita.

‘No,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra vehemently, shaking her needle for emphasis. ‘My daughter is not going to act in any play. No.’ She glared at Lata over the top of her reading glasses.

There was silence all around. After a while Mrs Rupa Mehra added: ‘Not at all.’

After a further while, not encountering any response, she went on: ‘Boys and girls together — acting!’ It was obvious that such a tawdry, immoral thing could not be countenanced.

‘Like in Julius Caesar last year,’ ventured Lata.

‘You be quiet,’ snapped her mother. ‘No one has asked you to speak. Have you ever heard of Savita wanting to act? To act on the stage with hundreds of people staring? And going to those nightly gatherings with boys—’

‘Rehearsals,’ prompted Pran.

‘Yes, yes, rehearsals,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra impatiently. ‘It was on the tip of my tongue. I won’t have it. Think of the shame. What would your father have said?’

‘Now, now, Ma,’ said Savita. ‘Don’t get upset. It’s just a play.’

Having invoked her late husband, Mrs Rupa Mehra had reached an emotional climax, and it was possible now to pacify her and even to reason with her. Pran pointed out that the rehearsals would take place during the day except in an emergency. Savita said that she’d read Twelfth Night at school, and it was a harmless play; there was nothing scandalous in it.

Savita had read the bowdlerized version that was approved as a school text, but it was very likely that Mr Barua would have to cut out certain passages anyway to avoid causing shock and distress to the parents who attended Annual Day. Mrs Rupa Mehra had not read the play; if she had, she would certainly have thought it unsuitable.