Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘We hardly see him ourselves, you know. He’s out all the time visiting some patient or other. The only way to get his attention is to fall ill.’ And here Firoz quoted an Urdu couplet about how the beloved was both the illness and the medicine, not to mention the doctor whose visit made it all worthwhile. Had the Chief Justice been listening he could have been excused for saying, ‘I fail to see the relevance of this particular submission.’

‘Well, perhaps I’ll do just that,’ said Pran. ‘I’ve been feeling oddly exhausted lately, with a sort of strain around the heart—’

Firoz laughed. ‘One of the best things about genuine illness is that it’s a licence for hypochondria.’ Then, cocking his head to one side he added: ‘The heart and the lungs are two quite different things, young man, two quite different things.’

The next day Pran was lecturing when he suddenly felt weak and breathless. His mind too began to wander, a most unusual thing for him. His students were puzzled and began to look at one another. Pran continued to speak, leaning on the lectern and staring at the far wall of the classroom.

‘Although these plays are permeated with images of the countryside, images of the chase, to the extent that the six words “Will you go hunt, my Lord?” lead you immediately—’ Pran paused, then continued: ‘lead you immediately to imagine that you are in the world of Shakespearian comedy, there is nevertheless no historical reason to believe that Shakespeare left Stratford for London because — because—’ Pran rested his head on the lectern, then looked up. Why was everyone looking at everyone else? And now his eye fell on the first rows, where the girls sat. That was Malati Trivedi sitting there. What was she doing in his lecture? She had not asked for ‘permission to attend’ in the standard way. He passed his hand over his forehead. He hadn’t noticed her when he was taking attendance. But then he never looked up from his ledger when taking attendance. Some of the boys were standing up. So was Malati. They were leading him back to the desk. Now they had sat him down. ‘Sir, are you all right?’ someone was saying. Malati was taking his pulse. And now there was someone at the door — Professor Mishra and a visitor passing by and looking in. Pran shook his head. As Professor Mishra retreated, Pran heard the words: ‘. . fond of amateur dramatics. . yes, popular with students, but—’

‘Please don’t crowd around,’ said Malati. ‘Mr Kapoor needs air.’

The boys, startled at the authority in the voice of this strange girl, stood back a little.

‘I’m all right,’ said Pran.

‘You’d better come with us, Sir,’ said Malati.

‘I’m all right, Malati,’ said Pran impatiently.

But they escorted him to the staff room and sat him down. A couple of his colleagues told the students that they would make sure that Mr Kapoor was all right. After a while things did return to normal for Pran, but he just couldn’t understand it. He had not been coughing or breathless. Perhaps it was the heat and humidity, he thought unconvincedly. Perhaps it was just overwork, as Savita insisted.

Malati, meanwhile, had decided to go to Pran’s house. When Mrs Rupa Mehra saw her at the door, her face lit up with pleasure. Then she remembered that it was probably Malati who had got Lata into the play, and she frowned. But Malati was looking worried, which was an unusual expression for her, and Mrs Rupa Mehra, in sympathetic concern, had hardly said, ‘Is something wrong?’ when Malati asked:

‘Where’s Savita?’

‘Inside. Come in. Savita, Malati’s here to see you.’

‘Hello, Malati,’ said Savita, smiling. Then, sensing that something was the matter, she said: ‘Are you all right? Is Lata all right?’

Malati sat down, composed herself so as not to discompose Savita unduly, and said:

‘I was just attending a lecture by Pran—’

‘Why were you attending a lecture by Pran?’ Mrs Rupa Mehra could not refrain from asking.

‘It was on Shakespearian comedy, Ma,’ said Malati. ‘I thought it would help me to interpret my role in the play.’ Mrs Rupa Mehra’s mouth set, but she said nothing further, and Malati continued:

‘Now, Savita, don’t be alarmed, but he felt a bit faint while giving the lecture, and had to sit down. I had a word with some of the boys later and they said that a couple of days ago something similar had happened, but that it had only lasted a second, and he had insisted on continuing the lecture.’

Mrs Rupa Mehra, too anxious now to rebuke Malati even inwardly for talking so freely to boys, said: ‘Where is he? Is he all right?’

Savita said, ‘Was he coughing? Breathless?’

‘No he wasn’t coughing, but he did seem a little breathless. I think he should see a doctor. And perhaps, if he insists on lecturing, he should sit down and lecture.’

‘But he’s a young man, Malati,’ said Savita, placing her hands on her stomach, almost as if to protect the baby from this conversation. ‘He won’t listen. He overworks, and I can’t get him to take his duties less seriously.’

‘If he listens to anyone, it’ll be to you,’ said Malati, getting up and putting her hand on Savita’s shoulder. ‘I think he’s had a bit of a shock; now is probably the best time to talk to him. He has to think of you and the baby too, not only his duties. Now I’ll just go back and see that he comes home immediately, and by rickshaw.’

Mrs Rupa Mehra would have marched into the English Department herself to rescue Pran if it hadn’t meant leaving Savita behind. Savita for her part was wondering what she could tell her husband that might have greater success than her pleas had had so far. Pran had a stubborn streak and an absurd sense of duty, and might insist on continuing to stand on the strength of them.

His stubborn streak was being exercised at this very moment. Pran was alone in the staff room with Professor Mishra, who had discovered, though not much to his alarm, that the scene he had happened upon when passing the door of the classroom was not an enactment of Shakespeare, but, rather, real life. He liked to be well informed about things, and he asked the students a few questions. He settled the visitor he had been escorting in the office of the Head of Department, and went off to the staff room.

The bell had just rung, and Pran’s colleagues were unsure whether or not to leave Pran to go to their own lectures, when Professor Mishra entered, smiled at them and at Pran, and said: ‘Leave the patient to me. I shall cater to his every whim. How are you, dear boy? I have asked the peon to get you some tea.’

Pran nodded gratefully. ‘Thank you, Professor Mishra. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sure I could have continued to lecture, but my students, you know—’

Professor Mishra placed his vast, pallid arm on Pran’s. ‘But your students are so protective of you, so protective,’ he said. ‘That is one of the joys of teaching — contact with one’s students. To inspire them in a lecture, to make them think, after forty-five minutes, that the world has changed for them, that it is somehow different from one bell to the next. To open out for them the heart of a poem — ah! Someone said to me the other day that they considered me to be one of those teachers whose lectures students would never forget — a great teacher like Deb or Dustoor or Khaliluddin Ahmed. I was, he said, a presence at the lectern. I was just a moment ago telling Professor Jaikumar of Madras University, whom I was escorting around our department, that it was a compliment I would never forget. Ah, but my dear fellow, I should be talking of your students, not my own. Many of them were intrigued by that charming and extremely competent girl who took charge a little while ago. Who was she? Had you ever seen her before?’