Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘Malati Trivedi,’ said Pran.

‘It’s none of my business, I know,’ continued Professor Mishra, ‘but when she asked for permission to attend, what reason did she give? It’s always gratifying when one’s fame spreads beyond one’s own department. I believe I’ve seen her somewhere before.’

‘I can’t imagine where,’ said Pran. Then he suddenly remembered with a shock that it was probably at the dreadful submersion of Holi.

‘I’m sorry, Professor Mishra, I didn’t get your question,’ said Pran, who was finding it hard to concentrate. The image of Professor Mishra floundering in a tub of pink water was getting the better of him.

‘Oh, not to worry, not to worry. Time enough for all that later,’ said Professor Mishra, puzzled by Pran’s look of anxiety and — what almost appeared to be — amusement. ‘Ah, here’s the tea.’ The subservient peon moved the tray backwards and forwards in deference to his imagined wishes, and Professor Mishra continued: ‘But you know, I have been feeling for some time that these duties of yours really are rather onerous. It’s difficult to shrug some of them off, of course. University duties, for example. I heard just this morning that the Raja of Marh’s son had been to see you yesterday in connection with this unfortunate fracas he got into. Now of course, if anything were done to him, it would outrage the Raja himself, rather an excitable sort of man, wouldn’t you say? One makes enemies on a committee such as the one you sit on. But then, the acceptance of power is never without its personal costs, and one must do one’s duty. “Stern daughter of the voice of God!” Only, of course, it cannot fail to tell upon one’s teaching.’

Pran nodded.

‘Departmental duties, of course, are another matter entirely,’ continued Professor Mishra. ‘I have decided that if you wish to be released from the syllabus committee. . ’ Pran shook his head. Professor Mishra continued: ‘Some of my colleagues on the Academic Council have told me frankly that they find your recommendations — our recommendations, I mean — quite untenable. Joyce, you know — a man of most peculiar habits.’ He looked at Pran’s face and saw that he was making no headway at all.

Pran stirred his tea, and took a sip.

‘Professor Mishra,’ he said, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you: has the selection committee been constituted yet?’

‘Selection committee?’ asked Professor Mishra innocently.

‘To decide on the vacant readership.’ Savita had been prodding Pran about the subject lately.

‘Ah, well,’ said Professor Mishra, ‘things take time, things take time. The Registrar has been very busy of late. But we have advertised, as you know, and we hope to have all of the applications in soon. I’ve glanced at a few, and they are strong, very strong. Excellent qualifications, excellent teaching qualifications.’

He paused to give Pran a chance to say something, but Pran remained determinedly silent.

‘Well,’ said Professor Mishra. ‘I don’t want to discourage a young man like yourself, but I believe that in a year or two, when your health has settled, and everything else has stabilized—’ He smiled sweetly at Pran.

Pran smiled back. After another sip of tea, he said, ‘Professor, when do you think the committee will meet?’

‘Ah, now, that’s difficult to say, very difficult. We aren’t like the Patna University, where the Department Head can just get a few people off the Bihar Public Service Commission to sit on the committee, though I must admit I can see advantages to that system. We have this needlessly elaborate system of selecting our committee members: two from a Panel of Experts — and the Chancellor’s nominee — and so on. Professor Jaikumar of Madras, who saw your’—he was about to say ‘performance’ but checked himself—‘your distress just now, is on our Panel of Experts. But a time that’s convenient for him to come to Brahmpur may not be convenient for someone else on the panel. And now, as you know, the Vice-Chancellor has himself been keeping such indifferent health that he has been talking of retirement. Poor man, he hardly finds time to chair selection committees. Everything takes time. Ah well, ah well, I’m sure you sympathize.’ And Professor Mishra stared sadly at his large pale hands.

‘With him, with you, or with myself?’ asked Pran lightly.

‘How acute!’ said Professor Mishra. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. A fertile ambiguity. Well, with all of us, I hope. Sympathy does not run out by being generously bestowed. And yet, there is too little genuine sympathy in the world. People always tell others what they want to hear, not what they feel is truly in the interest of the other person. Now, if I were to advise you, for instance, to withdraw your application for the post of reader—’

‘—I wouldn’t do it,’ completed Pran.

‘Your health, my dear boy. I am only thinking of your own health. You are driving yourself too hard. All these articles you’ve been publishing—’ He shook his head in gentle reproof.

‘Professor Mishra, my mind is quite made up,’ said Pran. ‘I would like my name to go ahead. I’ll take my chances with the committee. I know that you will be on my side.’

A look of bland ferocity passed over the Professor’s face. But when he turned to Pran he was entirely soothing.

‘Of course, of course,’ he said. ‘Some more tea?’

Fortunately, Professor Mishra had left Pran alone by the time Malati came to the door. She told him that Savita was expecting him at home and that he was to go home by the rickshaw that was standing outside.

‘But it’s just across the campus,’ Pran protested. ‘Really, Malati, I’m not crippled yet. I walked all the way to Prem Nivas yesterday.’

‘Mrs Kapoor’s orders, Sir,’ said Malati. Pran shrugged, and complied.

When he got home, his mother-in-law was in the kitchen. He told Savita to keep sitting, and put his arms tenderly around her.

‘Why are you so stubborn?’ she said to him, his tenderness causing her anxiety to flare up again.

‘We’ll be all right,’ whispered Pran. ‘We’ll all be all right.’

‘I’m going to ask for a doctor,’ said Savita.

‘For yourself, not for me,’ said Pran.

‘Pran, I am going to insist. If you care for me, you’ll take my advice now and then.’

‘But my magical masseur is coming tomorrow. He cures both my body and my mind.’ Seeing Savita continue to look worried, he said: ‘I’ll tell you what — if I don’t feel fit after his kneading and pummelling, I’ll see a doctor. How’s that?’

‘Better than nothing,’ said Savita.

‘This skill is a gift of Lord Shiva — it came to me in a vision — in a dream — suddenly, not by degrees.’

The masseur, Maggu Gopal, a tough, stocky man, was rubbing Pran all over with oil. He was about sixty, had very short-cropped grey hair, and kept up a continuous patter which Pran found very soothing. Pran was lying flat on his stomach on a towel in the verandah, and was wearing only his underwear. The masseur had his sleeves rolled up and was tweaking Pran’s rather scraggly neck muscles in a determined manner.

‘Ai!’ said Pran, wriggling a bit—‘that hurts.’ He spoke in English, as Maggu Gopal’s patter was entirely in English, except for quotations from Hindi. The magical masseur had been recommended to Pran by a friend, and had agreed to come twice a week. He was rather expensive as masseurs went, but he had massaged Pran half a dozen times, and Pran always felt better after his visits.

‘If you always move, how you will improve?’ asked Maggu Gopal, who was fond of rhyming couplets in his own way.

Pran obeyed and was still.