Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘They will assign us some other house,’ said the under-gardeners with tears in their eyes. ‘Some other Minister and some other Memsahib. No one will treat us as well as you have.’

‘I’m sure they will,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor. She was a gentle-hearted and soft-spoken woman, and never raised her voice at her employees. In consequence, and because she often asked about their families, and helped them out in small ways, they loved her.

‘What will you do without us, Memsahib?’ asked one.

‘Can you work for me part-time at Prem Nivas?’ she asked. ‘That way you won’t lose the garden you’ve worked so hard on.’

‘Yes — for an hour or two each morning. The only thing is—’

‘Of course, you’ll be paid for your work,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor, anticipating their awkwardness and making a calculation of her household expenses. ‘But I will have to employ someone else full-time. Do you know of anyone?’

‘My brother would be a good man,’ said one.

‘I didn’t know you had a brother,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor in surprise.

‘Not my real brother — my uncle’s son.’

‘All right. I’ll let him work for a month on probation, and Gajraj will tell me how good he is.’

‘Thank you, Memsahib. This year we will see that you win First Prize for the best garden.’

This was one prize that had eluded Mrs Mahesh Kapoor, and she thought how pleasant it would be to win it. But, doubting her own abilities, she smiled at their ambition.

‘That would be a great feat,’ she said.

‘And don’t worry about Sahib not being a Minister. We’ll get you plants from the government nursery at cheap rates. And from other places too.’ Good gardeners were adept at filching plants from here and there, or coaxing their fellow-gardeners to part with some of their superfluous seedlings.

‘Good,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor. ‘Tell Gajraj to come here. I want to discuss the layout of things now that I have a bit of time. If Sahib becomes a Minister again, I’ll be doing nothing except arranging for cups of tea.’

The malis were rather pleased at this small irreverence. The head mali was summoned, and Mrs Mahesh Kapoor talked to him for a while. The new front lawn was being planted in careful rows, shoot by shoot, and a corner of the lawn was already a mild emerald in colour. The rest was mud, except for the stone path on which they were walking.

Mrs Mahesh Kapoor told him what the others had said about the Flower Show. His opinion was that the reason why they won second and not first prize for the best garden overall was twofold. First, that Mr Justice Bailey (who had won for three years in succession) was bullied by his wife into spending half his income on his garden. They hired a dozen gardeners. Secondly, every bush, shrub or flower in his garden was planted with a particular date in mid-February in mind, the date of the Flower Show. That was when everything was at its most brilliant. Gajraj could arrange something similar if Mrs Mahesh Kapoor desired. But it was clear from his expression that he was sure she did not desire it. And the unevenness of the side lawn this year would not help either.

‘No, no — that wouldn’t be a garden at all,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor. ‘Let’s plan the winter garden just like we always do — with different flowers blooming at different times, so that it is always a pleasure to sit out. And where that neem tree stood, we should plant a Sita ashok. Now is a good time.’ With great regret Mrs Mahesh Kapoor had agreed to have an old neem tree cut down two years ago because of her painful allergy to its blossom; the blankness of the spot had been a continual rebuke to her. But the one outside Maan’s window that he used to climb as a boy she had not had the heart to cut down.

Gajraj folded his hands. He was a thin, short man, gaunt of feature, barefooted, and dressed in a plain white dhoti and kurta. He looked dignified, more like the priest of a garden than a gardener. ‘Whatever you say, Memsahib,’ he said. After a while he added: ‘What do you think of the water lilies this year?’ He felt they deserved comment, and so far Mrs Mahesh Kapoor had said nothing about them. Her mind had probably been on other matters of late.

‘Let’s go over and have a look at them again,’ she said.

Gajraj, quietly pleased, walked on the muddy lawn beside Mrs Mahesh Kapoor as she negotiated the path slowly, pausing for a second by the pomelo tree. They stopped by the lily pond. The water was turbid, and filled with tadpoles. Mrs Mahesh Kapoor gazed for a minute at the round lily pads and the half-open lilies: pink, red, blue, and white. Three or four bees were buzzing about them.

‘No yellow ones this year?’ she asked.

‘No, Memsahib,’ said Gajraj, rather crestfallen.

‘They are very beautiful,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor, continuing to look at the lilies.

Gajraj’s heart leapt up. ‘They are better than ever this year,’ he ventured. ‘Except that the yellow ones have not come out, I don’t know why.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor. ‘My children like the bright ones — red and blue. I think it is only you and I who care for the pale yellow lilies. But if they’ve died, can we get them from somewhere else next year?’

‘Memsahib, I don’t think you can get them in Brahmpur. It was your Calcutta friend who brought them two years ago.’

Gajraj was referring to a friend of Veena’s in fact, a young woman from Shantiniketan who had stayed at Prem Nivas as a guest a couple of times. She had very much enjoyed the garden, and Mrs Mahesh Kapoor found her good company even if her ways were a little surprising. On her second visit, she had brought the yellow lilies with her on the train in a bucket of water.

‘A pity,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor. ‘Anyway, the blue ones are very striking.’

Out on the muddy surface of the lawn, a few birds — babblers, red-wattled lapwings, and mynas — were walking around, pecking at whatever presented itself. This was the season for earthworms, and the lawn was full of their curled castings.

The sky had grown dark and the sound of distant thunder could be heard.

‘Have you seen any snakes this year?’ asked Mrs Mahesh Kapoor.

‘No,’ said Gajraj. ‘But Bhaskar said he saw one. A cobra. He shouted for me, but by the time I came, it had disappeared.’

‘What?’ Mrs Mahesh Kapoor’s heart beat more rapidly for a minute. ‘When?’

‘Just yesterday afternoon.’

‘Where did he see this?’

‘He was playing on that pile of bricks and rubble over there — standing on it and flying his kite — I told him to be careful, because it was a likely place for snakes, but—’

‘Tell him to come out at once. And call Veena Baby as well.’

Veena, though now a mother, was still called Baby by the older servants at Prem Nivas.

‘No,’ continued Mrs Mahesh Kapoor. ‘On second thoughts, I’ll go back to the verandah for tea. It looks as if it’s about to rain.’

‘Veena,’ she told her daughter when they came out, ‘this boy is like you used to be — very wilful. He was playing on that pile of rubble yesterday, and it is full of snakes.’

‘Yes!’ said Bhaskar, enthusiastically. ‘I saw one yesterday. A cobra.’

‘Bhaskar!’ said Veena, her blood running cold.

‘It didn’t threaten me or anything. It was too far away. And by the time I called for Gajraj it wasn’t there any more.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ asked his mother.

‘I forgot.’

‘That’s not the sort of thing one forgets,’ said Veena. ‘Were you intending to play there again today?’

‘Well, when Kabir comes we were thinking of flying kites—’