Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

The gardeners quickly took shelter at the back of the house near the kitchen.

The thunder made a growling noise, and squirrels ran up the tree in alarm. Lightning flashed in sheets all over the sky. The rain came down in torrents, and soon the mud of the lawn had become a thick paste. The partridges disappeared in the grey barrage; even the swing became indistinct. The sound of the storm on the corrugated roof made speech difficult, and an occasional violent gust of wind drove rain on to the verandah itself.

After a while the door to the house opened, and Bhaskar came out. He sat next to his mother, and the three of them stared at the wall of water.

For about five minutes they looked at the rain in silence, enchanted by the power and the noise of it, and the sight of great trees swaying and shuddering in the wind. Then the rain let up slightly, and speech became possible again.

‘It’ll be good for the farmers,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor. ‘There hasn’t been enough rain so far this year.’

‘But not for the cobblers,’ said Veena. Kedarnath had once told her that the small shoemakers, who stretched moistened shoe-uppers on to wooden lasts in order to shape them, sometimes had to wait for a week in this weather till they were dry and could be taken off. Since they lived from hand to mouth, and their capital was tied up in their materials and tools, this was a great hardship.

‘Do you like the rain?’ Mrs Mahesh Kapoor asked Bhaskar when there was another respite.

‘I like flying kites after the rain,’ said Bhaskar. ‘The air currents are more interesting.’

The rain increased once more, and once again each was lost in private thought.

Bhaskar was thinking of his return in a couple of days to his own house, where there were many more kites in the sky than here, and where he could play once again with his friends. Life here in the ‘colonies’ was rather limited.

Mrs Mahesh Kapoor thought about her mother, who used to be terrified of storms, and whose final illness had taken a severe turn for the worse in just such a violent storm as this.

And Veena thought of her Bengali friend (she of the yellow water lilies) who, when the monsoon rains first struck after the terrible months of heat, would walk out of the house dressed as she was, humming a Tagore song in welcome, and let the rain streak down her face and her hair, run down her body to her bare feet, and soak her blouse and her sari to the skin.

Time hung very heavily on Maan’s hands. But he realized that he had to make up with Saeeda Bai quickly or he would go crazy with boredom and desire. He therefore wrote his first note in Urdu to her, in which he entreated her to be kind to him, her faithful vassal, her enchanted moth, etc., etc. There were a number of spelling errors, and his script was somewhat unformed, but there was no mistaking the strength of his sentiment. He thought of getting Rasheed’s help with some aspects of phrasing, then decided that since Rasheed was out of favour with Saeeda Bai this might merely cause complications. He gave it to the watchman to give her, but did not wait for her response immediately.

He went for a walk to the Barsaat Mahal and stared across the river in the moonlight. Apart from Firoz, no one appeared to be on his side in the world at all. Everyone wanted him to mould himself in one direction or another according to their opinion or will. And even Firoz these days was fairly busy in court, and had only once suggested that they go for polo practice. That too had had to be cancelled at the last moment because of a conference called by his senior in a case.

Something needed to happen soon, thought Maan. He was feeling uncontrollably restless. If Savita had her baby quickly, that would be a good thing. There would be some cheerful activity somewhere. Everyone was going around looking oppressed and careworn these days.

Or if he could persuade his father to explore the option of a rural constituency, they could go on a whirlwind tour of Rudhia District for a few days and perhaps he could forget Saeeda Bai for a bit. His father, being at a loose end himself, had lost a little of his moral authority vis-à-vis Maan, and his company might not be so intolerable; in any case, he had not for the last few days told Maan to settle down. But precisely because he had not come to terms with his own situation, Mahesh Kapoor was exceptionally irritable these days. Perhaps Rudhia was not such a good idea after all.

To add to Maan’s woes, he needed money; he had almost none left. Firoz, whom he had approached for a small loan upon his return to Brahmpur, had simply handed over his wallet to Maan and told him to take what he wanted out of it. A few days later, after lunch, without being asked but perhaps in response to a certain hangdog look on Maan’s face, he made the same generous gesture. This had helped Maan get by. But he couldn’t keep borrowing from his friend. A number of people in Banaras owed him money, some for goods supplied, some because of hard-luck stories which Maan had found difficult to withstand, and Maan felt that now that he was down on his own luck, they would be eager to help him out. He decided to visit Banaras for a couple of days to recoup his funds. It would be easy enough to keep out of the way of one or two of his rather irksome creditors. The problem was that his fiancée’s people might well find out that he was in Banaras. Besides, he wasn’t sure if this was the best time to visit Banaras at all. He wanted to be on hand to help Savita when the baby was born, since Pran was not able to do so himself in his present condition, and Maan feared that it would be just his luck if the baby was born when he was out of town.

He waited for two whole days for a reply from Saeeda Bai to his note. He had given his address as Baitar House. None came.

Tiring of his own iffing and butting, and being eager for action of some kind, Maan borrowed some more money from Firoz, sent a servant to get his ticket for the next morning’s train to Banaras, and prepared to spend a despondent and eventless last evening.

First, he visited the hospital, and instructed Savita to hold off having her baby for at least two days. Savita laughed, and promised to do her best.

Then he had dinner with Firoz. Zainab’s husband was present at dinner — he had come alone to Brahmpur for the meeting of some waqf committee or other — and Maan could sense that Firoz was no more than polite to him. Maan could not understand this. Zainab’s husband appeared to be a fairly cultivated if rather tremulous man. He kept insisting that he was a peasant at heart, and backing up this assertion with Persian couplets. The Nawab Sahib dined on his own.

Finally, Maan penned another note in Urdu, and gave it to Saeeda Bai’s watchman to deliver. Surely Saeeda Bai should tell him what his crime was — and if she couldn’t bring herself to forgive him at least she could respond to his letters.

‘Please give her this at once — and say that I am going away.’ Maan, sensing the drama of this last phrase, sighed deeply.

The watchman knocked at the door, and Bibbo came out.

‘Bibbo—’ said Maan, gesturing with the ivory-topped cane.

But Bibbo appeared rather scared, and refused to look him in the face. What’s the matter with her? thought Maan. She was happy enough to kiss me the last time I was here.

A few minutes later Bibbo came out and said: ‘The Begum Sahiba instructs me to admit you.’

‘Bibbo!’ said Maan, both delighted by his admittance and hurt by the formal, even lifeless, tone of its announcement. He was so pleased that he wanted to hug her, but by turning half away from him when they walked up the stairs, she made it clear that there was no question of that.