Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

Amit fixed her with a Look.

But Kakoli rippled on:

‘Amit lying on his bed,

Dreams of Lata in his head.

Weeping, weeping on his sheets,

Cannot concentrate on Keats.’

‘You are by far the stupidest girl I know,’ said Amit. ‘But why do you advertise your stupidity?’

‘Perhaps because I am stupid!’ said Kakoli, and giggled at her idiotic answer. ‘But don’t you like her — a teeeeny weeeeny bit? A soupcon? A little? A tittle?’

Amit got up to go to his room, but not before another Kakoli-couplet had been shot at him.

‘Kuku-clock chimes out her name.

Poet fleeing, red with shame.’

‘Really, Kuku!’ said her mother. ‘There are limits.’ She turned to her husband. ‘You never say anything to her. You never set any limits. You never stop her from doing anything. You always give in. What is a father for?’

‘To say no at first,’ said Mr Justice Chatterji.

Most of the Brahmpur news had already got through to Calcutta via the informative letters of Mrs Rupa Mehra. But her last letter had been overtaken by the telegram. So when Meenakshi and Kakoli got to Brahmpur with every intention of plonking themselves and their baggage down at Pran’s doorstep, they were shocked to find that he wasn’t there at all, but ill in hospital. With Savita in hospital herself, and Lata and her mother fussing about with Pran and Savita, it was clear that Meenakshi and Kuku could not be put up and fussed over in the style to which they were accustomed.

Meenakshi found it hard to believe that the Kapoors had timed their affairs so badly as to have husband and wife bedridden at the same time.

Kakoli was more sympathetic, accepting the fact that baby and bronchii could not confer in advance. ‘Why don’t we stay at Pran’s father’s place, what is it called, Prem Nivas?’ she asked.

‘That’s impossible,’ responded Meenakshi. ‘The mother doesn’t even speak English. And they won’t have western-style toilets — just those dreadful holes in the ground.’

‘Well, what are we to do?’

‘Kuku, how about that old dodderer whose address Baba gave us?’

‘But who wants to stay with someone who’s full of senile reminiscences?’

‘Well, where is it?’

‘He gave it to you. It must be in your bag,’ said Kakoli.

‘No, Kuku, he gave it to you,’ said Meenakshi.

‘I’m quite sure he didn’t,’ said Kakoli. ‘Do check.’

‘Well — oh, yes, here it is. Maybe it’s on that. Yes, it is: Mr and Mrs Maitra. Let’s land on them.’

‘Let’s see the baby first.’

‘What about our luggage?’

So Meenakshi and Kakoli freshened up, changed into a mauve and a red cotton sari respectively, ordered Mateen to provide them with a fortifying breakfast, and set off in a tonga for Civil Lines. Meenakshi was astonished that it was so difficult to hail a taxi in Brahmpur, and shuddered every time the horse farted.

Meenakshi and Kakoli quickly imposed themselves on Mr and Mrs Maitra and then rushed off, waving from the back of the tonga, towards the hospital.

‘Well, they claim that they’re Chatterji’s daughters,’ said the old policeman. ‘His children seem to be very restless. What was the name of that other boy, their son?’

Mrs Maitra, who was scandalized by the fact that she could see almost four inches of their waists, shook her head and wondered what Calcutta had come to. Her own son’s letters did not contain any mention of waistlines.

‘When will they be back for lunch?’

‘They didn’t say.’

‘Well, since they are our guests, we should wait for them. But I get so hungry by noon,’ said old Mr Maitra. ‘And then I have to tell my beads for two hours, and if I begin late, that puts everything out. We’d also better get some more fish.’

‘We’ll wait till one, and then eat,’ said his wife. ‘If they can’t come, they’ll telephone us.’

And so the two considerate old people accommodated themselves to the two young women, who had no intention of eating with them, and to whom the thought of a telephone call would certainly not occur.

Mrs Rupa Mehra was transporting the baby from Pran’s room to Savita’s when she saw the mauve Meenakshi and the crimson Kakoli bearing down upon her along the corridor. She all but dropped the baby.

Meenakshi was wearing those little gold horrors that never failed to upset Mrs Rupa Mehra. And what was Kakoli doing here during term-time? Really, thought Mrs Rupa Mehra, the Chatterjis impose no discipline upon their children. That is why they are all so peculiar.

Aloud she said: ‘Oh, Meenakshi, Kakoli, what a lovely surprise. Have you seen the baby yet? No, of course you couldn’t have. Just look at her, isn’t she sweet? And everyone says she has my nose.’

‘How adorable,’ said Meenakshi, thinking that the baby looked rather like a red rat, not at all as beautiful as her Aparna had looked a few days after birth.

‘And where is my sweetheart?’ demanded Mrs Rupa Mehra.

For a second Meenakshi thought Mrs Rupa Mehra was referring to Arun. Then she realized that it was Aparna whom her mother-in-law was talking about.

‘In Calcutta, of course.’

‘You didn’t bring her with you?’ Mrs Rupa Mehra could hardly conceal her amazement at this maternal callousness.

‘Oh, Ma, one can’t drag the whole world with one when one travels,’ said Meenakshi coolly. ‘Aparna does get on one’s nerves sometimes, and I’d be much less help here if she was with me.’

‘You’ve come to help?’ Mrs Rupa Mehra could hardly keep the astonishment and displeasure out of her voice.

‘Yes, Ma,’ said Kakoli simply.

But Meenakshi elaborated: ‘Yes, of course, Ma, darling. What a sweet little thing. Reminds me of a, of a — well, she’s unique, she doesn’t remind me of anything but herself.’ Meenakshi laughed a tinkly laugh. ‘Now where is Savita’s room?’

‘Savita is resting,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.

‘But she’ll be so pleased to see us,’ said Meenakshi. ‘Let’s go and see her. It must be feeding time. Six, ten, two, six, ten, as Dr Evans recommended with Aparna. And it’s just about ten o’clock now.’

And they descended upon Savita, who was still fairly exhausted, and in quite a lot of pain because her stitches were pulling. She was sitting up in bed, though, and reading a women’s magazine rather than a law-book.

Savita was astonished, but pleased to see them. Lata, who had been keeping her company, was very pleased. She enjoyed Meenakshi’s attempts to beautify her; and Kuku’s flightiness would, she hoped, lighten everyone’s mood. Savita had met Kuku only twice since Arun’s wedding.

‘How did you get here outside visiting hours?’ Savita asked, looking rather warrior-like now, with bright lipstick on both her cheeks.

‘Oh, Kakoli and I were more than a match for the reception desk,’ said Meenakshi. And indeed, the dumbfounded clerk had not known how to prevent these glamorous, waist-bare ladies from breezing past him.

Kakoli had blown him a kiss with casual hauteur. He was still recovering.

Calcutta and Brahmpur news was exchanged rapidly. Arun was extremely busy with work, Varun showed no signs of studying seriously for the IAS exams, and there were lots of rows between the brothers, with Arun threatening periodically to throw Varun out of the house. Aparna’s vocabulary was increasing apace; a few days ago she had said: ‘Daddy, I’m in the doldrums.’ Meenakshi suddenly began to miss Aparna. Seeing the baby snuggling up to Savita’s breast, she thought of Aparna’s own babydom, the lovely feeling of closeness she had experienced when she was suckling her, the sense of ‘myness’ that she had had towards her before Aparna had grown into a clearly differentiated, and often contrary, individual.