Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘But this is gross superstition,’ said Maan.

‘Superstition or not, it is our way. You know, Veena, when you were young, Minister Sahib’s mother did not even allow me to call you by your name. One should never call the eldest child by her real name, she said, and I had to obey.’

‘So what did you call me?’ said Veena.

‘Bitiya, or Munni, or — I can’t remember all the names I called you to get around it. But it was very hard to keep it up. Anyway, I think that is all blind belief. And when my mother-in-law passed away, I dropped it.’

‘Well, if you call that blind belief, what do you think this is?’ said Veena.

‘This has reason to it. How can you scold the child without invoking your aunt? That is very bad. Even if you call her by some other name, it will still be Maya you are scolding in your heart.’

It was no use arguing. The parents were overruled, the name Maya had to be scratched, and the search for a new name began.

Pran, when Maan told him of the veto, took it philosophically.

‘Well, I was never a Maya-vadi,’ he said. ‘I never believed that the whole universe was illusion. Certainly, my cough is real. Like Doctor Johnson, I could refute it thus. So what do the two grandmothers want her to be named?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Maan. ‘They only agreed on what was not acceptable.’

‘This reminds me of my committee work,’ said Pran. ‘Well, Maan, you’d better rack your brains as well. And why not consult the magical masseur? He’s never short of ideas.’

Maan promised to do so.

Sure enough, a few days later, when Savita was fit enough to go home with the baby, she received a card from Mr Maggu Gopal. The picture on the card was one of Lord Shiva complete with his family. In the card Maggu Gopal stated that he had known that Savita would have a daughter despite everyone’s opinion to the contrary. He assured her that only the following three names were sufficiently auspicious, given what he had seen of her husband’s hand: Parvati, Uma, and Lalita. And he asked whether Pran had replaced sugar with honey ‘for all the daily necessaries’. He hoped for Pran’s speedy recovery, and reassured him once more that his married life would be a comedy.

Other cards came in as well, and letters of congratulation, and telegrams, many of them with stock phrase number 6: ‘Best congratulations on new arrival’.

A couple of weeks after the baby’s birth, it was decided by consensus to name her Uma. Mrs Rupa Mehra sat down with scissors and paste to make a grand congratulatory card to celebrate the baby’s arrival. It had taken her a little while to accept the fact that she did not yet have a grandson; and now that she was happy with her granddaughter, she decided to give tangible expression to her pleasure.

Roses, a small, rather malignant-looking cherub, and a baby in a crib were pasted together, and a puppy and three golden stars completed the picture. Under the three stars the three letters of the baby’s name were inscribed in red ink and green pencil.

The message inside was a rather prosaically formatted poem in Mrs Rupa Mehra’s small and careful hand. She had read it about a year ago in an edifying volume, The Fragrant Minute for Every Day by a certain Wilhelmina Stitch — an appropriate name in view of Savita’s present condition — and she had copied it out at that time into her small notebook. It was the poem for the ‘Twelfth Day’. She was certain that it would draw from Savita’s and Pran’s eyes the same tears of gratitude and joy that it had drawn from her own. It read as follows:

THE LADY BABY

‘A Lady Baby came to-day—’ What words are quite so nice to say? They make one smile, they make one pray for Lady Baby’s happiness. ‘To-day a Lady Baby came.’ We have not heard her winsome name, we can address her all the same, as Lady Baby-Come-to-Bless.

When Lady Baby came to earth, her home was filled with joy and mirth. There’s not a jewel of half the worth of Lady Baby-to-Caress. We’re glad that Lady Baby’s here, for at this sunless time of year, there’s nought that brings such warmth and cheer as Lady Baby’s daintiness.

Hush! Lady Baby’s fast asleep, the friendly fire-flames dance and leap and angel’s wings above her sweep as on her eyes a kiss they press. ‘A Lady Baby!’ Lovely phrase, it means she’ll have such gentle ways, and grow to goodness all her days — may God this Lady Baby bless!

Sir David Gower, the Managing Director of the Cromarty Group, looked through his gold-edged, half-moon spectacles at the short but confident young man standing in front of him. He had shown no sign of intimidation, which, in Sir David’s experience, was unusual, given the vastness and plushness of his office, the great distance from the door to the desk which he had had to walk under scrutiny, and his own intimidating bulk and glower.

‘Do sit down,’ he said eventually.

Haresh sat down in the middle chair of the three facing Sir David across his desk.

‘I’ve read Peary Loll Buller’s note, and he has had the kindness to call me up as well. I didn’t expect you quite so soon, but, well, here you are. You say you want a job. What are your qualifications? And where have you been working?’

‘Just across the road, Sir David.’

‘You mean at CLFC?’

‘Yes. And before that I was at Middlehampton — that’s where I studied footwear technology.’

‘And why do you want to work with us?’

‘I see James Hawley as an excellently run organization, in which a man like myself has a future.’

‘In other words, you want to join us to better your own prospects?’

‘Put like that, yes.’

‘Well, that’s no bad thing,’ said Sir David in a sort of growl.

He looked at Haresh for a while. Haresh wondered what he was thinking. His glance did not appear to take in his clothing — slightly sweaty for having bicycled over — or his hair, just smoothed and combed back. Nor did it appear to look into his soul. It appeared to concentrate on his forehead.

‘And what do you have to offer us?’ said the Managing Director after a while.

‘Sir, my results in England speak for themselves. And I have, in a short space of time, helped turn around CLFC — in terms both of orders and a sense of direction.’

Sir David raised his eyebrows. ‘That is quite a claim,’ he said. ‘I thought Mukherji was the General Manager. Well, I think you should see John Clayton, our own General Manager.’ He picked up the telephone.

‘John, ah, you’re still here. Good. I’m sending a young man, a Mr’—he glanced down at a piece of paper—‘a Mr Khanna, to you. . Yes, the one old Peary Loll Buller phoned me about a few minutes ago when you were here. . Middlehampton. . Well, yes, if you think so. . No, I leave it to you.’ He put down the phone, and wished Haresh good luck.

‘Thank you very much, Sir David.’

‘Well, whether we take you on or not depends on what Clayton thinks of you,’ said Sir David Gower, and dismissed Haresh from his thoughts.

A letter arrived on Monday morning from James Hawley. It was signed by the General Manager John Clayton, and specified the terms they wished to offer Haresh, which were generous: Rs 325 as salary, and Rs 450 as ‘dearness allowance’—an adjustment for inflation over the last few years. That the tail was bigger than the dog struck Haresh as odd but pleasant.

The injustice with which he had been treated by CLFC receded, the crawliness of Rao, the creepiness of Sen Gupta, the decent ineffectuality of Mukherji, the high-handedness of the distant boss Ghosh — and he began to think of his new future, which struck him as glowing. Perhaps some day he would sit on the other side of that huge mahogany desk. And with a job as good as this one, one that was not a cul-de-sac like his job at CLFC, he could embark on married life without any qualms.