Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

Meenakshi and Kakoli did not know of this affair (or non-affair), though everyone in the family believed that there had to be some explanation for all the unhappy love poems in his first, very successful, volume. Amit was, however, more than capable of fending off in his acid way any sisterly inquiries that approached too closely his sensitive, fertile, lazy core.

His second volume showed a kind of philosophical resignation unusual in a man who was not yet thirty — and who was fairly famous. What on earth, wondered one of his English friends in a letter, was he resigned about? He did not realize that Amit was probably, and perhaps even undiagnosed by himself, lonely. He had no friends — either men or women — in Calcutta; and the fact that this was the fault of his own lack of effort and sociability didn’t mitigate his resultant mood: a sort of jocular weariness, and even at times plain if private despondency.

His novel, set in the period of the Bengal famine, took him outside himself into the lives of others. But even here Amit wondered from time to time if he hadn’t chosen too black a canvas. The subject was complex and deep — man against man, man against nature, the city against the countryside, the desperate expediencies of war, a foreign government against an unorganized peasantry — perhaps he would have been better off writing social comedy. There was enough material for it in the family around him. And he had a taste for it; he often found himself escaping into light reading — detective stories, the ubiquitous Wodehouse, even comics — from his task of weighty prose.

When Biswas Babu had broached the question of marriage with Amit, he had stated, with his usual vibratory emphasis: ‘An arranged marriage with a sober girl, that is the solution.’ Amit had said that he would reserve judgement on the matter, though he had felt immediately that nothing would be more repugnant to him; he would rather live a bachelor all his days than under a canopy of feminine sobriety. But after his walk in the cemetery with Lata, when she had not been put off by his whimsical manner and the wild and whirling nature of his words, and had responded to them with surprising liveliness, he had begun to wonder if the fact that she was ‘a sober girl’ should count so greatly against her. She had shown no awe of him, though he was well known, nor any defensive need to emphasize her own opinions. He remembered her unselfconscious gratitude and pleasure when he had given her a garland of flowers for her hair after the dreadful lecture at the Ramakrishna Mission. Perhaps, he thought, my sisters are right for once. But, well, Lata will be coming to Calcutta at Christmas, and I can show her the great banyan tree at the Botanical Gardens, and we’ll see how things work out from there. He felt no sense of urgency about events, only a very mild foreboding about the cobbler, and no concern at all about this Akbar fellow.

Mournfully, languishingly, Kuku was warbling to her own accompaniment on the piano:

‘In this house I am so lonely.

I am loved by Cuddles only.’

‘Oh, do shut up, Kuku,’ said Amit, putting down his book. ‘Must we have this non-stop nonsense? I’m reading this unreadable Proust, and you’re making it worse.’

But Kuku felt that it would be a dereliction of inspiration to stop. And a betrayal of Cuddles, who was leashed to the far leg of the piano.

‘Chatterjis can go to hell,

I will live in Grand Hotel.

What room number is or where,

With my Cuddles — I don’t care!’

Her left-hand accompaniment livened up, and the rather Schubertian melody gave way to jazz:

‘I would like room 21:

With my Cuddles: that is fun!

I would like room 22:

With my Cuddles: that will do.

I would like room 23:

With my Cuddles: just for me.

I would like room 24:

With my Cuddles:. .’

She played a little, in an extemporaneous manner — trills, broken chords and fragments of uncertain melody — until Amit could bear the suspense no longer, and added: ‘To be sure.’

They improvised the rest of the song together:

‘I would like room 25:

With my Cuddles: we will thrive.

I would like room 26:

With my Cuddles: please to fix.

I would like room 27:

With my Cuddles: that is heaven.

I would like room 28:

With my Cuddles: that is great.

I would like room 29:

With my Cuddles: that is fine.

I would like room number 30.

“Sorry, no, that room is dirty.”’

Both of them laughed with pleasure, and told each other how stupid they were. Cuddles barked hoarsely, but then suddenly grew very excited. His ears pricked up and he strained at the leash.

‘Pillow?’ said Amit.

‘No, he looks pleased.’

The front doorbell rang, and Dipankar walked in.

‘Dipankar!’

‘Dada! Welcome back.’

‘Hello, Kuku, hello, Dada — Oh, Cuddles!’

‘He knew you were back even before you rang the bell. Put that bag down.’

‘Clever dog. Clever, clever dog.’

‘So!’

‘So!’

‘Look at you — black and gaunt — and why have you shaved your head?’ said Kuku, stroking the top of it. ‘It feels like a mole.’

‘Have you ever stroked a mole, Kuku?’ asked Amit.

‘Oh, don’t be pedantic, Dada, you were so nice a moment ago. The prodigal returns, and — what does “prodigal” mean anyway?’

‘What does it matter?’ said Amit. ‘It’s like “lambent”, everyone uses it, no one knows what it means. Well, why have you shaved your head? Ma’s in for a shock.’

‘Because it was so hot — didn’t you get my postcards?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Kuku, ‘but you wrote in one of them that you were going to grow your hair long and that we would never see you again. We loved your postcards, didn’t we, Dada? All about the Quest for the Source and the whistles of the pregnant trains.’

‘What pregnant trains?’

‘That’s what it looked like in your handwriting. Welcome back. You must be ravishingly hungry.’

‘I am—’

‘Bring out the fatted marrow!’ said Amit.

‘Tell us, have you found another Ideal?’ demanded Kuku.

Dipankar blinked.

‘Do you worship the Female Principle in her? Or is there more to it than that?’ asked Amit.

‘Oh, Dada,’ said Kuku reproachfully. ‘How can you!’ She became the Grande Dame of Culture, and pronounced with pontifical languor: ‘In our India, like the stupa, the breast nourishes, inflates. . the breast is not an object of lust to our young men, it is a symbol of fecundity.’

‘Well—’ said Dipankar.

‘We were just floating away on the wings of song, when you came in, Dada,’ said Kuku:

‘Auf Flügeln des Gesanges. .

Fort nach den Fluren des Ganges

and now you can keep us firmly on earth—’

‘Yes, we need you, Dipankar,’ said Amit. ‘All of us except you are helium balloons—’

Kuku broke in.

‘Morning bathing in the Ganga,

Guaranteed to make you younger,’

she sang. ‘Was it really very filthy? Ila Kaki will be furious—’

‘Do you mind not interrupting me, Kuku, once I’ve interrupted you?’ said Amit. ‘I was saying that you, Dipankar, are the only one who keeps this family sane. Calm down, Cuddles! Now have some lunch and a bath and a rest — Ma’s out shopping, but she should be back in an hour. . Why didn’t you tell us when you were coming? Where have you been? One of your postcards was from Rishikesh! What have you decided about the family business? Won’t you handle all that and let me work on my wretched novel? How can I give it up or postpone it when all those characters are howling in my head? When I am pregnant and hungry and full of love and indignation?’