Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘Well, what could we do? We raised our hands again. But that was not enough. Then some of us raised both our hands. But that would not do either. Panditji wanted no formal show, no revoting with hands or feet. He wanted a demonstration of our “minds and hearts”. Only then could he decide whether to accept our request or not.’

Abdus Salaam paused, awaiting a Socratic response, and Mahesh Kapoor, realizing that things would not move without it, supplied it.

‘That must have put you in a quandary,’ he said.

‘It did indeed,’ said Abdus Salaam. ‘I kept thinking: seize the levers of power; select your candidates. He kept talking about minds and hearts. I noticed Pant and Tandon and Sharma looking at him in perplexity. And L.N. Agarwal kept smiling his twisted little smile to himself.’

‘Go on, go on.’

‘So then we clapped.’

‘But that did not do either?’

‘No, Minister Sahib, that did not do either. So then we decided to pass a resolution. But Pandit Nehru would have none of it. We would have shouted “Long live Pandit Nehru!” till we were hoarse, but everyone knew that that would have put him in a temper. He does not care for personality cults. He does not care for flattery — for patent or vociferous flattery. He is a democrat through and through.’

‘How was the problem resolved, Salaam? Will you please tell your story, without waiting for me to ask you questions?’

‘Well,’ said Abdus Salaam, ‘there was only one way to resolve it. Exhausted, and unwilling to sleep over anything again, we turned to Nehruji himself. We had racked our brains and thought ourselves thin, and none of our offerings had been acceptable to him. Perhaps he would grace us with a suggestion himself. What would satisfy him that our hearts and minds were with him? At this, our supreme leader looked perplexed. He did not know.’

‘He did not know?’ Mahesh Kapoor could not help exclaiming.

‘He did not know.’ Abdus Salaam’s face took on one of Nehru’s more melancholy expressions. ‘But after a few minutes of thought he found his way out of the difficulty. We were all to join him in a patriotic shout of “Jai Hind!” That would show him that our hearts and minds were in the right place.’

‘So that was what you did?’ said Mahesh Kapoor with rather a rueful smile himself.

‘That was what we did. But our first shout was not full-throated enough. Panditji looked unhappy, and we could see the Congress and the country collapsing before our eyes. So we raised another shout, a mighty cry of “Jai Hind!” such as almost caused the Constitution Club to collapse about our ears. And Jawaharlal smiled. He smiled. The sun came out and all was well.’

‘And that was that?’

‘And that was that.’

Every year at the time of shraadh, Mrs Rupa Mehra had a struggle with her eldest son, which she, after a fashion, won. Every year, Mrs Mahesh Kapoor had a struggle with her husband, which she lost. And Mrs Tandon had no struggle at all, except with her memories of her husband; for Kedarnath performed his father’s rites in full accordance with his duty.

Raghubir Mehra’s death had fallen on the second day of a lunar fortnight, and therefore, on the second day of the annual ‘fortnight of the ancestors’, pandits should have been called to the house of his eldest son to be feasted and given gifts. But the thought of plump, bare-chested, dhoti-clad pandits sitting around in his Sunny Park flat, chanting mantras and gobbling down rice and daal, puris and halwa, curds and kheer, was anathema to Arun. Every year Mrs Rupa Mehra tried to persuade him to perform the rites for his father’s spirit. Every year Arun dismissed the whole farrago of superstitious nonsense. Mrs Rupa Mehra next worked upon Varun and sent him the necessary money for the expenses, and Varun agreed — partly because he knew it would bother his brother; partly because of love for his father (though he had a hard time believing, for instance, that the karhi, which was one of his father’s favourite foods, and that he was therefore supposed to include in the pandits’ feast, would eventually get to him); but mainly because he loved his mother and knew how badly she would suffer if he refused. She could not perform the shraadh herself; it had to be done by a man. And if not by the eldest son, then by the youngest — or, in this case, the younger.

‘I will have no such shenanigans in this house, let me tell you that!’ said Arun.

‘It’s for Daddy’s spirit,’ said Varun, with an attempt at belligerence.

‘Daddy’s spirit! Utter rubbish. Next we’ll have human sacrifice to help you pass your IAS exams.’

‘Don’t talk like that about Daddy!’ cried Varun, livid and cowering. ‘Can’t you give Ma some mental satisfaction?’

‘Mental? Sentimental!’ said Arun with a snort.

Varun didn’t talk to his brother for days and slunk around the house, glaring balefully; not even Aparna could cheer him up. Every time the phone rang he jumped. Eventually it got on Meenakshi’s nerves, and at last even Arun in his native-proof casing began to feel slightly ashamed of himself.

Finally Varun was allowed to feed a single pandit in the garden. He donated the rest of the money to a nearby temple with instructions that it should be used to feed a few poor children. And he wrote to Brahmpur to tell his mother that everything had been performed properly.

Mrs Rupa Mehra read the letter to her samdhin, translating as she went along, with tears in her eyes.

Mrs Mahesh Kapoor listened sadly. Her annual battle was fought not with her sons but with her husband. The shraadh for her own parents was satisfactorily performed each year by her late brother’s eldest son. What she wanted now was that the spirits of her father-in-law and mother-in-law should be similarly propitiated. Their son, however, would have nothing to do with it and rebuked her in his usual manner:

‘Oh, blessed one, you’ve been married to me for more than three decades and you have become more ignorant with each passing year.’

Mrs Mahesh Kapoor did not answer back. This encouraged her husband.

‘How can you believe in such idiocy? In those grasping pandits and their mumbo jumbo? “So much food I set aside for the cow. So much for the crow. So much for the dog. And the rest I will eat. More! More! More puris, more halwa.” Then they belch and hold out their hands for alms: “Give according to your grace and your feelings for the departed one. What? Only five rupees? Is that the extent of your love for them?” I even know of someone who gave snuff to a pandit’s wife because his own dead mother liked snuff! Well, I won’t disturb my parents’ souls with such mockery. All I can say is that I hope no one dares to perform shraadh for me.’

This stung Mrs Mahesh Kapoor into protest. She said: ‘If Pran refuses to perform shraadh for you, he will be no son of mine.’

‘Pran has too much good sense,’ said Mahesh Kapoor. ‘And I’m beginning to think that Maan is a sensible boy too. Don’t talk just of me — they wouldn’t even perform it for you.’

Whether Mahesh Kapoor took delight in baiting and hurting his wife or not, he certainly couldn’t stop himself. Mrs Mahesh Kapoor, who could bear much, was almost in tears. Veena was visiting when this argument broke out, and her mother said to her:

‘Bété.’

‘Yes, Ammaji.’

‘If such a thing happens, you will tell Bhaskar that he is to perform shraadh for me. Invest him with the sacred thread if necessary.’

‘Sacred thread! Bhaskar will not wear a sacred thread,’ said Mahesh Kapoor. ‘He’ll use it to fly a kite with. Or as Hanuman’s tail.’ He chuckled rather maliciously at the sacrilege.