Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘Headaches?’ asked Amit. ‘Oh, I see, his migraines. Yes, well, that’ll help, but — let’s try thinking not of Tapan, but of Ma. . ’

After a few minutes, Dipankar suggested: ‘How about Bengali culture?’

‘Bengali culture?’

‘Yes, you know, the Jheel School song book has one paltry song by Tagore, and no provision for teaching Bengali, and—’

‘Dipankar, you’re a genius.’

‘Yes,’ Dipankar agreed.

‘That’s just right. “Tapan is losing his Bengali soul in the swamp of the Great Indian Sensibility.” She was complaining about his Bengali just the other day. Certainly it’s worth a try. But you know, I’m not sure about letting matters rest here. If this is the state of affairs at Jheel, we ought to complain to the headmaster, and if necessary kick up a wider fuss.’

Dipankar shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that if Baba gets involved, that is exactly what is going to happen. And I’m more concerned with Tapan at the moment than with undoing the general brutalities of Jheel. But Dada, do talk to Tapan. And spend a bit of time with him. He admires you.’

Amit accepted the implicit rebuke from his younger brother. ‘Well, I’m impressed with us,’ he said after a few moments of silence. ‘We’d make a very practical team. Movers and Fixers. Wide experience of Law and Economics. Solutions while you wait: Intrepid, Immediate and Irrevocable—’

Dipankar cut him off. ‘I’ll talk to Ma at teatime, then, Dada. Tapan has had to put up with this for months, he shouldn’t have to put up with it for another day. If you and I — and, I hope, Ma — present a united front, and Tapan is so obviously unhappy at Jheel, Baba will give in. Besides, he won’t mind having Tapan in Calcutta; he misses him when he’s away. He’s the only one of his children who isn’t a Problem — except for his report card.’

Amit nodded. ‘Well, wait for him to reach the age of responsibility before he displays his own variant of irresponsibility. If he’s a Chatterji, he will.’

‘But I thought you used to call him Shambhu,’ said Mrs Chatterji to her gardener. She was referring to his young helper who had just gone off work at a little after five o’clock.

‘Yes,’ replied the old man, nodding his head vigorously. ‘Memsahib, about the chrysanthemums—’

‘But I just heard you call him Tirru when he left,’ persisted Mrs Chatterji. ‘Is he Shambhu or Tirru? I thought his name was Shambhu.’

‘Yes, Memsahib, it is.’

‘Well, what is Tirru then?’

‘He doesn’t use that name now, Memsahib,’ continued the gardener candidly. ‘He’s on the run from the police.’

Mrs Chatterji was astonished.

‘The police?’

‘Yes, Memsahib. He hasn’t done anything. The police just decided to harass him. I think it’s to do with his ration card. He may have had to do something illegal to get one, because he’s from outside.’

‘Isn’t he from Bihar or somewhere?’ asked Mrs Chatterji.

‘Yes, Memsahib. Or Purva Pradesh. Or maybe even Eastern U.P. He seems reluctant to talk about it. But he’s a good boy, you can see there’s no harm in him.’ He pointed with his hoe in the direction of the bed that Tirru had been weeding.

‘But why here?’

‘He thought a judge’s house would be safest, Memsahib.’

Mrs Chatterji was nonplussed by the logic of this. ‘But—’ she began, then thought better of it. ‘What were you saying about the chrysanthemums?’

While the gardener explained the maraudings of the driver’s son, Mrs Chatterji continued to nod without listening. How perplexing, she said to herself. I wonder if I should tell my husband. Oh, there’s Dipankar. I’ll ask him. She waved to him.

Dipankar came over. He was dressed in a kurta-pyjama, and was looking rather serious.

‘Something extraordinary has happened, Dipankar,’ said his mother. ‘I want your advice.’

‘And he does it to trees as well, Memsahib,’ continued the gardener, seeing his ally approach. ‘He broke off all the lichis, then he broke off the guavas, then he broke off all the little jackfruit from the tree at the back. I got really annoyed. Only a gardener can understand the pain of a tree. We sweat for it and see it bear, and then this monster breaks them off with sticks and stones. I showed them to the driver and what did he say? No anger, not even a slap, just “Son, one doesn’t do this sort of thing.” If my child damaged his big white car,’ continued the gardener, nodding forcefully, ‘then he’d feel something.’

‘Yes, yes, very sad,’ said Mrs Chatterji vaguely. ‘Dipankar, dear, do you know that that dark young man who helps around the garden is on the run from the police?’

‘Oh?’ said Dipankar philosophically.

‘But aren’t you upset?’

‘Not yet. Why?’

‘Well, we might all be murdered in our — well, in our beds.’

‘What’s he done?’

‘It could be anything. The mali says it’s to do with a ration card. But he’s not sure. What should I do? Your father will be very upset if he hears that we’ve been harbouring a fugitive. And, as you know, he’s not even from Bengal.’

‘Well, he’s a good fellow, this Shambhu—’

‘Not Shambhu, Tirru. That’s what he’s called, apparently.’

‘Well, we needn’t upset Baba—’

‘But a High Court Judge — with a wanted criminal working on his chrysanthemums—’

Dipankar looked beyond his hut to the large white chrysanthemums in the far bed — those few that the season and the driver’s son had spared. ‘I’d advise inaction,’ he said. ‘Baba will have enough on his plate now that Tapan is leaving Jheel.’

Mrs Chatterji continued: ‘Of course, it isn’t as if the police are always — what? What did you say?’

‘And joining St Xavier’s. It’s a wise choice. And maybe, then, Ma, he can go on to Shantiniketan.’

‘Shantiniketan?’ Mrs Chatterji couldn’t make out what that holy word had to do with the matter on hand. An image of trees came to her mind — great trees under which she had sat and partaken of the lessons of Gurudeb, her master, the waterer of the garden of the culture of Bengal.

‘It’s being parted from the soil of Bengal that’s been making him so unhappy. He’s a divided soul, can’t you see, Ma?’

‘Well, he certainly has two names,’ said Mrs Chatterji, slipping down the wrong fork of the conversation. ‘But what’s this about Tapan and St Xavier’s?’

Dipankar became soulful. His voice filled with a calm sadness, he said:

‘It’s Tapan I’ve been talking about, Mago. It’s not the lake of Jheel that he needs, it’s “your deep ponds, loving and cool as the midnight sky” that he misses. That’s why he’s been so low. That’s why his reports have been so poor. That — and his longing for the songs of Tagore — Kuku and you singing Rabindrasangeet as the evening falls, at the cow-dust hour. . ’ Dipankar spoke with conviction, for he had convinced himself. Now he recited the magic words:

‘Finally my homesickness grew too great to resist. .

I bow, I bow to my beautiful motherland Bengal!

To your river-banks, to your winds that cool and console;

Your plains, whose dust the sky bends down to kiss;

Your shrouded villages, that are nests of shade and peace;

Your leafy mango-woods, where the herd-boys play;

Your deep ponds, loving and cool as the midnight sky;

Your sweet-hearted women returning home with water;

I tremble in my soul and weep when I call you Mother.’

Mrs Chatterji was repeating the words together with her son. She was deeply moved. Dipankar was deeply moved.

(Not that Calcutta contained any of the above-mentioned features.)