Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘Write a book! Pull a rickshaw! Live! Don’t make excuses,’ said Dr Ila Chattopadhyay with hectic enthusiasm, shaking her grey hair vigorously. ‘Renounce the world like Dipankar. No, he’s joined a bank, hasn’t he? How did you do in your exams anyway?’ she added.

‘Terribly!’ said Varun.

‘I don’t think you’ve done so badly,’ said Lata. ‘I always think I’ve done worse than I actually have. It’s a Mehra trait.’

‘No, I really have done terribly,’ said Varun, pulling a morose face and gulping down his whisky. ‘I’m sure I’ve failed. I shall certainly not be called for the interview.’

Dr Ila Chattopadhyay said: ‘Don’t worry. It could be far worse. A good friend of mine has just had her daughter die of TB.’

Lata looked at Ila Chattopadhyay in amazement. Next she’ll say: ‘Now don’t worry. Just think — it could be far worse. A sister of mine has just had her two-year-old triplets decapitated by her alcoholic husband.’

‘You have the most extraordinary expression on your face,’ said Amit, who had joined them.

‘Oh, Amit! Hello,’ said Lata. It was good to see him.

‘What were you thinking of?’

‘Nothing — nothing at all.’

Dr Ila Chattopadhyay was telling Varun about the idiocy of Calcutta University in making Hindi a compulsory subject at the B.A. level. Amit joined the discussion for a bit. He sensed that Lata’s thoughts were still quite far away. He wanted to talk to her a little about her poem. But he was accosted by a woman who said: ‘I want to talk to you.’

‘Well, here I am,’ said Amit.

‘My name is Baby,’ said the woman, who looked about forty.

‘Well, mine is Amit.’

‘I know that, I know that, everyone knows that,’ said the woman. ‘Are you trying to impress me with your modesty?’ She was in a quarrelsome mood.

‘No,’ said Amit.

‘I love your books, especially The Fever Tree. I think of it all night. I mean The Fever Bird . You look smaller than your photographs. You must be very leggy.’

‘What do you do?’ asked Amit, not knowing what to make of her last few words.

‘I like you,’ said the lady decisively. ‘I know whom I like. Visit me in Bombay. Everyone knows me. Just ask for Baby.’

‘All right,’ said Amit. He had no plans to go to Bombay.

Bishwanath Bhaduri came over to say hello to Amit. He ignored Lata almost completely. He even ignored the predatory Baby. He was in raptures about some new woman, whom he pointed out: someone who was dressed in black and silver.

‘One feels she has such a beautiful soul,’ said Bish.

‘Repeat that,’ said Amit.

Bishwanath Bhaduri drew back. ‘One doesn’t say such things in order to repeat them,’ he said.

‘Ah, but one doesn’t get to hear such things very often.’

‘You’ll use it for your novel. One shouldn’t, you know.’

‘Why shouldn’t one?’

‘It’s just Calcutta chit-chat.’

‘It’s not chit-chat — it’s poetic; very poetic; suspiciously so.’

‘You’re making fun of me,’ said Bishwanath Bhaduri. He looked around. ‘One needs a drink,’ he murmured.

‘One needs to escape,’ said Amit quietly to Lata. ‘Two need to.’

‘I can’t. I have a chaperone.’

‘Who?’

Lata’s eyes indicated Varun. He was talking to a couple of young men, who were clinging to his words.

‘I think we can give him the slip,’ said Amit. ‘I’ll show you the lights on Park Street.’

As they walked behind Varun they heard him say: ‘Marywallace, of course, for the Gatwick; and Simile for the Hopeful. I have no idea about the Hazra. And for the Beresford Cup it’s best to go for My Lady Jean. . ’

They eluded him with ease and walked down the stairs, laughing.

Amit hailed a taxi.

‘Park Street,’ said Amit.

‘Why not Bombay?’ asked Lata, laughing. ‘To meet Baby.’

‘She is a thorn in my neck,’ said Amit, shaking his knees together rapidly.

‘In your neck?’

‘As Biswas Babu would say.’

Lata laughed. ‘How is he?’ she asked. ‘Everyone talks about him, but I’ve never met him.’

‘He’s been telling me to get married — to produce, he hopes, a fourth generation of Chatterji judge. I suggested that Aparna was half a Chatterji and might easily rise to the bench, given her precocity. He said that that was a different kettle of tea.’

‘But his advice ran off your back like duck’s water.’

‘Exactly so.’

They had been driving along Chowringhee, parts of which were lit up — especially the larger stores, the Grand Hotel, and Firpo’s. Now they were at the crossing of Park Street. Here, a large reindeer complete with Santa and sleigh was illuminated by large coloured bulbs. Several people were strolling along the side of Chowringhee adjacent to the Maidan, enjoying the festive atmosphere. As the taxi turned into Park Street, Lata was taken aback by its unaccustomed brilliance. On both sides, multicoloured strings of lights and brightly coloured festoons of crêpe hung from the fronts of shops and restaurants: Flury’s, Kwality, Peiping, Magnolia. It was lovely, and Lata turned to Amit with delight and gratitude. When they got to the tall Christmas tree by the petrol pump she said:

‘Electricity growing on trees.’

‘What was that?’ said Amit.

‘Oh, that’s Ma. “Turn off the lights. Electricity doesn’t grow on trees.”’

Amit laughed. ‘It’s very nice to see you again,’ he said.

‘I feel the same way,’ said Lata. ‘Mutatis mutandis.’

Amit looked at her in surprise. ‘The last time I heard that was at the Inns of Court.’

‘Oh,’ said Lata, smiling. ‘I must have picked it up from Savita. She’s always cooing such phrases to the baby.’

‘By the way, what were you thinking of when I interrupted you and Varun?’ asked Amit.

Lata told him about Dr Ila Chattopadhyay’s remark.

Amit nodded, then said: ‘About your poem.’

‘Yes?’ Lata grew tense. What was he going to say about it?

‘I sometimes feel that it’s a consolation in times of deep grief to know that the world, by and large, does not care.’

Lata was quiet. It was an odd sentiment, though a relevant one. After a while she said: ‘Did you like it?’

‘Yes,’ said Amit. ‘As a poem.’ He recited a couple of lines.

‘The cemetery’s on this street, isn’t it?’ said Lata.

‘Yes.’

‘Very different from the other end.’

‘Very.’

‘That was a curious sort of spiral pillar on Rose Aylmer’s tomb.’

‘Do you want to see it by night?’

‘No! It would be strange, seeing all those stars. A night of memories and of sighs.’

‘I should have pointed them out to you by day,’ said Amit.

‘Pointed what out?’

‘The stars.’

‘By day?’

‘Well, yes. I can tell you roughly where the various stars are by day. Why not? They’re still in the sky. The sun only blinds us to them. It’s midnight. May I?’

And before she could protest, Amit had kissed her.

She was so surprised she didn’t know what to say. She was also a bit annoyed.

‘Happy New Year,’ said Amit.

‘Happy New Year,’ she answered, hiding her annoyance. She had, after all, conspired to evade her chaperone. ‘You didn’t plan this, did you?’

‘Of course not. Do you want me to deliver you back to Varun? Or should we take a walk by the Victoria Memorial?’

‘Neither. I’m feeling tired. I’d like to go to sleep.’ After a pause she said: ‘1952: how new it seems. As if each digit were polished.’

‘A leap year.’

‘I’d better go back to the party. Varun really will panic if he finds me gone.’