Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘I’ll drop you back home, then go back to the party myself to tell Varun. How’s that?’

Lata smiled to think of Varun’s expression when he realized his charge had flown.

‘All right. Thank you, Amit.’

‘You aren’t annoyed with me? New Year’s licence. I couldn’t help it.’

‘So long as you don’t claim poetic licence the next time.’

Amit laughed, and good relations were restored.

But why don’t I feel anything? she asked herself. She did know that Amit was fond of her, but her chief emotion at the kiss was still astonishment.

She was home in a few minutes. Mrs Rupa Mehra had not yet returned. When she did come back half an hour later she found Lata asleep. Lata appeared restless — her head was turning from side to side on her pillow.

She was dreaming — of a kiss — but it was of Kabir that she was dreaming, the one who was absent, the one who above all others she should not meet, the most unsuitable boy of them all.

1952: the fresh and brilliant digits impressed themselves upon Pran’s eye as he opened the morning newspaper. All the past grew veiled by the first of January, and all the future glistened ahead of him, emerging mysteriously from its grubby chrysalis. He thought about his heart and his child and Bhaskar’s close brush with death, the mixed gifts of the previous year. And he wondered whether the coming year would bring him his readership — and a new brother-in-law — and possibly even see his father sworn in as the Chief Minister of Purva Pradesh. The last was by no means impossible. As for Maan, surely he would have to settle down sooner or later.

Although no one other than himself and Mrs Rupa Mehra was awake at six o’clock, there was a sudden storm of activity at seven. The time allowed in the two bathrooms was strictly rationed, and everyone was completely ready — and even breakfasted — by eight thirty. The women had decided to spend the day at the Chatterjis’—perhaps they would go on to do a bit of shopping as well. Even Meenakshi, who at first appeared eager to come to the cricket match, decided against it at the last moment.

Amit and Dipankar arrived in the Humber at nine, and Arun, Varun and Pran went off with them to Eden Gardens to watch the third day of the Third Test. Just outside the stadium they met Haresh, as previously arranged, and the six of them made their way to the tier where their seats were located.

It was a wonderful morning. There was a clear blue sky, and dew still glistened on the outfield. Eden Gardens, with its emerald grass and surrounding trees, its huge scoreboard and new Ranji Stadium block, was a magnificent sight. It was packed solid, but luckily one of Arun’s English colleagues at Bentsen Pryce, who had bought a bunch of season tickets for his family, was out sightseeing, and had offered his seats to Arun for the day. They were placed just next to the pavilion section, where VIPs and members of the Cricket Association of Bengal sat, and they had a fine view of the field.

India’s opening batsmen were still at the crease. Since India had scored 418 and 485 in two previous innings in the series, and since England were all out for 342 in their first innings, there was a good chance that the hosts would be able to make something of the match. The Calcutta crowd — more knowledgeable and appreciative than any other in India — was looking forward to it with eager anticipation.

The chatter, which increased between overs, was reduced, but not quite to silence, every time the bowler came in to bowl. Leadbeater opened the bowling to Roy with a maiden, and Ridgway supported the attack from the other end, bowling to Mankad. Then, for the next over, instead of continuing with Leadbeater, the English skipper Howard brought Statham on.

This provoked a good deal of discussion among the group of six. Everyone started speculating as to why Leadbeater had been brought on for a single over. Amit alone said that it meant nothing at all. Perhaps, because Indian time was several hours ahead of England, Leadbeater had wanted to bowl the first English ball of 1952 and Howard had let him.

‘Really, Amit,’ said Pran with a laugh. ‘Cricket isn’t governed by poetical whims of that kind.’

‘A pity,’ said Amit. ‘Reading old reports by Cardus always makes me think that it’s just a variant of poetry — in six-line stanzas.’

‘I wonder where Billy is,’ said Arun in rather a hangover-ish voice. ‘Can’t see him anywhere.’

‘Oh, he’s bound to be here,’ said Amit. ‘I can’t imagine him missing a day of a Test.’

‘We’re off to a rather slow start,’ said Dipankar. ‘I hope this isn’t going to be another awful draw like the last two Tests.’

‘I think we’re going to teach them a lesson.’ This was Haresh’s optimistic assessment.

‘We might,’ said Pran. ‘But we should be careful on this wicket. It’s a bowler’s delight.’

And so it proved to be.

The quick loss of three of the best Indian wickets — including that of the captain — cast a chill on the stadium. When Amarnath — who had hardly had time to pad up — came on to the field to face Tattersall, there was complete silence. Even the women spectators stopped their winter knitting for a second.

He was bowled for a duck in that same fatal over.

The Indian side was collapsing like skittles. If the mayhem continued, India might be all out before lunch. High visions of a victory turned to the dread of an ignominious follow-on.

‘Just like us,’ said Varun morosely. ‘We are a failure as a country. We can always snatch defeat out of the jaws of victory. I’m going to watch the racing in the afternoon,’ he added disgustedly. He would have to watch his horses through the palings around the course rather than sit in these forty-rupee season-ticket seats, but at least there was a chance that his horse might win.

‘I’m getting up to stretch my legs,’ said Amit.

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Haresh, who was annoyed by the poor show that India was putting on. ‘Oh — who’s that man there — the one in the navy-blue blazer with the maroon scarf — do any of you know? I seem to recognize him from somewhere.’

Pran looked across at the pavilion section and was completely taken aback.

‘Oh, Malvolio!’ he said, as if he had seen Banquo instead.

‘What was that?’ said Haresh.

‘Nothing. I suddenly remembered something I have to teach next term. Cricket balls, my liege. Something just struck me. No, I–I can’t say for sure that I recognize him — I think you’d better ask the Calcutta people.’ Pran was not good at deception, but the last thing he wanted to encourage was a meeting between Haresh and Kabir. Any number of complications might ensue, including a visit by Kabir to Sunny Park.

Luckily, no one else recognized him.

‘I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere,’ Haresh persisted. ‘I’m bound to remember sometime. Good-looking fellow. You know, the same thing happened to me with Lata. I felt I’d seen her before — and — I’m sure I’m not mistaken. I’ll go and say hello.’

Pran could do nothing further. Amit and Haresh wandered over between overs, and Haresh said to Kabir: ‘Good morning. Haven’t we met somewhere before?’

Kabir looked at them and smiled. He stood up. ‘I don’t think we have,’ he said.

‘Perhaps at work — or in Cawnpore?’ said Haresh. ‘I have the feeling — well, anyway, I’m Haresh Khanna, from Praha.’

‘Glad to meet you, Sir.’ Kabir shook his hand and smiled. ‘Perhaps we’ve met in Brahmpur, that is if you come to Brahmpur on work.’

Haresh shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Are you from Brahmpur?’

‘Yes,’ said Kabir. ‘I’m a student at Brahmpur University. I’m keen on cricket, so I’ve come down for a while to watch what I can of the Test. A pretty miserable show.’