Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

The next morning Maan found his mother and sister shelling peas in the courtyard. He had demanded tahiri again, and they were obliging him. He pulled up a morha and joined them. He remembered how as a child he would often sit in the courtyard — on a small morha which was reserved for him — and watch his mother shelling peas while she told him some story or other about the gods and their doings. But now the talk was about more terrestrial matters.

‘How is it going, Maan?’

Maan realized that this was probably the first proper news his mother would be getting about the new constituency. If she had asked his father, he would have dismissed her silliness and fobbed her off with a few generalities. Maan gave her as thorough a picture as he could.

At the end of it she said, with a sigh: ‘I wish I could have helped.’

‘You must take care of yourself, Ammaji,’ said Maan, ‘and not exert yourself too much. Veena should be the one to help with the women voters. The country air will do her good after the foetid alleys of the old city.’

‘I like that!’ said Veena. ‘That’s the last time you’re invited to our house. Foetid alleys. And it sounds as if you have a sore throat from all that fresh country air. I know what canvassing among the women is like. Endless shy giggles, and how many children do I have, and why am I not in purdah? You should take Bhaskar along, not me. He’s very enthusiastic to go and count all those heads. And he can help with the children’s vote,’ she added with a laugh.

Maan laughed too. ‘All right, I’ll take him along. But why can’t you give us a hand as well? Does Kedarnath’s mother really object so much?’ He shelled a pea-pod, and thumbed the peas into his mouth. ‘Delicious.’

‘Maan,’ said Veena reproachfully, with an imperceptible nod towards her mother, ‘Pran and Savita are in Calcutta and will be there till the eighth of January. Who is left here in Brahmpur?’

Mrs Mahesh Kapoor said immediately: ‘Don’t use me as an excuse, Veena. I can take care of myself. You should help your father get out the vote.’

‘Well, maybe in a week or two you can take care of yourself — and Pran will be back. But right now I’m not going. Even Savita’s mother didn’t leave for Calcutta when her father was unwell. Anyway, everything looks in very good shape in the constituency.’

‘Yes, it does,’ agreed Maan. ‘But the real reason you’re not going is that you’re too lazy. That is what married life does to people.’

‘Lazy!’ said Veena, laughing. ‘The pot calling the snowflake black,’ she added in English. ‘And I notice you’re eating more than you’re shelling,’ she continued in Hindi.

‘So I am,’ said Maan, surprised. ‘But they’re so fresh and sweet.’

‘Have some more, son,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor. ‘Don’t listen to her.’

‘Maan should learn to exercise some self-restraint,’ said Veena.

‘Should I?’ asked Maan, popping a few more peas into his mouth. ‘I can’t resist delicious things.’

‘Is that the disease or the diagnosis?’ asked his sister.

‘I am a changed man,’ said Maan. ‘Even Baoji’s been paying me compliments.’

‘I’ll believe that when I hear one,’ said Veena, popping a few more peas into her brother’s mouth.

That evening Maan strolled along to Saeeda Bai’s house. He had had a hair-cut and a bath. It was a cool evening, so he wore a bundi over his kurta; in a pocket of his bundi was a half-bottle of whisky; and on his head was a starched white cap worked in white.

It was good to be back. The mud roads of the country had their charms, no doubt, but he was a town man. He liked the city — at least this city. And he liked streets — at least this street, the street where Saeeda Bai’s house stood — and of that house, he particularly liked Saeeda Bai’s two rooms. And of those two rooms, he particularly liked the inner one.

A little after eight o’clock, he arrived at the gate, waved familiarly to the watchman, and was allowed in. Bibbo met him at the door, looked surprised to see him, and walked him up to Saeeda Bai’s room. Maan’s heart leapt up when he saw that Saeeda Bai was reading from the book that he had given her, the illustrated Works of Ghalib. She looked charming, her pale neck and shoulders leaning forward, the book in her hand, a bowl of fruit and a small bowl of water to her left, her harmonium to her right. The room was redolent with attar of roses. Beauty, fragrance, music, food, poetry, and a source of intoxication in his pocket: ah, Maan felt, as their eyes met, this is what happiness means.

She too looked surprised to see him, and Maan began to wonder if the watchman had admitted him by mistake. But she looked down quickly at the book, and idly turned a few pages.

‘Come, Dagh Sahib, come, sit down, what time is it?’

‘Just after eight, Saeeda Begum, but the year changed some days ago.’

‘I was aware of it,’ said Saeeda Bai, smiling. ‘It will be an interesting year.’

‘What makes you say that?’ asked Maan. ‘Last year was interesting enough for me.’ He put out his hand and held hers. Then he kissed her shoulder. Saeeda Bai neither resisted nor responded.

Maan looked hurt. ‘Is something the matter?’ he said.

‘Nothing, Dagh Sahib, that you can help me with. Do you remember what I said the last time we met?’

‘I remember something of it,’ said Maan — but all he could remember was the sense of the conversation, not the exact words: her fears for Tasneem, her look of vulnerability.

‘Anyway,’ said Saeeda Bai, changing the subject, ‘I do not have much time with you this evening. I am expecting someone in a little while. God knows, I should have been reading the Quran, not Ghalib, but who knows what one will do from one moment to the next.’

‘I met Rasheed’s family,’ said Maan, who was agitated at the thought that he would have no time with her this evening, and wanted to get his unpleasant duty of informing Saeeda Bai over and done with as soon as possible.

‘Yes?’ said Saeeda Bai almost indifferently.

‘They don’t know anything, it seems to me, about what is going on in his head,’ said Maan. ‘Nor do they care. All they are concerned about is that his politics shouldn’t cause them any economic loss. That is all. His wife—’

Maan stopped. Saeeda Bai raised her head, and said: ‘Yes, yes, I’ve known that he has one wife already. And you know I know. But I am not interested in all this. Forgive me, I must now ask you to go.’

‘Saeeda — but tell me why—’

Saeeda Bai looked down at the book and started turning its pages in a distracted manner.

‘A page is torn,’ said Maan.

‘Yes,’ replied Saeeda Bai absently. ‘I should have it mended better.’

‘Let me do it for you,’ said Maan. ‘I can have it done. How did it get torn?’

‘Dagh Sahib, do you not see what state I am in? I cannot answer questions. I was reading your book when you came in. Why do you not believe that I was thinking of you?’

‘Saeeda,’ said Maan helplessly. ‘I can believe it. But what use is it to me that you should merely think of me when I am not here? I can see that you are distressed by something. But by what? Why don’t you tell me? I don’t understand it. I can’t understand it — and I want to help you. Is there someone else you are seeing?’ he said, suddenly sensing that her agitation could be caused by excitement as much as by distress. ‘Is that it? Is that it?’

‘Dagh Sahib,’ said Saeeda Bai in a quiet, exhausted tone. ‘This would not matter to you if you had more sakis than one. I told you that the last time.’

‘I don’t remember what you said the last time,’ said Maan, feeling a rush of jealousy. ‘Don’t tell me how many sakis I should have. You mean everything to me. I don’t care about what was said the last time. I want to know why I am being turned away by you this time with so little attempt at courtesy—’ He paused, overcome, then looked at her, breathing hard. ‘Why did you say this year would be so interesting for you? Why did you say that? What has happened since I’ve been away?’