Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

Pran paused for a minute near the pomelo tree and breathed in its scent. It reminded him of his childhood; and he thought sadly of the dramatic changes that had occurred to Veena and himself and Maan since those uncertain but comparatively carefree days. Veena’s husband had since become an impoverished refugee from Pakistan, he himself was a cardiac patient, and Maan was lying in jail awaiting a charge-sheet. Then he thought of Bhaskar’s miraculous escape and of Uma’s birth, of his life with Savita, of his mother’s sustaining goodness, of the continuing peace of this garden; and he was swayed a little towards accepting that some good of some kind had been gained or retained.

He walked slowly across the lawn to the verandah. His mother was still lying down on the sofa and looking out at the garden.

‘Why are you lying down, Ammaji?’ he asked. She would normally have sat up to talk to him. ‘Are you feeling tired?’

She sat up immediately.

‘Can I get you something?’ he asked. He noticed she was trying to say something, but he could not make out what she was saying. Her mouth was open, and had drooped to one side. He understood with difficulty that she wanted tea.

Worried now, he called out for Veena. A servant said she had gone out somewhere with his father in the car. Pran ordered some tea. When it came he gave it to his mother to drink. She began to splutter as she drank it, and he realized that she had had a stroke of some kind.

His first thought was to contact Imtiaz at Baitar House. Then he decided to contact Savita’s grandfather. Dr Kishen Chand Seth was not in either. Pran left a message for him saying that his mother was ill, and that Dr Seth should phone Prem Nivas immediately when he returned. He tried a couple of other doctors, but could not get through to anyone. He was about to order a taxi to go to the hospital to find someone when Dr Seth called back. Pran explained what had happened.

‘I’ll come over,’ said Dr Kishen Chand Seth. ‘But get Dr Jain — he’s the expert at this sort of thing. His telephone number is 873. Tell him I asked him to come immediately.’

When he arrived, Dr Seth said that he thought it was a case of facial paralysis, and made Mrs Mahesh Kapoor lie down flat. ‘But this is very far from my speciality,’ he added.

At about seven o’clock, Veena and her father returned. Mrs Mahesh Kapoor’s voice was slurred but she was making an effort to communicate.

‘Is it about Maan?’ asked her husband.

She shook her head. In a little while they understood that what she wanted was her dinner.

She tried to drink her soup. Some went down, but she coughed some of it up. They tried to feed her some rice and daal. She took a little into her mouth, chewed it, and asked Veena to give her some more. But it soon became apparent that she was storing it in her mouth and not swallowing it. Very slowly, with sips of water, she was able to take it down.

Dr Jain arrived about half an hour later. He examined her thoroughly, and said: ‘This is a serious condition, you see. I am worried that her seventh, tenth and twelfth nerves are affected.’

‘Yes, yes—’ said Mr Mahesh Kapoor, at the end of his tether. ‘What does all this mean?’

‘Well, you see,’ said Dr Jain, ‘these nerves are connected to the main area of the brain. I am worried that the patient’s ability to swallow might fail. Or there could be a second stroke. That would be the end. I suggest that the patient should be removed to hospital immediately.’

Mrs Mahesh Kapoor reacted violently to the word ‘hospital’. She refused to go. Her speech was slurred and her senses somewhat dulled, but there was no doubt about her will. She gave them to understand that if she was dying, she wanted to die at home. Veena made out the words ‘Sundar Kanda’. She wanted her favourite part of the Ramayana to be read out to her.

‘Dying!’ said her husband, impatiently. ‘There is no question of your dying.’

But Mrs Mahesh Kapoor for once defied her husband and did die that night.

Veena was sleeping in her mother’s room when she heard her suddenly cry out in pain. She turned on the light. Mrs Mahesh Kapoor’s face was shockingly distorted, and her whole body appeared to be undergoing a violent spasm. Veena ran to fetch her father. He came. Soon the household was roused. Pran and the doctors were called, and Kedarnath’s neighbours were asked to tell him to come over immediately. Pran had no doubt of the seriousness of the matter. He told Savita, Lata and Mrs Rupa Mehra that he thought his mother was dying. They came over. Savita brought the baby too, in case her grandmother wanted to see her.

Within half an hour everyone had gathered around. Bhaskar looked on uneasily. He asked his mother if Nani was indeed dying, and she replied tearfully that she thought so, though everything was in God’s hands. The doctor said that there was nothing that could be done. Mrs Mahesh Kapoor too, having asked, with incoherent sounds and gestures to have Bhaskar brought close to her, now indicated that she wished to be lowered from her bed on to the ground. At this, all the women began to weep. Mr Mahesh Kapoor, angry, disappointed, and upset, looked at his wife’s face, which had grown calm, with irked affection — as if she had deliberately failed him. A small mud lamp was lit and placed in the palm of her hand. Old Mrs Tandon took the name of Rama, and Mrs Rupa Mehra recited from the Gita. A short while afterwards Mrs Mahesh Kapoor struggled to say a word which sounded like ‘Maa—’. She could have meant either her mother, who was long dead, or her younger son, whom she could not see among those gathered around her. She closed her eyes. A few tears appeared at the corners of her eyelids, but again her face, so distorted earlier, became calm. A little later, almost at the time she usually woke up, she died.

In the morning a stream of visitors came through the house to pay their last respects. Among them were many of Mahesh Kapoor’s colleagues, all of whom, no matter what they thought of him, had had nothing but affection for this decent, kind, and affectionate woman. They had known her as a quiet, bustling wife, untiring and warm in her hospitality, who had compensated with her gentleness for the worst of her husband’s acerbity.

Now she lay on the ground on a sheet, her nostrils and mouth lightly plugged with cotton wool, a bandage tying her head to her jaw. She was dressed in red, as she had been at her wedding many years ago, and there was sindoor in the parting of her hair. Incense was burning in a bowl at her feet. All the women, including Savita and Lata, were sitting beside her, and some were weeping, Mrs Rupa Mehra as much as anyone.

S.S. Sharma removed his shoes and entered. His head was trembling slightly. He folded his hands, said a few words of comfort, and went away. Priya comforted Veena. Her father, L.N. Agarwal, took Pran aside, and said:

‘When is the cremation?’

‘At eleven o’clock at the ghat.’

‘What about your younger brother?’

Pran shook his head. His eyes filled with tears.

The Home Minister asked to use the phone, and called the Superintendent of Police. On hearing that Maan was due to be moved from police custody to judicial custody that afternoon, he said:

‘Tell them to do it this morning instead, and to take him past the cremation ghat. His brother will go to the police station and join the escort party. There is no danger of the prisoner escaping, so handcuffs will not be necessary. Have the formalities completed by ten o’clock or so.’

The Superintendent said: ‘It will be done, Minister Sahib.’

L.N. Agarwal was about to put down the phone, when he thought of something else. He said: ‘Also, would you tell the station house officer to make a barber available in case it is necessary — but not to break any news to the young man himself. His brother will do that.’