Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘I didn’t hear about it till later,’ said Pran. ‘I regretted it for weeks afterwards. Do have a cake, Professor Mishra. Your plate is empty now.’

Meanwhile Lata and Kabir were talking.

‘So you invited him when you came to Calcutta?’ said Lata. ‘Did he come up to your expectations?’

‘Yes,’ said Kabir. ‘I enjoy his poetry. But how did you know I went to Calcutta?’

‘I have my sources,’ said Lata. ‘And how do you know Amit?’

‘Amit, is it?’

‘Mr Chatterji, if you like. How do you know him?’

‘I don’t — I mean, I didn’t,’ said Kabir, correcting himself. ‘We were introduced by someone.’

‘By Haresh Khanna?’

‘You really do have your sources,’ said Kabir, looking straight into Lata’s eyes. ‘Perhaps you would care to tell me what I was doing this afternoon.’

‘That’s easy,’ said Lata. ‘You were playing cricket.’

Kabir laughed. ‘That was too easy,’ he said. ‘Yesterday afternoon?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Lata. ‘I really can’t eat this cake,’ she added.

‘I’ve put up with some of this cake in the past in the hope of seeing you,’ said Kabir. ‘But you’re worth any amount of chipped enamel.’

Very charming, thought Lata coldly, and did not respond. Kabir’s compliment seemed rather too facile.

‘So, how do you know Amit — I mean Mr Chatterji?’ continued Kabir. His voice had an edge to it.

‘What is this, Kabir, an interrogation?’

‘No.’

‘Well, what is it then?’

‘A civil question, which might merit a similar answer,’ said Kabir. ‘I asked out of interest. Do you want me to withdraw it?’

Lata reflected that the tone of the question had not been civil. It had been jealous. Good!

‘No. Let it stand,’ she said. ‘He’s my brother-in-law. I mean,’—and here she flushed—‘he’s not my own brother-in-law but my brother’s.’

‘And I imagine you’ve had plenty of opportunity of meeting him in Calcutta.’

The word Calcutta was like a goad.

‘Just what are you trying to get at, Kabir?’ said Lata angrily.

‘Just that I’ve been watching him for the last few minutes and during the reading too, and everything he does seems to be aimed at you.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘Look at him now.’

Lata turned instinctively; and Amit, who had had half an eye on her while he was attempting not too dishonestly to comment on Nowrojee’s triolet, gave her a smile. Lata smiled back weakly. Amit, however, was soon obscured by the bulk of Professor Mishra.

‘And I suppose you take walks?’

‘Sometimes—’

‘Reading Timon to each other in cemeteries.’

‘Not exactly.’

‘And I suppose you go up and down the Hooghly on a boat at dawn.’

‘Kabir — how dare you, you of all people—’

‘And I suppose he writes you letters as well?’ continued Kabir, who looked as if he wanted to shake her.

‘What if he did?’ said Lata. ‘What if he does? But he doesn’t. It’s the other man you met, Haresh, who writes to me — and I write back.’

The colour drained from Kabir’s face. He grabbed her right hand and held it tight.

‘Let go,’ whispered Lata. ‘Let me go at once. Or I’ll drop this plate.’

‘Go ahead,’ said Kabir. ‘Drop it. It’s probably a Nowrojee heirloom.’

‘Please—’ said Lata, tears starting to her eyes. He was actually hurting her physically, but she was very annoyed about her tears. ‘Please don’t, Kabir—’

He released her hand.

‘Ah, Malvolio’s revenge—’ said Mr Barua, coming up to them. ‘Why have you made Olivia cry?’ he asked Kabir.

‘I haven’t made her cry,’ said Kabir. ‘No one has an obligation to cry. Any crying of hers is purely voluntary.’

And with that he left.

Lata, refusing to explain anything to Mr Barua, went to wash her face. She did not return to the room until she felt that it would not be obvious that she had been in tears. But the crowd had thinned, and Pran and Amit were ready to take their leave.

Amit was staying at the home of Mr Maitra, the retired Superintendent of Police; but he was having dinner with Pran, Savita, Mrs Rupa Mehra, Lata, Malati and Maan.

Though Maan, out on bail, was living once again at Prem Nivas, he could not bear to take his meals there. The polls were over, and his father had returned to Brahmpur. He was an angry and grieving man — and wanted Maan with him all the time. He did not know what would happen to his son once a proper charge-sheet was delivered. Everything was collapsing about Mahesh Kapoor’s ears. He hoped that he might at least retain his power in politics. But if he did not succeed even in winning his own seat, he knew how drastically this would weaken his following.

He had no immediate activity to lose himself in. Some days he received visitors; on other days, he sat and looked out at the garden, saying nothing. The servants knew that he did not wish to be disturbed. Veena would bring him tea. The counting of the vote for his constituency was due to take place a few days from now; he would go to Rudhia for the day. By the evening of the 6th of February he would know if he had won or lost.

Maan was riding in a tonga to Pran’s house for dinner when he saw Malati Trivedi walking along. He greeted her. She said hello, then suddenly looked awkward.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Maan. ‘I haven’t been convicted yet. And Pran says you’re having dinner with us. Get in.’

Malati, feeling ashamed of her hesitancy, did get in, and they rode towards the university together, not saying much for two such outgoing people.

Maan had met three of the Chatterjis — Meenakshi, Kakoli and Dipankar — at various times. He remembered Meenakshi most of all: she had stood out at Pran’s wedding — and had made even a hospital room appear a glamorous backdrop for her own dramatic presence. He now looked forward to meeting their brother, whom Lata had mentioned to him during her jail visit. Amit greeted him in a sympathetic and curious manner.

Maan looked worn out and knew it. Sometimes he still couldn’t believe where he had been; at other times he couldn’t believe that he was, at least for a while, free again.

‘We hardly meet these days,’ said Lata, who had not been able to concentrate on conversation for the last hour.

Maan began to laugh. ‘No, we hardly do,’ he said.

Malati could see that something was the matter with Lata. She attributed it to the presence of the Poet. Malati had been keen to examine this contender for Lata’s hand. She decided that Amit was not very impressive: he was bent on making small talk. The Cobbler, who (as Malati had been told) had got angry when called mean, had shown far more spirit — even if, she decided, of a rather zany kind.

Malati did not know that Amit, especially after reading his poems or writing a serious one, would often switch into an entirely different mood: cynical and sometimes trivializing. He had been leached of any pretence at profundity. Though no Kuku-couplets flapped away like freed pigeons from his mouth this evening, he began to talk in a light-hearted manner about elected politicians and the way they subverted the system by winning favours for themselves and their families. Mrs Rupa Mehra, who switched off whenever the talk turned to politics, had gone into the other room to put Uma to bed.

‘Mr Maitra, with whom I’m staying, has been explaining to me his prescription for Utopia,’ said Amit. ‘The country should be run by only children — unmarried only children — whose parents are dead. At any rate, he says, all Ministers should be childless.’

Noticing that no one was taking up the subject, Amit continued: ‘Otherwise, of course, they’re bound to try to get their children out of whatever scrapes they’ve got themselves into.’ He stopped, suddenly realizing what he was saying.