Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘Do stop being idiotic, Amit,’ said Lata. ‘You’re so brilliant, do you have to be so stupid as well? I should only take you seriously in black and white.’

‘And in sickness and health.’

Lata laughed. ‘For better and for worse,’ she added. ‘Far worse, I suppose.’

Amit’s eyes lit up. ‘You mean yes?’

‘No, I don’t,’ said Lata. ‘I don’t mean anything. And nor, I assume, do you. But why are we kneeling here facing each other like Japanese dolls? Get up, get up. Here comes Ma, just as you said.’

Mrs Rupa Mehra was less sharp with Amit, however, than he had expected, for she was having second thoughts about Haresh.

For fear of having her own judgement called into question, she did not speak her thoughts out aloud. But she was not skilled in dissimulation; and over the next few days, when Amit had left Brahmpur, it was her want of enthusiasm for, rather than her actual criticism of, Haresh that indicated to Lata that all was not at ease in her mind with respect to her former favourite.

That he had been so upset by Lata calling him ‘mean’ bewildered Mrs Rupa Mehra. On the other hand, it must have been Lata’s fault in some way, she decided. What she could not understand was that Haresh had not said goodbye to her, Mrs Rupa Mehra, his self-appointed mother-in-law-to-be. Several days had passed between the altercation and their hurried return to Brahmpur; yet during that time he had not visited or telephoned or written. It was not right; she was hurt; and she did not see why he should have continued to treat her so insensitively. If only he had called, she would have forgiven him immediately and tearfully. Now she was not in a forgiving mood at all.

It also struck her that some of her friends, when she had mentioned that Haresh was involved in the shoe trade, had made remarks such as, ‘Well, of course, things have changed nowadays,’ and ‘Oh! Dear Rupa — but everything is for the best, and Praha is of course Praha.’ In the first flush of vicarious romance, such veiled or consolatory comments had not struck home. But now the memory of them caused her to suffer a rush of embarrassment. Who could have predicted that the daughter of the potential Chairman of the Railway Board might be linked to the lowly lineage of leather?

‘But such is Fate,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra to herself; and this led to a thought which an advertisement in the next morning’s Brahmpur Chronicle translated into action. For there she noticed, under the heading ‘Astrologer-Royal: Raj Jyotishi’, the photograph of a plump and beaming middle-aged man, his hair cut short and parted in the middle. Underneath were the words:

The greatest Astrologer, Palmist and Tantrik. Pandit Kanti Prasad Chaturvedi, Jyotishtirtha, Tantrikacharya, Examiner, Government Board of Astrological Studies. Highly praised and honoured with unwanted testimonials. Very speedy results.

Very speedily — in fact the same afternoon — Mrs Rupa Mehra made her way to the Astrologer-Royal. He was unhappy that she knew only the place and date of Haresh’s birth, not the exact time of day. But he promised to see what he could do. It would require certain extra assumptions, certain extra calculations, and even the use of the adjustment factor of Uranus, which was not standard in Indian astrology; and the use of Uranus was not costless. Mrs Rupa Mehra paid up and he told her to return two days later.

She felt quite guilty about these proceedings. After all, as she had complained to Lata when Mrs Mahesh Kapoor had asked for Savita’s horoscope: ‘I don’t believe in all this matching. If it had been true, my husband and I. . ’ But now she told herself that perhaps the fault lay in the lack of skill of particular astrologers, not in the science itself. And the Astrologer-Royal had been very persuasive. He had explained why her gold wedding ring would ‘reinforce and concentrate the power of Jupiter’; he had advised her to wear a garnet because it would control the ecliptic node of Rahu and confer mental peace; he had praised her wisdom, which was patent to him from both her palm and her expression; and a large silver-framed photograph on his desk, facing clientwards, showed him shaking hands with the Governor himself.

When they next met, the Astrologer-Royal said: ‘You see, in this man’s seventh house, the Jupiter is aspected by Mars. The whole impression is yellow and red, which in combination you may consider to be orange or golden, therefore his wife will be very beautiful. Then you see, the moon is surrounded by lots of planets, that is also a sign of the same thing. But the seventh house has Aries in it, who is very stubborn, and Jupiter, who is strong, which will enhance the stubbornness. So therefore he will marry a beautiful but difficult woman. Is your daughter such a one?’

Mrs Rupa Mehra thought about the matter for a few seconds, then, hoping for better luck elsewhere, said: ‘But what about all the other houses?’

‘The seventh house is the House of the Wife.’

‘But are there no problems at all? In the matching of the two horoscopes, I mean?’ His eyes were very piercing, and she was forced to concentrate on the middle parting in his hair.

The Astrologer-Royal looked at her for a few seconds, smiling speculatively, then said: ‘Yes, certain problems surely exist. I have examined the totality of the picture, taking into consideration the information of both your daughter and the Prospective. It is quite problematical, I would say. Kindly come and collect the problematical details this evening. I will write them down.’

‘And Uranus?’ asked Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘What does Uranus say?’

‘The effect did not prove to be significant,’ said the Astrologer-Royal. ‘But of course the calculations had to be made anyway,’ he added hastily.

As they entered the Haridas College of Music together, Malati’s friend said: ‘Well, there have been no more sightings of the quarry. But if there are, I’ll keep you informed.’

‘What are you gabbling about?’ asked Malati. ‘I hope we’re not too late.’ Ustad Majeed Khan was in an impatient mood these days.

‘Oh, you know, the woman he met at the Blue Danube.’

‘Who met?’

‘Kabir, of course.’

Malati stopped and turned towards her friend:

‘But you said the Red Fox.’

Her friend shrugged. ‘Did I? I might have. It’s quite confusing. But what difference does it make whether you shoot someone in Chowk or in Misri Mandi?. . What’s the matter with you?’

For Malati had seized her friend’s arm; her face had gone white.

‘What was this woman like? What was she wearing?’ she asked.

‘Amazing! You didn’t want to know anything then, but now—’

‘Tell me. Quickly.’

‘Well, I wasn’t there, but this girl Purnima — I don’t think you know her, she’s from Patna and she’s doing history — it was she who noticed them. She was sitting a few tables away, though, and you know what it’s like with these dimmed lights—’

‘But what was she wearing? The woman, I mean, not this wretched girl.’

‘Malati, what’s the matter with you? It’s been weeks—’

‘What was she wearing?’ asked Malati desperately.

‘A green sari. Wait, I’d better make sure I get my colours right this time, or you’ll kill me. Yes, Purnima said she was wearing a green sari — and lots of flashy emeralds. And she was tall and quite fair — that’s about all—’

‘Oh, what have I done—’ said Malati. ‘Oh, poor fellow — poor Kabir. What a terrible mistake. What have I done, what have I done?’

‘Malati,’ said Ustad Majeed Khan, ‘carry the tanpura with respect, with both hands. It isn’t the offspring of a cat. What is the matter with you?’