Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘Really!’ exclaimed the Vice-Chancellor. ‘Do you need to cast aspersions on Professor Mishra’s motives? You should accept with grace—’

‘I will not accept with grace what is a disgrace,’ said Dr Ila Chattopadhyay. ‘I don’t know what is going on but something certainly is, and I am not going to be a part of it.’ She had as acute a nose for what she called ‘intellectual squalor and academic sordor’ as for faulty plumbing.

Professor Mishra was staring at her in outrage. Her treasonous ingratitude to him was beyond belief.

‘I think you should discuss matters coolly,’ he spluttered.

‘Coolly?’ cried Dr Ila Chattopadhyay. ‘Coolly? If there is one thing I cannot stand, it is rudeness!’ Seeing that Professor Mishra had been floored by this remark, she continued: ‘And if there is one thing I refuse to deny, it is merit. That young man has merit. He knows his subject. I am sure he makes a very stimulating teacher. And from his folder and the number of committees he is sitting on and the extracurricular activities he is involved in, it does not appear to me that he does not pull his weight in the department or the university. Rather the opposite. He should get the job. Outside panellists like Professor Jaikumar and myself are here as a check on academic—’ she was about to say ‘rascality’ but changed it in mid-flight to ‘irresponsibility’, before continuing—‘I am sorry, I am a very stupid woman, but one thing I have learned is that when it is necessary to speak, one must. If we cannot come to a proper decision and you force your candidate through, I will insist that you put down in your report that the experts disagreed with you—’

Even Professor Jaikumar looked shocked. ‘Self-control leads to heaven,’ he murmured to himself in Tamil, ‘but uncontrolled passion is the road to endless darkness.’ No one ever voted on these matters. They were decided by consensus. Voting meant that the matter would have to be put up to the Executive Council of the university for a decision, and no one wanted that. This was rocking the boat with a vengeance. It would mean the end of all stability, all order. Professor Mishra looked at Dr Ila Chattopadhyay as if he would not mind jettisoning her forthwith — and hoped that the water was infested with jellyfish.

‘Yif I may speak—’ It was Professor Jaikumar, actually interrupting, which was something he almost never did. ‘I do not feel a minority report by the outside yexperts is called for. But there should be a proper decision.’ He paused. He was a genuinely learned man of deep and unflamboyant probity, and he had been greatly upset by his tête-à-tête with his host the previous evening. He had decided there and then that whoever he selected, it would not be the man who had been so irregularly recommended to him. ‘Should we not think of a third candidate?’

‘Of course not,’ said Dr Ila Chattopadhyay, in whom the zest of battle now raged warmly: ‘Why select someone third-rate as a compromise when we have a first-rate man at hand?’

‘Certainly, yit is true,’ said Professor Jaikumar, ‘as yit says in the Tirukural’—and here he paused to translate—‘that after assessing that this man can do this task because of this competence he has, and this tool he can use, that task must be assigned to that man. But yit also says: “Yit is a part of wisdom to conform to the ways of the world.” But in yet another place yit says—’

The telephone rang. Professor Mishra sprang up. The Vice-Chancellor reached out for the phone. ‘Vice-Chancellor here. . I’m sorry, I’m in a meeting. . Oh, it’s for you, Professor Mishra. Were you expecting a call?’

‘Er, yes, I asked the doctor to call me — well, yes — Mishra speaking.’

‘You old jackal!’ said Badri Nath on the phone. ‘I heard all that.’

‘Er, yes, Doctor, well, what news?’ said Professor Mishra in Hindi.

‘Bad.’

Professor Mishra’s jaw dropped. Everyone looked at him. The others in the room tried to talk, but it was impossible for them not to listen to his side of the conversation.

‘I see. How bad?’

‘The counting went alphabetically. It stopped after Kapoor and just before Khan.’

‘Then how do you know who—’

‘Mahesh Kapoor got 15,575 votes. There aren’t enough votes left for Waris Khan to defeat him. Mahesh Kapoor is bound to win.’

Professor Mishra’s free hand went to his forehead. Beads of sweat began to form on it.

‘What do you mean? How do you know? Could you go a little slowly for me? I’m not used to the terminology.’

‘All right, Professor. You will need to ask the Vice-Chancellor for a pen and some paper.’ Badri Nath, though obviously unhappy about the result of his inquiries, was nevertheless extracting what little enjoyment he could out of the situation.

‘I have them here,’ said Professor Mishra. He took a pen and an envelope out of his pocket. ‘Please go slowly.’

Badri Nath sighed. ‘Why don’t you simply accept what I’m saying?’ he asked.

Professor Mishra wisely refrained from replying: ‘Because you told me this very morning to accept that he’d lost, and now you’re telling me to accept that he’s won.’ He said: ‘I’d like to know how you came to this conclusion.’

Badri Nath relented. After another sigh, he said, very slowly and carefully:

‘Please listen carefully, Professor. There are 66,918 voters. Given a very high turn-out for this part of the country, say, fifty-five per cent, that would mean a total of 37,000 votes cast in the election. Shall I go on? The first five candidates have been counted. Their total comes to 19,351. That leaves about 18,700 for the last five candidates. Apart from Waris, the other four are bound to get at least 5,000 votes: they include the socialist and the Jan Sangh candidate as well as a fairly popular and well-funded Independent. So what does that leave for Waris Khan, Professor Sahib? Less than 14,000. And Mahesh Kapoor has already got 15,575.’ He paused, then continued: ‘Too bad. Chacha Nehru’s visit turned the tide. Do you want me to repeat the figures?’

‘No, no, thank you. When does — when does it resume?’

‘When does what resume? You mean the counting?’

‘Yes. The treatment.’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Thank you. May I call you later this evening?’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll be in the casualty department,’ cackled Badri Nath, and put down the phone.

Professor Mishra sat down heavily in his chair.

‘Not bad news, I hope,’ said Professor Jaikumar. ‘Both your sons looked so well yesterday.’

‘No, no—’ said Professor Mishra bravely, mopping his forehead. ‘We all have our private crosses to bear. But we must press on with our duty. I am so sorry for keeping you all waiting.’

‘Not at all,’ said Dr Ila Chattopadhyay, thinking that she’d been a bit rough on the poor, pulpy fellow who had, after all, once encouraged her. Really, though, she thought to herself, he can’t be allowed to get away with this.

But it now appeared that Professor Mishra was no longer vociferously opposed to Pran. He even found one or two good things to say about him. Dr Ila Chattopadhyay wondered if, in the face of possible minority dissension and scandal, he had merely succumbed to the inevitable — or if perhaps his son’s ill health had brought him face to face with his own uncertain soul.

By the end of the meeting, Professor Mishra had regained some of his air of placidity; he was still staggered, however, by the turn of events.

‘You have left your telephone numbers behind,’ said Professor Jaikumar, handing him his envelope as he walked to the door.

‘Oh, yes—’ said Professor Mishra. ‘Thank you.’