Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

Mahesh Kapoor sighed again. ‘That is a pointless speculation. Anyway, “bad” is too strong a word. He is fond of Firoz, that’s all. He’s served that family all his life.’

‘He will become just as fond of his own position in time,’ said Abdus Salaam. ‘I will have to face him across the floor of the House soon enough. But what I am curious about is this: how soon will he assert his position against the Nawab Sahib?’

‘Well,’ said Mahesh Kapoor after a while. ‘I don’t think he will. But if he does, there’s nothing to be done about it. If he’s bad, as you say, he’s bad.’

Abdus Salaam said: ‘Anyway, it is not the prejudices of bad people that are the problem.’

‘Ah, and what is the problem then?’ said Mahesh Kapoor with a slight smile.

‘If only bad people were prejudiced, that would not have such a strong effect. Most people would not wish to imitate them — and so, such prejudices would not have much effect — except in exceptional times. It is the prejudices of good people that are so dangerous.’

‘That is too subtle,’ said Mahesh Kapoor. ‘You should give blame where blame is due. The inflammatory ones are the bad.’

‘Ah, but many of the inflammable ones are the otherwise good.’

‘I won’t argue with you.’

‘That is just what I want you to do.’

Mahesh Kapoor made an impatient sound but said nothing.

‘The Congress will win seventy per cent of the assembly seats in P.P. You’ll soon come back in a by-election,’ said Abdus Salaam. ‘I suppose people are surprised that you aren’t submitting an election petition against the Salimpur result.’

‘What people think—’ began Mahesh Kapoor, then shook his head.

Abdus Salaam tried one final time to shake his mentor out of his listlessness. He began one of his ruminations, partly because he enjoyed them, mainly because he wanted to strike some spark from the Minister Sahib.

‘It is interesting to see how, after just four years of Independence, the Congress has changed so much,’ he began. ‘Those people who broke their heads fighting for freedom are now breaking each other’s. And we have new entrants to the business. If I were a criminal, for example, and I could get into politics profitably and without too much difficulty, I would not say: “I can deal in murder or drugs, but politics is sacred.” It would be no more sacred to me than prostitution.’

He looked towards Mahesh Kapoor, who had closed his eyes again. Abdus Salaam went on: ‘More and more money is required to fight elections, and politicians will be forced to demand more and more money from businessmen. Then, being corrupt themselves, they won’t be able to wipe out corruption in the civil service. They won’t even want to. Sooner or later the appointments of judges, election commissioners, the top civil servants and policemen, will be decided by these same corrupt men, and all our institutions will give way. The only hope,’ continued Abdus Salaam treasonously, ‘is that the Congress will be wiped out two elections from now. . ’

As at a concert a single false note sung outside the strict scope of a raag can wake up a listener who is apparently asleep, so too Abdus Salaam’s last assertion made Mahesh Kapoor open his eyes.

‘Abdus Salaam, I am not in a mood to argue with you. Don’t make idle statements.’

‘Everything I have said is possible. I would say probable.’

‘The Congress won’t be wiped out.’

‘Why not, Minister Sahib? We have got less than fifty per cent of the vote. Next time our opponents will understand electoral arithmetic better and will band together. And Nehru, our vote-catcher, will be dead by then, or retired. He won’t last five years more in this job. He will be burned out.’

‘Nehru will outlive me, and probably you,’ said Mahesh Kapoor.

‘Should we take a bet on that?’ said Abdus Salaam.

Mahesh Kapoor stirred restlessly. ‘Are you trying to get me angry?’ he said.

‘Just a friendly bet.’

‘Now please leave.’

‘All right, Minister Sahib. I’ll come by again tomorrow at the same time.’

Mahesh Kapoor said nothing.

After a while he looked out at the garden. The kachnar tree was just coming into blossom: the buds looked like long green pods with a slight hint of deep mauve where the flowers would burst forth. Scores of small squirrels were either running around or on the tree, playing with each other. The sunbird, as usual, was flying in and out of the pomelo tree; and from somewhere a barbet was calling insistently. Mahesh Kapoor did not know either the Hindi or the English names of the birds and flowers that surrounded him, but perhaps in his present state of mind he enjoyed the garden more truly for that. It was his only refuge, and a nameless, wordless one, with birdsong its only sound — and it was dominated, when he closed his eyes, by the least intellectualizable sense — that of scent.

When his wife had been alive she had occasionally asked him for his opinion before laying out a new bed or planting a new tree. This had only served to annoy Mahesh Kapoor. ‘Do whatever you want,’ he had snapped. ‘Do I ask you for your opinion on my files?’ After a while she had ceased to ask for his advice.

But to Mrs Mahesh Kapoor’s great if quiet delight and to the frustration of her various more imposing competitors, who could not understand what she had over them by way of resources or expertise or foreign seeds, the garden at Prem Nivas had won numerous prizes in the Flower Show year after year; and this year would win the First Prize as well, for the first and, needless to say, the last time.

On the front wall of Pran’s house, the yellow jasmine had begun to bloom. Inside, Mrs Rupa Mehra muttered, ‘Plain, purl, plain, purl. Where’s Lata?’

‘She’s gone out to buy a book,’ said Savita.

‘Which book?’

‘I don’t think she knows yet. A novel, probably.’

‘She shouldn’t be reading novels but studying for her exams.’

This was, as it happened, what the bookseller was telling Lata at almost the same moment. Luckily for his business, students rarely took his advice.

He reached out for the book with one hand, and extracted wax from his ear with the other.

‘I’ve studied enough, Balwantji,’ said Lata. ‘I’m tired of my studies. In fact, I’m tired of everything,’ she ended dramatically.

‘You look just like Nargis when you say that,’ said Balwant.

‘I am afraid I only have a five-rupee note.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Balwant. ‘Where is your friend Malatiji?’ he continued. ‘I never see her these days.’

‘That’s because she’s not wasting her time buying novels,’ said Lata. ‘She’s studying hard. I hardly see her myself.’

Kabir entered the shop, looking quite cheerful. He noticed Lata and stopped.

The whole of their last meeting flashed before Lata’s eyes — and, immediately afterwards, their first meeting in the bookstore. They looked at each other for a few seconds before Lata broke the silence with a hello.

‘Hello,’ replied Kabir. ‘I see you’re on your way out.’ Here was another meeting brought about by coincidence, and to be governed, no doubt, by awkwardness.

‘Yes,’ said Lata. ‘I came in to buy a Wodehouse, but I’ve bought myself a Jane Austen instead.’

‘I’d like you to have a coffee with me at the Blue Danube.’ It was a statement more than a request.

‘I have to get back,’ said Lata. ‘I told Savita I’d be back in an hour.’

‘Savita can wait. I was going to buy a book, but that too can wait.’

‘Which book?’ asked Lata.

‘What does it matter?’ replied Kabir. ‘I don’t know. I was just going to browse. Not in Poetry or Mathematics, though,’ he added.