Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

2. A second, not unrelated, point, is that Haresh does not, and can never aspire to, move in the same social circles as we do. A foreman is not a covenanted assistant, and Praha is simply not Bentsen Pryce. The smell of leather clings rather too closely to the name; the Czechs, who are his bosses, are technicians, sometimes barely literate in English, not graduates from the best universities in England. In a certain sense, by choosing a trade rather than a profession after his graduation from St Stephen’s, Haresh has downgraded himself. I hope you do not mind my speaking frankly on a matter of such importance to your future happiness. Society matters, and society is exacting and cruel; you will find yourself excluded from certain circles simply by virtue of being Mrs Khanna.

Nor can Haresh’s own background or demeanour counteract the Praha trademark. Unlike say, Meenakshi or Amit, whose father and grandfather have been High Court judges, his family are small people from Old Delhi, and are, to put it bluntly, entirely undistinguished. Certainly, it does him credit that he has brought himself to where he is; but, being a self-made man, he has a tendency to be rather pleased with himself — indeed, a little bumptious. I have noticed that this is often true of short people; he may well have an additional chip on his shoulder as a result of this. I know that Ma thinks of him as a rough diamond. All I can say is that the cut and polish of a stone matter. One does not wear a rough diamond — or one that is chipped — in a wedding ring.

Family, if I may put it plainly, will out. It shows in Haresh’s manner of dress, in his liking for snuff and paan, in the fact that, despite his stint in England, he lacks the small social graces. I warned Ma about family background at the time of Savita’s engagement to Pran, but she would not listen; and the result, socially speaking, has been the disgraceful connection, through us, of the family of a jailbird to the family of a judge. This is another reason why I feel it is my duty to speak to you before it is too late.

3. Your future family income will in all likelihood not permit you to send your children to the kind of school — for example, St George’s or St Sophia’s or Jheel or Mayo or Loreto or Doon — that our children — Meenakshi’s and mine — will go to. Besides, even if you could afford it, Haresh may have very different views from you about the upbringing of his children or the proportion of the family budget to be devoted to education. With respect to Savita’s husband, since he is an academic, I have no concerns on this particular count. But with Haresh I do, and I have to put them to you. I wish the family to remain close, indeed, I feel responsible for the maintenance of this closeness; and differences in the upbringing of our children are bound to draw us apart in time, and to cause you a great deal of heartache besides.

I must ask you to treat this letter as a personal one; to think deeply about it, as befits its contents, but not to show it around the family. Ma would no doubt take it amiss, and, I suppose, so would Savita. As for the subject of this letter, I will only add that he has been pestering us with offers of hospitality; we have been cool to him, and have so far avoided going to Prahapore for another gargantuan lunch. He should, we believe, not presume to be considered part of the family unless he in fact becomes part of it. Needless to say, the choice is yours, and we would welcome your husband, whoever he happened to be, in our private capacity. But it is no use meaning well if you cannot also speak freely, and that is what I have done in this letter.

Rather than add news and small talk, which can wait for another occasion, I will simply end with my love and fondest hopes for your future happiness. Meenakshi, who agrees with me on all points, does the same.

Yours,

Arun Bhai

Lata read the letter through several times, the first time — owing mainly to Arun’s wildly erratic handwriting — very slowly; and, as instructed, she pondered its contents deeply. Her first instinct was to have a heart-to-heart talk with Savita, or Malati, or her mother — or with each of them. Then she decided that it would make no difference and would, if anything, only serve to confuse her. This decision was hers to make.

She wrote to Haresh the same evening, accepting with gratitude — and, indeed, warmth — his often repeated offer of marriage.

‘No!’ cried Malati, staring at Lata. ‘No! I refuse to believe it. Have you posted the letter yet?’

‘Yes,’ said Lata.

They were sitting in the shadow of the Fort on the Pul Mela sands, looking out over the warm, grey Ganga, which was glinting in the sunlight.

‘You are mad — absolutely mad. How could you do it?’

‘Don’t be like my mother—“O my poor Lata, O my poor Lata!”’

‘Was that her reaction? I thought she was keen on Haresh,’ said Malati. ‘Trust you to do just what Mummy says. But I won’t have it, Lata, you can’t ruin your life like this.’

‘I’m not ruining my life,’ said Lata heatedly. ‘And yes, that might well be her reaction. She’s taken against Haresh for some reason. And Arun’s been against him from the beginning. But no, Mummy didn’t say. In fact, Mummy doesn’t even know. You’re the first person I’m telling, and you shouldn’t be trying to make me feel miserable.’

‘I should. I should. I hope you feel really miserable,’ said Malati, her eyes flashing green fire. ‘Then perhaps you’ll see some sense and undo what you’ve done. You love Kabir, and you must marry him.’

‘There’s no must about it. Go and marry him yourself,’ said Lata, her cheeks red. ‘No — don’t! Don’t! I’ll never forgive you. Please don’t talk about Kabir, Malu, please.’

‘You’re going to regret it bitterly,’ said Malati. ‘I’m telling you that.’

‘Well, that’s my look-out,’ said Lata, struggling to control herself.

‘Why didn’t you ask me before you decided?’ demanded Malati. ‘Whom did you consult? Or did you just make up your silly mind by yourself?’

‘I consulted my monkeys,’ said Lata calmly.

Malati had the strong urge to slap Lata for making stupid jokes at such a time.

‘And a book of poetry,’ added Lata.

‘Poetry!’ said Malati with contempt. ‘Poetry has been your complete undoing. You have too good a brain to waste on English literature. No, perhaps you don’t, after all.’

‘You were the first person to tell me to give him up,’ said Lata. ‘You told me. Or have you forgotten all that?’

‘I changed my mind,’ said Malati. ‘You know I did. I was wrong, terribly wrong. Look at the danger caused to the world by that sort of attitude—’

‘Why do you think I’m giving him up?’ asked Lata, turning towards her friend.

‘Because he’s Muslim.’

Lata didn’t answer for a while. Then she said:

‘It’s not that. It’s not just that. There isn’t any single reason.’

Malati gave a disgusted snort at this pathetic prevarication.

Lata sighed. ‘Malati, I can’t describe it — my feelings for him are so confused. I’m not myself when I’m with him. I ask myself who is this — this jealous, obsessed woman who can’t get a man out of her head — why should I make myself suffer like this? I know that it’ll always be like this if I’m with him.’

‘Oh, Lata — don’t be blind—’ exclaimed Malati. ‘It shows how passionately you love him—’

‘I don’t want to,’ cried Lata, ‘I don’t want to. If that’s what passion means, I don’t want it. Look at what passion has done to the family. Maan’s broken, his mother’s dead, his father’s in despair. When I thought that Kabir was seeing someone else, what I remember feeling was enough to make me hate passion. Passionately and forever.’