Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘Not now, not now, Dagh Sahib,’ she said, a little out of breath.

‘Now — now—’ said Maan.

‘Then we’d better go to the other room,’ said Saeeda Bai. ‘You are getting into the habit of interrupting my ghazals.’

‘When else have I interrupted your ghazals?’ asked Maan as she led him to her bedroom.

‘I’ll tell you some other time,’ said Saeeda Bai.

Sunday breakfast at Pran’s house was usually a bit later than during the week. The Brahmpur Chronicle had arrived and Pran had his nose fixed in the Sunday Supplement. Savita sat to one side eating her toast and buttering Pran’s. Mrs Rupa Mehra came into the room and asked, in a worried tone, ‘Have you seen Lata anywhere?’

Pran shook his head behind his newspaper.

‘No, Ma,’ said Savita.

‘I hope she’s all right,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra anxiously. She looked around and said to Mateen: ‘Where’s the spice powder? I am always forgotten when you lay the table.’

‘Why wouldn’t she be all right, Ma?’ said Pran. ‘This is Brahmpur, not Calcutta.’

‘Calcutta’s very safe,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, defending the city of her only grandchild. ‘It may be a big city, but the people are very good. It’s quite safe for a girl to walk about at any time.’

‘Ma, you’re just homesick for Arun,’ said Savita. ‘Everyone knows who your favourite child is.’

‘I don’t have favourites,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.

The phone rang. ‘I’ll take it,’ said Pran casually. ‘It’s probably something to do with tonight’s debating contest. Why do I consent to organize all these wretched activities?’

‘For the looks of adoration in your students’ eyes,’ said Savita.

Pran picked up the phone. The other two continued with their breakfast. A sharp, exclamatory tone in Pran’s voice, however, told Savita that it was something serious. Pran looked shocked, and glanced worriedly at Mrs Rupa Mehra.

‘Ma—’ said Pran, but could say nothing further.

‘It’s about Lata,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, reading his face. ‘She’s had an accident.’

‘No—’ said Pran.

‘Thank God.’

‘She’s eloped—’ said Pran.

‘Oh my God,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.

‘With whom?’ asked Savita, transfixed, still holding a piece of toast in her hand.

‘—with Maan,’ said Pran, shaking his head slowly back and forth in disbelief. ‘How—’ he went on, but was temporarily unable to speak.

‘Oh my God,’ said Savita and her mother almost simultaneously.

For a few seconds there was stunned silence.

‘He phoned my father from the railway station,’ continued Pran, shaking his head. ‘Why didn’t he talk it over with me? I don’t see any objection to the match as such, except for Maan’s previous engagement—’

‘No objection—’ whispered Mrs Rupa Mehra in astonishment. Her nose had gone red and two tears had started helplessly down her cheeks. Her hands were clasped together as if in prayer.

‘Your brother—’ began Savita indignantly, ‘may think he is the cat’s whiskers, but how you can think that we—’

‘Oh my poor daughter, oh my poor daughter,’ wept Mrs Rupa Mehra.

The door opened, and Lata walked in.

‘Yes, Ma?’ said Lata. ‘Were you calling me?’ She looked at the dramatic tableau in surprise, and went over to comfort her mother. ‘Now what’s the matter?’ she asked, looking around the table. ‘Not the other medal, I hope.’

‘Say it isn’t true, say it isn’t true,’ cried Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘How could you think of doing this? And with Maan! How can you break my heart like this?’ A thought suddenly occurred to her. ‘But — it can’t be true. The railway station?’

‘I haven’t been to any station,’ said Lata. ‘What’s going on, Ma? Pran told me you were going to have a long session by yourselves about plans and prospects for me’—she frowned a little—‘and that it would only embarrass me to be here. He told me to come back late for breakfast. What have I done that has upset you all so much?’

Savita looked at Pran in angry astonishment; now, to her outrage, he simply yawned.

‘Those who aren’t conscious of the date,’ said Pran, tapping the head of the paper, ‘must take the consequences.’

It was the 1st of April.

Mrs Rupa Mehra had stopped weeping but was still bewildered. Savita looked at her husband and her sister in severe reproof and said, ‘Ma, this is Pran and Lata’s idea of an April Fool joke.’

‘Not mine,’ said Lata, beginning to understand what had happened in her absence. She began to laugh. Then she sat down and looked at the others. ‘Really, Pran,’ said Savita. She turned to her sister: ‘It’s not so funny, Lata.’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘And at exam time — it will disturb your studies — and all this time and money will have gone down the drain. Don’t laugh.’

‘Cheer up, cheer up, everyone. Lata is still unmarried. God’s in his Heaven,’ Pran said unrepentantly, and hid behind his newspaper again. He too was laughing, but silently to himself. Savita and Mrs Rupa Mehra looked daggers at the Brahmpur Chronicle.

A sudden thought struck Savita. ‘I could have had a miscarriage,’ she said.

‘Oh, no,’ said Pran unconcernedly. ‘You’re robust. I’m the frail one. Besides, this was done entirely for your benefit: to liven up your Sunday morning. You’re always complaining about how dull Sunday is.’

‘Well, I prefer boredom to this. Aren’t you at least going to apologize to us?’

‘Of course,’ said Pran readily. Though he was not very happy with himself for having brought his mother-in-law to tears, he was delighted at the way the trick had come off. And Lata at least had enjoyed it. ‘Sorry, Ma. Sorry, darling.’

‘I should hope so. Say sorry to Lata too,’ Savita said.

‘Sorry, Lata,’ said Pran, laughing. ‘You must be hungry. Why don’t you order your egg?’

‘Though actually,’ continued Pran, undoing most of the goodwill he had salvaged, ‘I don’t see why I should apologize. I don’t enjoy these April fooleries. It’s because I’ve married into a westernized family that I decided, well, Pran, you have to keep your end up or they’ll think you are a peasant, and you’ll never be able to face Arun Mehra again.’

‘You can stop making snide remarks about my brother,’ said Savita. ‘You’ve been doing so ever since the wedding. Yours is equally vulnerable. More so, in fact.’

Pran considered this for a moment. People had begun talking about Maan.

‘Come on, darling, forgive me,’ he said with a little more genuine contrition in his voice. ‘What do I have to do to make up?’

‘Take us to see a film,’ Savita said immediately. ‘I want to see a Hindi film today — just to emphasize how westernized I am.’ Savita enjoyed Hindi movies (the more sentimental the better); she also knew that Pran, for the most part, detested them.

‘A Hindi film?’ said Pran. ‘I thought the strange tastes of expecting mothers extended only to food and drink.’

‘All right, that’s fixed then,’ said Savita. ‘Which one should we see?’

‘Sorry,’ said Pran, ‘impossible. There’s that debate this evening.’

‘A matinee then,’ said Savita, flicking the butter off the end of her toast in a decisive manner.

‘Oh, all right, all right, I suppose I’ve brought this upon myself,’ said Pran. He turned to the appropriate page in the newspaper. ‘How about this? Sangraam. At the Odeon. “Acclaimed by all — a greatest movie marvel. For adults only.” Ashok Kumar’s acting in it — he makes Ma’s heart beat faster.’