Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘But aren’t you going to congratulate him?’

‘Well, there’s a long line,’ said Jagat Ram, tugging a little at his moustache. ‘Please congratulate him for me.’

Old Mrs Tandon had turned to Haresh’s parents, and was talking to them about Neel Darvaza, which she had visited as a child. She congratulated them and, in the course of the conversation, contrived to mention that Lata was rather too fond of music.

‘Oh, good,’ said Haresh’s foster-father. ‘We too are very fond of music.’

Old Mrs Tandon was displeased, and decided to say nothing more.

Malati, meanwhile, was talking to the musicians themselves, a shehnai player who had been known to her own musician-friend, and the tabla player Motu Chand.

Motu, who remembered Malati from the day he had stood in at the Haridas College of Music, asked her about Ustad Majeed Khan and his famous disciple Ishaq, whom, sadly, he very rarely met these days. Malati told him about the concert she had very recently attended, praised Ishaq’s musicianship, and mentioned that she had been struck by the indulgence which the arrogant maestro granted to him: he rarely, for instance, broke in with a dominating improvisation of his own when Ishaq was singing. In a world of professional jealousy and rivalry even between teacher and student, they performed with a sense of complementarity that was wonderful to see.

It had begun to be said of Ishaq — and that too within a year of his first strumming the tanpura before his Ustad — that he had the makings of one of the great singers of his time.

‘Well,’ said Motu Chand, ‘things are not the same without him where I work.’ He sighed, then, noticing Malati look a bit blank, said: ‘Were you not at Prem Nivas at Holi last year?’

‘No,’ said Malati, realizing from his question that Motu must be Saeeda Bai’s tabla player. ‘And this year, of course. . ’

‘Of course,’ said Motu sadly. ‘Terrible, terrible. . and now with that fellow Rasheed’s suicide. . He taught Saeeda Bai’s, well, sister, you know. . but he caused so much trouble that they had to get the watchman to beat him up. . and then we heard later. . Well, there’s nothing but trouble in the world, nothing but trouble—’ He began to hammer at the little wooden cylinders around his tabla to tighten the straps and adjust the pitch. The shehnai player nodded at him.

‘This Rasheed you’re talking about—’ asked Malati, suddenly quite troubled herself. ‘He’s not the socialist, is he? — the history student—’

‘Yes, I think so,’ said Motu, flexing his well-padded fingers; and the tabla and shehnai began to play again.

Maan, dressed in a kurta-pyjama, as suited the weather, was standing a little distance away and heard nothing of this conversation. He looked sad, almost unsociable.

For a moment he wondered where the harsingar tree was, before he realized that he was in a different garden altogether. Firoz came up to him, and they stood there, silent, for a while. A rose petal or two floated down from somewhere. Neither bothered to brush it off. Imtiaz joined them after a while, then the Nawab Sahib and Mahesh Kapoor.

‘It’s all for the best, on the whole,’ said Mahesh Kapoor. ‘If I had been an MLA, Agarwal would have had to ask me to join his Cabinet, and I would not have been able to stand it.’

‘Well,’ said the Nawab Sahib, ‘whether things are for the best or not, that’s how they are.’

There was a pause. Everyone was friendly enough, but no one knew what to talk about. Every topic seemed closed for one reason or another. There was no mention of law or laws, of doctors or hospitals, of gardens or music, of future plans or past recollections, of politics or religion, of bees or lotuses.

The judges of the Supreme Court had agreed that the Zamindari Acts were constitutional; they were in the process of writing their judgement, which would be announced to the world at large in a few days.

S.S. Sharma had been called to Delhi. The Congress MLAs of Purva Pradesh had elected L.N. Agarwal as Chief Minister. Astoundingly enough, one of his first acts in office had been to send a firm note to the Raja of Marh refusing government or police protection for any further attempts to salvage the linga.

The Banaras people had decided that Maan was no longer a suitable boy; they had informed Mahesh Kapoor of their decision.

All these subjects, and many others, were on everyone’s mind — and no one’s tongue.

Meenakshi and Kakoli, noticing the notorious Maan, swept up in a shimmer of chiffon, and even Mahesh Kapoor was not unhappy at the diversion they provided. Before they got there, however, Maan — who had just noticed Professor Mishra prowling vastly in the vicinity — had made good his disappearance.

When they heard that Firoz and Imtiaz were twins, Meenakshi and Kakoli were delighted.

‘If I have twins,’ said Kuku, ‘I shall call them Prabodhini and Shayani. Then one can sleep while the other is awake.’

‘How very silly, Kuku,’ said Meenakshi. ‘You’ll never get any sleep yourself that way. And they won’t ever get to know each other. Tell me, which of you is the elder?’

‘I am,’ said Imtiaz.

‘No, you’re not,’ said Meenakshi.

‘I assure you, Mrs Mehra, I am. Ask my father here.’

‘He wouldn’t know,’ said Meenakshi. ‘A very nice man, who gave me a lovely little lacquer box, once told me that, according to the Japanese, the baby who comes out second is the elder, because he proves his courtesy and maturity by allowing his younger brother to emerge first.’

‘Mrs Mehra,’ said Firoz, laughing, ‘I can never thank you enough.’

‘Oh, do call me Meenakshi. Charming idea, isn’t it? Now if I have twins I shall call them Etah and Etawah! Or Kumbh and Karan. Or Bentsen and Pryce. Or something quite unforgettable. Etawah Mehra — how exquisitely exotic. Where has Aparna got to? And tell me, who are those two foreigners there, talking to Arun and Hans?’ She stretched her long neck lazily and pointed with the red-nail-polished finger of a delicately hennaed hand.

‘They are from the local Praha factory,’ said Mahesh Kapoor.

‘Oh, how dreadful!’ exclaimed Kuku. ‘They’re probably discussing the German invasion of Czechoslovakia. Or is it the communists? I must separate them at once. Or at least listen to what they’re saying. I’m so desperately bored. Nothing ever happens in Brahmpur. Come, Meenakshi. And we haven’t yet given Ma and Luts our heart-deep congratulations. Not that they deserve them. How stupid of her not to marry Amit. Now he’ll never marry anyone, I’m sure, and he’ll become as grouchy as Cuddles. But of course, they could always have a torrid affair,’ she added hopefully.

And in a flash of flesh the Chatterjis of the backless cholis were gone.

‘She’s married the wrong man,’ said Malati to her mother. ‘And it’s breaking my heart.’

‘Malati,’ said her mother, ‘everyone must make their own mistakes. Why are you sure it is a mistake?’

‘It is, it is, I know it!’ said Malati passionately. ‘And she’ll find out soon enough.’ She was determined to get Lata to at least write a letter to Kabir. Surely Haresh, with the simpering Simran in his shady background, would have to accept that as reasonable.

‘Malati,’ said her mother calmly, ‘don’t make mischief in someone else’s marriage. Get married yourself. What happened to the five boys whose father you met in Nainital?’

But Malati was looking across the crowd at Varun, who was smiling rather weakly and adoringly at Kalpana Gaur.

‘Would you like me to marry an IAS officer?’ she asked her mother. ‘The most sweet and weak-willed and idiotic one I’ve ever met?’