Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘Not courage, boldness,’ said Malati, who was thoroughly enjoying her friend’s reactions. ‘Boys aren’t in love, they’re just bold. When the four of us were walking to the grove just now, I noticed a couple of boys on bicycles following us in a pathetic sort of way. Neither really wanted to brave an encounter with us, but neither could say so. So it was quite a relief to them when we entered the grove and the question became moot.’

Lata was silent. She lay down on the grass and stared up at the sky through the jacaranda branches. She was thinking of the smear on her nose, which she had washed off before lunch.

‘Sometimes they’ll come up to you together,’ continued Malati, ‘and grin more at each other than at you. At other times they’re so afraid that their friends will come up with a better “line” than they themselves can think of that they’ll actually take their life in their hands and come up to you alone. And what are their lines? Nine times out of ten it is “May I borrow your notes?”—perhaps tempered with a lukewarm, feeble-minded “Namaste”. What, incidentally, was the introductory line of the Potato Man?’

Lata kicked Malati.

‘Sorry — I meant the apple of your heart.’

‘What did he say?’ said Lata, almost to herself. When she tried to recall exactly how the conversation had begun, she realized that, although it had taken place just a few hours ago, it had already grown hazy in her mind. What remained, however, was the memory that her initial nervousness at the young man’s presence had ended in a sense of confused warmth: at least someone, if only a good-looking stranger, had understood that she had been bewildered and upset, and had cared enough to do something to lift her spirits.

A couple of days later there was a music recital in the Bharatendu Auditorium, one of the two largest auditoriums in town. One of the performers was Ustad Majeed Khan.

Lata and Malati both managed to get tickets. So did Hema, a tall, thin, and high-spirited friend of theirs who lived with innumerable cousins — boys and girls — in a house not far from Nabiganj. They were all under the care of a strict elder member of the family who was referred to by everyone as ‘Tauji’. Hema’s Tauji had quite a job on his hands, as he was not only responsible for the well-being and reputation of the girls of the family but also had to make sure that the boys did not get into the countless kinds of mischief that boys are prone to. He had often cursed his luck that he was the sole representative in a university town of a large and far-flung family. He had on occasion threatened to send everyone straight back home when they had caused him more trouble than he could bear. But his wife, ‘Taiji’ to everyone, though she herself had been brought up with almost no liberty or latitude, felt it was a great pity that her nieces and grandnieces should be similarly constrained. She managed to obtain for the girls what they could not obtain by a more direct approach.

This evening Hema and her cousins had thus succeeded in reserving the use of Tauji’s large maroon Packard, and went around town collecting their friends for the concert. No sooner was Tauji out of sight than they had entirely forgotten his outraged parting comment: ‘Flowers? Flowers in your hair? Rushing off in exam time — and listening to all this pleasure-music! Everyone will think you are completely dissolute — you will never get married.’

Eleven girls, including Lata and Malati, emerged from the Packard at Bharatendu Auditorium. Strangely enough, their saris were not crushed, though perhaps they looked slightly dishevelled. They stood outside the auditorium rearranging their own and each other’s hair, chattering excitedly. Then in a busy shimmer of colour they streamed inside. There was no place for all of them to sit together, so they broke up into twos and threes, and sat down, rapt but no less voluble. A few fans whirled round overhead, but it had been a hot day, and the auditorium was stuffy. Lata and her friends started fanning themselves with their programmes, and waited for the recital to begin.

The first half consisted of a disappointingly indifferent sitar recital by a well-known musician. At the interval, Lata and Malati were standing by the staircase in the lobby when the Potato Man walked towards them.

Malati saw him first, nudged Lata’s attention in his direction, and said:

‘Meeting number three. I’m going to make myself scarce.’

‘Malati, please stay here,’ said Lata in sudden desperation, but Malati had disappeared with the admonition: ‘Don’t be a mouse. Be a tigress.’

The young man approached her with fairly assured steps.

‘Is it all right to interrupt you?’ he said, not very loudly.

Lata could not make out what he was saying in the noise of the crowded lobby, and indicated as much.

This was taken by the young man as permission to approach. He came closer, smiled at her, and said:

‘I wondered if it was all right to interrupt you.’

‘To interrupt me?’ said Lata. ‘But I was doing nothing.’ Her heart was beating fast.

‘I meant, to interrupt your thoughts.’

‘I wasn’t having any,’ said Lata, trying to control a sudden overload of them. She thought of Malati’s comment about her being a poor liar and felt the blood rush to her cheeks.

‘Quite stuffy in there,’ said the young man. ‘Here too, of course.’

Lata nodded. I’m not a mouse or a tigress, she thought, I’m a hedgehog.

‘Lovely music,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ agreed Lata, though she hadn’t thought so. His presence so close to her was making her tingle. Besides, she was embarrassed about being seen with a young man. She knew that if she looked around she would see someone she recognized looking at her. But having been unkind to him twice already she was determined not to rebuff him again. Holding up her side of the conversation, however, was difficult when she was feeling so distracted. Since it was hard for her to meet his eye, she looked down instead.

The young man was saying: ‘. . though, of course, I don’t often go there. How about you?’

Lata, nonplussed, because she had either not heard or not registered what went before, did not reply.

‘You’re very quiet,’ he said.

‘I’m always very quiet,’ said Lata. ‘It balances out.’

‘No, you aren’t,’ said the young man with a faint smile. ‘You and your friends were chattering like a flock of jungle babblers when you came in — and some of you continued to chatter while the sitar player was tuning up.’

‘Do you think,’ Lata said, looking up a little sharply, ‘that men don’t chatter and babble as much as women?’

‘I do,’ said the young man airily, happy that she was talking at last. ‘It’s a fact of nature. Shall I tell you a folk tale about Akbar and Birbal? It’s very relevant to this subject.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Lata. ‘Once I’ve heard it I’ll tell you if you should have told it.’

‘Well, maybe at our next meeting?’

Lata took this remark quite coolly.

‘I suppose there will be one,’ she said. ‘We seem to keep meeting by chance.’

‘Does it have to be by chance?’ asked the young man. ‘When I talked about you and your friends, the fact is that I had eyes mostly for you. The moment I saw you enter, I thought how lovely you looked — in a simple green sari with just a white rose in your hair.’

The word ‘mostly’ bothered Lata, but the rest was music. She smiled.

He smiled back, and suddenly became very specific.

‘There’s a meeting of the Brahmpur Literary Society at five o’clock on Friday evening at old Mr Nowrojee’s house—20 Hastings Road. It should be interesting — and it’s open to anyone who feels like coming. With the university vacations coming up, they seem to want to welcome outsiders to make up the numbers.’