Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘A Hymn to Mother India,’ said Dr Makhijani sententiously, then beamed at his audience. He leaned forward with the concentration of a burly blacksmith and read his poem through, including the stanza numbers, which he hammered out like horseshoes.

1. Who a child has not seen drinking milk

At bright breasts of Mother, rags she wears or silks?

Love of mild Mother like rain-racked gift of cloud.

In poet’s words, Mother to thee I bow.

2. What poor gift when doctor patient treats.

Hearts he hears but so much his heart bleats?

Where is doctor that can cure my pains?

Why suffers Mother? Where to base the blame?

3. Her raiments rain-drenched with May or Monsoon,

Like Savitri sweet she wins from Yama her sons,

Cheating death with millions of population,

Leading to chaste and virtuous nation.

4. From shore of Kanyakumari to Kashmir,

From tiger of Assam to rampant beast of Gir,

Freedom’s dawn now bathing, laving her face,

Tremble of jetty locks is Ganga’s grace.

5. How to describe bondage of Mother pure

By pervert punies chained through shackles of law?

British cut-throat, Indian smiling and slave:

Such shame will not dispense till a sweating grave.

While reading the above stanza, Dr Makhijani became highly agitated, but he was restored to equanimity by the next one:

6. Let me recall history of heroes proud,

Mother-milk fed their breasts, who did not bow.

Fought they fiercely, carrying worlds of weight,

Establishing firm foundation of Indian state.

Nodding at the nervous Mr Nowrojee, Dr Makhijani now lauded his namesake, one of the fathers of the Indian freedom movement:

7. Dadabhai Naoroji entered Parliament,

As MP from Finsbury, grace was heaven-sent.

But he forgot not Mother’s plumpy breasts:

Dreams were of India, living in the West.

Lata and Kabir looked at each other in mingled delight and horror.

8. B.G. Tilak from Maharashtra hailed.

‘Swaraj my birthright is’ he ever wailed.

But cruel captors sent him to the sweltry jail

In Forts of Mandalay, a six-year sail.

9. Shame of the Mother bold Bengal reviled.

Terrorist pistol in hand of the Kali child.

Draupadi’s sari twirling off and off—

White Duryodhanas laugh to scorn and scoff.

Dr Makhijani’s voice trembled with belligerence at these vivid lines. Several stanzas later he descended on figures of the immediate past and present:

26. Mahatma came to us like summer ‘andhi’,

Sweeping the dungs and dirt, was M.K. Gandhi.

Murder has mayhemed peace beyond understanding.

Respect and sorrow leave me soiled and standing.

At this point Dr Makhijani stood up as a mark of veneration, and remained standing for the final three stanzas:

27. Then when the British left after all,

We had as PM our own Jawahar Lal.

Like rosy shimmers to the throne he came,

And gave to our India a glorious name.

28. Muslim, Hindu, Sikh, Christian, revere him.

Parsis, Jains, Buddhists also endear him.

Cynosure of eyes, he stalks with regal mien

Breathing spirit of a splendid scene.

29. We are all masters, each a Raja or Rani.

No slave, or high or low, says Makhijani.

Liberty equality fraternity justice as in Constitution.

In homage of Mother we will find all solutions.

In the tradition of Urdu or Hindi poetry, the bard had imbedded his own name in the last stanza. He now sat down, wiping the sweat from his forehead, and beaming.

Kabir had been scribbling a note. He passed it on to Lata; their hands touched accidentally. Though she was in pain with her attempt to suppress her laughter, she felt a shock of excitement at his touch. It was he who, after a few seconds, moved his hand away, and she saw what he had written:

Prompt escape from 20 Hastings Road

Is my desire, although prized poets’ abode.

Desert not friendship. Renegade with me

From raptured realm of Mr Nowrojee.

It was not quite up to Dr Makhijani’s efforts, but it got its point across. Lata and Kabir, as if at a signal, got up quickly and, before they could be intercepted by a cheated Dr Makhijani, got to the front door.

Out on the sober street they laughed delightedly for a few minutes, quoting back at each other bits of Dr Makhijani’s patriotic hymn. When the laughter had died down, Kabir said to her:

‘How about a coffee? We could go to the Blue Danube.’

Lata, worried that she might meet someone she knew and already thinking of Mrs Rupa Mehra, said, ‘No, I really can’t. I have to go back home. To my Mother,’ she added mischievously.

Kabir could not take his eyes off her.

‘But your exams are over,’ he said. ‘You should be celebrating. It’s I who have two papers left.’

‘I wish I could. But meeting you here has been a pretty bold step for me.’

‘Well, won’t we at least meet here again next week? For “Eliot: Whither?”’ Kabir made an airy gesture, rather like a foppish courtier, and Lata smiled.

‘But are you going to be in Brahmpur next Friday?’ she asked. ‘The holidays. .’

‘Oh yes,’ said Kabir. ‘I live here.’

He was unwilling to say goodbye, but did so at last.

‘See you next Friday then — or before,’ he said, getting on to his bike. ‘Are you sure I can’t drop you anywhere — on my bicycle made for two? Smudged or unsmudged, you do look beautiful.’

Lata looked around, blushing.

‘No, I’m sure. Goodbye,’ she said. ‘And — well — thank you.’

When Lata got home she avoided her mother and sister and went straight to the bedroom. She lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling just as, a few days before, she had lain on the grass and stared at the sky through the jacaranda branches. The accidental touch of his hand as he had passed her the note was what she most wanted to recall.

Later, during dinner, the phone rang. Lata, sitting closest to the telephone, went to pick up the receiver.

‘Hello?’ said Lata.

‘Hello — Lata?’ said Malati.

‘Yes,’ said Lata happily.

‘I’ve found out a couple of things. I’m going away tonight for a fortnight, so I thought I’d better tell you at once. Are you by yourself?’ Malati added cautiously.

‘No,’ said Lata.

‘Will you be by yourself within the next half hour or so?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Lata.

‘It isn’t good news, Lata,’ said Malati, seriously. ‘You had better drop him.’

Lata said nothing.

‘Are you still there?’ asked Malati, concerned.

‘Yes,’ said Lata, glancing at the other three seated around the dining table. ‘Go on.’

‘Well, he’s on the university cricket team,’ said Malati, reluctant to break the ultimate bad news to her friend. ‘There’s a photograph of the team in the university magazine.’

‘Yes?’ said Lata, puzzled. ‘But what—’

‘Lata,’ said Malati, unable to beat about the bush any further. ‘His surname is Durrani.’

So what? thought Lata. What does that make him? Is he a Sindhi or something? Like — well — Chetwani or Advani — or. . or Makhijani?

‘He’s a Muslim,’ said Malati, cutting into her thoughts. ‘Are you still there?’

Lata was staring straight ahead. Savita put down her knife and fork, and looked anxiously at her sister.

Malati continued: ‘You haven’t a chance. Your family will be dead set against him. Forget him. Put it down to experience. And always find out the last name of anyone with an ambiguous first name. . Why don’t you say something? Are you listening?’

‘Yes,’ said Lata, her heart in turmoil.

She had a hundred questions, and more than ever she needed her friend’s advice and sympathy and help. She said, slowly and evenly, ‘I’d better go now. We’re in the middle of dinner.’