Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘Kabir, are you interested in politics?’

He looked at her in amazement at the unexpected question, then simply said, ‘No,’ and kissed her.

Her heart turned over completely. She responded to his kiss — without thinking anything out — but with a sense of amazement at herself — that she could be so reckless and happy.

When the kiss was over, Lata suddenly began thinking again, and more furiously than ever.

‘I love you,’ said Kabir.

When she was silent, he said:

‘Well, aren’t you going to say anything?’

‘Oh, I love you too,’ said Lata, stating a fact that was completely obvious to her and therefore should have been obvious to him. ‘But it’s pointless to say so, so take it back.’

Kabir started. But before he could say anything, Lata said:

‘Kabir, why didn’t you tell me your last name?’

‘It’s Durrani.’

‘I know.’ Hearing him say it so casually brought all the cares of the world back on her head.

‘You know?’ Kabir was surprised. ‘But I remember that at the concert you refused to exchange last names with me.’

Lata smiled; his memory was quite selective. Then she grew serious again.

‘You’re Muslim,’ she said quietly.

‘Yes, yes, but why is all this so important to you? Is that why you’ve been so strange and distant sometimes?’ There was a humorous light in his eyes.

‘Important?’ It was Lata’s turn to be amazed. ‘It’s all-important. Don’t you know what it means in my family?’ Was he deliberately refusing to see difficulties, she wondered, or did he truly believe that it made no difference?

Kabir held her hand and said, ‘You love me. And I love you. That’s all that matters.’

Lata persisted: ‘Doesn’t your father care?’

‘No. Unlike many Muslim families, I suppose we were sheltered during Partition — and before. He hardly thinks of anything except his parameters and perimeters. And an equation is the same whether it’s written in red or green ink. I don’t see why we have to talk about this.’

Lata tied her grey sweater around her waist, and they walked to the top of the path. They agreed to meet again in three days at the same place at the same time. Kabir was going to be occupied for a couple of days doing some work for his father. He unchained his bike and — looking quickly around — kissed her again. When he was about to cycle off, she said to him:

‘Have you kissed anyone else?’

‘What was that?’ He looked amused.

She was looking at his face; she didn’t repeat the question.

‘Do you mean ever?’ he asked. ‘No. I don’t think so. Not seriously.’

And he rode off.

Later that day, Mrs Rupa Mehra was sitting with her daughters, embroidering a tiny handkerchief with a rose for the baby. White was a sexually neutral colour, but white-on-white was too drab for Mrs Rupa Mehra’s tastes, and so she decided on yellow. After her beloved granddaughter Aparna, she wanted — and had predicted — a grandson. She would have embroidered the handkerchief in blue, except that this would certainly have invited Fate to change the sex of the child in the womb.

Rafi Ahmad Kidwai, the Union Minister of Communications, had just announced that postal charges were to be raised. Since replying to her abundant correspondence was what occupied at least a third of Mrs Rupa Mehra’s time, this had hit her hard. Rafi Sahib was the most secular-minded, least communally impassioned man possible, but he happened to be Muslim. Mrs Rupa Mehra felt like hitting out, and he presented a direct target. She said:

‘Nehru indulges them too much, he only talks to Azad and Kidwai, does he think he’s the Prime Minister of Pakistan? Then see what they do.’

Lata and Savita usually let their mother have her say, but today Lata protested:

‘Ma, I don’t agree at all. He’s the Prime Minister of India, not just of the Hindus. What’s the harm if he has two Muslim Ministers in his Cabinet?’

‘You have too many educated ideas,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, who normally revered education.

Mrs Rupa Mehra may have also been upset because the older women were making no headway in persuading Mahesh Kapoor to agree to a recitation of the Ramcharitmanas in Prem Nivas on the occasion of Ramnavami. The troubles of the Shiva Temple in Chowk weighed upon Mahesh Kapoor’s mind, and many of the largest landlords that his Zamindari Abolition Bill would dispossess were Muslim. He felt that he should at least stay clear of exacerbating the situation.

‘I know about all these Muslims,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra darkly, almost to herself. At that moment she did not think of Uncle Shafi and Talat Khala, old friends of the family.

Lata looked at her indignantly but said nothing. Savita looked at Lata, but said nothing either.

‘Don’t make big-big eyes at me,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra fiercely to her younger daughter. ‘I know facts. You don’t know them like I do. You have no experience of life.’

Lata said, ‘I’m going to study.’ She got up from Pran’s rocking chair, where she had been sitting.

Mrs Rupa Mehra was in a belligerent mood. ‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘Why must you study? Your exams are over. Will you be studying for the next year? All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. Sit and talk to me. Or go for a walk. It will be good for your complexion.’

‘I went for a walk this morning,’ said Lata. ‘I’m always going for walks.’

‘You are a very stubborn girl,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.

Yes, thought Lata, and, with the faintest shadow of a smile on her face, went to her room.

Savita had observed this little flare-up, and felt that the provocation was too small, too impersonal, to upset Lata in the ordinary course of things. Clearly, something was weighing on her heart. The phone call from Malati which had had such an acute effect on her also came to Savita’s mind. The two and two which she put together did not quite make four, but the pair of swan-like digits sitting side by side were still quite disquieting. She was worried for her sister. Lata seemed to be in a volatile state of excitement these days, but did not appear to wish to confide in anyone. Nor was Malati, her friend and confidante, in town. Savita waited for an opportunity to talk to Lata alone, which was not easy. And when she did, she seized it at once.

Lata was lying on the bed, her face cupped in her hands, reading. She had finished Pigs Have Wings and had gone on to Galahad at Blandings. She thought that the title was appropriate now that she and Kabir were in love. These three days of separation would be like a month, and she would have to distract herself with as much Wodehouse as possible.

Lata was not overjoyed to be disturbed, even by her sister.

‘May I sit down here on the bed?’ asked Savita.

Lata nodded, and Savita sat down.

‘What’s that you’re reading?’ asked Savita.

Lata held up the cover for quick inspection, then went back to her reading.

‘I’ve been feeling a bit low today,’ said Savita.

‘Oh.’ Lata sat up promptly and looked at her sister. ‘Are you having your period or something?’

Savita started laughing. ‘When you’re expecting you don’t have periods.’ She looked at Lata in surprise. ‘Didn’t you know that?’ It seemed to Savita that she herself had known this elementary fact for a long time, but perhaps that wasn’t so.

‘No,’ said Lata. Since her conversations with the informative Malati were quite wide-ranging, it was surprising that this had never come up. But it struck her as entirely right that Savita should not have to cope with two physical problems at the same time. ‘What’s the matter, then?’