Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

She slapped her daughter hard, twice, and instantly burst into tears.

Mrs Rupa Mehra was not more prejudiced against Muslims than most upper-caste Hindu women of her age and background. As Lata had inopportunely pointed out, she even had friends who were Muslims, though almost all of them were not orthodox at all. The Nawab Sahib was, perhaps, quite orthodox, but then he was, for Mrs Rupa Mehra, more a social acquaintance than a friend.

The more Mrs Rupa Mehra thought, the more agitated she became. Even marrying a non-khatri Hindu was bad enough. But this was unspeakable. It was one thing to mix socially with Muslims, entirely another to dream of polluting one’s blood and sacrificing one’s daughter.

Whom could she turn to in her hour of darkness? When Pran came home for lunch and heard the story, he suggested mildly that they meet the boy. Mrs Rupa Mehra threw another fit. It was utterly out of the question. Pran then decided to stay out of things and to let them die down. He had not been hurt when he realized that Savita had kept her sister’s confidence from him, and Savita loved him still more for that. She tried to calm her mother down, console Lata, and keep them in separate rooms — at least during the day.

Lata looked around the bedroom and wondered what she was doing in this house with her mother when her heart was entirely elsewhere, anywhere but here — a boat, a cricket field, a concert, a banyan grove, a cottage in the hills, Blandings Castle, anywhere, anywhere, so long as she was with Kabir. No matter what happened, she would meet him as planned, tomorrow. She told herself again and again that the path of true love never did run smooth.

Mrs Rupa Mehra wrote a letter on an inland form to Arun in Calcutta. Her tears fell on the letter and blotched the ink. She added: ‘P.S. My tears have fallen on this letter, but what to do? My heart is broken and only God will show a way out. But His will be done.’ Because the postage had just gone up she had to stick an extra stamp on the prepaid form.

In much bitterness of spirit, she went to see her father. It would be a humiliating visit. She would have to brave his temper in order to get his advice. Her father may have married a crass woman half his age, but that was a heaven-made match compared to what Lata was threatened with.

As expected, Dr Kishen Chand Seth rebuked Mrs Rupa Mehra roundly in front of the dreadful Parvati and told her what a useless mother she was. But then, he added, everyone seemed to be brainless these days. Just last week he had told a patient whom he had seen at the hospital: ‘You are a stupid man. In ten to fifteen days you will be dead. Throw away money if you want to on an operation, it’ll only kill you quicker.’ The stupid patient had been quite upset. It was clear that no one knew how to take or to give advice these days. And no one knew how to discipline their children; that was where all the trouble in the world sprang from.

‘Look at Mahesh Kapoor!’ he added with satisfaction.

Mrs Rupa Mehra nodded.

‘And you are worse.’

Mrs Rupa Mehra sobbed.

‘You spoiled the eldest’—he chuckled at the memory of Arun’s jaunt in his car—‘and now you have spoiled the youngest, and you have only yourself to blame. And you come to me for advice when it is too late.’

His daughter said nothing.

‘And your beloved Chatterjis are just the same,’ he added with relish. ‘I hear from Calcutta circles that they have no control over their children. None.’ This thought gave him an idea.

Mrs Rupa Mehra was now satisfactorily in tears, so he gave her some advice and told her to put it into effect immediately.

Mrs Rupa Mehra went home, got out some money, and went straight to the Brahmpur Junction Railway Station. She bought two tickets for Calcutta by the next evening’s train.

Instead of posting her letter to Arun, she sent him a telegram.

Savita tried to dissuade her mother but to no effect. ‘At least wait till the beginning of May when the exam results come out,’ she said. ‘Lata will be needlessly worried about them.’

Mrs Rupa Mehra told Savita that exam results meant nothing if a girl’s character was ruined, and that they could be transmitted by mail. She knew what Lata was worried about all right. She then turned the emotional tables on Savita by saying that any scenes between Lata and herself should take place elsewhere, not within earshot of Savita. Savita was pregnant and should stay calm. ‘Calm, that’s the word,’ repeated Mrs Rupa Mehra forcefully.

As for Lata, she said nothing to her mother, simply remaining tight-lipped when she was told to pack her things for the journey. ‘We are going to Calcutta tomorrow evening by the 6.22 train — and that is that. Don’t you dare say anything,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.

Lata did not say anything. She refused to show any emotion to her mother. She packed carefully. She even ate something for dinner. The image of Kabir kept her company.

After dinner she sat on the roof, thinking. When she came to bed, she did not say goodnight to Mrs Rupa Mehra, who was lying sleeplessly in the next bed. Mrs Rupa Mehra was heartbroken, but Lata was not feeling very charitable. She went to sleep quite soon, and dreamed, among other things, of a washerman’s donkey with the face of Dr Makhijani, chewing up Mrs Rupa Mehra’s black handbag and all her little silver stars.

She awoke, rested. It was still dark. She had agreed to meet Kabir at six. She went to the bathroom, locked it from the inside, then slipped out from the back into the garden. She did not dare to take a sweater with her, as this would have made her mother suspicious. Anyway, it was not too cold.

But she was trembling. She walked down towards the mud cliffs, then down the path. Kabir was waiting for her, sitting on their root in the banyan grove. He got up when he heard her coming. His hair was ruffled, and he looked sleepy. He even yawned while she walked up towards him. In the dawn light his face looked even more handsome than when he had thrown his head back and laughed near the cricket field.

She seemed to him to be very tense and excited, but not unhappy. They kissed. Then Kabir said:

‘Good morning.’

‘Good morning.’

‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Very well, thank you,’ said Lata. ‘I dreamed of a donkey.’

‘Oh, not of me?’

‘No.’

‘I can’t remember what I dreamed of,’ said Kabir, ‘but I didn’t have a restful night.’

‘I love sleeping,’ said Lata. ‘I can sleep for nine or ten hours a day.’

‘Ah. . aren’t you cold? Why don’t you wear this?’ Kabir made to take off his sweater.

‘I’ve been longing to see you again,’ said Lata.

‘Lata?’ said Kabir. ‘What’s happened to upset you?’ Her eyes were unusually bright.

‘Nothing,’ said Lata, fighting back her tears. ‘I don’t know when I’ll see you again.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘I’m going to Calcutta tonight. My mother’s found out about us. When she heard your name she threw a fit — I told you what my family was like.’

Kabir sat down on the root and said, ‘Oh no.’

Lata sat down too. ‘Do you still love me?’ she said after a while.

‘Still?’ Kabir laughed bitterly. ‘What is the matter with you?’

‘You remember what you said the last time: that we loved each other and that that was all that mattered?’

‘Yes,’ said Kabir. ‘It is.’

‘Let’s go away—’

‘Away,’ said Kabir sadly. ‘Where?’

‘Anywhere — to the hills — anywhere, really.’

‘And leave everything?’

‘Everything. I don’t care. I’ve even packed some things.’