Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

L.N. Agarwal came dressed as always in an immaculately starched (but not fancy) kurta, dhoti and Congress cap. Below the white cap could be seen his curve of curly grey hair but not the baldness it enclosed. Whenever he ventured out to Shahi Darvaza he kept his cane handy to scare away the monkeys that frequented, some would say dominated, the neighbourhood. He dismissed his rickshaw near the local market, and turned off the main road into a tiny side-lane which opened out into a small square. In the middle of the square was a large pipal tree. One entire side of the square was the Rai Bahadur’s house.

The door below the stairs was kept closed because of the monkeys, and he rapped on it with his cane. A couple of faces appeared at the enclosed wrought-iron balconies of the floors above. His daughter’s face lit up when she saw him; she quickly coiled her loose black hair into a bun and came downstairs to open the door. Her father embraced her and they went upstairs again.

‘And where has Vakil Sahib disappeared?’ he asked in Hindi.

He liked to refer to his son-in-law as the lawyer, although the appellation was equally appropriate to Ram Vilas’s father and grandfather.

‘He was here a minute ago,’ replied Priya, and got up to search for him.

‘Don’t bother yet,’ said her father in a warm, relaxed voice. ‘First give me some tea.’

For a few minutes the Home Minister enjoyed home comforts: well-made tea (not the useless stuff he got at the MLA hostel); sweets and kachauris made by the women of his daughter’s house — maybe by his daughter herself; some minutes with his grandson and granddaughter, who preferred, however, to play with their friends on the heat of the roof or below in the square (his granddaughter was good at street cricket); and a few words with his daughter, whom he saw rarely enough and missed a great deal.

He had no compunction, as some fathers-in-law had, about accepting food, drink and hospitality at his son-in-law’s house. He talked with Priya about his health and his grandchildren and their schooling and character; about how Vakil Sahib was working far too hard, a little about Priya’s mother in passing, at the mention of whom a sadness came into both their eyes, and about the antics of the old servants of the Goyal household.

As they talked, other people passed the open door of the room, saw them, and came in. They included Ram Vilas’s father, rather a helpless character who was terrorized by his second wife. Soon the whole Goyal clan had dropped by — except for the Rai Bahadur, who did not like climbing stairs.

‘But where is Vakil Sahib?’ repeated L.N. Agarwal.

‘Oh,’ said someone, ‘he’s downstairs talking with the Rai Bahadur. He knows you are in the house and he will come up as soon as he is released.’

‘Why don’t I go down and pay my respects to the Rai Bahadur now?’ said L.N. Agarwal, and got up.

Downstairs, grandfather and grandson were talking in the large room that the Rai Bahadur had reserved as his own — mainly because he was attached to the beautiful peacock tiles that decorated the fireplace. L.N. Agarwal, being of the middle generation, paid his respects and had respects paid to him.

‘Of course you’ll have tea?’ said the Rai Bahadur.

‘I’ve had some upstairs.’

‘Since when have Leaders of the People placed a limit on their tea-consumption?’ asked the Rai Bahadur in a creaky and lucid voice. The word he used was ‘Neta-log’, which had about the same level of mock deference as ‘Vakil Sahib’.

‘Now, tell me,’ he continued, ‘what is all this killing you’ve been doing in Chowk?’

It was not meant the way it sounded, it was merely the old Rai Bahadur’s style of speech, but L.N. Agarwal could have done without direct examination. He would probably get enough of that on the floor of the House on Monday. What he would have preferred was a quiet chat with his placid son-in-law, an unloading of his troubled mind.

‘Nothing, nothing, it will all blow over,’ he said.

‘I heard that twenty Muslims were killed,’ said the old Rai Bahadur philosophically.

‘No, not that many,’ said L.N. Agarwal. ‘A few. Matters are well in hand.’ He paused, ruminating on the fact that he had misjudged the situation. ‘This is a hard town to manage,’ he continued. ‘If it isn’t one thing it’s another. We are an ill-disciplined people. The lathi and the gun are the only things that will teach us discipline.’

‘In British days law and order was not such a problem,’ said the creaky voice.

The Home Minister did not rise to the Rai Bahadur’s bait. In fact, he was not sure that the remark was not delivered innocently.

‘Still, there it is,’ he responded.

‘Mahesh Kapoor’s daughter was here the other day,’ ventured the Rai Bahadur.

Surely this could not be an innocent comment. Or was it? Perhaps the Rai Bahadur was merely following a train of thought.

‘Yes, she is a good girl,’ said L.N. Agarwal. He rubbed his perimeter of hair in a thoughtful way. Then, after a pause, he added calmly: ‘I can handle the town; it is not the tension that disturbs me. Ten Misri Mandis and twenty Chowks are nothing. It is the politics, the politicians—’

The Rai Bahadur allowed himself a smile. This too was somewhat creaky, as if the separate plates of his aged face were gradually reconfiguring themselves with difficulty.

L.N. Agarwal shook his head, then went on. ‘Until two this morning the MLAs were gathering around me like chicks around their mother. They were in a state of panic. The Chief Minister goes out of town for a few days and see what happens in his absence! What will Sharmaji say when he comes back? What capital will Mahesh Kapoor’s faction make out of all this? In Misri Mandi they will emphasize the lot of the jatavs, in Chowk that of the Muslims. What will the effect of all this be on the jatav vote and the Muslim vote? The General Elections are just a few months away. Will these vote banks swing away from the Congress? If so, in what numbers? One or two gentlemen have even asked if there is the danger of further conflagration — though usually this is the least of their concerns.’

‘And what do you tell them when they come running to you?’ asked the Rai Bahadur. His daughter-in-law — the arch-witch in Priya’s demonology — had just brought in the tea. The top of her head was covered with her sari. She poured the tea, gave them a sharp look, exchanged a couple of words, and went out.

The thread of the conversation had been lost, but the Rai Bahadur, perhaps remembering the cross-examinations for which he had been famous in his prime, drew it gently back again.

‘Oh, nothing,’ said L.N. Agarwal quite calmly. ‘I just tell them whatever is necessary to stop them from keeping me awake.’

‘Nothing?’

‘No, nothing much. Just that things will blow over; that what’s done is done; that a little discipline never did a neighbourhood any harm; that the General Elections are still far enough away. That sort of thing.’ L.N. Agarwal sipped his tea before continuing: ‘The fact of the matter is that the country has far more important things to think about. Food is the main one. Bihar is virtually starving. And if we have a bad monsoon, we will be too. Mere Muslims threatening us from inside the country or across the border we can deal with. If Nehru were not so soft-hearted we would have dealt with them properly a few years ago. And now these jatavs, these’—his expression conveyed distaste at the words—‘these scheduled caste people are becoming a problem once again. But let’s see, let’s see. . ’

Ram Vilas Goyal had sat silent through the whole exchange. Once he frowned slightly, once he nodded.

That is what I like about my son-in-law, reflected L.N. Agarwal. He’s not dumb, but he doesn’t speak. He decided yet again that he had made the right match for his daughter. Priya could provoke, and he would simply not allow himself to be provoked.