by Vikram Seth
‘Do you know of any that haven’t?’ he said.
‘I don’t know of any at all in our family,’ said Lata.
‘Unmixed marriages aren’t always ideal either.’
‘I know, Kabir; I’ve heard—’ said Lata, miserably, and with such sympathy that Kabir understood that she was referring to his mother.
He stopped, and said:
‘Does that also have something to do with it?’
‘I can’t say—’ said Lata. ‘I don’t know—I’m sure my mother would be affected by that as well.’
‘So what you are saying is that my heredity and my religion are insuperable factors—and it doesn’t matter if you care for me or not.’
‘Don’t put it like that, Kabir,’ cried Lata. ‘That’s not how I feel.’
‘But it’s the basis on which you’re acting.’
Lata was unable to reply.
‘Don’t you care for me?’ asked Kabir.
‘I do, I do—’
‘Then why didn’t you write? Why don’t you talk to me—’
‘Just because of that—’ she said, completely overcome.
‘Will you always love me? Because I know I will—’
‘Oh, please stop, Kabir—I can’t take this—’ she cried. What she might just as well have said was that she was trying to convince herself as much as him that their feelings were nothing but futile.
He would not allow her to do this, however.
‘But why should we stop meeting?’ he persisted.
‘Meeting? Kabir, you don’t see the point. Where would it lead to?’
‘Does it have to lead to something?’ he said. ‘Can’t we just spend time together?’ After a pause: ‘Do you “mistrust my intentions”?’
Lata remembered their kisses in a daze of unhappiness. So intense was the memory that she half mistrusted her own intentions. ‘No,’ she said, more quietly, ‘but wouldn’t it all just be miserable?’
She realized that his questions were leading to further questions on her own part and in her own mind, and that every one of these caused a further knot in the huge tangle. Her heart ached for him, but everything told her that it had to come to nothing. She had wanted to tell him that she was writing to someone else, but she could not bring herself to do so now because of the pain she knew it would cause him.
They were passing by the steps outside the examination hall. Kabir looked up at them and frowned. The light was low, and the trees and benches below were casting long shadows on the grass.
‘So what do we do?’ he said, his mouth set in an attempt at decisiveness.
‘I don’t know,’ said Lata. ‘We have to spend some time together now, in a way, at least on stage. At least for another month. We’ve trapped ourselves into it.’
‘Can’t you wait for another year?’ he said with sudden desperation.
‘What will change?’ she said despondently, and walked off the path, away from him, towards a bench. She was almost too tired to think—emotionally exhausted, exhausted from watching over the baby, exhausted from the effort of acting—and she sat down on the bench, her head resting on her arms. She was too tired even for tears.
It was the same bench under the gulmohur tree on which she had sat after the exam. He didn’t know what to make of this. Should he console her again? Was she even conscious of where she was sitting? She looked so forlorn that he wanted more than anything to put his arms around her. He could sense how close she was to tears.
Both had said what was inevitable, yet Kabir could not feel that they were adversaries. He felt that he had to try and understand her. The pressure of the family, the extended family that enforced a slow and strong acceptance on its members, was something that with his own father and mother he had never had to face. Lata had moved away from him in these last months, and was perhaps already out of reach. If he went up to her now and helped her overcome her unhappiness, could he retrieve some of what was lost? Or would he only burden her with a further and more painful vulnerability?
What was she thinking? He stood there in the late light, looking at her beyond his own long shadow. Her head had not moved from her hands. The strange kite was resting on the bench beside her. She looked weary and unreachable. After a minute or two he walked away sadly.
13.23
Lata sat still for about fifteen minutes, then got up, taking the kite with her. It was almost dark. She had found it hard to think. But now, through her own pain, she began to feel a sympathy for the difficulties of others. She thought of Pran and his anxieties. She reminded herself that it had been a long time since she had written to Varun.
She also thought, strangely enough, of her last letter to Haresh, and how curt she had been on the matter of Simran, which obviously had meant a great deal to him. Poor Haresh—he too had been pursuing an impossible relationship, and here too the difficulty was a similar one.
As for herself, there was another rehearsal tomorrow. Would she face that with more or less trepidation than before? How would it be for Kabir? At least they had talked; she would not be tensely anticipating the terrible moment. Anyway, perhaps it had been less terrible to suffer it than to await it. But how disheartening it had been. Or was it so disheartening after all in the scheme of things?
That evening was a quiet one: her mother, Pran, Savita, the baby, and herself. One of the topics of discussion was Haresh and why he hadn’t written yet.
In general, Mrs Rupa Mehra wanted to read every letter that came from Haresh, but Lata only passed on his news and greetings, keeping his agreeable comments to herself, and finding herself unable to share with her mother the more troubling ones.
Haresh had in fact been a little disappointed by Lata’s letter, but what had kept him from replying almost immediately was not this disappointment but his sudden status as a workless man. He was very worried about the effect that this news would have on Lata—and even more so on her mother, who, for all the goodwill she bore him, was—he judged—exacting and pragmatic in her criteria for a suitable boy for her daughter.
But when a week had passed, and James Hawley, despite his appeals, had not rectified their injustice, and Delhi too had borne no immediate fruit except Mr Mukherji’s promise of a meeting with Mr Khandelwal, he felt he could keep up his silence no longer, and wrote to Lata.
As it happened, Mrs Rupa Mehra had received a letter from Kalpana Gaur the day before Haresh’s letter finally arrived, and had come to know that he was out of a job. With Pran, Savita and the baby all back home, there was a great deal to be done, but this latest and somewhat shocking news occupied Mrs Rupa Mehra’s mind more than anything else. She talked about it to everyone including Meenakshi and Kakoli, who had dropped by to baby-gaze. She could not understand how Haresh could have dropped his job ‘just like that’; her husband had always believed in having two birds in the hand before leaving one in the bush. Mrs Rupa Mehra began to worry about Haresh in more ways than one; and she began to express her reservations to Lata.
‘Oh, he’s bound to write soon,’ said Lata, rather too off-handedly for Mrs Rupa Mehra’s taste.
She was proved to be correct the next day, sooner than she herself had expected.
When Mrs Rupa Mehra saw an envelope in Haresh’s by now familiar handwriting in the mail, she insisted that Lata open it immediately and read out its contents to her. Lata refused. Kakoli and Meenakshi, delighted to be in on the scene, snatched the letter from the table and began to tease Lata. Lata snatched it back from Kakoli, rushed into her room, and locked the door. She did not emerge for more than an hour. She read the letter, and replied to it without consulting anyone. Mrs Rupa Mehra was extremely annoyed by her daughter’s insubordination, and also at Meenakshi and Kakoli.
‘Think of Pran,’ she said. ‘This excitement is not good for his heart.’
Kakoli sang out, so that the sound could be heard on the other side of the locked door:
‘Sweetest Lata, have a heart!
Come and kiss me. Don’t b
e tart.’
When she heard no response to this crass creation, she continued:
‘Let me kiss your hands, my queen:
Softest pigskin I have seen.’
Mrs Rupa Mehra was about to shout at Kakoli, but the baby began yowling and distracted everyone on that side of the door. Lata continued to read in noisy peace.
Haresh’s letter was as straightforward as usual. After mentioning the bad news, he went on to write:
It can be no easy time for you with Pran’s illness and by now maybe his baby too, so I feel sorry to burden you with the news I have given above. But I had to write to you today under the very great stress of circumstances. So far I have heard nothing by way of reconsideration from Mr. Clayton of James Hawley, and I am now not quite so hopeful that anything will happen in that direction. It was a fine job fetching Rs. 750/-per month all told, but I have not yet lost hopes entirely. I feel that they will realize the injustice of the whole thing. But perhaps with my resignation from CLFC I have indeed fallen between two stools. Mr. Mukherji, the General Manager, is a fine man but Mr. Ghosh, it seems, is dead set against me.
Yesterday I was with Kalpana for over two hours when you were the only topic of discussion. I do not know how much of my feelings I could hide, for the thought of you was exciting.
Excuse this scribbling pad. I have none other at my disposal at the moment. Kalpana says she has written to your mother about my news, and that I must write to you today—and I have been feeling the same myself.
I have an interview later in the month in Indore (with the State Public Service Commission) for a Small Scale Industry job. And it may be that the Praha matter will work out. At least if I can meet Mr. Khandelwal through the good offices of Mr. Mukherji, I am sure I will get a job interview in Calcutta. There are however a few things that you shall have to decide:
1. Whether you would like me to go to Calcutta via Brahmpur, given so many different factors including your brother-in-law’s illness.
2. Whether in my unemployed position you think I am the same as before—i.e. whether you think you could be quite happy in considering me as someone you could care for.
I hope that your mother does not take this too seriously—there are other jobs in the offing I am sure, and it will not take too long to fix up.
Somehow I feel there is a lot of good in my present position—being unemployed gives one a better insight into human character and gives the right value to the right things. I hope Pran is better. Remember me to the family. I shall write again soon.
Yours,
Haresh
13.24
Nothing could have brought out Lata’s warmth and tenderness more effectively than this letter. She felt very bad for Haresh, particularly at the thought that there might be a great deal of anxiety behind his brave front. If she had problems, so had he, and far more pressing ones. Yet instead of allowing himself to get depressed by his misfortune, he claimed to see advantages in it. Lata felt a little ashamed of herself for not behaving in a more robust manner in the face of emotional adversity.
She wrote back:
My dear Haresh,
Your letter came today and I am replying immediately. Yesterday Ma got a letter from Kalpana. Ever since then I have been wanting to write to you, but I felt I couldn’t till I had heard the news directly from you. You must believe that it doesn’t make any difference to me. Affection doesn’t depend on things like jobs. It is unfortunate that you should have missed such a good chance at James Hawley—it really is a very good firm—I should think almost the best. Anyway, don’t worry. Everything happens for the best—and, as you say, there is still hope—nothing like going on trying. I feel sure something will emerge.
Here Lata paused and looked out of the bedroom window before continuing. But it was his problems she had to address, not her own, and she continued to write before thoughts could crowd too closely in on her:
Perhaps, Haresh, you didn’t do a very wise thing in not letting your firm know that you were trying elsewhere. Perhaps you should have gone through them. Anyway, let’s forget about it—it’s all in the past now. The unkindness of people only hurts if we continue to remember it. Now that you are out of a job, perhaps you should try for the best rather than the first that comes your way. Maybe it’s worthwhile waiting a little.
You ask if I want you to come to Brahmpur on your way to Calcutta. It would be good to talk to you again. I hope you have not lost your smile. It doesn’t sound so from your letter, anyway. You have a very pleasant smile—when you are amused your eyes disappear altogether—and it would be a pity if you lost it.
Here Lata paused again. What on earth am I writing? she asked herself. Is this too much? Then she just shrugged, told herself she wouldn’t correct it, and wrote on:
The only problem is that the house is in chaos at the moment, and even if you were to live in a hotel, you would see us at a very confused time. Also, my brother Arun’s wife and sister-in-law are here, and though I like them very much, they will not give either of us a moment of peace. And then my afternoons are taken up with rehearsals, which put me in a very confused state. I don’t know if I’m myself or one of Shakespeare’s creatures. Ma also is in a peculiar mood. All in all, it is not a good time for us to see each other. I hope you do not think that I am trying to put you off.
I am glad that Mr Mukherji has been so kind and understanding. I hope he is successful in helping you.
Pran looks much better for his three weeks in hospital, and the constant presence of the baby—who has been named Uma by the whole family at a sort of board meeting—does him a world of good. He sends his regards to you, as does everyone else here. Ma was worried to get your news from Kalpana, but not exactly in the way you think. She was more worried because she thought I was worried, and she kept telling me not to worry, that everything would be all right. I was only worried because I thought you must be very upset—especially as you hadn’t written for a while. So you see it was a sort of vicious circle. I am happy that you haven’t lost any of your optimism and are not bitter. I hate people to wear martyred airs—just as I dislike self-pity. It is the cause of too much unhappiness.
Please keep me informed about everything that happens, and write soon. No one else has lost their faith in you, except your Umesh Uncle, who never had it anyway, so you mustn’t lose it in yourself.
Affectionately,
Lata
13.25
Lata sent the letter off with Mansoor to be posted at the general post office on his way to the market.
Mrs Rupa Mehra was displeased that she had not been allowed to read either the letter or the response.
‘I’ll let you read his letter, Ma, if you insist,’ said Lata. ‘But my reply’s gone off so there’s no question of reading that.’
Haresh’s letter had contained far less of a personal nature than usual, and was therefore showable. Under ‘the very great stress of circumstances’—or possibly because of Lata’s short response to the subject—Haresh had omitted to bring up the question of Simran again.
Meanwhile, Kakoli had got hold of Mrs Rupa Mehra’s card to Pran and Savita, and was enjoying herself, mouthing ‘winsome’ and ‘dainty’ to the helpless Lady Baby, and reformulating the lines while kissing Uma on the forehead.
‘Hush! Lady Baby’s fast asleep, the friendly fire-flames dance and leap and burning her to ash they sweep across the Lady Baby’s dress.’
‘How horrible!’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra.
‘A Lady Baby burned today—Her dainty soul has flown away—God’s called her back to frisk and play—and that’s one Lady Baby less.’
Kakoli giggled. ‘Don’t worry, Ma, we won’t light a fire in Brahmpur in August. It’s not a sunless time of year.’
‘Meenakshi, you must control your sister.’
‘No one can do that, Ma. She’s hopeless.’
‘You are always saying that with Aparna also.’
‘Am I?’ said Meenakshi absently. ‘Oh, that
reminds me, I think I’m pregnant.’
‘What?’ cried everyone (except the Lady Baby).
‘Yes—I’ve missed my period—it’s far too late to be merely delayed. So you may get your grandson after all, Ma.’
‘Oh!’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, not knowing what to think. After a pause she added: ‘Does Arun know?’
An abstracted look appeared on Meenakshi’s face. ‘No, not yet,’ she said. ‘I suppose I’ll have to tell him. Should I send him a telegram? No, such things are best done in person. Anyway, I’m tired of Brahmpur. There’s no Life here.’ She had begun to pine once again for canasta, mah-jongg, the Shady Ladies and the bright lights. About the only lively person in Brahmpur was Maan, and he appeared far too rarely. Mr and Mrs Maitra, her hosts, were too deadly for words. As for the Rudhia riff-raff—words failed her. Besides, Lata appeared to be too immersed in this cobbler and his concerns to be vulnerable to hints about Amit.
‘What do you say, Kuku?’
‘Say?’ said Kuku. ‘I’m flabbergasted. When did you know?’
‘I meant, about going back to Calcutta.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Kakoli obligingly. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t enjoying herself here. But she missed Cuddles, and Hans, the telephone, the two cooks, the car, and even the family. ‘I’m ready to leave whenever you want. But why are you looking so thoughtful?’
It was a look that Meenakshi was to wear off and on for quite a while.
When exactly had she managed to get pregnant?
And with whom?
13.26
Haresh was disappointed that he had not been encouraged to stop in Brahmpur on his way to Calcutta or asked to visit Lata’s brothers in Calcutta despite the fact that they were surely going to be his future brothers-in-law, but the tone of understanding in Lata’s letter gave him great consolation among his uncertainties. The letter from the Praha Shoe Company reiterating their offer to him of a job at Rs 28 a week was such a pathetic response to his application that he couldn’t believe that Mr Khandelwal had had anything to do with it. It had probably been passed on to the Personnel Office, they had been forced to respond, and they had done so in their standard, dismissive manner.