A Suitable Boy(286)
‘I have been perfectly well,’ said the old man dismissively. ‘Raghubir was five years younger than me and I’m still going strong. Now you sit down. You must be tired. And give us everyone’s news. There’s nothing of interest in this.’ He indicated the newspaper. ‘Just the usual war-mongering with Pakistan, flood havoc in Assam, leaders leaving the Congress Party, gas workers on strike in Calcutta… and as a result they can’t even hold the chemistry practical exams in the university! Oh, but you’ve just come from Calcutta, so you know all that. And so on and so on. Do you know, if I ran a newspaper with nothing but good news – so-and-so gave birth to a healthy baby, such-and-such a country remained at peace with its neighbour, this river behaved well and that crop refused to be eaten by locusts – I believe people would buy it just to put themselves in good spirits.’
‘No, Daddy, they wouldn’t.’ Kalpana turned her full but pretty face towards Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘Now why didn’t you tell us you were coming? We would have come to fetch you from the station.’
‘But I did. I sent a telegram.’
‘Oh – it’ll probably come today. Things have got so bad with the postal service even though they’ve just put up the rates.’
‘It’ll take time. They have a reasonable Minister in charge,’ said her father. ‘The young are always so impatient.’
‘Anyway, why didn’t you send us a letter?’ asked Kalpana.
‘I decided to come suddenly. It’s Lata,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra in a rush. ‘I want you to find her a boy at once. A suitable boy. She is getting involved with unsuitable boys, and I cannot have that.’
Kalpana reflected on her own attachments to unsuitable boys: on an engagement that had broken up because her friend had suddenly changed his mind; on her father’s opposition to another. She was still unmarried, which made her rather sad whenever she thought about it. She said: ‘Khatri, of course? One or two?’
Mrs Rupa Mehra gave Kalpana a worried smile. ‘Two, please. I will stir it myself. Actually, I should have this saccharine but after a journey one can always make an exception. Of course khatri would be best. I think that one’s own community creates a sense of comfort. But proper khatris: Seth, Khanna, Kapoor, Mehra – no, not Mehra preferably –’
Kalpana was virtually but not quite out of marriageable range herself; it was perhaps a measure of Mrs Rupa Mehra’s desperation that she had decided to entrust such an enterprise to her. Her decision, however, was not unbased on reason. Kalpana knew young people, and Mrs Rupa Mehra knew no one else in Delhi who did. Kalpana was very fond of Lata, who was several years younger than her. And since it was only the khatri community that was to be dredged for prospective candidates, it was not likely that Kalpana herself, heaven forbid, should perceive a conflict of interest - especially since she was not a khatri but a brahmin.
‘Don’t worry, Ma, I don’t know any Mehras except you,’ said Kalpana Gaur. She beamed broadly and continued: ‘I do know some Khannas and Kapoors in Delhi, though. I’ll introduce them to you. Once they see you, they’ll know that your daughter’s bound to be good-looking.’
‘I was much more good-looking before the car accident,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra, stirring her tea and looking through the window – towards a gardenia bush, dry with summer dust.
‘Do you have a photograph of Lata? A recent one?’
‘Of course.’ There was very little that Mrs Rupa Mehra’s black bag did not contain. She had a very simple black-and-white photograph of Lata with no jewellery or make-up; there were some flowers – a few phlox – in her hair. There was even a photograph of Lata as a baby, though it was unlikely that this would have impressed the family of a potential groom. ‘But first you must get well, darling,’ she said to Kalpana. ‘I came with no warning at all. You asked me to come at Divali or Christmas but time and tide wait for no man.’
‘I’m perfectly well,’ said Kalpana Gaur, blowing her nose. ‘And this problem will make me better.’
‘She’s quite right,’ said her father. ‘Half her illness is laziness. If she isn’t careful, she’ll die young, like her mother.’
Mrs Rupa Mehra smiled weakly.
‘Or your husband,’ added Mr Gaur. ‘He was a foolish man if ever there was one. Climbing the mountains of Bhutan with a weak heart – and overworking – for whom? For the British and their railways.’ He sounded resentful, as he missed his old friend.