A Suitable Boy(30)

What is it about Eliot, thought Pran irrelevantly, his mind wandering from the subject at hand, that makes him such a sacred cow for us Indian intellectuals? Aloud he said: ‘Let us hope that T.S. Eliot has many more years of life, of productive life. I am glad that, unlike Joyce, he did not die in 1941. But we are now living in 1951, which implies that the pre-war rule you mentioned, even if it is a tradition, could not be a very ancient one. If we can’t do away with it, why not update it? Surely its purpose is that we should revere the dead above the living – or, to be less sceptical, appraise the dead before the living. Eliot, who is alive, has been granted a waiver. I propose we grant Joyce one. A friendly compromise.’ Pran paused, then added: ‘As it were.’ He smiled: ‘Dr Narayanan, are you for “The Dead”?’

‘Yes, well, I think so,’ said Dr Narayanan with the faintest of responding smiles, before Professor Mishra could interrupt.

‘Dr Gupta?’ asked Pran.

Dr Gupta could not look Professor Mishra in the eye.

‘I agree with Dr Narayanan,’ said Professor Gupta.

There was silence for a few seconds. Pran thought, I can’t believe it. I‘ve won. I‘ve won. I can’t believe it.

And indeed, it seemed that he had. Everyone knew that the approval of the Academic Council of the university was usually a formality once the syllabus committee of a department had decided matters.

As if nothing in the least untoward had occurred, the head of the department gathered together the reins of the meeting. The great soft hands scuttled across the cyclostyled sheets. ‘The next item…’ said Professor Mishra with a smile, then paused and began again: ‘But before we go on to the next item, I should say that I personally have always greatly admired James Joyce as a writer. I am delighted, needless to say –’

A couple of lines of poetry came terrifyingly unbidden to Pran’s mind:

Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar,

Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell?



and he burst into a fit of sudden laughter, incomprehensible even to himself, which went on for twenty seconds and ended in a spasm of coughing. He bent his head and tears streamed down his cheeks. Professor Mishra rewarded him with a look of unfeigned fury and hatred.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ muttered Pran as he recovered. Dr Gupta was thumping him vigorously on the back, which was not helpful. ‘Please continue – I was overcome – it sometimes happens…’ But to offer any further explanation was impossible.

The meeting was resumed and the next two points discussed quickly. There was no real disagreement. It was dark now; the meeting was adjourned. As Pran left the room Professor Mishra put a friendly arm around his shoulder. ‘My dear boy, that was a fine performance.’ Pran shuddered at the memory. ‘You are clearly a man of great integrity, intellectual and otherwise.’ Oh, oh, what is he up to now? thought Pran. Professor Mishra continued: ‘The Proctor has been badgering me since last Tuesday to submit a member of my department – it’s our turn, you know – to join the student welfare committee of the university ’ Oh no, thought Pran, there goes one day every week. ‘…and I have decided to volunteer you.’ I didn’t know the verb was transitive, thought Pran. In the darkness – they were now walking across the campus – it was difficult for Professor Mishra entirely to disguise the active dislike in his high voice. Pran could almost see the pursed lips, the specious twinkle. He was silent, and that, to the head of the English Department, implied acceptance.

‘I realize you are busy, my dear Dr Kapoor, what with your extra tutorials, the Debating Society, the Colloquium, putting on plays, and so on…’ said Professor Mishra. ‘The sort of thing that makes one deservedly popular with students. But you are comparatively new here, my dear fellow - five years is not a long time from the perspective of an old fogey like me – and you must allow me to give you a word of advice. Cut down on your unacademic activities. Don’t tire yourself out unnecessarily. Don’t take things so seriously. What were those wonderful lines of Yeats?

She bid me take life easy as the leaves grown on the tree,

But I being young and foolish with her did not agree.



I’m sure your charming wife would endorse that. Don’t drive yourself so hard - your health depends on it. And your future, I dare say… In some ways you are your own worst enemy.’

But I am only my metaphorical enemy, thought Pran. And obstinacy on my part has earned me the actual enmity of the formidable Professor Mishra. But was Professor Mishra more dangerous or less dangerous to him – in this matter of the readership, for instance, now that Pran had won his hatred?