A Suitable Boy(669)

Professor Mishra’s free hand went to his forehead. Beads of sweat began to form on it.

‘What do you mean? How do you know? Could you go a little slowly for me? I’m not used to the terminology.’

‘All right, Professor. You will need to ask the Vice-Chancellor for a pen and some paper.’ Badri Nath, though obviously unhappy about the result of his inquiries, was nevertheless extracting what little enjoyment he could out of the situation.

‘I have them here,’ said Professor Mishra. He took a pen and an envelope out of his pocket. ‘Please go slowly.’

Badri Nath sighed. ‘Why don’t you simply accept what I’m saying?’ he asked.

Professor Mishra wisely refrained from replying: ‘Because you told me this very morning to accept that he’d lost, and now you’re telling me to accept that he’s won.’ He said: ‘I’d like to know how you came to this conclusion.’

Badri Nath relented. After another sigh, he said, very slowly and carefully: ‘Please listen carefully, Professor. There are 66,918 voters. Given a very high turn-out for this part of the country, say, fifty-five per cent, that would mean a total of 37,000 votes cast in the election. Shall I go on? The first five candidates have been counted. Their total comes to 19,351. That leaves about 18,700 for the last five candidates. Apart from Waris, the other four are bound to get at least 5,000 votes: they include the socialist and the Jan Sangh candidate as well as a fairly popular and well-funded Independent. So what does that leave for Waris Khan, Professor Sahib? Less than 14,000. And Mahesh Kapoor has already got 15,575.’ He paused, then continued: ‘Too bad. Chacha Nehru’s visit turned the tide. Do you want me to repeat the figures?’

‘No, no, thank you. When does – when does it resume?’

‘When does what resume? You mean the counting?’

‘Yes. The treatment.’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Thank you. May I call you later this evening?’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll be in the casualty department,’ cackled Badri Nath, and put down the phone.

Professor Mishra sat down heavily in his chair.

‘Not bad news, I hope,’ said Professor Jaikumar. ‘Both your sons looked so well yesterday.’

‘No, no –’ said Professor Mishra bravely, mopping his forehead. ‘We all have our private crosses to bear. But we must press on with our duty. I am so sorry for keeping you all waiting.’

‘Not at all,’ said Dr Ila Chattopadhyay, thinking that she’d been a bit rough on the poor, pulpy fellow who had, after all, once encouraged her. Really, though, she thought to herself, he can’t be allowed to get away with this.

But it now appeared that Professor Mishra was no longer vociferously opposed to Pran. He even found one or two good things to say about him. Dr Ila Chattopadhyay wondered if, in the face of possible minority dissension and scandal, he had merely succumbed to the inevitable – or if perhaps his son’s ill health had brought him face to face with his own uncertain soul.

By the end of the meeting, Professor Mishra had regained some of his air of placidity; he was still staggered, however, by the turn of events.

‘You have left your telephone numbers behind,’ said Professor Jaikumar, handing him his envelope as he walked to the door.

‘Oh, yes –’ said Professor Mishra. ‘Thank you.’

Later, when he was packing hurriedly for his train, Professor Jaikumar was startled to see both Professor Mishra’s sons playing about outside, looking as robust as ever.

At the station Professor Jaikumar recalled, apropos of nothing, that telephone numbers in Brahmpur had three, not five, digits.

How peculiar, he said to himself. But he was never to solve either mystery.

Professor Mishra, pleading a previous appointment, had not gone with him to the railway station. Instead, after a few words in private with the Vice-Chancellor, he had walked over to Pran’s house. He was resigned to congratulating him.

‘My dear boy,’ he said, taking both Pran’s hands in his. ‘It was a close thing, a very close thing. Some of the other candidates were truly excellent, but, well, I believe we have an understanding, you and I, an equation, as it were, and – well, I should not be telling you this until the seal of the envelope containing our decision is broken in the Academic Council – not that your own excellent, er, performance, did not contribute as much to our decision as my own humble words on your behalf –’ Professor Mishra sighed before continuing: ‘There was opposition. Some people said you were too young, too untried. “The atrocious crime of being a young man…” etcetera. But quite apart from the question of merit, at such a sad time for your family one feels a sense of obligation, one feels one has to do one’s bit. I am not one who talks of humanity in exaggerated terms, but, well – was it not the great Wordsworth who talked about those “little nameless unremembered acts of kindness and of love”?’