Free A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth

for assistance in building up a rhyming text for her card. The rose-and-pewter card contained the following lines :
     
     
May the gladness you have scattered
     
     
Along life's shining way And the little deeds of kindness
     
     
That are yours from day to day And the happiness you've showered
     
     
On others all life through Return to swell your blessings
     
     
In this birthday hour for you.
     
     
This would not do for Parvati, Mrs Rupa Mehra decided. She turned to the card illustrated with grapes and apples.
     
     
'Tis a day for hugs and kisses,
     
     
For cakes and candles too, A day for all who love you
     
     
To renew their love anew, A day for sveet reflection
     
     
Along life's shining way, And a day for all to tell you :
     
     
Have the wonderfullest day.
     
     
This showed promise but there was something wrong with the fourth line, Mrs Rupa Mehra instinctively felt. Also, she would have to alter 'hugs and kisses' to 'special greetings' ; Parvati might very well deserve hugs and kisses but Mrs Rupa Mehra was incapable of giving them to her.
     
     
Who had sent her this card ? Queenie and Pussy Kapadia, two unmarried sisters in their forties whom she had not met for years. Unmarried ! The very word was like a knell.
     
     
53Mrs Rupa Mehra paused in her thoughts for a moment, and moved resolutely on.
     
     
The puppy yapped an unrhymed and therefore unusable text - a mere 'Happy Birthday and Many Happy Returns'
     
     
- but the sheep bleated in rhymes identical to, but sentiment marginally distinct from, the others:
     
     
It's not a standard greeting
     
     
For just one joyful day But a wish that's meant to cover
     
     
Life's bright and shining way To wish you all the special things
     
     
That mean the most to you So that this year and every year
     
     
Your fondest dreams come true.
     
     
Yes! Life's shining way, a concept dear to Mrs Rupa Mehra, was here polished to an even finer lustre. Nor did the lines commit her to any deep protestation of affection for her father's second wife. At the same time the greeting was not accusably distant. She got out her black and gold Mont Blanc fountain pen, Raghubir's present to her when Arun was born - twenty-five years old and still going strong, she reflected with a sad smile - and began to write.
     
     
Mrs Rupa Mehra's handwriting was very small and well-formed, and this presented her in the present instance with a problem. She had chosen too large a size of card in proportion to her affection, but the silver stars had been stuck and it was too late to change that parameter. She now wished to fill as much space as possible with the rhymed message so that she would not have to inscribe more than a few words in her own right to supplement the verse. The first three couplets were therefore laid out with as much white space in between as would not appear too obvious - on the left hand side; an ellipsis of seven dots spoored across the page in a semblance of suspense; and the concluding couplet was allowed to crash down with thunderous blandness on the right.
     
     
'To dear Parvati - a very happy birthday, much love,
     
     
54I
     
     
Rupa,' wrote Mrs Rupa Mehra with a dutiful expression. Then, repenting, she added 'est' to the 'Dear'. It looked a little cramped now, but only a careful eye would perceive it as an afterthought.
     
     
Now came the heartbreaking part : not the mere transcription of a stanza but the actual sacrifice of an old card. Which of the roses would have to be transplanted ? After some thought, Mrs Rupa Mehra decided that she could not bear to part with any of them. The dog, then? He looked mournful, even guilty - besides, the picture of a dog, however appealing his appearance, was open to misinterpretation. The sheep perhaps - yes, they would do. They were fluffy and unemotional. She did not mind parting with them. Mrs Rupa Mehra was a vegetarian, whereas both her father and Parvati were avid meat-eaters. The roses in the