A Suitable Boy

  ‘Two or three would be more than enough,’ said Pran.

  ‘But you must keep up the massage. To maintain the vital fluids.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ agreed Pran.

  ‘It is most essential for all people.’

  ‘But who massages the masseur?’ asked Pran.

  ‘I am sixty-three,’ said Mr Maggu Gopal, rather affronted. ‘I don’t need it. Now turn around, please.’

  12.14

  When Maan returned to Brahmpur, he made straight for Baitar House. It was evening, and Firoz met him. He was delighted to see Maan, but appeared a little awkward, especially when he saw that Maan had brought his bags with him.

  ‘I thought I’d stay here,’ said Maan, embracing his friend.

  ‘Not at home?’ asked Firoz. ‘God, how burnt and wild you look.’

  ‘What a welcome!’ said Maan, not at all put out. ‘No, here’s best—that is, if it’s all right with you. Will you have to ask your father? The reason is that I can’t bear to deal with my father and everything else at the same time.’

  ‘Of course you’re welcome,’ said Firoz, smiling at the ‘everything else’. ‘Good. I’ll get Ghulam Rusool to arrange to put your bags in your room—the room you usually stay in.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Maan.

  ‘I hope you’ll stay for a while. I didn’t mean to sound unwelcoming. I just didn’t expect you’d want to stay here rather than at home. I’m glad you’re here. Now come in, wash up, and join me for dinner.’

  But Maan begged off dinner.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ said Firoz, ‘I wasn’t thinking. You haven’t been home yet.’

  ‘Well,’ said Maan. ‘I wasn’t thinking of going home.’

  ‘Where then?’ asked Firoz. ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Don’t sound so disapproving. I can’t wait. I’m all keyed up!’

  ‘I am disapproving,’ said Firoz seriously. ‘You should go home first. Anyway, I made sure your letter got to her,’ he went on, with the air of one who does not wish to continue a subject.

  ‘I believe you’re interested in Saeeda Bai yourself, and are trying to keep me away,’ said Maan, laughing at his own joke.

  ‘No—no—’ said Firoz, rather unconvincingly. He didn’t want a long discussion about Tasneem, who had cast a light and delicate spell over him.

  ‘Now what’s the matter?’ said Maan, seeing a complex cast of emotions pass over his friend’s face. ‘Oh, it’s that girl.’

  ‘No, no—’ said Firoz, even more unconvincingly.

  ‘Well, it’s either the elder sister or the younger—unless it’s the maid—Bibbo!’ And at the thought of Firoz and Bibbo together Maan burst out laughing. Firoz put his arm around Maan’s shoulder and drew him into the house.

  ‘You’re not very forthcoming with me,’ complained Maan. ‘I tell you everything that’s in my heart.’

  ‘You tell everyone everything,’ said Firoz, smiling.

  ‘Not everything,’ said Maan, looking at Firoz.

  Firoz coloured slightly. ‘No, I suppose not. Anyway, most things. I’m not a very forthcoming person. I tell you as much as I tell anyone. And if I don’t tell you more, it’s a good thing. It might be disturbing.’

  ‘To me?’ said Maan.

  ‘Yes—to you, to me, to us, to Brahmpur, to the universe,’ said Firoz evasively. ‘I presume you’re going to have a bath after the journey?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Maan. ‘But why are you so keen that I shouldn’t go to Saeeda Bai’s?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Firoz, ‘I’m not keen that you shouldn’t go there. I was just—what was it you said?—disapproving that you didn’t visit your family first. Well, at least your mother. I met Pran the other day and he said that you’d just disappeared—hadn’t been heard of or seen for ten days by anyone, not even in the village. And that your mother was very worried. And then I thought that with your nephew and all—’

  ‘What?’ said Maan, startled. ‘Savita’s baby’s been born already?’

  ‘No, no, your mathematical nephew—haven’t you heard?’

  From the expression on Firoz’s face Maan could see that the news wasn’t good. His mouth opened slightly. ‘You mean the little frog?’ asked Maan.

  ‘What little frog?’

  ‘Veena’s child—Bhaskar.’

  ‘Yes. Well, your only nephew. He was hurt in the stampede at the Pul Mela. You really haven’t heard?’ he said incredulously.

  ‘But no one wrote to tell me!’ said Maan, upset and annoyed. ‘And then I went on this trek, and—how is he?’

  ‘He’s all right now. Don’t look so worried. He really is. But apparently he was concussed, and had amnesia, and it took him some time to become coherent again. Perhaps it was as well that they didn’t write. You’re very fond of him, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Maan, agitated with concern for Bhaskar. ‘This must be my father’s doing. He must have thought I’d come straight back to Brahmpur if I’d heard. Well, I would have—’ he began vehemently, then stopped. ‘Firoz, you should have written and told me.’

  ‘I didn’t think of it,’ said Firoz. ‘I’m really sorry. I assumed that your family would have told you. I couldn’t have imagined that they wouldn’t. It isn’t as if it was a family secret. All of us knew.’

  A sudden, irrelevant thought struck Maan again. ‘You’re not a secret admirer of Saeeda Bai’s, are you?’ he asked his friend.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Firoz, puzzled. ‘Not that I don’t admire her.’

  ‘Good,’ said Maan, relieved. ‘I couldn’t compete with a Nawabzada. Oh, er, bad luck about the zamindari case—I heard the news and thought of you. Hmm, will you lend me a walking stick? I feel like twirling something this evening. Oh, and some cologne. And a clean kurta-pyjama. Civilization is hard on those who’ve reverted to savagery.’

  ‘My clothes won’t fit you. Your shoulders are too broad.’

  ‘Imtiaz’s would. They did at the Fort.’

  ‘So they would,’ said Firoz. ‘I’ll bring them up to your room. And a half-bottle of whisky.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Maan, ruffling his friend’s hair. ‘Perhaps civilization isn’t so hard after all.’

  12.15

  While Maan was soaking himself in the delicious sensations of a hot bath, he kept imagining the even more delicious sensations that he was soon to feel in the arms of his beloved. He wrapped himself in the towelled robe that had been provided, and walked into the bedroom.

  There, however, more sober thoughts presented themselves. He thought of his nephew, and how hurt he would be if he heard that his Maan Maama had been in town and had not come immediately to see him. Rather glumly Maan decided that he would have to visit Bhaskar first. He poured himself a whisky, drank it quickly, poured another, drank that equally quickly, and took the rest of the half-bottle with him in the pocket of Imtiaz’s kurta.

  Instead of hiring a tonga, he decided to walk to Prem Nivas, where Firoz had told him Bhaskar would be.

  Walking in Pasand Bagh was a pleasure. Maan noticed for the first time in his life that there were even streetlamps on most streets. Just walking on solid roads after the mud and dirt of country tracks was a privilege. He tapped and twirled Firoz’s walking stick. After a while, however, he didn’t feel much like it. He became rather depressed at the thought of having to face his father again. And his mother too in a way: she would act as a damper on the anticipated excitement of the evening. She would tell him to stay for dinner. She would ask him all about the villages and the state of his health. Maan’s steps became slightly slower and more uncertain. Perhaps it was also the whisky taking effect. He had had very little to drink for weeks.

  When he came to a fork in the road, not far from his destination, he looked up at the stars for a bit of guidance. Then he tapped his stick on the pavement, and turned first this way, then that. He looked very undecided. Finally, he took the right-hand fork to Saeeda Bai’s rather than the road to Prem Nivas. This cheered him up immediately.

&nb
sp; It’s much better this way, he decided. If I go home, they’ll insist I stay for dinner, and I just can’t. And Bhaskar won’t really mind. He only cares if I don’t give him sums. And how can I give him sums when my mind’s distracted? Anyway, he’s not well, he shouldn’t stay up late, he’s probably in bed already. No, it’s much better this way. I’ll visit him first thing tomorrow. He won’t be angry with me.

  After a while he said to himself: And besides, Saeeda Bai would never forgive me if she heard I was in Brahmpur and didn’t come to see her before anyone else. I can imagine how hard it’s been for her while I’ve been away. This will be a wonderful reunion—she’ll be astonished to see me. And at the anticipation of their meeting he felt a pleasant weakness in his limbs.

  Soon he was standing not far from the house, under a large neem tree, savouring in advance the delights to come. A thought occurred to him: I haven’t brought a gift along with me.

  But Maan, not being one to savour anticipations for long, decided after half a minute that he’d waited long enough to collect himself. I’m my own gift, as she is hers! he said cheerfully to himself, and, first tapping and then waving his cane, he walked the remaining distance to the gate.

  ‘Phool Singh!’ he greeted the watchman in a loud voice.

  ‘Ah, Kapoor Sahib. It must be months—’

  ‘No, it must be years—’ said Maan, getting out a two-rupee note.

  The watchman pocketed the note calmly, then said: ‘You are in luck. Begum Sahiba has not instructed me about any particular guests this evening. So I think she expects to be alone.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Maan frowned. Then he brightened up. ‘Well, good,’ he said.

  The watchman knocked at the door. The buxom Bibbo peered out. Catching a glimpse of Maan, she beamed. She had missed him. He was by far the pleasantest of her mistress’s lovers, and the sprucest.

  ‘Ah, Dagh Sahib, welcome, welcome,’ she said from the door, loudly enough that he could hear her at the gate. ‘Just a minute, I’ll go up and inquire.’

  ‘What is there to inquire about?’ asked Maan. ‘Aren’t I welcome here? Do you think I’ll bring the village soil of Mother India into the durbar of the Begum Sahiba?’ He laughed and Bibbo giggled.

  ‘Yes, yes, you’re very welcome,’ said Bibbo. ‘Begum Sahiba will be delighted. But I should only speak for myself,’ she added flirtatiously. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

  She was as good as her word. Soon Maan was traversing the hall, walking up the stairs with the mirror halfway up on the landing (he halted to adjust his white embroidered cap), and then along the upstairs gallery that fringed the hall. Soon he was at the door of Saeeda Bai’s room. But there was no sound of voices or of singing or even of the harmonium. When he entered, leaving his shoes outside the door, he noticed that Saeeda Bai was not in the room where she usually entertained. She must be in the bedroom, he thought with a rush of desire. He sat himself down on the sheeted floor, and leaned against a white bolster. Soon afterwards, Saeeda Bai came out from the bedroom. She looked tired but lovely, and enraptured by the sight of Maan.

  Maan’s heart leapt up when he saw her, and so did he. If she hadn’t had a birdcage in her hand he would have embraced her.

  But for now the look in her eyes would have to suffice. What an idiotic parakeet, thought Maan.

  ‘Do sit down, Dagh Sahib. How I have pined for this moment.’ An appropriate couplet followed.

  She waited until Maan was seated before she set down the parakeet, who looked like a proper parrot now, not a ball of pale green fluff. Then she said to the bird:

  ‘You have been very unresponsive, Miya Mitthu, and I can’t say I am pleased with you.’ To Maan she said, ‘Rumour has it, Dagh Sahib, that you have been in town for some days now. Twirling, no doubt, that handsome ivory-headed cane. But the hyacinth that obtained favour yesterday appears withered today to the connoisseur.’

  ‘Begum Sahiba—’ protested Maan.

  ‘Even if she has withered away only for lack of the water of life,’ continued Saeeda Bai, tilting her head a little to one side, and pulling her sari over her hair in that familiar adjustment that made Maan’s heart pound ever since he had seen it that first evening in Prem Nivas.

  ‘Begum Sahiba, I swear—’

  ‘Ah,’ said Saeeda Bai, addressing the parakeet, ‘why were you away for so long? Even one week was like agony. What are vows to one who is wilting in the desert under a scorching sun?’ Suddenly tiring of her metaphor, she said: ‘It has been rather hot these last few days. I shall ask for some sherbet for you.’ Getting up, she went to the gallery outside the door and, leaning over the rail, clapped her hands: ‘Bibbo!’

  ‘Yes, Begum Sahiba?’

  ‘Get us both some almond sherbet. And be sure to mix some saffron in Dagh Sahib’s sherbet. He looks so worn out by his pilgrimage to Rudhia. And you have grown rather dark.’

  ‘It was absence from you, Saeeda, that weakened me—’ said Maan. ‘And it was the laughing-cruel one who exiled me from herself who now blames me for this absence. Could anything be more unjust?’

  ‘Yes—’ said Saeeda Bai softly. ‘If the heavens had kept us longer apart.’

  Since Saeeda Bai’s letter to Maan, full of endearments as it was, had urgently enjoined him to remain away from Brahmpur for even longer—for reasons she did not explain—her present answer was hardly fair.

  But Maan found it satisfactory; no, more than satisfactory, delightful. Saeeda Bai had as good as confessed that she was longing to take him back in her arms. He made a slight gesture of his head towards the door of the bedroom. But Saeeda Bai had turned to the parakeet.

  12.16

  ‘The sherbet first, then conversation, then music, and then we will see whether the saffron has taken effect,’ said Saeeda Bai teasingly. ‘Or does he need the whisky that is peeping out of his pocket?’

  The parakeet looked at Maan. It did not appear to be impressed. When Bibbo entered with the drinks, it cried out her name:

  ‘Bibbo!’

  It said this in rather a commanding, somewhat metallic, tone. Bibbo shot the bird a look of annoyance. Maan noticed this; he had been feeling equally irritated by the parakeet, and when he looked at Bibbo in amusement and sympathy, their eyes met for a second. Bibbo, who was a troublemaker and a flirt, held his eyes for a second before turning away.

  Saeeda Bai was not amused. ‘Stop it, Bibbo, you mischievous girl,’ she said.

  ‘Stop what, Saeeda Begum?’ asked Bibbo innocently.

  ‘Don’t be insolent. I saw you making eyes at Dagh Sahib,’ said Saeeda Bai. ‘Go to the kitchen at once, and stay there.’

  ‘The accessory is hanged, the principal goes free,’ said Bibbo and, having left the tray on the floor near Maan, turned to leave.

  ‘Shameless,’ said Saeeda Bai; then, thinking over Bibbo’s remark, she turned to Maan with annoyance. ‘Dagh Sahib, if the bee finds the bud of an inferior blossom more charming than the opened tulip—’

  ‘Saeeda Begum, you deliberately misunderstand me,’ said Maan, sulking a little. ‘Every word I say, every look—’

  Saeeda Bai did not want him to sulk. ‘Drink your sherbet,’ she advised him. ‘It is not your brains that should be hot.’

  Maan tasted his sherbet. It was delicious. Then he frowned, as if he had tasted something bitter.

  ‘What is the matter?’ asked Saeeda Bai with concern.

  ‘Something’s missing,’ said Maan, as if in appraisal of his drink.

  ‘What?’ asked Saeeda Bai. ‘That Bibbo—she must have forgotten to mix honey in your glass.’

  Maan shook his head and frowned. ‘I know exactly what’s missing,’ he said finally.

  ‘Would Dagh Sahib vouchsafe us the solution?’

  ‘Music.’

  Saeeda Bai allowed herself a smile. ‘All right. Fetch me the harmonium. I am so tired today that I feel that I am at the end of my four days’ tenure in the world.’

  Instead of asking Maan what he would like to
hear, as she usually did, Saeeda Bai began to hum a ghazal to herself, and moved her fingers gently along the keys. After a while she began to sing. Then she stopped, distracted by her thoughts.

  ‘Dagh Sahib, a woman by herself—what place can she find in an ungentle world?’

  ‘That is why she must have someone to protect her,’ asserted Maan stoutly.

  ‘There are too many problems for mere admirers to handle. Admirers themselves are sometimes the problem.’ She gave a sad laugh. ‘House, tax, food, arrangements, this musician loses his hand, that landlord loses his land, this one has to go away for a family wedding, that one fears he can no longer afford his generosity, someone’s education must be looked after, a dowry has to be arranged. And a suitable boy must be found. Endless. Endless.’

  ‘You mean, for Tasneem?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Who would think that there would be people paying court to her? Here, in this house. Yes, it’s true. It is for me, her sister, her guardian, to arrange these things. That Ishaq—he has now become Ustad Majeed Khan’s disciple, so he moves with his head in the clouds even if his voice is very much of this earth—he visits here, supposedly to see me and pay his respects, but in fact to see her. I’ve taken to keeping the parakeet in my room. Yet still he contrives to find some excuse or another. And he is not a bad man; but he has no future. His hands are crippled, and his voice untrained. Miya Mitthu can sing better than him. Even my mother’s wretched myna could.’

  ‘Are there others?’ asked Maan.

  ‘You needn’t act so innocent,’ said Saeeda Bai, annoyed.

  ‘Saeeda Bai—honestly—’ said Maan.

  ‘Not you, not you. Your friend the socialist, who has taken to organizing things in the university in order to be someone in the world.’

  This description hardly fitted Firoz. Maan looked puzzled.

  ‘Yes, our young maulvi, her Arabic teacher. Whose hospitality you have partaken of, whose instruction you have imbibed, whose company you have shared for weeks. Do not sell your wares here, Dagh Sahib. There is a market for injured innocence, and it is not to be found between these walls.’