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A Suitable Boy

Vikram Seth


  Between the inner entrance and the river was the celebrated garden and the small but exquisite palace. The garden itself was a triumph as much of geometry as of horticulture. It was unlikely in fact that the flowers with which it was now planted—other than jasmine and the dark-red, deep-scented Indian rose—were the same as those for which it had been planned more than two centuries ago. What few flowers remained now looked exhausted from the daily heat. But the well-tended, well-watered lawns, the great, shady neem trees dispersed symmetrically about the grounds, and the narrow sandstone strips that divided the flower beds and lawns into octagons and squares provided an island of calm in a troubled and crowded town. Most beautiful of all was the small, perfectly shaped pleasure-palace of the Nawabs of Brahmpur, set in the exact centre of the inner gardens, a filigreed jewel box of white marble, its spirit compounded equally of extravagant dissipation and architectural restraint.

  In the days of the Nawabs, peacocks used to roam the grounds, and their raucous voices would on occasion compete with the musical entertainments laid on for those reclining and declining rulers: a performance by dancing girls, a more serious performance of khyaal by a court musician, a poetry competition, a new ghazal by the poet Mast.

  The thought of Mast brought the wonder of the previous evening back into Maan’s mind. The clear lines of the ghazal, the soft lines of Saeeda Bai’s face, her banter, which now seemed to Maan to be both lively and tender, the way she would pull her sari over her head as it threatened to slip off, the special attentions she had granted Maan, all these came back to him as he wandered up and down along the parapet with thoughts very far from suicide. The river breeze was pleasant, and Maan began to feel encouraged by events. He had been wondering whether to stop by Saeeda Bai’s house in the evening, and he felt suddenly optimistic.

  The great red sky covered the burnished Ganga like an inflamed bowl. On the far shore the sands stretched endlessly away.

  As he looked at the river he was struck by a remark he had heard from the mother of his fiancée. She, pious woman, was convinced that on the festival of Ganga Dussehra the obedient river would begin to rise again and would cover on that particular day one of the steps along the ghats of her native Banaras. Maan began to think about his fiancée and her family and became depressed about his engagement, as he usually did when he gave it any thought. His father had arranged it, as he had threatened to do; Maan, taking the path of least resistance, had gone along with it; and now it was an ominous fact of life. He would sooner or later have to get married to her. Maan felt no affection for her—they had hardly met each other except in the company of their families—and he did not really want to think about her. He was much happier thinking about Samia, who was now in Pakistan with her family but who wanted to return to Brahmpur just to visit Maan, or Sarla, the daughter of the former Inspector-General of Police, or any of his other earlier passions. A later flame, however brightly it burned, did not douse an earlier one in Maan’s heart. He continued to feel sudden throbs of warmth and goodwill at the thought of almost any of them.

  2.9

  It was dark by the time Maan walked back into the crowded town, uncertain once again about whether he should try his luck at Saeeda Bai’s. He was in Misri Mandi in a few minutes. It was a Sunday, but not a holiday here. The shoe market was full of bustle, light and noise: Kedarnath Tandon’s shop was open, as were all the other shops in the arcade—known as the Brahmpur Shoe Mart—that was located just off the main street. The so-called basket-wallahs ran hastily from shop to shop with baskets on their heads, offering their wares to the wholesalers: shoes that they and their families had made during the day and that they would have to sell in order to buy food as well as leather and other materials for their next day’s work. These shoemakers, mainly members of the ‘untouchable’ jatav caste or a few lower-caste Muslims, a large number of whom had remained in Brahmpur after Partition, were gaunt and poorly clad, and many of them looked desperate. The shops were elevated three feet or so above street level to enable them to place their baskets at the edge of the cloth-covered floor for examination by a possible buyer. Kedarnath, for instance, might take a pair of shoes out of a basket submitted for his inspection. If he rejected the basket, the seller would have to run to the next wholesaler—or to one in another arcade. Or Kedarnath might offer a lower price, which the shoemaker might or might not accept. Or Kedarnath might husband his funds by offering the shoemaker the same price but less cash, making up the remainder with a credit note or ‘chit’ that would be accepted by a discount agent or a seller of raw materials. Even after the shoes were sold, the material for the next day remained to be bought, and the basket-wallahs were virtually forced to sell to someone not too late in the evening, even on unfavourable terms.

  Maan did not understand the system, the large turnover of which depended on an effective network of credit in which chits were everything and banks played almost no role. Not that he wanted to understand it; the cloth business in Banaras was dependent on different financial structures. He had merely dropped in for a social chat, a cup of tea, and a chance to meet his nephew. Bhaskar, who was dressed in a white kurta-pyjama like his father, was sitting barefoot on the white cloth spread out on the floor of the shop. Kedarnath would occasionally turn to him and ask him to calculate something—sometimes to keep the boy entertained, sometimes because he was of real help. Bhaskar found the shop very exciting—what with the pleasure of working out discount rates or postal rates for distant orders, and the intriguing geometrical and arithmetical relationships of the stacked shoeboxes. He would delay going to bed as long as possible in order to remain with his father, and Veena sometimes had to send word more than once that he should come home.

  ‘How’s the frog?’ asked Maan, holding Bhaskar’s nose. ‘Is he awake? He’s looking very neat today.’

  ‘You should have seen him yesterday morning,’ said Kedarnath. ‘You could only see his eyes.’

  Bhaskar’s face lit up. ‘What have you brought me?’ he asked Maan. ‘You were the one who was sleeping. You have to pay me a forfeit.’

  ‘Son—’ began his father reprovingly.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Maan gravely, releasing his nose and clapping his hand over his mouth. ‘But tell me—what do you want? Quickly!’

  Bhaskar furrowed his forehead in thought.

  Two men walked past, talking about the impending strike by the basket-wallahs. A radio blared. A policeman shouted. The shop boy brought in two glasses of tea from the market and, after blowing on the surface for a minute, Maan began drinking.

  ‘Is everything going well?’ he asked Kedarnath. ‘We didn’t get much chance to talk this afternoon.’

  Kedarnath shrugged, then nodded.

  ‘Everything’s fine. But you look preoccupied.’

  ‘Preoccupied? Me? Oh, no, no—’ Maan protested. ‘But what’s this I hear about the basket-wallahs threatening to go on strike?’

  ‘Well—’ said Kedarnath.

  He could imagine the havoc that the threatened strike would spell, and didn’t want to get on to the subject. He passed his hand through his greying hair in an anxious gesture and closed his eyes.

  ‘I’m still thinking,’ said Bhaskar.

  ‘That’s a good habit,’ said Maan. ‘Well, tell me your decision next time—or send me a postcard.’

  ‘All right,’ said Bhaskar, with the faintest of smiles.

  ‘Bye, now.’

  ‘Bye, Maan Maama . . . oh, did you know that if you have a triangle like this, and if you draw squares on the sides like this, and then add up these two squares you get that square,’ Bhaskar gesticulated. ‘Every time,’ he added.

  ‘Yes, I do know that.’ Smug frog, thought Maan.

  Bhaskar looked disappointed, then cheered up. ‘Shall I tell you why?’ he asked Maan.

  ‘Not today. I have to go. Do you want a goodbye sum?’

  Bhaskar was tempted to say, ‘Not today,’ but changed his mind. ‘Yes,’ he said.

&n
bsp; ‘What is 256 times 512?’ asked Maan, who had worked this out beforehand.

  ‘That’s too easy,’ said Bhaskar. ‘Ask me another one.’

  ‘Well, what’s the answer, then?’

  ‘One lakh, thirty-one thousand and seventy-two.’

  ‘Hmm. What’s 400 times 400?’

  Bhaskar turned away, hurt.

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Maan. ‘What’s 789 times 987?’

  ‘Seven lakhs, seventy-eight thousand, seven hundred and forty-three,’ said Bhaskar after a pause of a few seconds.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Maan. The thought had suddenly entered his mind that perhaps he had better not risk his luck with Saeeda Bai, who was so notoriously temperamental.

  ‘Aren’t you going to check?’ asked Bhaskar.

  ‘No, genius, I have to be off.’ He tousled his nephew’s hair, gave his brother-in-law a nod, and walked out on to the main street of Misri Mandi. There he hailed a tonga to go back home.

  On the way he changed his mind yet again and went straight to Saeeda Bai’s instead.

  The khaki-turbaned watchman at the entrance appraised him for a moment and told him that Saeeda Bai was not in. Maan thought of writing her a note, but was faced with a problem. Which language should he write it in? Saeeda Bai would certainly not be able to read English and would almost certainly not be able to read Hindi, and Maan could not write Urdu. He tipped the watchman a rupee and said, ‘Please inform her that I came to pay my respects.’

  The watchman raised his right hand to his turban in a salute, and said:

  ‘And Sahib’s name?’

  Maan was about to give his name when he thought of something better.

  ‘Tell her that I am one who lives in love,’ he said. This was an atrocious pun on Prem Nivas.

  The watchman nodded impassively.

  Maan looked at the small, two-storeyed, rose-coloured house. Some lights were on inside, but that might not mean anything. With a sinking heart and a sense of deep frustration he turned away and walked in the general direction of home. But then he did what he usually did when he was feeling low or at a loose end—he sought out the company of friends. He told the tonga-wallah to take him to the house of the Nawab Sahib of Baitar. Upon finding that Firoz and Imtiaz were out till late, he decided to pay a visit to Pran. Pran hadn’t been pleased about the ducking of the whale, and Maan felt he should smooth his ruffled feathers. His brother struck him as being a decent fellow, but a man of tepid, unboisterous affections. Maan thought cheerfully that Pran just did not have it in him to be as love-struck and miserable as he was.

  2.10

  Returning later to the sadly ill-maintained mansion of Baitar House, Maan chatted till late with Firoz and Imtiaz, and then stayed overnight.

  Imtiaz went out very early on a call, yawning and cursing his profession.

  Firoz had some urgent work with a client, went into the section of his father’s vast library that served as his chambers, remained closeted in there for a couple of hours, and emerged whistling in time for a late breakfast.

  Maan, who had deferred having breakfast until Firoz could eat with him, was still sitting in his guest bedroom, looking over the Brahmpur Chronicle, and yawning. He had a slight hangover.

  An ancient retainer of the Nawab Sahib’s family appeared before him and, after making his obeisance and salutation, announced that the younger Sahib—Chhoté Sahib—would be coming for breakfast immediately, and would Maan Sahib be pleased to go downstairs? All this was pronounced in stately and measured Urdu.

  Maan nodded. After about half a minute he noticed that the old servant was still standing a little distance away and gazing expectantly at him. Maan looked at him quizzically.

  ‘Any other command?’ asked the servant, who—Maan noticed—looked at least seventy years old, but quite spry. He would have to be fit, thought Maan, in order to negotiate the stairs of the Nawab Sahib’s house several times a day. Maan wondered why he had never seen him before.

  ‘No,’ said Maan. ‘You can go. I’ll be down shortly.’ Then, as the old man raised his cupped palm to his forehead in polite salutation and turned to leave, Maan said, ‘Er, wait. . . .’

  The old man turned around and waited to hear what Maan had to say.

  ‘You must have been with the Nawab Sahib for many years,’ said Maan.

  ‘Yes, Huzoor, that I have. I am an old servitor of the family. Most of my life I have worked at Baitar Fort, but now in my old age it has pleased him to bring me here.’

  Maan smiled to see how unselfconsciously and with what quiet pride the old man referred to himself in the very words—‘purana khidmatgar’—that Maan had used mentally to classify him.

  Seeing Maan silent, the old man went on. ‘I entered service when I was, I think, ten years old. I came from the Nawab Sahib’s village of Raipur on the Baitar Estate. In those days I would get a rupee a month, and it was more than sufficient for my needs. This war, Huzoor, has raised the price of things so much that with many times such a salary people find the going difficult. And now with Partition—and all its troubles, and with the Nawab Sahib’s brother going to Pakistan and all these laws threatening the property—things are uncertain, very’—he paused to find another word, but in the end merely repeated himself—‘very uncertain.’

  Maan shook his head in the hope of clearing it and said, ‘Is there any aspirin available here?’

  The old man looked pleased that he could be of some use, and said, ‘Yes, I believe so, Huzoor. I will go and get some for you.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Maan. ‘No, don’t get it for me,’ he added, having second thoughts about making the old man exert himself. ‘Just leave a couple of tablets near my plate when I come downstairs for breakfast. Oh, by the way,’ he went on, as he visualized the two small tablets at the side of his plate, ‘why is Firoz called Chhoté Sahib, when he and Imtiaz were born at the same time?’

  The old man looked out of the window at the spreading magnolia tree which had been planted a few days after the twins had been born. He coughed for a second, and said, ‘Chhoté Sahib, that is Firoz Sahib, was born seven minutes after Burré Sahib.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Maan.

  ‘That is why he looks more delicate, less robust, than Burré Sahib.’

  Maan was silent, pondering this physiological theory.

  ‘He has his mother’s fine features,’ said the old man, then stopped, as if he had transgressed some limit of explanation.

  Maan recalled that the Begum Sahiba—the Nawab of Baitar’s wife and the mother of his daughter and twin sons—had maintained strict purdah throughout her life. He wondered how a male servant could have known what she looked like, but could sense the old man’s embarrassment and did not ask. Possibly a photograph, much more likely discussion among the servants, he thought.

  ‘Or so they say,’ added the old man. Then he paused, and said, ‘She was a very good woman, rest her soul. She was good to us all. She had a strong will.’

  Maan was intrigued by the old man’s hesitant but eager incursions into the history of the family to which he had given his life. But he was—despite his headache—quite hungry now, and decided that this was not the time to talk. So he said, ‘Tell Chhoté Sahib I will be down in, well, in seven minutes.’

  If the old man was puzzled by Maan’s unusual sense of timing, he did not show it. He nodded and was about to go.

  ‘What do they call you?’ asked Maan.

  ‘Ghulam Rusool, Huzoor,’ said the old servant.

  Maan nodded and he left.

  2.11

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ asked Firoz, smiling at Maan.

  ‘Very. But you rose early.’

  ‘Not earlier than usual. I like to get a great deal of work done before breakfast. If it hadn’t been a client, it would have been my briefs. It seems to me that you don’t work at all.’

  Maan looked at the two little pills lying on his quarter-plate, but said nothing, so Firoz went on.
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  ‘Now, I don’t know anything about cloth—’ began Firoz.

  Maan groaned. ‘Is this a serious conversation?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Firoz, laughing. ‘I’ve been up at least two hours.’

  ‘Well, I have a hangover,’ said Maan. ‘Have a heart.’

  ‘I do,’ said Firoz, reddening a bit. ‘I can assure you.’ He looked at the clock on the wall. ‘But I’m due at the Riding Club. One day I’m going to teach you polo, you know, Maan, all your protests notwithstanding.’ He got up and walked towards the corridor.

  ‘Oh, good,’ said Maan, more cheerfully. ‘That’s more in my line.’

  An omelette came. It was lukewarm, having had to traverse the vast distance between the kitchens and the breakfast room in Baitar House. Maan looked at it for a while, then gingerly bit a slice of unbuttered toast. His hunger had disappeared again. He swallowed the aspirins.

  Firoz, meanwhile, had just got to the front door when he noticed his father’s private secretary, Murtaza Ali, arguing with a young man at the entrance. The young man wanted to meet the Nawab Sahib. Murtaza Ali, who was not much older, was trying, in his sympathetic, troubled way, to prevent him from doing so. The young man was not dressed very well—his kurta was of homespun white cotton—but his Urdu was cultured in both accent and expression. He was saying:

  ‘But he told me to come at this time, and here I am.’

  The intensity of expression on his lean features made Firoz pause.

  ‘What seems to be the matter?’ asked Firoz.

  Murtaza Ali turned and said: ‘Chhoté Sahib, it appears that this man wants to meet your father in connection with a job in the library. He says he has an appointment.’

  ‘Do you know anything about this?’ Firoz asked Murtaza Ali.

  ‘I’m afraid not, Chhoté Sahib.’

  The young man said: ‘I have come from some distance and with some difficulty. The Nawab Sahib told me expressly that I should be here at ten o’clock to meet him.’