A Suitable Boy

  After a while he continued, looking past the school towards Sagal. ‘He says that we are deluded, that our god is money, that wealth and land is all we are interested in. That sick man whom he visited with you, Rasheed used to tell us we should help him, should support his legal rights, should make him start a court case against his brothers. Such madness, such unrealistic notions—to interfere in the family matters of others and bring about needless strife. Imagine what would have happened if we had taken his advice. The man is dead now but the feud between the villages would have gone on forever.’

  Maan said nothing; it was as if his mind was blocked. He hardly even registered the news of this death. His thoughts were still with that work-worn man who with such calm and cheerfulness used to pump water for his bath. Strange to think that even his paltry earnings had been undone by—by what? Perhaps by Maan’s own father. The two knew nothing of each other as individuals, but Kachheru was the saddest case of the evil practised under the act, and Mahesh Kapoor was almost directly responsible for his utter devastation, his reduction to the forsaken status of a landless labourer. Linked though they were in this sense of the former’s guilt and the latter’s despair, if they were to pass each other in the street, thought Maan, neither would know the other.

  No doubt the effect of the Zamindari Act would be substantially good, but that would be of no help to Kachheru. Nor, Maan realized, with a seriousness unusual in him, could he do anything about it. To intercede with Baba would be impossible, and to take it up with his father an unthinkable betrayal of trust. To have helped the old woman at the Fort—that was entirely another thing.

  And Rasheed? Censorious, pitiable, worn out, torn between family shame and family pride, forced to choose between loyalty and justice, between trust and pity, what must he have been through? Was he too not a victim of the tragedy of the countryside, of the country itself? Maan tried to imagine the pressure and suffering he must have undergone.

  But Baba was saying, as if he had read Maan’s thoughts: ‘You know, the boy is very disturbed. I don’t like to think of it. He has almost no friends in the city as far as we can tell, no one to talk to except those communists. Why don’t you talk to him and make him see sense? We don’t know how it has happened that he has become so strange, so incoherent. Someone said that he got hit on the head during a demonstration. Then we found out that that was not so. But perhaps, as his uncle says, the immediate cause is not important. Sooner or later, what does not bend will snap.’

  Maan nodded in the darkness. Whether or not the old man noticed, he continued: ‘I am not against the boy. Even now if he mends his ways and repents we will take him back. God is not called the compassionate, the merciful, for nothing. He tells us to forgive those who turn away from evil. But Rasheed—you know—if he changes his mind, he will be as vehement facing south as he was facing north.’ He smiled. ‘He was my favourite. I had more energy then, when he was ten years old. I would take him to the roof of my pigeon-house, and he would point out all our lands, exactly which bits were ours, and when they came into the family. With pride. And yet this same boy. . . .’ The old man was silent. Then, in an almost anguished voice, he said: ‘One never knows anyone in this world, one cannot read anyone’s heart, one never knows whom to believe and whom to trust.’

  A faint call was heard in the distance from Debaria, followed by a closer one from Sagal.

  ‘That is the call to night prayer,’ said Baba. ‘Let’s go back. I shouldn’t miss it and I don’t want to pray in this Sagal mosque. Come on, get up, get up.’

  Maan remembered his first morning in Debaria when he had woken up to find Baba telling him to go to prayer. Then, his excuse had been his religion. Now he said, ‘Baba, if it’s all right, I’ll just sit here for a while. I’ll find my own way back.’

  ‘You want to be alone?’ asked Baba, his voice betraying his surprise at what was an unusual request, particularly from Maan. ‘Here, take the torch. No, no, take it, take it. I only brought it along to guide you. I can cut across these fields blindfolded at midnight at the new moon of Id. Well, I will mention him again in my prayers. May it do him some good.’

  Alone Maan sat and looked out over the expanse of water. Into its blackness fell the reflection of the stars. He thought of the Bear, and of how he had done something definite to help Rasheed, and he felt ashamed at his own inaction. Rasheed never rested from his endeavours, thought Maan, shaking his head, whereas he himself did nothing but; or at least would have liked to. He promised himself that when he returned to Brahmpur for a few days’ break he would visit him, difficult though the encounter was bound to be. He had been deeply disturbed by his previous meeting, and he did not know if his perplexity had been enhanced or diminished by what Baba had told him.

  So much lay beneath the placid surface of things, so much torment and danger. Rasheed was by no means his closest friend, but he had thought he knew him and understood him. Maan was given to trusting and being trusted, but, as Baba said, perhaps one could never read the human heart.

  As for Rasheed, Maan felt that for his own sake he had to be made to see the world with all its evil in a more tolerant light. It was not true that one could change everything through effort and vehemence and will. The stars maintained their courses despite his madness, and the village world moved on as before, swerving only very slightly to avoid him.

  17.10

  Two days later they drove back to Brahmpur for a brief rest. Mrs Mahesh Kapoor greeted them with unaccustomed tears in her eyes. She had helped a little in canvassing among women for local Congress candidates in Brahmpur. Mahesh Kapoor was annoyed when he heard that she had even canvassed in L.N. Agarwal’s constituency. Now that Pran, Savita and Uma were in Calcutta, and Veena and Kedarnath were both busy and able only rarely to visit, she had been feeling quite lonely. Nor was she at all well. But she sensed immediately the new warmth of the relationship between her husband and her younger son, and this gave her great joy. She went into the kitchen in a little while to supervise Maan’s favourite tahiri herself; and later, after a bath, to do puja and give thanks for their safe return.

  Though Mrs Mahesh Kapoor did not have, or have cause to have, a particularly well-developed sense of humour, one object that she had recently added to her puja paraphernalia never failed to make her smile. It was a brass bowl filled with harsingar blossoms and a few harsingar leaves. The bowl rested on a Congress flag made of flimsy paper, and Mrs Mahesh Kapoor looked from one to another with pleasure, admiring the saffron, white and green first of this and then of that as she rang her small brass bell around them—and all the gods—in joint benediction.

  The next morning Maan found his mother and sister shelling peas in the courtyard. He had demanded tahiri again, and they were obliging him. He pulled up a morha and joined them. He remembered how as a child he would often sit in the courtyard—on a small morha which was reserved for him—and watch his mother shelling peas while she told him some story or other about the gods and their doings. But now the talk was about more terrestrial matters.

  ‘How is it going, Maan?’

  Maan realized that this was probably the first proper news his mother would be getting about the new constituency. If she had asked his father, he would have dismissed her silliness and fobbed her off with a few generalities. Maan gave her as thorough a picture as he could.

  At the end of it she said, with a sigh: ‘I wish I could have helped.’

  ‘You must take care of yourself, Ammaji,’ said Maan, ‘and not exert yourself too much. Veena should be the one to help with the women voters. The country air will do her good after the foetid alleys of the old city.’

  ‘I like that!’ said Veena. ‘That’s the last time you’re invited to our house. Foetid alleys. And it sounds as if you have a sore throat from all that fresh country air. I know what canvassing among the women is like. Endless shy giggles, and how many children do I have, and why am I not in purdah? You should take Bhaskar along, not me. He’s very enthusias
tic to go and count all those heads. And he can help with the children’s vote,’ she added with a laugh.

  Maan laughed too. ‘All right, I’ll take him along. But why can’t you give us a hand as well? Does Kedarnath’s mother really object so much?’ He shelled a pea-pod, and thumbed the peas into his mouth. ‘Delicious.’

  ‘Maan,’ said Veena reproachfully, with an imperceptible nod towards her mother, ‘Pran and Savita are in Calcutta and will be there till the eighth of January. Who is left here in Brahmpur?’

  Mrs Mahesh Kapoor said immediately: ‘Don’t use me as an excuse, Veena. I can take care of myself. You should help your father get out the vote.’

  ‘Well, maybe in a week or two you can take care of yourself—and Pran will be back. But right now I’m not going. Even Savita’s mother didn’t leave for Calcutta when her father was unwell. Anyway, everything looks in very good shape in the constituency.’

  ‘Yes, it does,’ agreed Maan. ‘But the real reason you’re not going is that you’re too lazy. That is what married life does to people.’

  ‘Lazy!’ said Veena, laughing. ‘The pot calling the snowflake black,’ she added in English. ‘And I notice you’re eating more than you’re shelling,’ she continued in Hindi.

  ‘So I am,’ said Maan, surprised. ‘But they’re so fresh and sweet.’

  ‘Have some more, son,’ said Mrs Mahesh Kapoor. ‘Don’t listen to her.’

  ‘Maan should learn to exercise some self-restraint,’ said Veena.

  ‘Should I?’ asked Maan, popping a few more peas into his mouth. ‘I can’t resist delicious things.’

  ‘Is that the disease or the diagnosis?’ asked his sister.

  ‘I am a changed man,’ said Maan. ‘Even Baoji’s been paying me compliments.’

  ‘I’ll believe that when I hear one,’ said Veena, popping a few more peas into her brother’s mouth.

  17.11

  That evening Maan strolled along to Saeeda Bai’s house. He had had a hair-cut and a bath. It was a cool evening, so he wore a bundi over his kurta; in a pocket of his bundi was a half-bottle of whisky; and on his head was a starched white cap worked in white.

  It was good to be back. The mud roads of the country had their charms, no doubt, but he was a town man. He liked the city—at least this city. And he liked streets—at least this street, the street where Saeeda Bai’s house stood—and of that house, he particularly liked Saeeda Bai’s two rooms. And of those two rooms, he particularly liked the inner one.

  A little after eight o’clock, he arrived at the gate, waved familiarly to the watchman, and was allowed in. Bibbo met him at the door, looked surprised to see him, and walked him up to Saeeda Bai’s room. Maan’s heart leapt up when he saw that Saeeda Bai was reading from the book that he had given her, the illustrated Works of Ghalib. She looked charming, her pale neck and shoulders leaning forward, the book in her hand, a bowl of fruit and a small bowl of water to her left, her harmonium to her right. The room was redolent with attar of roses. Beauty, fragrance, music, food, poetry, and a source of intoxication in his pocket: ah, Maan felt, as their eyes met, this is what happiness means.

  She too looked surprised to see him, and Maan began to wonder if the watchman had admitted him by mistake. But she looked down quickly at the book, and idly turned a few pages.

  ‘Come, Dagh Sahib, come, sit down, what time is it?’

  ‘Just after eight, Saeeda Begum, but the year changed some days ago.’

  ‘I was aware of it,’ said Saeeda Bai, smiling. ‘It will be an interesting year.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ asked Maan. ‘Last year was interesting enough for me.’ He put out his hand and held hers. Then he kissed her shoulder. Saeeda Bai neither resisted nor responded.

  Maan looked hurt. ‘Is something the matter?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing, Dagh Sahib, that you can help me with. Do you remember what I said the last time we met?’

  ‘I remember something of it,’ said Maan—but all he could remember was the sense of the conversation, not the exact words: her fears for Tasneem, her look of vulnerability.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Saeeda Bai, changing the subject, ‘I do not have much time with you this evening. I am expecting someone in a little while. God knows, I should have been reading the Quran, not Ghalib, but who knows what one will do from one moment to the next.’

  ‘I met Rasheed’s family,’ said Maan, who was agitated at the thought that he would have no time with her this evening, and wanted to get his unpleasant duty of informing Saeeda Bai over and done with as soon as possible.

  ‘Yes?’ said Saeeda Bai almost indifferently.

  ‘They don’t know anything, it seems to me, about what is going on in his head,’ said Maan. ‘Nor do they care. All they are concerned about is that his politics shouldn’t cause them any economic loss. That is all. His wife—’

  Maan stopped. Saeeda Bai raised her head, and said: ‘Yes, yes, I’ve known that he has one wife already. And you know I know. But I am not interested in all this. Forgive me, I must now ask you to go.’

  ‘Saeeda—but tell me why—’

  Saeeda Bai looked down at the book and started turning its pages in a distracted manner.

  ‘A page is torn,’ said Maan.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Saeeda Bai absently. ‘I should have it mended better.’

  ‘Let me do it for you,’ said Maan. ‘I can have it done. How did it get torn?’

  ‘Dagh Sahib, do you not see what state I am in? I cannot answer questions. I was reading your book when you came in. Why do you not believe that I was thinking of you?’

  ‘Saeeda,’ said Maan helplessly. ‘I can believe it. But what use is it to me that you should merely think of me when I am not here? I can see that you are distressed by something. But by what? Why don’t you tell me? I don’t understand it. I can’t understand it—and I want to help you. Is there someone else you are seeing?’ he said, suddenly sensing that her agitation could be caused by excitement as much as by distress. ‘Is that it? Is that it?’

  ‘Dagh Sahib,’ said Saeeda Bai in a quiet, exhausted tone. ‘This would not matter to you if you had more sakis than one. I told you that the last time.’

  ‘I don’t remember what you said the last time,’ said Maan, feeling a rush of jealousy. ‘Don’t tell me how many sakis I should have. You mean everything to me. I don’t care about what was said the last time. I want to know why I am being turned away by you this time with so little attempt at courtesy—’ He paused, overcome, then looked at her, breathing hard. ‘Why did you say this year would be so interesting for you? Why did you say that? What has happened since I’ve been away?’

  Saeeda Bai leaned her head slightly at an angle. ‘Oh, that?’ she smiled, in a slightly mocking, even self-mocking, manner. ‘Fifty-two is the number of a pack of cards. Things are complete. Fate is bound to have shuffled and dealt things in a comprehensive way this year. So far I have lifted the edge of only two cards that have fallen to me, a Queen and a Jack: a Begum and a Ghulam.’

  ‘Of what suit?’ asked Maan, shaking his head. Ghulam could mean either a young man or a slave. ‘Are they of the same suit or are they antagonistic?’

  ‘Paan, perhaps,’ said Saeeda Bai, naming hearts. ‘At any rate I can see that they are both red. I can’t see any more. But I do not care for this conversation.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ said Maan, angrily. ‘At least there is no room this year for a joker in the pack.’

  Suddenly Saeeda Bai started laughing in a desperate way. Then she covered her face with her hands. ‘Now it is up to you to think what you like. Think that I too have gone mad. It is beyond me to say what is the matter.’ Even before she uncovered her face Maan could tell that she was crying.

  ‘Saeeda Begum—Saeeda—I am sorry—’

  ‘Do not apologize. This is the easiest part of the night for me. I dread what is to come.’

  ‘Is it the Raja of Marh?’ said Maan.

  ‘The Raja of Marh?’ said S
aeeda Bai softly, her eyes falling on the book. ‘Yes, yes, perhaps. Please leave me.’ The bowl of fruit was full of apples, pears, oranges, and even some unseasonal, wrinkled grapes. Impulsively she broke off a small bunch and gave them to Maan. ‘This will nourish you better than what comes of it,’ she said.

  Maan put a grape in his mouth without thinking, then suddenly recalled eating peas that morning at Prem Nivas. For some reason, this made him furious. He crushed the rest of the grapes in his hand and dropped them into the bowl of water. His face red, he got up, stepped outside the threshold, put on his jutis, and walked downstairs. There he paused, and covered his face with his hands. Finally he went out and began walking homewards. But he had not gone a hundred yards when he stopped once more. He leaned against a huge tamarind tree and looked back towards Saeeda Bai’s house.

  17.12

  He took the bottle of whisky out of his pocket and began to drink. He felt as if his heart had been crushed. Every night for a fortnight he had thought of her. Every morning when he had woken up, whether at the Fort or in Salimpur, he had lingered for a few minutes in bed, imagining that she was with him. No doubt his dreams too had been of her. And now, after these fifteen days away, she had granted him fifteen minutes of her time, and as good as given him to understand that someone else mattered far more to her than he ever could. But surely not the gross Raja of Marh.

  Yet there was so much in her talk that he could not even remotely understand, even though Saeeda Bai at the best of times very rarely spoke except by indirection. If he himself was the slave or the young man whom she was referring to, what then? What did she mean by dread? Who would be coming to the house? Where did the Raja of Marh fit into all this? And what about Rasheed? By now Maan had drunk so much that he hardly cared what he did. He walked halfway back to her house and stood where he could not be observed by the watchman, but could see if anyone went in.