A Suitable Boy

  Though it was not late, the street was almost deserted; but then this was a quiet part of town. A car or two and a few bicycles and tongas passed along the road, and now and then a pedestrian walked by. An owl hooted calmly overhead. Maan stood there for half an hour. No car or tonga halted near her house. No one entered and no one left. Occasionally the watchman strolled up and down outside, or knocked the base of his spear hard against the pavement, or stamped his feet against the cold. A variable mist started to descend, obscuring his view from time to time. Maan began to feel that there was no one—no Bilgrami, no Raja, no Rasheed, no mysterious Other—whom Saeeda Bai was to meet. It was simply that she wanted to have nothing further to do with him. She had tired of him. He no longer meant anything to her.

  Another pedestrian approached Saeeda Bai’s house from the opposite direction, stopped by the gate, and was immediately admitted. Maan’s blood ran cold with shock. At first he had been too far away to see him clearly. Then the mist had cleared slightly, and he thought that he recognized Firoz.

  Maan stared. The door opened, and the man entered. Was it Firoz? It looked like him from this distance. His bearing was the same as that of his friend. He was carrying a walking stick, but with a young man’s air. His gait was that of Firoz. Gripped by disbelief and misery Maan started forward, then stopped. Surely, surely, it could not be Firoz.

  And even if it were Firoz, could he not be visiting the younger sister whom he appeared to be so fascinated by? Surely someone else would be visiting Saeeda Bai in due course. But the minutes passed, and no one else stopped by the house. And Maan realized that whoever had entered would never have been admitted to meet Tasneem. It could only be Saeeda Bai whom he was going to see. Again Maan covered his face with his hands.

  He had drunk more than half his bottle of whisky. He was unaware of the cold, unaware of what he was doing. He wanted to go to the door again, to enter and to find out who it was who had gone in and for what purpose. It cannot be Firoz, he thought to himself. And yet the man had looked so similar from this distance. The mist, the streetlights, the sudden illumination when the door opened: Maan tried to visualize once again what had happened just a few minutes before. But nothing became clearer.

  No one else went in. Nor did anyone come out. After half an hour, Maan could bear it no longer. He walked across the street. When he got to the gate he blurted out to the watchman the first thing that came into his head: ‘The Nawabzada asked me to bring his wallet in to him—and to take him a message.’

  The watchman was startled, but, hearing Maan mention Firoz’s title, he knocked at the door. Maan walked in without waiting for Bibbo to admit him. ‘It’s urgent,’ he explained to the watchman. ‘Has the Nawabzada arrived yet?’

  ‘Yes, Kapoor Sahib, he went in some time ago. But can’t I—?’

  ‘No. I must deliver this personally,’ said Maan.

  He walked up the stairs, not glancing at the mirror. If he had, he would have been shocked by the expression on his own face. Perhaps that glance in the mirror would have averted everything that was to happen.

  There were no shoes outside the door. Saeeda Bai was alone in her room. She was praying.

  ‘Get up,’ said Maan.

  She turned towards him and stood up, her face white. ‘How dare you?’ she began. ‘Who let you in? Take your shoes off in my room.’

  ‘Where is he?’ said Maan in a low voice.

  ‘Who—’ said Saeeda Bai, her voice trembling with anger. ‘The parakeet? His cage is covered up, as you can see.’

  Maan looked quickly around the room. He noticed Firoz’s stick in the corner and was seized by a fit of rage. Without bothering to reply, he opened the bedroom door. There was no one inside.

  ‘Get out!’ said Saeeda Bai. ‘How dare you think—never come here again—get out, before I call Bibbo—’

  ‘Where is Firoz?’

  ‘He hasn’t been here.’

  Maan looked at the walking stick. Saeeda Bai’s eyes followed his.

  ‘He’s gone,’ she whispered, agitated and suddenly fearful.

  ‘Why did he come? To meet your sister? Is it your sister he is in love with?’

  Suddenly, Saeeda Bai began to laugh as if what he had said was both bizarre and hilarious.

  Maan could not stand it. He gripped her by the shoulders and began to shake her. She looked at him, terrified by the expression of fury in his eyes—but she could still not help her grotesque, mocking laughter.

  ‘Why are you laughing? Stop it—stop it—’ cried Maan. ‘Tell me he came to see your sister—’

  ‘No—’ Saeeda Bai gasped out.

  ‘He came to see you about your sister—’

  ‘My sister! My sister!’ Saeeda Bai laughed in Maan’s face as if he had made some insane joke. ‘It is not my sister he is in love with—it is not my sister he is in love with—’ She tried to push Maan violently away. They fell on to the floor and Saeeda Bai screamed as Maan’s hands went round her throat. The water in the bowl spilled over. The fruit bowl overturned. Maan noticed none of this. His mind was red with rage. The woman he loved had betrayed him with his friend, and now she was taking delight in mocking his love and his misery.

  His hands tightened around her throat. ‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘Tell me where he is. He’s still here. Where is he hiding?’

  ‘Dagh Sahib—’ gasped Saeeda Bai.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Help—’

  ‘Where is he?’

  Saeeda Bai reached with her right hand for the fruit knife, but Maan let go of her throat and wrenched it out of her hand.

  They were still on the floor. He stared at the knife.

  Saeeda Bai started shrieking for help. From below there was the sound of a door opening, frightened voices, people rushing upstairs. Maan got up. Firoz was the first to reach the door. Bibbo was behind him.

  ‘Maan—’ said Firoz, taking in the scene in an instant. Saeeda Bai was resting her head on a pillow and holding her throat with both her hands. She was gasping, and her chest was heaving. Horrible retching sounds were coming from her throat.

  Maan looked at Firoz’s guilty and agitated face and knew instantly that the worst was true. Again he was seized with blind rage.

  ‘Look here, Maan,’ said Firoz, moving gradually towards him. ‘What is the matter? Let’s talk this over—easy does it—’

  Suddenly he lunged forward and tried to disarm Maan. But Maan was too quick for him. Firoz clutched at his stomach. Blood began to stain his waistcoat, and he stumbled on to the floor. He cried out in pain. Blood fell on the white sheet spread on the floor. Maan looked at it like a stupefied ox, then at the knife still in his hands.

  For a minute no one said a word. There was no sound apart from Saeeda Bai’s attempts to breathe, and Firoz’s stifled cries of pain, and Maan’s long and bitter sobs.

  ‘Put it down on the table,’ said Bibbo quietly.

  Maan put the knife down, and knelt by Firoz.

  ‘Leave at once,’ said Bibbo.

  ‘But a doctor—’

  ‘Leave at once. We will manage everything. Leave Brahmpur. You have not been to this house this evening. Go.’

  ‘Firoz—’

  Firoz nodded.

  ‘Why?’ said Maan in a broken voice.

  ‘Go—quick—’ said Firoz.

  ‘What have I done to you? What have I done?’

  ‘Quick—’

  Maan took one final look around the room and rushed downstairs and out. The watchman was pacing up and down outside the outer gate. He had heard nothing to agitate him. He saw Maan’s face and said: ‘What is the matter, Sahib?’

  Maan did not reply.

  ‘Is something the matter? I heard voices—do they want me?’

  ‘What?’ said Maan.

  ‘Do they want me, Sahib? Inside, I mean.’

  ‘Want? No, no—goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, Sahib,’ said the watchman. He stamped his feet a few times as Maan hurried
away into the mist.

  17.13

  Tasneem appeared at the door of Saeeda Bai’s room.

  ‘What is the matter, Apa? Oh my God—’ she cried, her eyes taking in the horrible scene: blood, crushed fruit, spilled water, her sister leaning, gasping against the couch, Firoz lying wounded on the floor, the knife on the table.

  Firoz saw her and felt that he was about to pass out. Then the true horror of all that had happened that evening swam into his mind.

  ‘I am going,’ he said, to no one in particular.

  Saeeda Bai was incapable of speaking. Bibbo said: ‘The Nawabzada cannot leave like this. He is badly injured. He needs a doctor.’

  Firoz got up with an effort. The pain made him gasp. He looked around the room and shuddered. He saw his walking stick.

  ‘Bibbo, give me the stick.’

  ‘The Nawabzada must not—’

  ‘The stick.’

  She handed it to him.

  ‘Take care of your mistress. Your mistresses,’ he added bitterly.

  ‘Let me help you down the stairs,’ said Tasneem.

  Firoz stared into her face with a glazed look. ‘No,’ he said gently.

  ‘You need help,’ she said, her lips trembling.

  ‘No!’ he cried with sudden vehemence.

  Bibbo saw that Firoz was determined to have his way. ‘Begum Sahiba—that shawl?’ she asked. Saeeda Bai nodded, and Bibbo put a shawl around Firoz’s shoulders. She walked downstairs with him to the door. It was still misty outside. Firoz leaned against his stick, hunched forward like an old man. He kept saying to himself: ‘I cannot stay here. I cannot stay here.’

  Bibbo said to the watchman: ‘Go immediately to Dr Bilgrami’s. Tell him that the Begum Sahiba and another person have been taken ill.’ The watchman stared at Firoz.

  ‘Go. Go quickly, you dolt—’ said Bibbo with authority.

  The watchman stomped off.

  Firoz made to move towards the gate. The night was thick with mist.

  ‘The Nawabzada is in no state to go—please, please wait here—look at the night and at yourself. I have called the doctor. He will be here any minute,’ cried Bibbo, holding him back.

  ‘You cannot go—’ This time it was Tasneem who had run downstairs to prevent him from leaving. She was standing—for the first time in her life—at the open door, not daring, however, to go further. Had there been no fog she would have been visible from the road.

  He was unable to control his tears of pain and shock as he walked along.

  Why Maan had stabbed him—what had happened between Maan and Saeeda Bai—he could not even think. But nothing was worse than what had happened before. Saeeda Bai had intercepted one of his letters, and had summoned him. Curtly she had forbidden him to write to Tasneem, to have anything to do with her. When he had protested, she had told him the truth.

  ‘Tasneem is not my sister,’ she had said as factually as possible. ‘She is yours.’

  Firoz had stared at her in horror. ‘Yes,’ Saeeda Bai had continued. ‘She is my daughter, God forgive me.’

  Firoz had shaken his head.

  ‘And God forgive your father,’ she had continued. ‘Now go in peace. I must say my prayers.’

  Firoz, speechless with disgust and torn between belief and disbelief, had left her room. Downstairs he told Bibbo he had to see Tasneem.

  ‘No—’ said Bibbo. ‘No—how can the Nawabzada presume—’

  ‘You have known all along,’ he said to her, clutching her arm.

  ‘Known what?’ protested Bibbo, shaking him off.

  ‘If you haven’t known it, it can’t be true,’ said Firoz. ‘It is a cruel lie. It cannot be true.’

  ‘True? True?’ said Bibbo. ‘The Nawabzada has taken leave of his senses.’

  ‘I must see Tasneem. I must see her,’ Firoz had cried in desperation.

  Hearing her name, Tasneem had come out of her room and looked at him. He had gone up to her and stared at her face till tears of embarrassment and misery ran down her cheeks.

  ‘What is the matter? Why is the Nawabzada looking at me in this manner?’ she asked Bibbo, turning her face away.

  ‘Go back to your room or your sister will be furious with you,’ said Bibbo. Tasneem had turned back.

  ‘I must talk with you,’ said Firoz, following Bibbo into another room.

  ‘Then keep your voice low,’ said Bibbo curtly. But his questions had been so wild and strange—and so full of guilt and shame—that she had looked at him in real perplexity. ‘I can see no resemblance to anyone—to Zainab, to my father—’ he had said. She had still been trying to make sense of his words when they had heard the sounds upstairs—of someone falling, and Saeeda Bai crying for help.

  The night had become bitterly cold. Firoz stopped, and walked, and stopped again. The mist thinned out here and there, then wound itself around him. The shawl was soaked in blood. His thoughts, his pain, the mist, all dispersed and concentrated about him as if at random. His hands were wet with blood where he had clutched his side. The walking stick slipped in his hand. He did not know if he would be able to get home like this. And if he got home, he thought, how could he bear to look at his father’s old and beloved face?

  He had hardly walked a hundred yards when he felt that he would not be able to make it. The loss of blood, the physical pain, and the terrible thoughts that oppressed his mind had brought him almost to collapse. A tonga loomed up out of the mist. He raised his stick and tried to hail it, and collapsed on to the pavement.

  17.14

  It was a quiet night at the Pasand Bagh Police Station, and the station house officer, who was a Sub-Inspector, was yawning, writing up reports, drinking tea, and cracking jokes with his subordinates.

  ‘This is a very subtle one, Hemraj, so listen carefully,’ he addressed a writer-constable who was making an entry in the daily diary. ‘Two masters each said that their servant was stupider than the other’s. So they had a bet. One summoned his servant and said: “Budhu Ram, there’s a Buick for sale in a shop on Nabiganj. Here is ten rupees. Go and buy it for me.” So Budhu Ram took the ten rupees and went out.’

  A couple of the constables burst out laughing, and the Sub-Inspector shut them up. ‘I have hardly begun telling you the joke and you idiots start braying. Shut up and listen. . . . So the other master said: “You may think that’s stupid, but my servant, Ullu Chand, is even stupider. I’ll prove it.” He summoned Ullu Chand and said: “Now look here, Ullu Chand, I want you to go to the Subzipore Club and see if I’m there. It’s urgent.” Ullu Chand immediately went off to do as he was told.’

  The constables started laughing uncontrollably. ‘See if I’m there—’ one said, rolling about. ‘See if I’m there.’

  ‘Shut up, shut up,’ said the Sub-Inspector. ‘I haven’t finished.’ The constables promptly shut up. The Sub-Inspector cleared his throat. ‘On the way, one servant met the other and said—’

  A bewildered tonga-wallah entered the room, and mumbled, in obvious distress: ‘Daroga Sahib—’

  ‘Oh, shut up, shut up,’ said the Sub-Inspector genially. ‘So one servant met the other and said: “I say, Ullu Chand, my master is a complete idiot. He gave me ten rupees and told me to buy a Buick. But doesn’t he know that today is Sunday and the shops are closed?”’

  At this point everyone burst out laughing, including the Sub-Inspector himself. But he hadn’t finished yet, and, when the laughter had died down, he continued:

  ‘And the other servant said: “Well, that may be stupid, Budhu Ram, but it’s nothing compared to the idiocy of my master. He asked me to find out urgently if he was at the club. But if it was so urgent, why didn’t he simply go to the other room and use the telephone?”’

  At this the entire room resounded with hoots and shrieks of laughter, and the Sub-Inspector, very pleased, took a loud sip of tea, some of which wet his moustache. ‘Yes, what do you want?’ he said, noticing the tonga-wallah, who appeared to be trembling.

  ‘Da
roga Sahib, there’s a body lying on the pavement on Cornwallis Road.’

  ‘It’s a bad night. Must be some poor fellow who’s succumbed to the cold,’ said the Inspector. ‘But Cornwallis Road?’

  ‘He’s alive,’ said the tonga-wallah. ‘He tried to hail me, then collapsed. He’s covered in blood. I think he’s been stabbed. He looks as if he’s from a good family. I didn’t know whether to leave him or to bring him—to go to the hospital or the police. Please come quickly. Did I do the right thing?’

  ‘You idiot!’ cried the Sub-Inspector. ‘You’ve been standing here all this while. Why didn’t you speak earlier?’ He addressed the others: ‘Get some bandages. And you, Hemraj, phone the government doctor at the night clinic. Get the police kit together quickly, and bring a couple of extra torches. And you’—he addressed the tonga-wallah—‘come with us and show us where he’s lying.’

  ‘Did I do the right thing?’ asked the tonga-wallah fearfully.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes—you didn’t disturb him, did you?’

  ‘No, Daroga Sahib, I just turned him over to see—to see, well, if he was alive.’

  ‘For God’s sake, what is taking you so long?’ said the Sub-Inspector impatiently to his subordinates. ‘Come on. How far is it from here?’

  ‘Just two minutes away.’

  ‘Then we’ll go in your tonga. Hemraj, use the police jeep to get the doctor. Don’t fill in more than a line in the daily diary. I’ll do the rest later. If he’s still alive maybe I’ll get an FIR from him rather than from the tonga-wallah. I’m taking Bihari with me. The other Assistant Sub-Inspector will handle the station while I’m gone.’

  Within two minutes they had got to Firoz. He was semi-conscious and still bleeding. It was immediately clear to the Sub-Inspector that if his life was to be saved there was no question of first aid and bandages. Time was of the essence. He should be moved to the hospital forthwith.