A Suitable Boy

  Maan received the note in the late afternoon and did not hesitate. Without telling his father, who was sitting on a bench reading some legislative papers, he walked over to Baitar House. Perhaps this call, rather than a summons from the court of the committal magistrate, was what in his state of idle tension he had been waiting for all along. As he approached the grand main gates, he looked instinctively about him, thinking of the she-monkey who had attacked him here earlier. This time he carried no stick.

  A servant asked him to enter. But the Nawab Sahib’s secretary, Murtaza Ali, happened to be passing by, and asked him, with stern courtesy, what he imagined he was doing there. He had been given strict orders not to admit anyone from Mahesh Kapoor’s family. Maan, whose instinct not very long ago would have been to tell him to go hang himself had been shaken by his jail life into responding to the orders of his social inferiors. He showed him Firoz’s note.

  Murtaza Ali looked worried but thought quickly. Imtiaz was at the hospital, Zainab was in the zenana, and the Nawab Sahib was at his prayers. The note was unambiguous. He told Ghulam Rusool to take Maan up to see Firoz for a few minutes and asked Maan if he would like something to drink.

  Maan would have liked a gallon of whisky to fortify himself. ‘No, thank you,’ he replied.

  Firoz’s face lit up when he saw his friend. ‘So you’ve come!’ he said. ‘I feel I’m in jail here. I’ve been asking for you for a week, but the Superintendent won’t let messages out. I hope you’ve brought me some whisky.’

  Maan started weeping. Firoz looked so pale—really, as if he had just returned from death.

  ‘Have a look at my scar,’ Firoz said, trying to lighten the situation. He pushed the bedsheet down and pulled up his kurta.

  ‘Impressive,’ said Maan, still in tears. ‘Centipede.’

  He went to Firoz’s bedside, and touched his friend’s face.

  They talked for a few minutes, each attempting to avoid what might cause the other pain except in such a way as would more probably defuse it.

  ‘You’re looking well,’ said Maan.

  ‘How poorly you lie,’ said Firoz. ‘I wouldn’t take you on as a client. . . . These days I find I lack concentration. My mind wanders,’ he added with a smile. ‘It’s quite interesting.’

  They were silent for a minute. Maan put his forehead to Firoz’s and sighed painfully. He did not say how sorry he was for all he had done.

  He sat down near Firoz.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, at times.’

  ‘Is everyone at home all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Firoz. ‘How are—how is your father?’

  ‘As well as can be expected,’ said Maan.

  Firoz did not say how sorry he was about Maan’s mother, but shook his head in regret, and Maan understood.

  After a while he got up.

  ‘Come again,’ said Firoz.

  ‘When? Tomorrow?’

  ‘No—in two or three days.’

  ‘You’ll have to send me another note,’ said Maan. ‘Or I’ll be thrown out.’

  ‘Here, give me the old note. I’ll revalidate it,’ said Firoz with a smile.

  As Maan walked home, it struck him that they had avoided talking directly about Saeeda Bai or Tasneem or his experience of prison or the forthcoming case against him, and he was glad.

  18.23

  That evening, Dr Bilgrami came over to Prem Nivas to have a word with Maan. He told him that Saeeda Bai wished to see him. Dr Bilgrami looked exhausted, and Maan agreed to go with him. The meeting was a painful one.

  Saeeda Bai’s voice was still not itself, though she had recovered her looks. She reproached Maan for not having visited her since his release from jail. Had he changed so much? she asked with a smile. Had she changed? Had he not received her notes? What had kept him away? She was ill, she was desperate to see him. Her voice broke. She was going mad without him. She impatiently waved Dr Bilgrami away, and turned to Maan with longing and pity. How was he? He looked so thin. What had they done to him?

  ‘Dagh Sahib—what has happened to you? What will happen to you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He looked around the room. ‘The blood?’ he asked.

  ‘What blood?’ she asked. It had been a month ago.

  The room smelt of attar of roses and of Saeeda Bai herself. Sadly and sensuously she leaned back on her cushions against the wall. But Maan thought he saw a scar on her face, and the face itself turned into a portrait of the varicose Victoria.

  So shattering had been his mother’s death, Firoz’s danger, his own disgrace, and his terrible sense of guilt that he had begun to suffer a violent revulsion of feeling against himself and Saeeda Bai. Perhaps he saw her too as a victim. But his greater understanding of events gave him no greater control over his feelings. He had been too deeply scoured by what had occurred, and his present vision of her horrified him. He stared at her face.

  I am becoming like Rasheed, he thought. I’m seeing things that don’t exist.

  He stood up, his face pale. ‘I am going,’ he said.

  ‘You aren’t well,’ she said.

  ‘No—no, I’m not,’ he said.

  Hurt and frustrated by his behaviour, she had been about to rebuke him for his attitude towards her, for what he had done to her household, to her reputation, to Tasneem. But one look at his bewildered face told her it would be no use. He was in another world—beyond the reach of her affections or attractions. She hid her face in her hands.

  ‘Are you all right?’ said Maan uncertainly, as if feeling his way to something in the past. ‘I am to blame for all that has happened.’

  ‘You don’t love me—don’t tell me you do—I can see it—’ she wept.

  ‘Love—’ said Maan. ‘Love?’ Suddenly he sounded furious.

  ‘And even the shawl that my mother gave me—’ said Saeeda Bai.

  She was making no sense to him at all.

  ‘Don’t let them do anything to you—’ she said, refusing to look up, unwilling for once that he should see her tears. Maan looked away.

  18.24

  On the 29th of February, Maan was brought up before the same magistrate as before. The police had reconsidered their position based on the evidence. Maan had not intended to kill Firoz, but the police now believed that he had intended to cause ‘such bodily injury as was sufficient in the ordinary course of nature to cause death’. This was enough to bring him under the hazard of the section dealing with attempted murder. The magistrate was satisfied with the result of the investigation and framed the charges.

  I, Suresh Mathur, Magistrate of the First Class at Brahmpur, hereby charge you, Maan Kapoor, as follows:

  That you, on or about the 4th day of January, 1952, at Brahmpur, did an act, to wit, that you did stab with a knife one Nawabzada Firoz Ali Khan of Baitar with such knowledge and under such circumstances, that if by that act you had caused the death of Nawabzada Firoz Ali Khan of Baitar, you would have been guilty of murder and that you caused hurt to the said Nawabzada Firoz Ali Khan of Baitar by the said act, and thereby committed an offence punishable under Section 307 of the Indian Penal Code, and within the cognizance of the Court of Session.

  And I hereby direct that you be tried by the said Court on the said charge.

  The magistrate also charged Maan with grievous hurt with a deadly weapon. Both these offences carried a possible sentence of imprisonment for life. Neither was bailable, and the magistrate therefore withdrew bail. Maan was recommitted to jail to await trial.

  18.25

  Also on the 29th of February, Pran’s selection as reader in the Department of English at Brahmpur University was confirmed by the Academic Council. But he, and his family, and his father, were sunk in such gloom that this news did not lighten it at all.

  Pran, his thoughts dwelling much on death these days, wondered once again about the remark made by Ramjap Baba to his mother at the Pul Mela. If his readership was indeed due to a death, whose
death had the Baba meant? Certainly, his mother had died; but just as certainly this could not have influenced the selection committee. Or had Professor Mishra been serious when he had claimed that he had watched out for Pran’s interests out of sympathy for his family?

  I too am becoming superstitious, thought Pran. It will be my father next. But his father, luckily for his state of mind, had something to occupy him over the next few days other than trying to organize Maan’s defence.

  18.26

  At the beginning of March, Mahesh Kapoor, though defeated in the elections, was asked once again to perform his duties as an MLA. The Legislative Assembly of Purva Pradesh had been elected, but the indirect elections for the Upper House, the Legislative Council, had not yet taken place. The legislature was therefore not complete. Under the Constitution, six months could not be allowed to elapse between sessions of the legislative body, and the old legislature was therefore forced into brief session. Besides, it was budget time; and though propriety demanded that the budget be passed by the new legislature, the financial wheels had to be kept turning somehow. This would be done through a ‘vote on account’ for the months of April to July, 1952, the first third of the coming financial year. This vote on account had to be passed by the old, soon-to-be-defunct legislature of which Mahesh Kapoor was a part.

  In early March, the two Houses of the legislature met in joint session to hear the Governor’s address. The discussion following the vote of thanks to the Governor turned into a noisy and angry debate on the Congress government itself: both its policies and the manner in which it had conducted the elections. Many of those who were most vocal were those who had been defeated and whose voice would be heard in this vast round chamber no more—or at least not for the next five years. As the Governor was the constitutional (and largely ceremonial) head of the state, his address had for the most part been written by the Chief Minister S.S. Sharma.

  The Governor’s address touched briefly on recent events, the achievements of the government, and its future plans. The Congress Party had won three-quarters of the seats in the Lower House, and (because of the system of indirect election) was bound to win a large majority in the Upper House as well. Discussing the elections, the Governor said in passing: ‘I am sure that it will be a cause of gratification to you, as it is to me, that almost all my Ministers have been returned to the new Assembly.’ At this point many of those in the House turned to look at Mahesh Kapoor.

  The Governor also mentioned a ‘matter of regret’: that the enforcement of the Purva Pradesh Zamindari and Land Reform Act ‘is being delayed for reasons which are beyond the control of my government’. This referred to the fact that the constitutionality of the act was still to be decided by the Supreme Court. ‘But,’ he added, ‘I need hardly assure you that no time will be lost in implementing it as soon as it legally becomes possible to do so.’

  In the subsequent debate, Begum Abida Khan brought up both these matters. She mentioned in one fiery breath that it was well known that the Government had used unfair methods—including the use of official cars for ministerial travel—to win the elections; and that, despite this abuse, the Minister who was most closely associated in the public mind with robbing the zamindars of their land had very deservedly lost his seat. Begum Abida Khan had won her own seat, but most of the other members of her party had lost, and she was furious.

  Her remarks created pandemonium. The Congress benches were indignant at her attempt to rake up the embers of completed legislation. And even L.N. Agarwal, who was secretly pleased that Mahesh Kapoor had not won his election, condemned the means deployed not by the Congress but by ‘rank communalists’ in that particular race. At this, Begum Abida Khan began talking about attempted murder and ‘a heinous plot to extirpate the minority community from the soil of our common province’. And finally the Speaker had to stop her from continuing in this vein by telling her, first, that the case he presumed she was referring to was sub judice, and secondly, that the entire issue was irrelevant to the question of whether the House should vote to thank the Governor for his address.

  Mahesh Kapoor sat through all this with head bowed, silent and unresponsive. He had attended because it was his duty to do so. He would rather have been almost anywhere else. Begum Abida Khan, thinking of her nephew lying on what could well have been his deathbed, appealed loudly from the Speaker to God for justice, so that condign punishment would be meted out to the butcher responsible for his grievous injury. Dramatically she pointed a finger at Mahesh Kapoor, and then raised it heavenwards. Mahesh Kapoor closed his eyes and saw the image of Maan in jail; he knew too well that if he had ever had the power or the influence to save his son, he did not have it now.

  The vote of thanks passed as overwhelmingly as expected. Various other bits of legislative business were also taken up—such as the announcement of the President’s or the Governor’s assent to various bills, the resignation of various MLAs who had also been elected as MPs, and the tabling of various ordinances that it had become necessary to promulgate when the legislature had not been in session. The session then broke off for a few days for Holi before going on to the vote on account, which it passed after brief debate.

  18.27

  Holi was not celebrated at Prem Nivas at all this year, nor at Pran’s house. Maan and Imtiaz, high on bhang, helping Professor Mishra into a large tub of pink water; Savita, drenched in colour, laughing and crying and promising revenge; Mrs Mahesh Kapoor making sure that her grandnieces and grandnephews from Rudhia all got their favourite sweets; the bejewelled Saeeda Bai singing ghazals before a charmed audience of men while their wives looked down from the balcony in fascinated disapproval: these must have appeared as scenes of an unreal fantasy to anyone who remembered them.

  Pran took some dry pink and green powder and smeared a little on his daughter’s forehead, but that was all. It was her first Holi, and he blessed her for her unawareness of all the darkness and sadness that existed in the world.

  Lata tried to study, but she was unable to. Her heart was full, as much with Maan and the deep sorrow of his family as with her own forthcoming marriage. Mrs Rupa Mehra, when she heard of Lata’s unilateral action in writing to Haresh, was both furious and delighted. Lata had passed on Haresh’s message of love for her mother and his words of regret before she had broken the real news. Torn between hugging her daughter to her bosom and giving her at least one tight slap for not having consulted her, Mrs Rupa Mehra burst into tears.

  Needless to say, there was no question of the wedding taking place in Prem Nivas. Given Arun’s views on Haresh, Lata had refused to get married from Sunny Park either. The Chatterji house at Ballygunge was impossible for several reasons. That only left Dr Kishen Chand Seth’s house.

  Had Dr Kishen Chand Seth been in Mrs Rupa Mehra’s position, he would certainly have slapped Lata. After all, he had slapped Mrs Rupa Mehra when Arun was a year old because he thought she wasn’t controlling the baby properly. He had never had any truck with incompetence or insubordination. He now bluntly refused to countenance, let alone assist, the marriage of a granddaughter in which he had not been consulted from the beginning. He told Mrs Rupa Mehra that his house was not a hotel or a dharamshala, and that she would have to look elsewhere.

  ‘And that is that,’ he added.

  Mrs Rupa Mehra threatened to kill herself.

  ‘Yes, yes, do so,’ said her father impatiently. He knew that she loved life too much, especially when she could be justifiably miserable.

  ‘And I will never see you again,’ she added. ‘Never in all my life. Say goodbye to me,’ she sobbed, ‘for this is the last time you will see your daughter.’ With that she flung herself weeping into his arms.

  Dr Kishen Chand Seth staggered back and nearly dropped his stick. Carried away by her emotion and by the greater realism of this threat, he too started sobbing violently, and pounded his stick several times on the floor to give vent to his feelings. Very soon it was all settled.

  ‘I hope
Parvati does not mind,’ gasped Mrs Rupa Mehra. ‘She is so good—so good—’

  ‘If she does, I will get rid of her,’ cried Dr Kishen Chand Seth. ‘A wife one can divorce—but one’s children—never!’ These words—which it seemed to him he had heard somewhere before—sent him into a renewed paroxysm of weeping.

  When Parvati came back from shopping a few minutes later, holding out a pair of pink high-heeled shoes and saying, ‘Kishy darling, look at what I’ve bought from Lovely,’ her husband grinned weakly, terrified to break the news of the inconvenience he had just taken on.

  18.28

  The Nawab Sahib had heard about Mahesh Kapoor’s question to Waris about Firoz’s health. He also knew that when the count was over, Mahesh Kapoor had refused a recount. Later he heard from his munshi that he had even refused to lodge an election petition.

  ‘But why would he wish to lodge an election petition? And against whom?’ said the Nawab Sahib.

  ‘Against Waris,’ said the munshi, and handed him a couple of the fatal pink fliers.

  The Nawab Sahib read through one and his face grew pale with anger. The poster had made such shameless and impious use of death that he wondered that God’s anger had not fallen on Waris, or on him, or on Firoz, the innocent agency of this outrage. As if he had not sunk deeply enough in the world’s opinion, what must Mahesh Kapoor think of him now?

  Firoz—whatever he might think of his father—was, by the grace of God, out of danger at last. And Mahesh Kapoor’s son was lying in jail in danger of losing his liberty for many years. How strangely the tables had turned, thought the Nawab Sahib, and what small satisfaction Maan’s jeopardy and Mahesh Kapoor’s grief—both of which in bitterness he had once prayed for—now gave him after all.