A Suitable Boy, Page 39

  ‘Does this include entering the zenana?’ said Zainab as calmly as she could.

  ‘I do not know what it includes, Begum Sahiba. He said “all unoccupied portions”.’

  ‘How does he know that so much of the house is unoccupied?’ asked Zainab.

  ‘I am afraid, Begum Sahiba, that it is obvious. Partly, of course, it is common knowledge. I tried to persuade him that people were living here, but he pointed to the dark windows. Even the Nawab Sahib is not here at the moment. Nor the Nawabzadas.’

  Zainab was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘Murtaza Sahib, I am not going to give up in half an hour what has belonged to our family for generations. We must try to contact Abida Chachi immediately. Her property too is at stake. And Kapoor Sahib, the Revenue Minister, who is an old friend of the family. You will have to do this, as there is no telephone in the zenana.’

  ‘I will do so at once. I pray that I will get through.’

  ‘I am afraid that you will have to forgo your regular prayers this evening,’ said Zainab with a smile that could be heard in her voice.

  ‘I fear I will have to,’ replied Murtaza Ali, surprised that he too could smile at such an unhappy moment. ‘Perhaps I should go now and try to get through to the Revenue Minister.’

  ‘Send the car for him—no, wait—’ said Zainab. ‘It may be needed. Make sure it is standing by.’

  She thought for a minute. Murtaza Ali felt the seconds ticking away.

  ‘Who has the keys to the house?’ asked Zainab. ‘I mean to the empty rooms?’

  ‘The zenana keys are with—’

  ‘No, those rooms can’t be seen from the road—they aren’t important—I mean the mardana rooms.’

  ‘I have some of them, some of them are with Ghulam Rusool, and some, I believe, have been taken by the Nawab Sahib to Baitar with him.’

  ‘Now this is what you must do,’ said Zainab quietly. ‘We have very little time. Get all the menservants and the maidservants in this house to bring candles, torches, lamps, any kind of flame that we have in the house, and to light up a little of every room in this house that faces the road—you understand—even if it means entering rooms that you normally need permission to enter, and even if it means breaking a lock or a door here or there.’

  It was a measure of Murtaza Ali’s mind that he did not expostulate, but simply accepted the good—if desperate—sense of this measure.

  ‘It must look from the road that the house is inhabited, even if the DSP has reason to believe it is not. He must be given an excuse to withdraw if he is inclined to, even if we do not actually make him believe it.’

  ‘Yes, Begum Sahiba.’ Murtaza was filled with admiration for this woman with the gentle voice whom he had never seen—nor ever would.

  ‘I know this house like the back of my hand,’ continued Zainab. ‘I was born here, unlike my aunts. Even though now I am confined to this section, I am familiar with the other section from my childhood, and I know it has not changed much in structure. We are very short of time, and I plan to help personally in lighting the rooms. I know my father will understand, and it does not matter much to me if no one else does.’

  ‘I beg you, Begum Sahiba,’ said her father’s private secretary, pain and dismay audible in his voice, ‘I beg you do not do so. Arrange things in the zenana and get as many lamps and so on ready as you can so that they can be passed on to us on this side. But please stay where you are. I will see that everything is performed as you command. Now I must go, and I will send word within fifteen minutes about how things are going. God keep your family and this house in his protection.’ With this he took his leave.

  Zainab kept Munni with her, and told the other girl to help fetch and light the lamps, and take them across to the other side of the house. She then went back to her room and looked at Hassan and Abbas, who were still sleeping. It is your history, your inheritance, your world too that I am protecting, she thought, passing a hand through the younger one’s hair. Hassan, usually so sullen, was smiling, and he had his arms wrapped around his younger brother. Her aunts were praying aloud in the next room.

  Zainab closed her eyes, said the fatiha, and sat down exhausted. Then she remembered something her father had once said to her, reflected on its importance for a few seconds, and began to draft another letter.

  She told Munni to wake up the boys and quickly dress them in their formal best—a small white kurta for Abbas, and a white angarkha for his elder brother. On their heads they were to wear white embroidered caps.

  When, fifteen minutes later, Zainab had not heard from Murtaza Ali, she sent for him. On his arrival she asked him:

  ‘Is it done?’

  ‘Yes, Begum Sahiba, it is. The house looks as if it is lit. There is some light visible from every outside window.’

  ‘And Kapoor Sahib?’

  ‘I am afraid that I have not been able to get him on the phone, though Mrs Mahesh Kapoor has sent for him. He may be working late somewhere in the Secretariat. But no one is picking up the phone in his office.’

  ‘Abida Chachi?’

  ‘Her telephone appears to be out of order, and I have only just written her a note. Forgive me. I have been remiss.’

  ‘Murtaza Sahib, you have already done far more than seemed possible to me. Now listen to this letter, and tell me how it can be improved.’

  Very swiftly they went through the brief draft of the letter. It was in English, only seven or eight lines long. Murtaza Ali asked for a couple of explanations, and made a couple of suggestions; Zainab incorporated them and made a fair copy.

  ‘Now, Hassan and Abbas,’ she said to her sons, their eyes still full of sleep and wonderment at this unexpected game, ‘you are to go with Murtaza Sahib and do everything he tells you to do. Your Nana-jaan will be very pleased with you when he comes back, and so will I. And so will Imtiaz Mamu and Firoz Mamu.’ She gave each of them a kiss, and sent them to the other side of the screen, where Murtaza Ali took charge of them.

  ‘They should be the ones to give him the letter,’ said Zainab. ‘Take the car, tell the Inspector—I mean the DSP—where you are going, and go at once. I do not know how to thank you for your help. If you had not been here we would certainly have been lost already.’

  ‘I cannot repay your father’s kindness, Begum Sahiba,’ said Murtaza Ali. ‘I will make sure that your sons come back within the hour.’

  He walked down the corridor with a boy clutching each hand. He was too full of trepidation to say anything at first to either, but after he had walked for a minute towards the far end of the lawn where the police were standing, he said to the boys:

  ‘Hassan, Abbas, do adaab to the DSP Sahib.’

  ‘Adaab arz, DSP Sahib,’ said Hassan in salutation.

  Abbas looked up at his brother and repeated his words, except that his came out as ‘Dipsy Sahib’.

  ‘The Nawab Sahib’s grandsons,’ explained the private secretary.

  The Deputy Superintendent of Police smiled warily.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said to Murtaza Ali. ‘My time is up and so is yours. The house may look as if it is lived in, but our information tells us otherwise, and we will have to investigate. We must do our duty. The Home Minister himself has instructed us.’

  ‘I quite understand, DSP Sahib,’ said Murtaza Ali. ‘But may I beg you for a little more time? These two boys are carrying a letter which must be delivered before any action can be taken.’

  The DSP shook his head. He held up his hand to indicate that enough was enough, and said: ‘Agarwalji has told me personally that he will not entertain any petitions in this respect and that we are not to brook any delay. I am sorry. The decision can always be challenged or appealed later.’

  ‘This letter is for the Chief Minister.’

  The policeman stiffened slightly.

  ‘What does this mean?’ he said in a voice that was both irritated and bewildered. ‘What does the letter say? What do you hope to achieve by this?’

  Mur
taza Ali said gravely:

  ‘I cannot be expected to know the contents of a private and urgent letter between the daughter of the Nawab Sahib of Baitar and the Chief Minister of Purva Pradesh. Clearly it touches on this matter of the house, but about what it says it would be impertinent of me to speculate. The car, however, is ready, and I must escort these little messengers to Sharmaji’s house before they lose their own. DSP Sahib, I hope you will wait for my return before you do anything sudden.’

  The DSP, foiled for the moment, said nothing. He knew he would have to wait.

  Murtaza Ali took his leave, gathered his charges and drove off in the Nawab Sahib’s car.

  Fifty yards outside the gates of Baitar House, however, the car came to a sudden halt and could not be restarted. Murtaza Ali told the driver to wait, walked back to the house with Abbas, deposited him with a servant, got out his bicycle and returned. He then propped a surprisingly unprotesting Hassan in front of him, and cycled off with him into the night.

  5.14

  When they got to the Chief Minister’s house fifteen minutes later, they were immediately admitted to his office, where he was working late.

  After the usual salutations, they were asked to sit down. Murtaza Ali was sweating—he had been bicycling as fast as he could, considering the safety of his cargo. But Hassan looked cool and crisp in his fine white angarkha, if a little sleepy.

  ‘Now to what do I owe this pleasure?’

  The Chief Minister looked from the six-year-old boy to the Nawab Sahib’s thirty-year-old secretary while nodding his head slightly from side to side as he sometimes did when tired.

  Murtaza Ali had never met the Chief Minister in person. Since he had no idea how best to approach the matter, he simply said: ‘Chief Minister Sahib, this letter will tell you everything.’

  The Chief Minister looked over the letter only once, but slowly. Then in an angry and determined voice, nasal but with the unmistakable ring of authority, he said:

  ‘Get me Agarwal on the phone!’

  While the call was being connected, the Chief Minister ticked off Murtaza Ali for having brought the ‘poor boy’ with him so long past his bedtime. But it had clearly had an effect on his feelings. He would probably have had harsher things to say, reflected Murtaza Ali, if I had brought Abbas along as well.

  When the call came through, the Chief Minister had a few words with the Home Minister. There was no mistaking the annoyance in his voice.

  ‘Agarwal, what does this Baitar House business mean?’ asked the Chief Minister.

  After a minute he said: ‘No, I am not interested in all that. I have a good understanding of what the Custodian’s job is. I cannot have this sort of thing going on under my nose. Call it off at once.’

  A few seconds later he said, even more exasperatedly:

  ‘No. It will not be sorted out in the morning. Tell the police to leave immediately. If you have to, put my signature on it.’ He was about to put down the receiver when he added: ‘And call me in half an hour.’

  After the Chief Minister had put the phone down, he glanced at Zainab’s letter again. Then he turned to Hassan and said, shaking his head a little:

  ‘Go home now, things will be all right.’

  5.15

  Begum Abida Khan (Democratic Party): I do not understand what the honourable member is saying. Is he claiming that we should take the government’s word on this as on other matters? Does the honourable member not know what happened just the other day in this city—in Baitar House to be precise—where on the orders of this government, a gang of policemen, armed to the teeth, would have set upon the helpless members of an unprotected zenana—and, if it had not been for the grace of God—

  The Hon’ble the Speaker: The honourable member is reminded that this is not germane to the Zamindari Bill that is being discussed. I must remind her of the rules of debate and ask her to refrain from introducing extraneous matter into her speeches.

  Begum Abida Khan: I am deeply grateful to the honourable Speaker. This House has its own rules, but God too judges us from above and if I may say so without disrespect to this House, God too has His own rules and we will see which prevails. How can zamindars expect justice from this government in the countryside where redress is so distant when even in this city, in the sight of this honourable House, the honour of other honourable houses is being ravished?

  The Hon’ble the Speaker: I will not remind the honourable member again. If there are further digressions in this vein I will ask her to resume her seat.

  Begum Abida Khan: The honourable Speaker has been very indulgent with me, and I have no intention of troubling this House further with my feeble voice. But I will say that the entire conduct, the entire manner in which this bill has been created, amended, passed by the Upper House, brought down to this Lower House and amended drastically yet again by the government itself shows a lack of faith and a lack of responsibility, even integrity, with respect to its proclaimed original intent, and the people of this state will not forgive the government for this. They have used their brute majority to force through amendments which are patently mala fide. What we saw when the bill—as amended by the Legislative Council—was undergoing its second reading in this Legislative Assembly was something so shocking that even I—who have lived through many shocking events in my life—was appalled. It had been agreed that compensation was to be paid to landlords. Since they are going to be deprived of their ancestral means of livelihood, that is the least that we can expect in justice. But the amount that is being paid is a pittance—half of which we are expected, indeed enjoined, to accept in government bonds of uncertain date!

  A member: You need not accept it. The treasury will be happy to keep it warm for you.

  Begum Abida Khan: And even that bond-weakened pittance is on a graduated scale so that the larger landlords—many of whom have establishments on which hundreds of people depend—managers, relatives, retainers, musicians—

  A member: Wrestlers, bullies, courtesans, wastrels—

  Begum Abida Khan: —will not be paid in proportion to the land that is rightfully theirs. What will these poor people do? Where will they go? The Government does not care. It thinks that this bill will be popular with the people and it has an eye on the General Elections that will be taking place in just a few months. That is the truth of the matter. That is the real truth and I do not accept any denials from the Minister of Revenue or his Parliamentary Secretary or the Chief Minister or anyone. They were afraid that the High Court of Brahmpur would strike down their graduated scale of payment. So what did they do at a late stage of the proceedings yesterday—at the very end of the second reading? Something that was so deceitful, so shameful, yet so transparent, that even a child would be able to see through it. They split up the compensation into two parts—a non-graduated so-called compensation—and a graduated so-called Rehabilitation Grant for zamindars—and passed an amendment late in the day to validate this new scheme of payment. Do they really think the court will accept that the compensation is ‘equal treatment’ for all—when by mere jugglery the Revenue Minister and his Parliamentary Secretary have transferred three-quarters of the compensation money into another category with a long and pious name—a category where there is blatantly unequal treatment of the larger landlords? You may be assured that we will fight this injustice while there is breath in our bodies—

  A member: Or voice in our lungs.

  The Hon’ble the Speaker: I would request members not to interrupt needlessly the speeches of other members.

  Begum Abida Khan: But what is the use of my raising my voice for justice in a House where all we meet with is mockery and boorishness? We are called degenerates and wastrels but it is the sons of Ministers, believe me, who are the true proficients of dissipation. The class of people who preserved the culture, the music, the etiquette of this province is to be dispossessed, is to be driven through the lanes to beg its bread. But we will bear our vicissitudes with the dignity that is the inheri
tance of the aristocracy. This chamber may rubber-stamp this bill. The Upper Chamber may give it another cursory reading and rubber-stamp it. The President may sign it blindly. But the courts will vindicate us. As in our fellow-state of Bihar, this pernicious legislation will be struck down. And we will fight for justice, yes, before the bench and in the press and at the hustings—as long as there is breath in our bodies—and, yes, as long as there is voice in our lungs.

  Shri Devakinandan Rai (Socialist Party): It has been very enlightening to be lectured to by the honourable member. I must confess that I see no likelihood of her begging for her bread through the lanes of Brahmpur. Perhaps for cake, but I doubt that too. If I had my way she would not beg for her bread, but she and those of her class would certainly have to work for it. This is what simple justice requires, and this is what is required also for the economic health of this province. I, and the members of the Socialist Party, agree with the honourable member who has just spoken that this bill is an election gimmick by the Congress Party and the government. But our belief is based on the grounds that this is a toothless bill, ineffectual and compromised. It does not go anywhere near what is needed for a thorough overhaul of agricultural relations in this province.

  Compensation for the landlords! What? Compensation for the blood that they have already sucked from the limbs of a helpless and oppressed peasantry? Or compensation for their God-given right—I notice that the honourable member is in the habit of invoking God whenever His assistance is required to strengthen her weak arguments—their God-given right to continue to gorge themselves and their useless train of unemployed relations on the ghee of this state when the poor farmer, the poor tenant, the poor landless labourer, the poor worker can hardly afford half a sip of milk for his hungry children? Why is the treasury being depleted? Why are we writing ourselves and our children into debt with these promised bonds when this idle and vicious class of zamindars and taluqdars and landlords of all kinds should be summarily dispossessed—without any thought of compensation—of the lands that they are sitting on and have been sitting on for generations for the sole reason that they betrayed their country at the time of the Mutiny and were richly rewarded for their treason by the British? Is it just, Sir—is it reasonable that they should be awarded this compensation? The money that this government in its culpable so-called generosity is pouring into the laps of these hereditary oppressors should go into roads and schools, into housing for the landless and land reclamation, into clinics and agricultural research centres, not into the luxurious expenditure which is all that the aristocracy is accustomed to or capable of.