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A Suitable Boy, Page 71

Vikram Seth


  ‘This is Maan Kapoor, Abba-jaan,’ said Rasheed.

  His father nodded, then said to Maan: ‘Are you here on a visit or are you an officer of some kind?’

  Maan smiled. ‘I’m here on a visit. Your son has been teaching me Urdu in Brahmpur. Now I hope he will continue to teach me in Debaria.’

  Maan noticed, by the light of the lamp, that Rasheed’s father had large gaps in his teeth. This explained his peculiar voice and the absence of certain consonants. But it made him look sinister even when he was attempting to be welcoming.

  Meanwhile another figure emerged out of the dark from across the way to greet Rasheed. He was introduced to Maan, and sat down on another stringed bedstead, which had been laid out in front of the house. He was a man of about twenty, and, therefore, younger than Rasheed, though he was his uncle—his father’s younger brother in fact. He was talkative—indeed, very full of himself.

  A servant brought out some sherbet in a glass for each of them.

  ‘You’ve had a long journey,’ said Rasheed’s father. ‘Wash your hands, rinse out your mouth, and drink your sherbet.’

  Maan said: ‘Is there anywhere. . . .’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Rasheed’s father, ‘go behind the cowshed if you want to piss. Is that it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Maan, and went, gripping his torch tightly and stepping into cowdung as he made his way to the other side of the shed. One of the bullocks started lowing at his approach.

  When he came back Rasheed poured some water over his hands from a brass pot. In the warm evening the water was wonderfully cool.

  So was the sherbet. This was followed quickly by dinner, eaten again by the light of kerosene lamps. Dinner consisted of meat dishes and fairly thick wheat rotis. All four men ate together under the stars and among the insects that whirred all around. They concentrated on eating; conversation was desultory.

  ‘What’s this? Pigeon?’ asked Maan.

  ‘Yes. We have a pigeon-house up there—or, rather, my grandfather does.’ Rasheed pointed into the dark. ‘Where is Baba, by the way?’ he asked his father.

  ‘He’s gone off on one of his tours of inspection of the village,’ was the reply. ‘Probably also to talk to Vilayat Sahib—to try to convert him back to Islam.’

  Everyone laughed except Maan, who did not know the two people involved. He bit into a shami kabab, and began to feel somewhat forlorn.

  ‘He should be back in time for the night prayer,’ said Rasheed, who wanted Maan to meet his grandfather.

  When someone mentioned Rasheed’s wife, Maan sat up. He hadn’t known or imagined that Rasheed had a wife. A little later someone mentioned Rasheed’s two small daughters and Maan was further astonished.

  ‘Now, we’ll lay out some bedding for you,’ said Rasheed’s father in his brisk but toothless way. ‘I sleep on the roof there. In this season, it’s good to get what breeze you can.’

  ‘What a good idea,’ said Maan. ‘I’ll do the same.’

  There was an awkward silence, then Rasheed said:

  ‘Actually, we should try sleeping under the stars here—outside the house. Our bedding can be laid out here.’

  Maan frowned, and was about to ask a question, when Rasheed’s father said: ‘Good, then, that’s settled. I’ll send the servant out with the stuff. It’s too hot for a mattress. Spread a rug on the charpoy and a sheet or two on top of that. All right, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Later, lying on his bed, looking up at the clear night sky, Maan’s thoughts turned towards home. Luckily he was quite sleepy, so thoughts of Saeeda Bai were not likely to keep him up the whole night. Frogs were croaking in a pond somewhere at the edge of the village. A cat yowled. A buffalo snorted in the cattle-shed. A few crickets cried, and the grey-white flash of an owl settled on the branch of a neem tree. Maan took this as a good sign.

  ‘An owl,’ he announced to Rasheed, who was lying on the charpoy next to him.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Rasheed. ‘And there’s another one.’

  Another grey shape flew down on to the branch.

  ‘I’m very fond of owls,’ said Maan sleepily.

  ‘Inauspicious birds,’ said Rasheed.

  ‘Well, they know they have a friend in me,’ said Maan. ‘That is why they are watching over my sleep. They will make sure I dream about pleasant things. About beautiful women and so on. Rasheed, you must teach me some ghazals tomorrow. Incidentally, why are you sleeping out here? Shouldn’t you be with your wife?’

  ‘My wife is at her father’s village,’ said Rasheed.

  ‘Ah,’ said Maan.

  For a while Rasheed said nothing. Then he said, ‘Do you know the story of Mahmud of Ghazni and his peace-loving Prime Minister?’

  ‘No.’ What that great conqueror and despoiler of cities had to do with what had gone before, Maan could not see. But in that twilight state that precedes sleep, it was not necessary to see.

  Rasheed began his story: ‘Mahmud of Ghazni said to his vazir: “What are those two owls?”’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Maan. ‘Mahmud of Ghazni was lying on a charpoy staring at these owls?’

  ‘Probably not,’ said Rasheed. ‘Different owls, and probably not on a charpoy. So he, the vazir, said: “One owl has a young boy owl, and one has a young girl owl. They are well matched in every way, and the marriage plans are going ahead. The two owls—fathers-in-law-to-be—are sitting on a branch discussing their children’s marriage, especially the all-important question of the dowry.” The vazir pauses here. So Mahmud of Ghazni says, “What are they saying?” The vazir replies: “The owl on the boy’s side is demanding a thousand deserted villages as a dowry.” “Yes? Yes?” says Mahmud of Ghazni, “and what is the other owl saying?” The vazir replies: “The owl on the girl’s side is saying: After the latest campaign of Mahmud of Ghazni he can offer five thousand. . . .” Good night. Sleep well.’

  ‘Good night,’ said Maan, pleased with the story. However, he remained awake for a minute or two thinking about it. The owls were still on the branch when he fell off to sleep.

  The next morning he woke up to the sound of someone saying, with great affection and severity: ‘Wake up! Wake up! Won’t you say your morning prayers? Oh, Rasheed, go and get some water, your friend has to wash his hands before his prayers.’

  An old man, powerful in build and looking like a prophet with his beard, bare-chested and wearing a loosely folded green cotton lungi, was standing over him. Maan guessed that this must be Rasheed’s grandfather, or ‘Baba’ as Rasheed called him. So affectionate and determined was the old man in enforcing piety that Maan hardly had the courage to refuse.

  ‘Well?’ said Baba. ‘Get up, get up. As it says in the call, prayer is better than sleep.’

  ‘Actually,’—Maan found his voice at last—‘I don’t go to prayer.’

  ‘You don’t read the namaaz?’ Baba looked more than injured; he looked shocked. What kind of people was Rasheed bringing home to his village? He felt like pulling the impious young lout out of bed.

  ‘Baba—he’s a Hindu,’ explained Rasheed, intervening to prevent further embarrassment. ‘His name is Maan Kapoor.’ He emphasized Maan’s surname.

  The old man looked at Maan in astonishment. The thought had not occurred to him at all. Then he looked at his grandson and opened his mouth as if to ask him something. But he obviously thought better of it, because the question remained unasked.

  There was a pause for a few seconds. Then the old man spoke.

  ‘Oh, he’s a Hindu!’ he said at last, and turned away from Maan.

  8.4

  Rasheed explained to Maan a little later where they would have to go for their morning toilet—out in the fields with a brass lota to carry water in. It was the only time of day when it was somewhat cool and when there was a bit of privacy. Maan, feeling quite uncomfortable, rubbed his eyes, filled his lota with water, and followed Rasheed out into the fields.

  It was a fine, clear morning. They passed a pond close to the village.
A few ducks were swimming among the reeds and a glossy black water buffalo was bathing in it, as deep as its nostrils. A young girl in a pink-and-green salwaar-kameez appeared from a house at the outskirts, saw Maan, gave a shy gasp, and quickly disappeared.

  Rasheed was lost in his thoughts. ‘It’s such a waste,’ he said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘All this.’ He pointed in a wide sweep to the countryside around him, taking in the fields, the pond, the village, and another village visible in the distance. Then, since Maan did not ask him why, he continued: ‘It is my dream to completely transform. . . .’

  Maan began smiling, and lost the thread of what Rasheed was saying. For all Rasheed’s knowledge about mahua trees and the finer points of the landscape, Maan felt that he was an impractical visionary. If he had been so exacting with Maan’s meems, it would take a millennium for village life to attain the kind of perfection that would satisfy him. Rasheed was now walking very fast, and it was all Maan could do to keep up. Walking on the mud ridges dividing the fields was not easy, especially in rubber chappals. He slipped, and narrowly avoided a twisted ankle. His lota, however, fell, and the water in it splashed and trickled out.

  Rasheed, noticing that his companion had fallen behind, turned around, and was alarmed to see him on the ground, rubbing his ankle.

  ‘Why didn’t you shout?’ he asked. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Maan. Then, so as not to make a fuss, he added: ‘But what were you saying about transforming all this?’

  For a moment, Rasheed’s rather lean-featured, lupine face carried a worried expression. Then he said: ‘That pond, for instance. They could stock it with fish and use it. And there’s a large pond, which is part of the common property of the village, like the common grazing ground. But it isn’t used for anything. It’s an economic waste. Even the water—’ He paused, and looked at Maan’s spilled lota.

  ‘Here,’ he said, about to pour half the water from his lota into Maan’s. Then he stopped. ‘On second thoughts,’ he said, ‘I’ll pour it later, when we’ve reached our destination.’

  ‘All right,’ said Maan.

  Rasheed, remembering that it was his duty to educate Maan and recalling how keen he had been to absorb information yesterday, now began telling him the names of various plants that they passed. But Maan was not in an educable mood this morning, and confined his responses to the occasional repetition of a word to show that his attention had not wandered.

  ‘What’s that?’ he said suddenly.

  They had reached the top of a gentle rise. About half a mile away lay a beautiful blue pool of water with clearly defined mud banks on each side, and a few white buildings on the side farther away from them.

  ‘That’s the local school, the madrasa,’ said Rasheed matter-of-factly. ‘It’s actually in the neighbouring village, but all the Muslim children from our village go to it as well.’

  ‘Do they teach mainly Islamic studies there?’ asked Maan, who had meant to ask about the pool but had been diverted by Rasheed’s reply.

  ‘No—well, yes, some of course. But they begin by taking in little children of five or so, and teach them a bit of everything.’ Rasheed paused to survey the landscape, feeling momentarily happy to be back again. He liked Brahmpur because life was less narrow and frustrating there than in the rigid and—in his view—reactionary village, but while in the city he was always rushing around studying or teaching and there was far too much noise everywhere.

  He looked for a few seconds at the madrasa where he had been such a difficult pupil that his teachers, at a loss to control him themselves, had regularly reported him to his father—and his grandfather. Then he added: ‘It’s got a good standard of teaching. Even Vilayat Sahib began his studies here before this fish pond became too small for him. Now that he’s such a big name in archaeology, he contributes books to the school library that none of the children can understand. Several of them have been written by himself. He’s visiting for the week, but he’s very reclusive. Maybe we’ll meet him. Well, here we are. Give me your lota.’

  They had reached a high field-divider near a small copse of trees. Rasheed shared his water with Maan. Then he squatted down and said: ‘Anywhere around here is a good place. Take your time. No one will disturb us.’

  Maan was embarrassed, but acted as casually as he could. ‘I’ll go over there,’ he said, and wandered off.

  I suppose this is the shape of things to come for the next month, he thought disconsolately. I may as well get used to it. I hope there are no snakes or other unpleasant things around. There isn’t very much water either. What if I want to go later in the day? Will I have to walk out here and back in the heat? Better not think about it. And since he was good at avoiding unpleasant thoughts, he turned to other matters.

  He began to think how good it would be to swim in the blue pool near the local school. Maan loved swimming, not for the exercise but for the luxury, the tactility of it. In Brahmpur in earlier days, he would go to the lake called Windermere not far from the High Court, and swim in the cordoned-off area reserved for swimmers. He wondered why in the last month he hadn’t swum there—or even thought of doing so.

  On the way back to the village he said to himself: I must write to Saeeda Bai. Rasheed has got to help me with my letter.

  Aloud he said: ‘Well, I’m ready for my first Urdu lesson under the neem tree when we get back. If you’re not doing anything else, that is.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ said Rasheed, pleased. ‘I was afraid that I would have to bring up the subject.’

  8.5

  While Maan was engaged in his Urdu lesson a crowd of small children gathered around him.

  ‘They find you very interesting,’ said Rasheed.

  ‘I can see that,’ said Maan. ‘Why aren’t they at school?’

  ‘Term begins in two weeks’ time,’ said Rasheed. ‘Now go away,’ he told them. ‘Can’t you see that I’m giving a lesson?’

  The children could indeed see that he was giving a lesson, and they were fascinated. They were particularly fascinated by an adult who was having a hard time with the alphabet.

  They began to imitate Maan under their breath. ‘Alif-be-pe-te . . . laam-meem-noon,’ they chanted, gathering courage as Maan tried to ignore them.

  Maan didn’t mind them at all. He suddenly turned on them and roared as fiercely as an angry lion, and they scattered, terrified. Some of them began giggling from a safe distance, and started to approach again, with tentative steps.

  ‘Do you think we should go inside?’ said Maan.

  Rasheed looked embarrassed. ‘Actually, the fact is that we maintain purdah at home. All your bags are inside, of course, for safe custody.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Maan, ‘of course.’ After a while he said, ‘Your father must have thought it very odd of me last night to say I’d sleep on the roof.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ said Rasheed. ‘I should have warned you. But I take everything about my own home for granted.’

  ‘The Nawab Sahib has purdah in his house in Brahmpur, so I shouldn’t have assumed it would be different here,’ said Maan.

  ‘It is, though,’ said Rasheed. ‘The Muslim women of the lower castes need to work in the fields, so they can’t maintain purdah. But we Shaikhs and Sayyeds try to. It’s simply a matter of honour, of being the big people in the village.’

  Just as Maan was about to ask Rasheed if his village was mainly or exclusively Muslim, Rasheed’s grandfather came along to look at what they were doing. The old man was still wearing his green lungi, but had added a white vest. With his white beard and somewhat failing eyes, he looked more frail than he did when he had loured over Maan in the morning.

  ‘What are you teaching him, Rasheed?’

  ‘Urdu, Baba.’

  ‘Yes? Good, good.’

  To Maan he said:

  ‘How old are you, Kapoor Sahib?’

  ‘Twenty-five.’

  ‘Are you married?’


  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well,’ said Maan, ‘it hasn’t happened yet.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with you, is there?’

  ‘Oh, no!’ said Maan. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then you should get married. This is the time, when you are young. Then you won’t be an old man when your children are growing up. Look at me. I’m old now, but I wasn’t once.’

  Maan was tempted to exchange a glance with Rasheed, but sensed that it wasn’t the right thing to do.

  The old man picked up the exercise book that Maan had been writing on and held it away from his eyes. The whole page was covered with the same two letters. ‘Seen, sheen,’ said the old man. ‘Seen, sheen, seen, sheen, seen, sheen. Enough of this! Teach him something more, Rasheed—this is all very well for children. He’ll get bored.’

  Rasheed nodded his head but said nothing.

  The old man turned back to Maan and said: ‘Are you bored yet?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Maan, quickly. ‘I’ve been learning to read. This is just the calligraphy part.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Rasheed’s grandfather. ‘That’s very good. Carry on, carry on. I will go over there’—he pointed across the way to a charpoy lying in front of another house—‘and read.’

  He cleared his throat and spat on to the ground, then walked slowly away. In a few minutes Maan saw him seated cross-legged on the charpoy with his spectacles on, swaying backwards and forwards, reciting from a large book placed in front of him that Maan assumed was the Quran. Since he was only about twenty steps away, the murmur of his recitation merged with the sounds of the children, who were now daring each other to go and touch Maan—‘the lion’.

  Maan said to Rasheed, ‘I’ve been thinking of writing a letter. Do you think you could write it for me and, well, help me compose it? I can still barely string two words together in this script.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Rasheed.

  ‘You really don’t mind?’ said Maan.

  ‘No, of course not. Why should I?’ said Rasheed.

  ‘Actually, it’s to Saeeda Bai.’