A Suitable Boy, Page 88

Maan’s heart leapt up. The lustreless images of his father’s farm vanished from his mind. They were replaced by thoughts both of a proper hunt (with horses) on the Baitar Estate and—even more delightfully—of news from Firoz about Saeeda Bai. Ah, thought Maan, the pleasures of the chase! He got his few things together, borrowed a couple of novels from Sandeep—to make his exile in Debaria more bearable—went off to the station, and caught the first possible train along the slow and halting branch line to Baitar.

  I wonder if Firoz delivered it personally, he said to himself. He must have! And I shall find out what she said to him when she read his letter—my letter, rather—and discovered that Dagh Sahib, driven desperate by his absence from her and his own inability to communicate, had used the Nawabzada himself as translator, scribe and emissary. And what did she make of my reference to Dagh’s lines:

  It is you who wrong me, and then you who ask:

  Dear Sir, please tell me, how do you fare today?

  He got off at Baitar Station and hired a rickshaw to the Fort. Since he was dressed in crushed clothes (yet further crumpled from the hot and crowded train journey) and was unshaven, the rickshaw-wallah looked at him and his bag and asked:

  ‘Meeting someone there?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Maan, who did not consider his question an impertinence. ‘The Nawab Sahib.’

  The rickshaw-wallah laughed at Maan’s sense of humour. ‘Very good, very good,’ he said.

  After a while he asked:

  ‘What do you think of our town of Baitar?’

  Maan said, hardly thinking of his words: ‘It’s a nice town. Looks like a nice town.’

  The rickshaw-wallah said: ‘It was a nice town—before the cinema hall was built. Now what with the dancing girls and singing girls on the screen and all that loving and wiggling and so on’—he swerved to avoid a pothole in the road—‘it’s become an even nicer town.’

  The rickshaw-wallah went on: ‘Nice from the point of view of decency, nice from the point of view of villainy. Baitar, Baitar, Baitar, Baitar.’ He puffed out the words in rhythm to his pedal strokes. ‘That—that building with the green signboard—is the hospital, as good as the district hospital in Rudhia. It was established by the present Nawab’s father or grandfather. And that is Lal Kothi, which was used as a hunting lodge by the Nawab Sahib’s great-grandfather—but is now surrounded by the town. And that’—for, as they rounded a built-up corner of the road they all at once came within sight of a massive, pale yellow building towering on its small hill above a muddle of whitewashed houses—‘that is Baitar Fort itself.’

  It was a vast and impressive building, and Maan looked at it admiringly.

  ‘But Panditji wants to take it away and give it to the poor people,’ said the rickshaw-wallah, ‘once zamindari is abolished.’

  Needless to say, Pandit Nehru—in distant Delhi, with a few other matters to think of—had no such plan. Nor did the Purva Pradesh Zamindari Abolition Bill—now only a presidential signature away from becoming an act—plan to take over forts or residences or even the self-managed land of the zamindars. But Maan let it go.

  ‘What do you stand to gain from all this?’ he asked the rickshaw-wallah.

  ‘I? Nothing! Nothing at all, nothing at all. Not here, anyway. Now if I could get a room, that would be fine. If I could get two, that would be even better; I would rent one out to some other poor fool and live off the sweat of his efforts. Otherwise I will continue to pedal my rickshaw during the day and sleep on it at night.’

  ‘But what do you do during the monsoon?’ asked Maan.

  ‘Oh, I find some shelter somewhere—Allah provides, Allah provides, and He will provide as He has always done.’

  ‘Is the Nawab Sahib popular in these parts?’ asked Maan.

  ‘Popular? He’s the sun and moon put together!’ said the rickshaw-wallah. ‘And so are the young Nawabzadas, especially Chhoté Sahib. Everyone likes his temperament. And what handsome figures of men. You should see them when they are together: truly a sight to behold. The old Nawab Sahib with one son on either hand. Like the Viceroy and his officers.’

  ‘But if they are so well liked, why do people want to take over their estates?’

  ‘Why not?’ said the rickshaw-wallah. ‘People want to get land wherever they can. In my village, where my wife and family live, we have worked our land for many years—since my father’s uncle’s time. But we still have to pay rent to the Nawab Sahib—to his bloodsucker of a munshi. Why should we pay rent? Tell me. We have watered it with our sweat for fifty years, it should be our land, we should own it.’

  When they got to the huge, wooden, brass-studded gate in the wall of Baitar Fort, the rickshaw-wallah asked him for twice the normal fare. Maan argued for a minute, since the amount asked was clearly unreasonable; then, feeling bad for the rickshaw-wallah, he took out what he had asked for—plus another four annas—from his kurta pocket and gave it to him.

  The rickshaw-wallah went off, well satisfied with his judgement that Maan was slightly crazy. Perhaps he had really imagined he was going to meet the Nawab Sahib. Poor chap, poor chap.

  10.7

  The porter at the gate took a similar view of things and told Maan to clear off. He had described Maan to the munshi, and the munshi had issued the instructions.

  Maan, amazed, wrote a few words on a scrap of paper and said: ‘I do not want to talk to any munshi. Now see that the Nawab Sahib or Burré Sahib or Chhoté Sahib gets this. Go and take it in.’

  The porter, seeing Maan write something in English, this time asked Maan to follow him, though he did not offer to carry his bag. They entered the inner gate, and walked towards the main building of the Fort: a huge structure, four storeys high, with courtyards on two levels, and turrets at the top.

  Maan was left in a courtyard flagged with grey stone; the porter climbed a flight of stairs and disappeared once again. It was late afternoon, and the heat was still intense in this paved and walled oven. Maan looked around him. There was no sign of the porter or Firoz or Imtiaz or anyone. Then he detected a slight movement in one of the windows above. A rustic, middle-aged, well-fleshed face with a grey-and-white walrus moustache was examining him from the upper window.

  A minute or two later, the porter returned.

  ‘The munshi asks, what do you want?’

  Maan said angrily: ‘I told you to give that note to Chhoté Sahib, not the munshi.’

  ‘But the Nawab Sahib and the Nawabzadas are not here.’

  ‘What do you mean, not here? When did they leave?’ asked Maan, dismayed.

  ‘They have not been here for a week,’ said the porter.

  ‘Well, tell that oaf of a munshi that I am a friend of the Nawabzada’s and will be spending the night here.’ Maan had raised his voice, and it reverberated around the courtyard.

  The munshi scurried down. Though it was hot, he was wearing a bundi over his kurta. He was irritated. It was the end of a long day and he had been looking forward to cycling back into Baitar town, where he lived. Now this unshaven and unfamiliar stranger was demanding to be received at the Fort. What was all this about?

  ‘Yes?’ said the munshi, placing his reading glasses in his pocket. He looked Maan up and down and licked a corner of his walrus moustache. ‘Of what service can I be to you?’ he asked in polite Hindi. But behind his compliant tone and gentle demeanour Maan heard the rapid motion of the cogs of calculation.

  ‘You can get me out of this baking courtyard for a start, and arrange for a room and some hot water for a shave and something to eat,’ said Maan. ‘I have had a hot and tiring morning hunting, and a hot and tiring train journey, and have been given the run-around for the last half hour by you—and now this man tells me that Firoz has left—or rather, was never here. Well?’ For the munshi had made no move to assist him.

  ‘Would Sahib give me a letter of introduction from the Nawab Sahib? Or one of the Nawabzadas?’ the munshi said. ‘I have not had the pleasure of Sahib’s acquaintance, and in the ab
sence of an introduction of some sort, I regret that—’

  ‘You can regret what you like,’ said Maan. ‘I am Maan Kapoor, a friend of Firoz and Imtiaz. I want to use a bathroom immediately, and I am not going to wait for you to come to your senses.’

  Maan’s tone of command intimidated the munshi somewhat, but he made no move. He smiled to pacify Maan, but he saw his responsibility clearly. Anyone could come off the street, knowing that the Nawab Sahib and his sons were not there, claim to be a friend of one of them, and, by writing a bit of English and throwing his weight around, insinuate himself into the Fort.

  ‘I am sorry—’ he said unctuously. ‘I am sorry, but—’

  ‘Now listen,’ said Maan. ‘Firoz may not have talked about me to you, but he has certainly talked about you to me.’ The munshi looked slightly alarmed: the Chhoté Sahib did not like him much. ‘And I presume that the Nawab Sahib has mentioned my father’s name to you. They are old friends.’

  ‘And who might Sahib’s father be?’ asked the munshi with solicitous unconcern, expecting to hear at worst the name of some petty landowner.

  ‘Mahesh Kapoor.’

  ‘Mahesh Kapoor!’ The munshi’s tongue went rapidly to the other side of his moustache. He stared at Maan. It seemed impossible.

  ‘The Minister of Revenue?’ he asked, his voice quavering slightly.

  ‘Yes. The Minister of Revenue,’ confirmed Maan. ‘Now, where is the bathroom?’

  The munshi looked quickly from Maan to his bag to the porter and back to Maan. He got no confirmation of anything from anywhere. He thought of asking Maan to produce some proof, any proof, of his identity, not necessarily a letter of introduction—but he knew that this would anger him still further. It was an impossible quandary. This man, judging from his voice and speech, was certainly educated, however sweaty and scruffy he looked. And if it was true that he was the son of the Minister of Revenue, the prime architect of the inexorable bill that was going to dispossess the house of Baitar—and indirectly himself—of its vast holdings of fields and forests and wasteland, he was a very, very important person indeed, and to have slighted him, to have been so unwelcoming to him—it did not bear thinking of. His head began to spin.

  When it came to a stop, he bent down with folded hands in a gesture of servility and welcome and, instead of asking the guard or the porter to do so, picked up Maan’s bag himself. He started laughing weakly, as if in amazement and embarrassment at his own foolishness. ‘But, Huzoor, you should have said so from the beginning. I would have come out of the Fort to meet you. I would have been at the station, waiting with the jeep. Oh, Huzoor, you are welcome, welcome—welcome to the house of your friend. Anything you want, you just ask me. The son of Mahesh Kapoor—the son of Mahesh Kapoor—and I was so awed by Sahib’s gracious presence that my senses took leave of me and I did not even offer you a glass of water.’ He panted up the first flight of stairs, then handed the bag to the guard.

  ‘Huzoor must stay in the Chhoté Sahib’s own room,’ continued the munshi with breathless and subservient enthusiasm. ‘It is a wonderful room with a fine view of the countryside and the forest where Chhoté Sahib likes to hunt. Huzoor was pleased to mention, was he not, a minute ago, that he went out hunting this morning? I must organize a hunt for him tomorrow morning. Nilgai, deer, wild boar, perhaps even leopard. Is Huzoor amenable to that? There is no shortage of guns—and horses too, if Sahib wishes to ride. And the library is as good as the one in Brahmpur. The Nawab Sahib’s father always ordered two of each book; money was no object. And Huzoor must see the town of Baitar: with Huzoor’s permission, I will myself arrange a tour of Lal Kothi and the Hospital and the Monuments. Now what may Huzoor’s poor munshi fetch him? Something to drink after his journey? I will at once get some almond sherbet with saffron in it. It will cool your head, and give you energy. And Sahib must give me all the clothes he needs washed. There are spare clothes in the guest-rooms, two sets of which I will immediately arrange to have brought up. And I will send Huzoor’s personal manservant up in ten minutes with hot water for Huzoor’s shave, and to receive the grace of any further commands from Huzoor.’

  ‘Yes. Wonderful,’ said Maan. ‘Where is the bathroom?’

  10.8

  In due course, after Maan had washed, shaved, and rested, the young manservant, Waris, who had been assigned to him, showed him around the Fort. This young fellow was an enormous contrast to the old servitor who had seen to Maan’s needs in Baitar House in Brahmpur—and certainly to the munshi.

  He was in his late twenties, tough, robust, handsome, very hospitable (as a servant trusted by his master has the self-confidence to be), and utterly loyal to the Nawab Sahib and his children, especially to Firoz. He pointed out a fading black-and-white photograph in a small silver frame on a side-table in Firoz’s room. This showed the Nawab Sahib posing with his wife (not in purdah for the photograph, clearly), Zainab, Imtiaz and Firoz. Firoz and Imtiaz looked about five years old; Firoz was staring very intently at the camera with his head tilted sideways at an angle of forty-five degrees.

  It was odd, thought Maan, that the very first time he was visiting the Fort, it was not Firoz but someone else who was taking him around.

  The Fort seemed endless. The overwhelming impression was that of grandeur, the secondary impression that of neglect. They climbed level upon level by flights of steep stairs until they came to the roof with its ramparts and crenellations and its four square towers, each with an empty flagpost on top. It was almost dark. The countryside spread quietly around the Fort in all directions, and the fog of smoke from household fires cast a vagueness over the town of Baitar. Maan wanted to climb one of the towers, but Waris didn’t have the keys. He mentioned that an owl lived in the closest tower and had been flying about hooting loudly for the last two nights—and had even made a foray in daylight, sweeping around towards the old zenana sections.

  ‘I’ll shoot the haramzada tonight if you want,’ volunteered Waris generously. ‘I don’t want it to disturb your sleep.’

  ‘Oh, no, no, that’s not necessary,’ said Maan. ‘I sleep through anything.’

  ‘That’s the library below,’ said Waris, pointing downwards through some thick, greenish glass. ‘One of the best private libraries, they say, in India. It’s two storeys high, and the daylight pours down through this glass. No one’s in the Fort now, so we haven’t lit it up. But whenever the Nawab Sahib comes here he spends most of his time in the library. He leaves all his estate work to that bastard of a munshi. Now be careful there—that’s slippery; it’s a depression where the rainwater runs off.’

  Maan soon discovered that Waris used the word haramzada—bastard—fairly freely. In fact he used foul language in the friendliest way even when talking to the Nawab’s sons. This was part of an easy rusticity which he curbed only when speaking to the Nawab Sahib himself. In his presence, awed, he spoke as little as possible, and kept severe control of his tongue when he did.

  Waris usually felt either an instinctive wariness or an instinctive ease when he met new people, and he spoke and behaved with them accordingly. With Maan he felt no need for self-censorship.

  ‘What’s wrong with the munshi?’ asked Maan, interested that Waris too did not like him.

  ‘He’s a thief,’ said Waris bluntly. He could not bear the thought that the munshi was absorbing any of the Nawab Sahib’s rightful revenues, and it was notorious that he did so all the time, undervaluing produce that he sold, overvaluing purchases that he made, claiming expenses where no work was done, and recording remissions in rent from the peasant tenants where no remissions were made.

  ‘Besides that,’ continued Waris, ‘he oppresses the people. And besides that, he is a kayasth!’

  ‘What’s wrong with being a kayasth?’ asked Maan. The kayasths, though Hindus, had been scribes and secretaries to the Muslim courts for centuries, and often wrote better Persian and Urdu than the Muslims themselves.

  ‘Oh,’ said Waris, suddenly recalling that M
aan was a Hindu himself. ‘I’m not against Hindus like you. It’s only the kayasths. The munshi’s father was the munshi here in the Nawab Sahib’s father’s time; and he tried to rob the old man blind; except that the old man was not blind.’

  ‘But the present Nawab Sahib?’ said Maan.

  ‘He’s too good at heart, too charitable, too religious. He never gets really angry with us—and with us the little anger he displays is enough. But when he rebukes the munshi, the munshi grovels for a few minutes and then carries on just as before.’

  ‘How about you? Are you very religious?’ said Maan.

  ‘No,’ said Waris, surprised. ‘Politics is more my line. I keep things in order around these parts. I have a gun—and a gun licence, too. There is a man in this town—a base, pathetic man who was educated by the Nawab Sahib and has eaten his salt—who makes all kinds of trouble for the Nawab Sahib and the Nawabzadas—starting false cases, attempting to prove that the Fort is evacuee property, that the Nawab Sahib is a Pakistani—if this swine becomes MLA here we’ll be in trouble. And he is a Congress-wallah and has made it known that he is in the running for the Congress ticket to contest from this constituency. I wish the Nawab Sahib would himself stand as an Independent candidate—or let me stand for him! I’d wipe the ground clean with that bastard.’

  Maan was delighted with Waris’s sense of loyalty; he clearly felt that the honour and prosperity of the house of Baitar rested entirely on his shoulders.

  Maan now descended to the dining room for dinner. What struck him there was not so much the rich carpet or long teak table or carved sideboard, but the oil portraits hanging on the walls: for there were four, two on each of the longer walls.

  One was of the Nawab Sahib’s dashing great-grandfather, complete with horse, sword and green plume, who had died fighting against the British at Salimpur. The other portrait on the same wall was of his son, who had been permitted his inheritance by the British and who had gone in for more scholarly and philanthropic pursuits. He was not on horseback, merely standing, though in full nawabi regalia. There was a sense of calm, even of withdrawal, in his eyes—as opposed to the attractive arrogance in his father’s. On the opposite wall, the elder facing the elder and the younger the younger, hung portraits of Queen Victoria and King Edward VII. Victoria, seated, stared out of the painting with an air of glum plumpness that was emphasized by the tiny round crown on her head. She was wearing a long, dark-blue gown and a cloak trimmed in ermine, and carrying a small sceptre. Her portly, rakish son stood crown-less but not sceptre-less against a dark background; he had on a red tunic with a dark-grey sash, an ermine cloak and velvet gown, and he bristled with braid and tassels. He had a great deal more cheerfulness in his expression but none of his mother’s assurance. Maan looked at each of the portraits in turn between courses during his over-spiced and solitary meal.