Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

There was a knock on the door, and Rasheed quickly straightened up. Ishaq Khan and Motu Chand entered.

‘Our apologies, Kapoor Sahib.’

‘No, no, you’re quite right to enter,’ said Maan. ‘The time for my lesson is over, and I’m depriving Begum Sahiba’s sister of her Arabic.’ He got up. ‘Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, and my meems will be matchless,’ he promised Rasheed impetuously. ‘Well?’ he nodded genially at the musicians, ‘Is it life or death?’

But from Motu Chand’s downcast looks he anticipated Ishaq Khan’s words.

‘Kapoor Sahib, I fear that this evening — I mean the Begum Sahiba asked me to inform you. . ’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Maan, angry and hurt. ‘Good. My deep respects to the Begum Sahiba. Till tomorrow, then.’

‘It is just that she is indisposed.’ Ishaq disliked lying and was bad at it.

‘Yes,’ said Maan, who would have been very much more concerned if he had believed in her indisposition. ‘I trust that she will recover rapidly.’ At the door he turned and added: ‘If I thought it would do any good, I would prescribe her a string of meems, one to be taken every hour and several before she retires.’

Motu Chand looked at Ishaq for a clue, but Ishaq’s face reflected his own perplexity.

‘It’s no more than she has prescribed for me,’ said Maan. ‘And, as you can see, I am flourishing as a result. My soul, at any rate, has avoided indisposition as successfully as she has been avoiding me.’

Rasheed was just picking up his books when Ishaq Khan, who was still standing by the door, blurted out:

‘And Tasneem is indisposed as well.’

Motu Chand glanced at his friend. Rasheed’s back was towards them, but it had stiffened. He had heard Ishaq Khan’s excuse to Maan; it had not increased his respect for the sarangi player that he had acted in this demeaning manner as an emissary for Saeeda Bai. Was he now acting as an emissary for Tasneem as well?

‘What gives you that understanding?’ he asked, turning around slowly.

Ishaq Khan coloured at the patent disbelief in the teacher’s voice.

‘Well, whatever state she is in now, she will be indisposed after her lesson with you,’ he replied challengingly. And, indeed, it was true. Tasneem was often in tears after her lessons with Rasheed.

‘She has a tendency to tears,’ said Rasheed, sounding more harsh than he intended. ‘But she is not unintelligent and is making good progress. If there are any problems with my teaching, her guardian can inform me in person — or in writing.’

‘Can’t you be a little less rigorous with her, Master Sahib?’ said Ishaq hotly. ‘She is a delicate girl. She is not training to become a mullah, you know. Or a haafiz.’

And yet, tears or no tears, reflected Ishaq painfully, Tasneem was spending so much of her spare time on Arabic these days that she had very little left for anyone else. Her lessons appeared to have redirected her even from romantic novels. Did he really wish her young teacher to start behaving gently towards her?

Rasheed had gathered up his papers and books. He now spoke almost to himself. ‘I am no more rigorous with her than I am with’—he had been about to say ‘myself’—‘with anyone else. One’s emotions are largely a matter of self-control. Nothing is painless,’ he added a little bitterly.

Ishaq’s eyes flashed. Motu Chand placed a restraining hand on his shoulder.

‘And anyway,’ continued Rasheed, ‘Tasneem has a tendency to indolence.’

‘She appears to have lots of tendencies, Master Sahib.’

Rasheed frowned. ‘And this is exacerbated by that half-witted parakeet which she keeps interrupting her work to feed or indulge. It is no pleasure to hear fragments of the Book of God being mangled in the beak of a blasphemous bird.’

Ishaq was too dumbstruck to say anything. Rasheed walked past him and out of the room.

‘What made you provoke him like that, Ishaq Bhai?’ said Motu Chand after a few seconds.

‘Provoke him? Why, he provoked me. His last remark—’

‘He couldn’t have known that you had given her the parakeet.’

‘Why, everyone knows.’

‘He probably doesn’t. He doesn’t interest himself in that kind of thing, our upright Rasheed. What got into you? Why are you provoking everyone these days?’

The reference to Ustad Majeed Khan was not lost on Ishaq, but the subject was one he could hardly bear to think of. He said:

‘So that owl book provoked you, did it? Have you tried any of its recipes? How many women has it lured into your power, Motu? And what does your wife have to say about your newfound prowess?’

‘You know what I mean,’ said Motu Chand, undeflected. ‘Listen, Ishaq, there’s nothing to be gained by putting people’s backs up. Just now—’

‘It’s these wretched hands of mine,’ cried Ishaq, holding them up and looking at them as if he hated them. ‘These wretched hands. For the last hour upstairs it has been torture.’

‘But you were playing so well—’

‘What will happen to me? To my younger brothers? I can’t get employment on the basis of my brilliant wit. And even my brother-in-law won’t be able to come to Brahmpur to help us now. How can I show my face at the radio station, let alone ask for a transfer for him?’

‘It’s bound to get better, Ishaq Bhai. Don’t distress yourself like this. I’ll help you—’

This was of course impossible. Motu Chand had four small children.

Even music means agony to me now, said Ishaq Khan to himself, shaking his head. Even music. I cannot bear to hear it even when I am not on duty. This hand follows the tune by itself, and it seizes up with pain. If my father had been alive, what would he have said if he had heard me speaking like this?

‘The Begum Sahiba was very explicit,’ said the watchman. ‘She is not seeing anyone this evening.’

‘Why?’ demanded Maan. ‘Why?’

‘I do not know,’ said the watchman.

‘Please find out,’ said Maan, slipping a two-rupee note into the man’s hand.

The watchman took the note and said: ‘She is not well.’

‘But you knew that before,’ said Maan, a bit aggrieved. ‘That means I must go and see her. She will be wanting to see me.’

‘No,’ said the watchman, standing before the gate. ‘She will not be wanting to see you.’

This struck Maan as distinctly unfriendly. ‘Now look,’ he said, ‘you have to let me in.’ He tried to shoulder his way past the watchman, but the watchman resisted, and there was a scuffle.

Voices were heard from inside, and Bibbo emerged. When she saw what was happening, her hand flew to her mouth. Then she gasped out: ‘Phool Singh — stop it! Dagh Sahib, please — please — what will Begum Sahiba say?’

This thought brought Maan to his senses, and he brushed down his kurta, looking rather shamefaced. Neither he nor the watchman was injured. The watchman continued to look entirely matter-of-fact about the whole incident.

‘Bibbo, is she very ill?’ asked Maan in vicarious pain.

‘Ill?’ said Bibbo. ‘Who’s ill?’

‘Saeeda Bai, of course.’

‘She’s not in the least ill,’ said Bibbo, laughing. Then, as she caught the watchman’s eye, she added: ‘At least not until half an hour ago, when she had a sharp pain around her heart. She can’t see you — or anyone.’

‘Who’s with her?’ demanded Maan.

‘No one, that is, well, as I’ve just said — no one.’

‘Someone is with her,’ said Maan fiercely, with a sharp stab of jealousy.

‘Dagh Sahib,’ said Bibbo, not without sympathy, ‘it is not like you to be like this.’

‘Like what?’ said Maan.