Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

A few hours later a glum Maan, fretting and exasperated at being so neatly pincered by his father and his beloved, together with Rasheed, who was conscious for the moment only of the pleasure of getting out of congested Brahmpur into the openness of the countryside, were on board a narrow-gauge train that swung in a painfully slow and halting arc towards Rudhia District and Rasheed’s home village.

Tasneem did not realize till Rasheed had gone how much she had enjoyed her Arabic lessons. Everything else she did was related to the household, and opened no windows on to a larger world. But her serious young teacher, with his insistence on the importance of grammar and his refusal to compromise with her tendency to take flight when faced with difficulties, had made her aware that she had within herself an ability for application that she had not known. She admired him, too, because he was making his own way in the world without support from his family. And when he refused to answer her sister’s summons because he was explaining a passage from the Quran to her, she had greatly approved of his sense of principle.

All this admiration was silent. Rasheed had never once indicated that he was interested in her in any way other than as a teacher. Their hands had never touched accidentally over a book. That this should not have happened over a span of weeks spoke of deliberateness on his part, for in the ordinary innocent course of things it was bound to have occurred by chance, even if they had instantly drawn back afterwards.

Now he would be out of Brahmpur for a month, and Tasneem found herself feeling sad, far sadder than the loss of Arabic lessons would have accounted for. Ishaq Khan, sensing her mood, and the cause for it as well, tried to cheer her up.

‘Listen, Tasneem.’

‘Yes, Ishaq Bhai?’ Tasneem replied, a little listlessly.

‘Why do you insist on that “Bhai”?’ said Ishaq.

Tasneem was silent.

‘All right, call me brother if you wish — just get out of that tearful mood.’

‘I can’t,’ said Tasneem. ‘I’m feeling sad.’

‘Poor Tasneem. He’ll be back,’ said Ishaq, trying not to sound anything but sympathetic.

‘I wasn’t thinking of him,’ said Tasneem quickly. ‘I was thinking that I’ll have nothing useful to do now except read novels and cut vegetables. Nothing useful to learn—’

‘Well, you could teach, even if not learn,’ said Ishaq Khan, attempting to sound bright.

‘Teach?’

‘Teach Miya Mitthu how to speak. The first few months of life are very important in the education of a parakeet.’

Tasneem brightened up for a second. Then she said: ‘Apa has appropriated my parakeet. The cage is always in her room, seldom in mine.’ She sighed. ‘It seems,’ she added under her breath, ‘that everything of mine becomes hers.’

‘I’ll get it,’ said Ishaq Khan gallantly.

‘Oh, you mustn’t,’ said Tasneem. ‘Your hands—’

‘Oh, I’m not as crippled as all that.’

‘But it must be bad. Whenever I see you practising, I can see how painful it is from your face.’

‘What if it is?’ said Ishaq Khan. ‘I have to play and I have to practise.’

‘Why don’t you show it to a doctor?’

‘It’ll go away.’

‘Still — there’s no harm in having it seen.’

‘All right,’ said Ishaq with a smile. ‘I will, because you’ve asked me to.’

Sometimes when Ishaq accompanied Saeeda Bai these days it was all he could do not to cry out in pain. This trouble in his wrists had grown worse. What was strange was that it now affected both his wrists, despite the fact that his two hands — the right on the bow and the left on the strings — performed very different functions.

Since his livelihood and that of the younger brothers whom he supported depended on his hands, he was extremely anxious. As for the transfer of his brother-in-law: Ishaq had not dared to try to get an interview with the Station Director — who would certainly have heard about what had happened in the canteen and who would have been very unfavourably disposed towards him, especially if the great Ustad himself had made it a point to express his displeasure.

Ishaq Khan remembered his father saying to him, ‘Practise at least four hours every day. Clerks push their pens in offices for longer than that, and you cannot insult your art by offering less.’ Ishaq’s father would sometimes — in the middle of a conversation — take Ishaq’s left hand and look at it carefully; if the string-abraded grooves in the fingernails showed signs of recent wear, he would say, ‘Good.’ Otherwise he would merely continue with the conversation, not visibly but palpably disappointed. Of late, because of the sometimes unbearable pain in the tendons of his wrists, Ishaq Khan had been unable to practise for more than an hour or two a day. But the moment the pain let up he increased the regimen.

Sometimes it was difficult to concentrate on other matters. Lifting a cage, stirring his tea, opening a door, every action reminded him of his hands. He could turn to no one for help. If he told Saeeda Bai how painful it had become to accompany her, especially in fast passages, would he be able to blame her if she looked for someone else?

‘It is not sensible to practise so much. You should rest — and use some balm,’ murmured Tasneem.

‘Do you think I don’t want to rest — do you think it’s easier for me to practise—’

‘But you must use proper medicine: it is very unwise not to,’ said Tasneem.

‘Go and get some for me, then—’ said Ishaq Khan with sudden and uncharacteristic sharpness. ‘Everyone sympathizes, everyone advises, no one helps. Go — go—’

He stopped dead, and covered his eyes with his right hand. He did not want to open them.

He imagined Tasneem’s startled face, her deer-like eyes starting with tears. If pain has made me so selfish, he thought, I will have to rest and restore myself, even if it means risking my work.

Aloud, after he had collected himself, he said: ‘Tasneem, you will have to help me. Talk to your sister and tell her what I can’t.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll speak to her later. I cannot find other work in my present state. She will have to keep me on even if I cannot play for a while.’

Tasneem said, ‘Yes.’ Her voice betrayed that she was, as he had thought, crying silently.

‘Please don’t take what I said badly,’ continued Ishaq. ‘I’m not myself. I will rest.’ He shook his head from side to side.

Tasneem put her hand on his shoulder. He became very still, and remained so even when she took it away.

‘I’ll talk to Apa,’ she said. ‘Should I go now?’

‘Yes. No, stay here for a while.’

‘What do you want to talk about?’ said Tasneem.

‘I don’t want to talk,’ said Ishaq. After a pause he looked up and saw her face. It was tear-stained.

He looked down again, then said: ‘May I use that pen?’

Tasneem handed him the wooden pen with its broad split bamboo nib that Rasheed made her use for her calligraphy. The letters it wrote were large, almost childishly so; the dots above the letters came out like little rhombuses.

Ishaq Khan thought for a minute while she watched him. Then, drawing to himself a large sheet of lined paper — which she used for her exercises — he wrote a few lines with some effort, and handed them to her wordlessly even before the ink was dry:

Dear hands, that cause me so much pain,

When can I gain your use again?

When can we once again be friends?

Forgive me, and I’ll make amends.

Never again will I enforce

My fiat, disciplined and coarse

Without consulting both of you

On any work we need to do,