Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

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.

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.