Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘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.’

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’.