Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

Maan said to Rasheed, ‘I’ve been thinking of writing a letter. Do you think you could write it for me and, well, help me compose it? I can still barely string two words together in this script.’

‘Of course,’ said Rasheed.

‘You really don’t mind?’ said Maan.

‘No, of course not. Why should I?’ said Rasheed.

‘Actually, it’s to Saeeda Bai.’

‘I see,’ said Rasheed.

‘Maybe after dinner?’ said Maan. ‘I’m not in the mood now with all these kids running around.’ He was afraid that they might start chanting ‘Saeeda Bai! Saeeda Bai!’ at the top of their lungs.

Rasheed didn’t say anything for a few moments, then waved away a fly and said: ‘The only reason why I’m getting you to write these two letters again and again is that the way you draw the curve is too shallow. It should be more rounded. Like this—’ And he drew the letter ‘sheen’ very slowly.

Maan could sense that Rasheed was not happy, that he in fact disapproved, but he did not know what to do about it. He could not bear to think that he would not hear from Saeeda Bai, and he feared that she might not write to him unless he wrote to her. In fact he wasn’t even sure that she had his postal address. Of course ‘c/o Abdur Rasheed, village Debaria, tehsil Salimpur, Distt Rudhia, P.P.’ would get to him, but Maan was not certain that Saeeda Bai was certain that it would.

Since she could read nothing but Urdu, he would have to get an Urdu scribe to write his letter for him until he himself learned the script sufficiently well to be able to do so. And who other than Rasheed could or would help him by writing it, and — unless Saeeda Bai’s hand was exceptionally clear and careful — by reading out her reply to him when it came?

Maan was staring down at the ground in his perplexity when he noticed that a huge crowd of flies had gathered around the spot where Baba had spat. They were ignoring the sherbet that Maan and Rasheed were drinking.

How strange, he thought, and frowned.

‘What are you thinking of?’ said Rasheed, quite brusquely. ‘Once you can read and write the language you’ll be free. So do pay attention, Kapoor Sahib.’

‘Look at that,’ said Maan.

‘That’s odd. You’re not diabetic, are you?’ said Rasheed, no longer with sharpness but concern in his voice.

‘No,’ said Maan, surprised. ‘Why? That’s where Baba spat just now.’

‘Oh, yes, I see,’ said Rasheed. ‘He is. And the flies gather around his spittle because it’s sweet.’

Maan looked over towards the old man, who was shaking his finger at one of the brats.

‘But he insists he’s in very good general health,’ said Rasheed, ‘and against all our advice, he still fasts every day during Ramazan. Last year it was in June, and he didn’t have a morsel of food or a drop of water from sunrise to sunset. And this year it’ll be at almost the same time of year. Long hot days. No one expects it of a man his age. But he won’t listen.’

The heat had suddenly begun to get to Maan, but he didn’t know what to do about it. He was sitting under the neem tree, which was the coolest place out of doors. If he had been at home, he would have turned on the fan, collapsed on to his bed and stared at the ceiling as the blades went round and round. Here there was nothing to do but suffer. The sweat trickled down his face, and he tried to be grateful that flies didn’t settle upon it immediately.

‘It’s too hot!’ said Maan. ‘I don’t want to live.’

‘You should have a bath,’ said Rasheed.

‘Ah!’ said Maan.

Rasheed went on: ‘I’ll go in and get some soap and tell the fellow to pump the water while you’re under the tap. It would have been too cold after dark last night, but now’s a good time. . Use that tap.’ He pointed to the pump directly in front of the house. ‘But you should put on your lungi while bathing.’

There was a small, windowless room that jutted forward out of the house and Maan used this to change in. It was not part of the house proper but acted as a sort of shed. It contained spare parts for agricultural machinery and a few ploughs. Some spears and sticks stood in a corner. When Maan entered it there was as much expectation among the children as if an actor had gone backstage to emerge in a brilliant new costume. When he came out they discussed him critically.

‘Look at him, he looks so pale.’

‘He looks even more bald now.’

‘Lion, lion, without a tail!’

All of them became very excited. One odious child of about seven called ‘Mr Biscuit’ made use of the clamour to aim a stone at a girl. The stone went hurtling through the air and hit her on the back of the head. She started screaming in pain and shock. Baba, jolted out of his recitation, got up from his charpoy and appraised the situation in an instant. Everyone was staring at Mr Biscuit, who was trying to appear nonchalant. Baba caught hold of Mr Biscuit’s ear and twisted it.

‘Haramzada — bastard — you dare to behave like the animal you are?’ cried the old man.

Mr Biscuit began to blubber, and snot ran down from his nostrils. Baba dragged him by the ear to where he had been sitting, and slapped him so hard the boy almost went flying. Then, ignoring him, he sat down to his recitation again. But his concentration had been spoilt.

Mr Biscuit sat stunned on the ground for a few minutes, then got up to perpetrate what further mischief he could. Meanwhile his victim had been taken back home by Rasheed; she was bleeding copiously from the back of her head, and crying her eyes out.

Ignorant and brutal at the age of seven! This, thought Rasheed, is what the village does to you. Anger against his surroundings welled up within him.

Maan had his bath under the scrutiny of the village children. The cool water poured generously out of the spout, pumped by a very vigorous middle-aged man with a friendly, square, deeply furrowed and wrinkled face. He showed no signs of tiring and appeared to enjoy being of service, continuing to pump water even after Maan had finished.

Maan at last was cool and, therefore, at a truce with the world.

Maan did not eat much at lunch but praised the food a great deal, hoping that some of his praise would get through to the unseen woman or women of the house who had prepared it.

A little after lunch, after they had washed their hands and were resting on the charpoys outside, a couple of visitors arrived at the house. One was Rasheed’s maternal uncle.

This man was the elder brother of Rasheed’s late mother. He was a huge, kind bear of a man, with a pepper-and-salt stubble. He lived about ten miles away, and Rasheed had once run off and lived with him for a month after he had been beaten at home for half-throttling a fellow-schoolmate to death.

Rasheed got up from the charpoy the instant he saw him. Then he said to Maan — the others were still out of earshot—‘The big man is my Mamu. The round one is known as the “guppi” in my mother’s village — he blathers on and on and tells ridiculous stories. We’re stuck.’

By now the visitors had reached the cattle-shed.

‘Ah, Mamu, I didn’t know you were coming. How are you?’ said Rasheed in warm welcome. And he nodded at the guppi civilly.

‘Ah,’ said the Bear, and sat down heavily on the charpoy. He was a man of few words.

The man of many words, his friend and travelling companion, also sat down and asked for a glass of water. Rasheed promptly went inside and got some sherbet.

The guppi asked Maan a number of questions and ascertained quickly who, why, what and how he was. He then described to Maan a number of incidents that had occurred on their ten-mile journey. They had seen a snake, ‘as thick as my arm’ (Rasheed’s Mamu frowned in concentration, but did not contradict him); they had almost been blown off their feet by a sudden whirlwind; and the police had shot at them three times at the check-post just outside Salimpur.