Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

The Bear and his companion the guppi had completed whatever business they had in Debaria, and were headed somewhere else.

Netaji was going because he had ‘some business in the subdivisional courts’, but really because he wanted to hobnob with the local administrative functionaries and small-time politicians in Salimpur.

Finally, there was the eminent archaeologist, Vilayat Sahib, of whom Maan had not yet caught a glimpse. He was to return to Brahmpur on his way back to Delhi. Characteristically, he disappeared from Debaria on his own on a bullock-cart before anyone could make the friendly gesture of offering to share their rickshaw with him.

It’s as if he didn’t exist, thought Maan — as if he’s in purdah. I’ve heard of him but I’ve never seen him — like the women of the family. I suppose they exist as well. Or perhaps they don’t. Perhaps all women are just a rumour. He was beginning to feel immensely restless.

Netaji, very dashing and mustachioed, had insisted that Maan ride into Salimpur on the back of his Harley Davidson. ‘Why would you want to ride for an hour in a ramshackle cycle rickshaw in this heat?’ he had asked. ‘As a Brahmpur-wallah, you’re accustomed to luxury, you couldn’t be used to having your brains baked. Anyway, I want to talk to you.’ Maan had acquiesced, and was now bouncing up and down along the pitted country road on the motorcycle, having his brains vibrated rather than baked.

Rasheed had warned Maan about Netaji and his attempt to extract personal advantage from every possible situation, so Maan was not surprised at the turn their conversation took.

‘How are you enjoying yourself? Can you hear me?’ asked Netaji.

‘Oh, yes,’ Maan replied.

‘I said, how are you enjoying yourself?’

‘Very much. Where did you get this motorcycle?’

‘I meant, are you enjoying yourself in our village?’

‘Why not?’

‘Why not? That means you aren’t.’

‘No, no — I’m enjoying myself very much.’

‘Well, what do you enjoy about it?’

‘Er, there’s a lot of fresh air in the country,’ said Maan.

‘Well, I hate it,’ shouted Netaji.

‘What was that?’

‘I hate it. There’s nothing to do here. There isn’t even any proper politics. That’s why if I don’t leave the village and visit Salimpur at least twice a week, I fall ill.’

‘Ill?’ asked Maan.

‘Yes, ill. Everyone in the village makes me ill. And the village louts are the worst. That Moazzam for instance, he has no respect for other people’s property. . You aren’t holding on tight. You’ll fall off. Hold close to me for balance.’

‘All right.’

‘I can’t even keep my motorcycle safe from them. I have to keep it in an open courtyard, and they damage it out of spite. Now Brahmpur, there’s a city!’

‘You’ve been to Brahmpur then?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Netaji impatiently. ‘You know what I like about Brahmpur?’

‘What?’ asked Maan.

‘You can eat out in hotels.’

‘In hotels?’ Maan frowned.

‘In small hotels.’

‘Oh.’

‘Now this is a bad patch. Hold on tight. I’ll go slow. That way, if we slip, we’ll be all right.’

‘Fine.’

‘Can you hear me?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘How about the flies?’

‘No, you’re my shield.’

After a pause, Netaji said, ‘You must have a lot of contacts.’

‘Contacts?’

‘Yes, contacts, contacts, you know what I mean.’

‘But—’

‘You should use your contacts to help us,’ said Netaji bluntly. ‘I’m sure you could get me a kerosene dealer’s licence. That should be easy enough for the Revenue Minister’s son.’

‘Actually, all that is under a different ministry,’ said Maan, unoffended. ‘Civil Supplies, I think.’

‘Come on, come on, that doesn’t matter. I know how it works.’

‘I really can’t,’ said Maan. ‘My father would kill me if I suggested it.’

‘No harm in asking. Anyway, your father is very well respected here. . Why doesn’t he find you a comfortable job?’

‘A job. . er, why do people respect my father here? After all, he’ll take away your land, won’t he?’

‘Well. .’ began Netaji, then stopped. He wondered whether he should confide in Maan that the village record-keeper had cooked the records to suit the family interests. Neither Netaji nor anyone else in the family had so far come to know of Rasheed’s visit to the patwari. It was unimaginable that he could have asked him to uncook them on Kachheru’s behalf.

‘Was that your son who saw us off?’ asked Maan.

‘Yes. He’s just over two, and he’s in a bad mood these days.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, he’s returned from his grandmother’s place, where he was spoilt. Now nothing we do pleases him, and he’s acting as contrary as possible.’

‘Maybe it’s the heat.’

‘Maybe,’ Netaji agreed. ‘Have you ever been in love?’

‘What was that?’

‘I said, have you ever been in love?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Maan. ‘Tell me, what’s that building we just passed?’

In a while they reached Salimpur. They had agreed to meet the others at a cloth and general merchandise shop. But the narrow, crowded streets of Salimpur were completely packed. It was the day of the weekly market. Hawkers, peddlers, vendors of every kind, snake charmers with their torpid cobras, quacks, tinkers, fruit sellers with baskets of mangoes and lichis on their heads, sweetsellers, their barfis and laddus and jalebis encrusted with flies, and a great part of the population not only of Salimpur but of many of the surrounding villages, had managed to squeeze into the centre of the town.

There was a tremendous din. Above the babble of the customers and the shouts of the hawkers came the conflicting sounds of two screeching loudspeakers, one blaring out the current broadcast from All India Radio Brahmpur, the other interspersing its medley of film songs with advertisements for Raahat-e-Rooh or Ease-for-the-Soul Hair Oil.

Electricity! thought Maan, with a sudden leap of joy. Maybe there’ll even be a fan around somewhere.

Netaji, with impatient curses and prolonged beeps of his horn, was hardly able to move a hundred yards in fifteen minutes.

‘They’ll miss their train,’ he said of the others, who were coming by rickshaw and were half an hour behind them. But since the train was already three hours late, this was in fact unlikely.

By the time Netaji got to his friend’s shop (which, sadly, was not equipped with a fan) he had such a bad headache that, after introducing Maan, he immediately lay down on a bench and closed his eyes. The shopkeeper ordered a few cups of tea. Several other friends had gathered in the shop, which was a sort of den for political and other gossip. One of them was reading an Urdu newspaper, another — the goldsmith from next door — was picking his nose thoroughly and thoughtfully. Soon the Bear and guppi arrived.

Since it was in part a cloth shop, Maan was mildly interested to see how it was run. He noticed that there were no customers.

‘Why is there so little business here today?’ asked Maan.

‘Market day — very little activity in any of the shops,’ said the goldsmith. ‘Just the occasional yokel from out of town. That’s why I’ve deserted my own. Anyway, I can keep an eye on it from here.’

To the shopkeeper he remarked: ‘What is the SDO from Rudhia subdivision doing here in Salimpur today?’

Netaji, who had been lying as still as a corpse, suddenly perked up when he heard ‘SDO’. Salimpur had its own SDO, who was in effect administrative prince of this fief. A visit from a Sub-Divisional Officer of a different subdivision was news indeed.