Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘But what do you do during the monsoon?’ asked Maan.

‘Oh, I find some shelter somewhere — Allah provides, Allah provides, and He will provide as He has always done.’

‘Is the Nawab Sahib popular in these parts?’ asked Maan.

‘Popular? He’s the sun and moon put together!’ said the rickshaw-wallah. ‘And so are the young Nawabzadas, especially Chhoté Sahib. Everyone likes his temperament. And what handsome figures of men. You should see them when they are together: truly a sight to behold. The old Nawab Sahib with one son on either hand. Like the Viceroy and his officers.’

‘But if they are so well liked, why do people want to take over their estates?’

‘Why not?’ said the rickshaw-wallah. ‘People want to get land wherever they can. In my village, where my wife and family live, we have worked our land for many years — since my father’s uncle’s time. But we still have to pay rent to the Nawab Sahib — to his bloodsucker of a munshi. Why should we pay rent? Tell me. We have watered it with our sweat for fifty years, it should be our land, we should own it.’

When they got to the huge, wooden, brass-studded gate in the wall of Baitar Fort, the rickshaw-wallah asked him for twice the normal fare. Maan argued for a minute, since the amount asked was clearly unreasonable; then, feeling bad for the rickshaw-wallah, he took out what he had asked for — plus another four annas — from his kurta pocket and gave it to him.

The rickshaw-wallah went off, well satisfied with his judgement that Maan was slightly crazy. Perhaps he had really imagined he was going to meet the Nawab Sahib. Poor chap, poor chap.

The porter at the gate took a similar view of things and told Maan to clear off. He had described Maan to the munshi, and the munshi had issued the instructions.

Maan, amazed, wrote a few words on a scrap of paper and said: ‘I do not want to talk to any munshi. Now see that the Nawab Sahib or Burré Sahib or Chhoté Sahib gets this. Go and take it in.’

The porter, seeing Maan write something in English, this time asked Maan to follow him, though he did not offer to carry his bag. They entered the inner gate, and walked towards the main building of the Fort: a huge structure, four storeys high, with courtyards on two levels, and turrets at the top.

Maan was left in a courtyard flagged with grey stone; the porter climbed a flight of stairs and disappeared once again. It was late afternoon, and the heat was still intense in this paved and walled oven. Maan looked around him. There was no sign of the porter or Firoz or Imtiaz or anyone. Then he detected a slight movement in one of the windows above. A rustic, middle-aged, well-fleshed face with a grey-and-white walrus moustache was examining him from the upper window.

A minute or two later, the porter returned.

‘The munshi asks, what do you want?’

Maan said angrily: ‘I told you to give that note to Chhoté Sahib, not the munshi.’

‘But the Nawab Sahib and the Nawabzadas are not here.’

‘What do you mean, not here? When did they leave?’ asked Maan, dismayed.

‘They have not been here for a week,’ said the porter.

‘Well, tell that oaf of a munshi that I am a friend of the Nawabzada’s and will be spending the night here.’ Maan had raised his voice, and it reverberated around the courtyard.

The munshi scurried down. Though it was hot, he was wearing a bundi over his kurta. He was irritated. It was the end of a long day and he had been looking forward to cycling back into Baitar town, where he lived. Now this unshaven and unfamiliar stranger was demanding to be received at the Fort. What was all this about?

‘Yes?’ said the munshi, placing his reading glasses in his pocket. He looked Maan up and down and licked a corner of his walrus moustache. ‘Of what service can I be to you?’ he asked in polite Hindi. But behind his compliant tone and gentle demeanour Maan heard the rapid motion of the cogs of calculation.

‘You can get me out of this baking courtyard for a start, and arrange for a room and some hot water for a shave and something to eat,’ said Maan. ‘I have had a hot and tiring morning hunting, and a hot and tiring train journey, and have been given the run-around for the last half hour by you — and now this man tells me that Firoz has left — or rather, was never here. Well?’ For the munshi had made no move to assist him.

‘Would Sahib give me a letter of introduction from the Nawab Sahib? Or one of the Nawabzadas?’ the munshi said. ‘I have not had the pleasure of Sahib’s acquaintance, and in the absence of an introduction of some sort, I regret that—’

‘You can regret what you like,’ said Maan. ‘I am Maan Kapoor, a friend of Firoz and Imtiaz. I want to use a bathroom immediately, and I am not going to wait for you to come to your senses.’

Maan’s tone of command intimidated the munshi somewhat, but he made no move. He smiled to pacify Maan, but he saw his responsibility clearly. Anyone could come off the street, knowing that the Nawab Sahib and his sons were not there, claim to be a friend of one of them, and, by writing a bit of English and throwing his weight around, insinuate himself into the Fort.

‘I am sorry—’ he said unctuously. ‘I am sorry, but—’

‘Now listen,’ said Maan. ‘Firoz may not have talked about me to you, but he has certainly talked about you to me.’ The munshi looked slightly alarmed: the Chhoté Sahib did not like him much. ‘And I presume that the Nawab Sahib has mentioned my father’s name to you. They are old friends.’

‘And who might Sahib’s father be?’ asked the munshi with solicitous unconcern, expecting to hear at worst the name of some petty landowner.

‘Mahesh Kapoor.’

‘Mahesh Kapoor!’ The munshi’s tongue went rapidly to the other side of his moustache. He stared at Maan. It seemed impossible.

‘The Minister of Revenue?’ he asked, his voice quavering slightly.

‘Yes. The Minister of Revenue,’ confirmed Maan. ‘Now, where is the bathroom?’

The munshi looked quickly from Maan to his bag to the porter and back to Maan. He got no confirmation of anything from anywhere. He thought of asking Maan to produce some proof, any proof, of his identity, not necessarily a letter of introduction — but he knew that this would anger him still further. It was an impossible quandary. This man, judging from his voice and speech, was certainly educated, however sweaty and scruffy he looked. And if it was true that he was the son of the Minister of Revenue, the prime architect of the inexorable bill that was going to dispossess the house of Baitar — and indirectly himself — of its vast holdings of fields and forests and wasteland, he was a very, very important person indeed, and to have slighted him, to have been so unwelcoming to him — it did not bear thinking of. His head began to spin.

When it came to a stop, he bent down with folded hands in a gesture of servility and welcome and, instead of asking the guard or the porter to do so, picked up Maan’s bag himself. He started laughing weakly, as if in amazement and embarrassment at his own foolishness. ‘But, Huzoor, you should have said so from the beginning. I would have come out of the Fort to meet you. I would have been at the station, waiting with the jeep. Oh, Huzoor, you are welcome, welcome — welcome to the house of your friend. Anything you want, you just ask me. The son of Mahesh Kapoor — the son of Mahesh Kapoor — and I was so awed by Sahib’s gracious presence that my senses took leave of me and I did not even offer you a glass of water.’ He panted up the first flight of stairs, then handed the bag to the guard.

‘Huzoor must stay in the Chhoté Sahib’s own room,’ continued the munshi with breathless and subservient enthusiasm. ‘It is a wonderful room with a fine view of the countryside and the forest where Chhoté Sahib likes to hunt. Huzoor was pleased to mention, was he not, a minute ago, that he went out hunting this morning? I must organize a hunt for him tomorrow morning. Nilgai, deer, wild boar, perhaps even leopard. Is Huzoor amenable to that? There is no shortage of guns — and horses too, if Sahib wishes to ride. And the library is as good as the one in Brahmpur. The Nawab Sahib’s father always ordered two of each book; money was no object. And Huzoor must see the town of Baitar: with Huzoor’s permission, I will myself arrange a tour of Lal Kothi and the Hospital and the Monuments. Now what may Huzoor’s poor munshi fetch him? Something to drink after his journey? I will at once get some almond sherbet with saffron in it. It will cool your head, and give you energy. And Sahib must give me all the clothes he needs washed. There are spare clothes in the guest-rooms, two sets of which I will immediately arrange to have brought up. And I will send Huzoor’s personal manservant up in ten minutes with hot water for Huzoor’s shave, and to receive the grace of any further commands from Huzoor.’