Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘Who?’

‘Rasheed.’

‘Oh, when did you come?’

‘I’ve just come back from my wife’s village.’ Rasheed did not wish to say that he had been in Debaria for longer but had not visited until now.

The old man digested this, then said: ‘Who is that with you?’

‘This is a Babu from Brahmpur,’ said Rasheed. ‘He comes from a good family.’

Maan did not know what to think of this succinct biography, but reflected that ‘Babu’ was probably a term of respect in these parts.

The old man leaned forward slightly, then sank back with a sigh.

‘How are things in Brahmpur?’ he asked.

Rasheed nodded towards Maan.

‘Very hot still,’ said Maan, not knowing what was expected of him.

‘Just turn towards that wall for a moment,’ said Rasheed to Maan quietly.

Maan did so without asking why. He turned back, however, before he was told to do so, and caught a brief glimpse of the pretty and fair face of a woman dressed in a yellow sari who hurriedly disappeared behind a square pillar on the porch. In her arms was the child who had been sleeping on the charpoy. Later she joined the conversation from this improvised form of purdah. The little girl in red had dropped her dead crow somewhere and had gone to play with her mother and brother behind the pillar.

‘That was his younger daughter,’ said Rasheed to Maan.

‘Very pretty,’ said Maan. Rasheed silenced him with a sharp glance.

‘Why don’t you sit on the charpoy? Shoo the goat away,’ said the woman hospitably.

‘All right,’ said Rasheed.

From where they were now sitting it was more difficult for Maan to avoid casting a furtive look at her every so often. He did so whenever he was sure Rasheed was not looking. Poor Maan, he had been deprived so long of female company that he felt his heart leap and thud every time he caught the slightest glimpse of her face.

‘How is he?’ Rasheed asked the woman.

‘You can see. The worst is to come. The doctors refuse to treat him. My husband says we should make him comfortable, try to give him what he asks for, that’s the extent of it.’ She had a happy voice and a lively manner of speech.

They discussed him for a while as if he weren’t present.

Then the old man suddenly roused himself to speak. ‘Babu!’ he said in a loud voice.

Rasheed nodded at Maan again.

‘Yes?’ said Maan, probably too softly for the man to hear.

‘What can I tell you, Babu — I’ve been ill for twenty-two years — and bedridden for twelve. I am so crippled I can’t even sit up. I wish God would take me. I had six children and six daughters too’—Maan was struck by his manner of describing his twelve children—‘and only two are left. My wife died three years ago. Never get ill, Babu. It is the worst fate. I eat here, I sleep here, I wash here, I talk here, I pray here, I weep here, I shit and piss here. Why did God do this to me?’

Maan looked at Rasheed. He looked stricken.

‘Rasheed!’ cried the old man.

‘Yes, Phupha-jaan.’

‘Her mother’—the old man indicated his daughter with his head—‘took care of your father when he was ill. Now he doesn’t even visit. It’s since your stepmother came. Previously, every time I went past their house — ah, twelve years ago — they insisted that I had to have tea. They visited when I fell ill. Now only you do. I hear Vilayat Sahib was here too. He didn’t visit.’

‘Vilayat Sahib never visits anyone, Phupha-jaan.’

‘What’s that you say?’

‘Vilayat Sahib never visits anyone.’

‘Yes. But your father? Don’t take it badly. I’m not criticizing.’

‘No, no,’ said Rasheed. ‘I know. It’s not right. I don’t say it’s right.’ He shook his head slowly and looked down. Then he went on: ‘I don’t take it badly. It’s best to say what one thinks. I’m sorry that this is so. But I must listen to it. It’s only right.’

‘You must visit again before you go back. . How do you manage in Brahmpur?’

‘I manage very well,’ said Rasheed, reassuringly if not accurately. ‘I give tuitions, and that covers things comfortably. I am in good shape. I’ve brought a small gift for you — some sweets.’

‘Sweets?’

‘Yes. I’ll give them to her.’

To the woman Rasheed said: ‘They are easy to digest, but don’t give him more than one or two at a time.’ To the old man he said: ‘I must go now, Phupha-jaan.’

‘You are a good man.’

‘It’s easy to earn that title in Sagal,’ said Rasheed.

The old man chuckled a little. ‘Yes,’ he said, finally.

Rasheed got up to go, and Maan followed.

The old man’s daughter, with a tender formality in her voice, said: ‘What you have done restores our faith in people.’

But as they left the courtyard, Maan heard Rasheed say to himself:

‘And what the good people have done to you makes me doubt my faith in God.’

On the way out of the village of Sagal, they passed a small open area in front of the mosque. Here, standing and talking, was a group of about ten village elders, most of them bearded, including the man who had passed them outside the old man’s house. Rasheed recognized two more of the invalid’s brothers among the group, but could not see their expressions in the late twilight. They appeared, however, to be looking at him, and their stance was hostile. As he drew nearer, he saw that their expression was no less so. For a few seconds they looked him up and down. Maan, still in his white shirt and trousers, also came under their scrutiny.

‘So you’ve come,’ said one in a slightly mocking tone.

‘Yes,’ said Rasheed, without any warmth, and not even using the customary title of the man who spoke.

‘You’ve taken your time.’

‘Well,’ said Rasheed, ‘some things take time.’

‘So you sat talking and exchanging the time of day until it became too late to say the namaaz,’ said another, the man who had passed by him a little while ago.

This was indeed true; so involved had Rasheed been that he had not even noticed the evening call to prayer.

‘Yes,’ he responded angrily. ‘That’s precisely right.’

He was enraged that he was being baited in this open gathering, not out of any attempt to improve his attendance at prayer but out of sheer mockery and ill will. They’re jealous, he thought, because I’m young and have made progress. And they’re threatened by my beliefs — they’ve decided that I’m a communist. And what they hate most of all is my association with that man whose life makes their own a source of shame.

A tall, thickset man glowered at Rasheed. ‘And who is this?’ he asked, indicating Maan. ‘Are you not going to do us the favour of an introduction? Then we will be able to judge what company the Maulana Sahib keeps and benefit from it too.’ The orange kurta that Maan had been wearing when he first arrived had given rise to the rumour that he was a Hindu holy man.

‘I don’t think that is necessary,’ said Rasheed. ‘He is my friend, that is all. Like should be introduced to like.’

Maan ventured to come forward to stand with Rasheed, but Rasheed with a gesture kept him out of the main line of fire.

‘Do you propose to attend the dawn prayer at the mosque at Debaria tomorrow, Maulana Sahib? We understand that you are a late riser and it may involve some sacrifice,’ said the thickset man to Rasheed.

‘I will attend what prayers I choose to,’ said Rasheed hotly.

‘So, Maulana Sahib, this is your style,’ said someone else.

‘Look—’ said Rasheed, almost beside himself with anger, ‘if any of you want to talk about my style, come any time to my house and we’ll talk about it, and we’ll see whose style bests the other’s. As for whose life is more decent and whose religious beliefs are deeper — society knows and can say. Why society? Even children know about the disreputable lives of many of the punctually pious.’ He gestured towards the semicircle of bearded figures. ‘If there was any justice, even the courts would ensure—’