Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

It was Rasheed’s father who spoke in his paan-rough voice.

‘Abdur Rasheed, how dare you abuse your position as my son and as a member of this family? The patwari came here looking for you two days ago. When he could not find you, he spoke to me, thank God.’

Rasheed’s face went white.

He could not speak a word. It was all too clear what had happened. The wretched patwari, who knew perfectly well that it was Rasheed who was supposed to visit him, had decided to find an excuse to talk directly to his family. Suspicious and worried about his instructions, and knowing where the ghee on his roti came from, he had decided to bypass Rasheed himself to seek confirmation. Doubtless he had come during afternoon prayers, when he could be fairly certain that Rasheed would be at the mosque, and completely certain that his father would not.

Rasheed clutched his glass. His lips felt dry. He took a sip of sherbet. This action appeared to infuriate his father further. He pointed his finger at Rasheed’s head.

‘Don’t be impertinent. Answer me. Your hair looks wiser than the mulch it is growing on, but — and keep this well in mind, Rasheed — you are not a child any longer and cannot expect a child’s indulgence.’

Baba added: ‘Rasheed, this land is not yours to give or take. The patwari has been told to undo your disgraceful instructions. How could you do this? I have trusted you since you were a child. You were never obedient, but you were never underhanded.’

Rasheed’s father said: ‘In case you are inclined to create further mischief you should know that your name is no longer attached to those lands. And what a patwari writes is difficult for the Supreme Court to undo. Your communist schemes will not work here. We are not so easily taken in by theories and visions as the brilliant students of Brahmpur.’

Rasheed’s eyes flashed with anger and resistance. ‘You cannot dispossess me like that,’ he said. ‘The law of our community is clear—’ He turned to the Imam, appealing for confirmation.

‘I see you have made good use of your years of religious study as well,’ said his father bitingly. ‘Well, I would advise you, Abdur Rasheed, since you are referring to the law of inheritance, to wait until the auspicious moment when my father and I are both resting in peace near the lake before you avail yourself of it.’

The Imam looked profoundly shocked, and decided to intervene. ‘Rasheed,’ he said quietly, ‘what induced you to go behind your family’s back? You know that good order depends on the decent families of the village acting properly.’

Properly! thought Rasheed — what a joke, what a hypocritical joke. It was proper, no doubt, to tear virtual serfs away from the plots they had tilled for years in order to safeguard one’s own self-interest. It was becoming increasingly clear that the Imam was present only partly in his capacity as spiritual adviser.

And the Bear? What did he have to do with all this? Rasheed turned his eyes towards him, wordlessly pleading for his support. Surely the Bear must understand and sympathize with his intentions. But the Bear could not hold his gaze.

Rasheed’s father read his thoughts. Baring the remnants of his teeth he said: ‘Don’t look towards your Mamu for encouragement. You cannot go running to him to find shelter any longer. We have discussed the matter thoroughly together — as a family — as a family, Abdur Rasheed. That is why he is here. And he has every right to be involved in this, and to be shocked by your — your behaviour. Some of our land was bought with his sister’s dowry. Do you think we will give up so easily what we have worked to develop, to cultivate, to expand for generations? Do you think we don’t have enough trouble with the late rains this season to wish a plague of locusts upon our heads as well? If you give one plot of land to one chamar—’

The baby started wailing downstairs. Rasheed’s father got up, leaned over the parapet into the courtyard and called out:

‘Meher’s mother! Can’t you stop that child of Rasheed’s from making such a racket? Can men not talk together without being disturbed?’

He turned back to say: ‘Remember this, Rasheed: our patience is not unending.’

Rasheed, suddenly furious, and hardly thinking of his words, burst out: ‘And do you think mine is? Ever since I have come to the village, I have received nothing but taunts and envy. That destitute old man, who was good to you, Abba, in the old days, and whom you now ignore—’

‘Don’t try to stray from the subject,’ said his father sharply. ‘Keep your voice low.’

‘I am not straying — it is his evil and grasping brothers who waylaid me at their mosque and are now spreading these vile rumours—’

‘You see yourself in a very heroic light—’

‘If there was justice, they would be dragged to the court in chains and made to expiate their crimes.’

‘Courts, now, so you want to bring courts into this, Abdur Rasheed—’

‘Yes, I do, if there is no other way. And it will eventually be the courts who will make you too disgorge what for generations you have—’

‘Enough!’ Baba’s voice broke in like a whiplash.

But Rasheed hardly heard him.

‘Courts, Abba—’ he cried, ‘you are complaining about the courts? What do you think this is? This panchayat, this inquisitorial committee of five where you feel you can insult me freely—’

‘Enough!’ said Baba. He had never before had to raise his voice with Rasheed a second time.

Rasheed was quiet and bowed his head.

Netaji said: ‘Rasheed, you must not see us as a court. We are your seniors, your well-wishers, who have gathered together in the absence of strangers to advise you.’

Rasheed kept a tight rein on himself and managed not to say anything. From below the baby began to cry again.

Rasheed got up before his father could, and called towards the courtyard: ‘Wife! Wife! See that the child is comfortable.’

‘Have you considered them in this matter?’ asked his father, indicating with his head towards the courtyard.

Rasheed stared wildly.

‘And have you considered Kachheru himself?’ added Baba grimly.

‘Kachheru—?’ said Rasheed. ‘He doesn’t know about this, Baba. He doesn’t know anything about this at all. He didn’t ask me to do anything.’ He held his hands to his head. Again an intolerable pressure had begun to pound at his temples.

Baba sighed, then, looking above Rasheed’s head in the direction of the village, said: ‘Well, this affair is bound to get out. That is the problem. There are five of us here. Six. We may all promise not to speak a word, but the word will get spoken somehow. Of course, we understand from our guest, your friend, that you have not involved him in all this, which is good—’

‘Maan?’ said Rasheed, disbelievingly. ‘You’ve been talking to Maan?’

‘—but there is also the patwari, who will hide or reveal whatever suits his convenience. He is a sly man.’ Baba paused to consider his next words. ‘It will get out, and plenty of people will believe Kachheru put you up to this. We have to set an example. I am afraid you have not made things easier for him.’

‘Baba—’ protested Rasheed.

But his father cut in, his voice thick with rage: ‘You should have thought of all this before. What would have happened to him at worst? We would have rotated him from field to field. He would still have the support of our family, he would still be able to use our cattle and our tools — it is you, it is you who have harmed my old chamar.’

Rasheed covered his face with his hands. The Bear said:

‘Well, nothing has yet been decided finally, of course.’

‘No,’ agreed Baba after a pause. Rasheed was sighing deeply, his chest moving up and down.