Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘Would Dagh Sahib vouchsafe us the solution?’

‘Music.’

Saeeda Bai allowed herself a smile. ‘All right. Fetch me the harmonium. I am so tired today that I feel that I am at the end of my four days’ tenure in the world.’

Instead of asking Maan what he would like to hear, as she usually did, Saeeda Bai began to hum a ghazal to herself, and moved her fingers gently along the keys. After a while she began to sing. Then she stopped, distracted by her thoughts.

‘Dagh Sahib, a woman by herself — what place can she find in an ungentle world?’

‘That is why she must have someone to protect her,’ asserted Maan stoutly.

‘There are too many problems for mere admirers to handle. Admirers themselves are sometimes the problem.’ She gave a sad laugh. ‘House, tax, food, arrangements, this musician loses his hand, that landlord loses his land, this one has to go away for a family wedding, that one fears he can no longer afford his generosity, someone’s education must be looked after, a dowry has to be arranged. And a suitable boy must be found. Endless. Endless.’

‘You mean, for Tasneem?’

‘Yes. Yes. Who would think that there would be people paying court to her? Here, in this house. Yes, it’s true. It is for me, her sister, her guardian, to arrange these things. That Ishaq — he has now become Ustad Majeed Khan’s disciple, so he moves with his head in the clouds even if his voice is very much of this earth — he visits here, supposedly to see me and pay his respects, but in fact to see her. I’ve taken to keeping the parakeet in my room. Yet still he contrives to find some excuse or another. And he is not a bad man; but he has no future. His hands are crippled, and his voice untrained. Miya Mitthu can sing better than him. Even my mother’s wretched myna could.’

‘Are there others?’ asked Maan.

‘You needn’t act so innocent,’ said Saeeda Bai, annoyed.

‘Saeeda Bai — honestly—’ said Maan.

‘Not you, not you. Your friend the socialist, who has taken to organizing things in the university in order to be someone in the world.’

This description hardly fitted Firoz. Maan looked puzzled.

‘Yes, our young maulvi, her Arabic teacher. Whose hospitality you have partaken of, whose instruction you have imbibed, whose company you have shared for weeks. Do not sell your wares here, Dagh Sahib. There is a market for injured innocence, and it is not to be found between these walls.’

But Maan must have looked completely perplexed. He could not imagine that Rasheed could possibly be paying court to Tasneem. Saeeda Bai continued: ‘Yes, yes, it’s true. This pious young student, who wouldn’t come when summoned into my presence because he was involved with teaching her a passage from the Holy Book, has now taken it into his head that she is in love with him, that she is going mad for his love, and that he owes it to her to marry her. He is a sly and dangerous young wolf.’

‘Honestly, Saeeda Begum, this is news to me. I have not seen him for two weeks,’ said Maan. He noticed that her pale neck was flushed.

‘That is hardly surprising. He returned here two weeks ago. If, as appeared from your protests, you have arrived recently—’

‘Recently?’ exclaimed Maan. ‘I have barely had time to wash my face and hands—’

‘Do you mean he never breathed a word of this? That is very unlikely.’

‘Indeed not, Saeeda Bai. He is a very earnest soul; he didn’t even want to teach me ghazals. Yes, he talked once or twice about socialism and methods for improving the economic status of the village — but love! Why, he is a married man.’

Saeeda Bai smiled. ‘Has Dagh Sahib forgotten that men have not forgotten to count to four in our community?’ she asked.

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Maan. ‘Of course. But — well, you are not pleased—’

‘No,’ said Saeeda Bai, with a flash of anger. ‘I am not pleased.’

‘Is Tasneem—’

‘No, she is not, she is not, and I will not have her be in love with some village lout—’ said Saeeda Begum. ‘He wants to marry her for my possessions. Then he will spend them on digging a village ditch. Or planting trees. Trees!’

This did not at all accord with Maan’s sense of Rasheed, but he thought better than to contradict Saeeda Bai, who had worked herself into a state of indignation.

‘Well, how about a true-hearted admirer for Tasneem?’ he suggested by way of diversion.

‘It is not for admirers to choose her but to be chosen by me,’ said Saeeda Bai Firozabadi.

‘May not even a Nawabzada admire her, even if from afar?’

‘Whom precisely are you referring to?’ asked Saeeda Bai, her eyes flashing dangerously.

‘Let me say, a friend,’ said Maan, enjoying her unfeigned interest, and admiring the brilliance of her expression — like swordplay at sunset, he thought. How beautiful she looked — and what a wonderful night lay ahead.

But Saeeda Begum got up and went to the gallery. She was biting the inside of her cheek. She clapped her hands again. ‘Bibbo!’ she shouted. ‘Bibbo! Bibbo! That stupid girl must have gone to the kitchen. Ah’—for Bibbo had come running up the stairs at the note of danger in her mistress’s voice—‘Bibbo, you’ve decided to grace us with your presence at last? I have been shouting myself hoarse for the last half hour.’

Maan smiled to himself at the charming exaggeration.

‘Dagh Sahib is tired, Bibbo. Kindly show him out.’ Something caught in her voice.

Maan started. What on earth had got into Saeeda Begum?

He looked at her, but she had averted her face. She had sounded not merely angry but painfully upset.

It must be my fault, he thought. I have said or done something terribly wrong. But what on earth have I done or said? he asked himself. Why should the thought of a Nawabzada paying court to Tasneem worry Saeeda Begum so greatly? After all, Firoz is the very opposite of a village lout.

Saeeda Bai walked past him, picked up the birdcage, and went back to her bedroom, closing the door behind her. Maan was stunned. He looked at Bibbo. She was astonished too. It was her turn to look at him with sympathy.

‘Sometimes this happens,’ said Bibbo. But in fact it happened very rarely. ‘What did you do?’ she continued with immense curiosity. Her mistress was normally unshockable. Nothing even the Raja of Marh had done recently — and he had been in a foul mood because of the result of the Zamindari Abolition case — had had this effect.

‘Nothing,’ said Maan, staring at the closed door. After a minute he said softly, as if speaking to himself: ‘But she can’t really be serious.’ And, he thought to himself, I, for my part, am not going to be brushed off like this. He went to the bedroom door.

‘Oh, Dagh Sahib, please, please—’ cried Bibbo, horrified. The bedroom, when Saeeda Bai entered it, was sacrosanct.

‘Saeeda Begum,’ said Maan in a tender and puzzled voice, ‘what have I done? Please tell me. Why are you so angry with me? Was it Rasheed — or Firoz — or what?’

There was no answer from inside.

‘Please, Kapoor Sahib—’ said Bibbo, raising her voice and trying to sound firm.

‘Bibbo!’ came the parakeet’s metallic and commanding voice from the bedroom. Bibbo started giggling.

Maan was now trying to open the door, but the handle wouldn’t work. She must have locked it from the inside, he thought angrily. Aloud he said, ‘This is an unjust way to treat me, Saeeda Begum — you promise me heaven one minute and you throw me the next minute into hell. I hardly had time to bathe and shave after arriving in Brahmpur, and I came to see you. At least tell me why you are so upset.’

From inside the room came Saeeda Bai’s voice: ‘Just go away, please, Dagh Sahib, have pity on me. I can’t see you today. I can’t give you reasons for everything.’