Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

Firoz went on: ‘But she won’t sing for him, and she won’t play with him. All she’ll consent to sing is marsiyas, laments for the martyrs of the battle of Karbala. Not very titillating.’

‘No,’ agreed Maan.

‘She won’t even sing for you,’ said Firoz.

‘I suppose not,’ said Maan, slightly crestfallen and wondering why Firoz was being so unkind.

‘Nor for your friend.’

‘My friend?’ asked Maan.

‘The Rajkumar of Marh.’

Maan laughed. ‘Oh, him!’ he said.

‘Yes, him,’ said Firoz.

There was something in Firoz’s voice that reminded Maan of their younger days.

‘Firoz!’ laughed Maan, turning towards him. ‘All that is over. We were just kids. Don’t tell me you’re jealous.’

‘Well, as you once said, I never tell you anything.’

‘Oh?’ said Maan, rolling over on his side towards his friend, and taking him in his arms.

‘I thought you were sleepy,’ said Firoz, smiling to himself in the dark.

‘So I am,’ said Maan. ‘But so what?’

Firoz began to laugh quietly. ‘You’ll think I’ve planned all this.’

‘Well, perhaps you have,’ said Maan. ‘But I don’t mind,’ he added with a small sigh as he passed a hand through Firoz’s hair.

Mahesh Kapoor and Maan borrowed a jeep from the Nawab Sahib and drove off towards Debaria. So full of pits and pools was the dirt road that led off the main road to the village that it was normally impossible to get to it in the monsoon. But they managed somehow, partly because it had not rained too heavily in the past week.

Most of the people they met were very pleased to see Maan; and Mahesh Kapoor — in spite of what the Nawab Sahib had told him — was quite astonished at the popularity of his vagabond son. It struck him with amazement that of the two activities necessary for a politician — the ability to win votes, and the capacity to do something with your mandate after victory — Maan possessed the first in abundant measure, at least in this constituency. The people of Debaria had taken him to their hearts.

Rasheed, of course, was not there, since it was term-time, but his wife and daughters were staying with his father rather than hers for a few days. Meher and the village urchins and the shock-headed Moazzam were all delighted at Maan’s arrival. He provided even more entertainment than the various black goats tied up to posts and trees around the village that were due to be sacrificed the next day. Moazzam, who had always been fascinated by Maan’s watch, demanded to see it again. Even Mr Biscuit paused in his eating to yell out a triumphant if variant version of the azaan before Baba, furious at his impiety, dealt with him.

The orthodox Baba, who had told Maan to come back for Bakr-Id but had very much doubted that he would, did not actually smile — but it was very apparent that he was glad to see him. He praised him to his father.

‘He is a good boy,’ said Baba, nodding vigorously at Mahesh Kapoor.

‘Yes?’ said Mahesh Kapoor.

‘Yes, indeed, he is very respectful of our ways. He has won our hearts by his simplicity.’

Simplicity? thought Mahesh Kapoor, but said nothing.

That Mahesh Kapoor, the architect of the Zamindari Abolition Act, had come to the village was a great event in itself, and it was also a matter of great consequence that he had arrived in the Nawab Sahib’s jeep. Rasheed’s father had no strong views on politics except if something impinged on his interests: any such view was communism. But Baba, who wielded considerable influence in the surrounding villages, respected Mahesh Kapoor for his resignation from the Congress at about the time that Kidwai had resigned. He also identified, as did many people, with the Nawab Sahib.

Now, however, he thought — and said as much to Mahesh Kapoor — that the best thing would be for all men of goodwill to rejoin the Congress. Nehru was firmly back in charge, he felt, and with Nehru, more than with anyone else, people of his community felt safe. When Maan mentioned that his father was considering the option of contesting from Salimpur-cum-Baitar, Baba was encouraging.

‘But try to get the Congress ticket. The Muslims will vote for Nehru — and so will the chamars. As for the others, who knows: it will depend on events — and how you run your campaign. The situation is very fluid.’

That was a phrase that Mahesh Kapoor was to hear, read, and use a great deal in the days to come.

The brahmins and banias of the village came separately to see him as he sat on a charpoy under the neem tree outside Rasheed’s father’s house. The Football was particularly ingratiating. He told Mahesh Kapoor of Baba’s methods of foiling the Zamindari Act by forced evictions (omitting his own attempts in the same direction), and offered to act as Mahesh Kapoor’s lieutenant in the area should he choose to run from there. Mahesh Kapoor, however, was non-committal in his response. He did not much care for the scheming Football; he realized that there were very few brahmin families in Debaria, none in the twin village of Sagal and not many in the villages around; and it was clear to him that the man who mattered most of all was the ancient and energetic Baba. He disliked what he heard about the evictions, but he tried not to dwell on the sufferings he knew they caused. It was difficult to be someone’s guest and prosecutor simultaneously, more particularly if you were hoping to seek their help in the near future.

Baba asked him a number of questions over tea or sherbet.

‘How long will you be conferring on us the honour of your presence?’

‘I will have to leave this evening.’

‘What? Aren’t you going to stay for Bakr-Id?’

‘I can’t. I’ve promised to be in Salimpur. And if it rains, the jeep will be stuck here, perhaps for days. But Maan will be here for Bakr-Id.’ Mahesh Kapoor did not need to mention that if he was sounding out a future fief the subdivisional town of Salimpur, with its concentrated knot of population, was an essential stop, and that his participation there in the Id celebrations would pay rich dividends in the future. Maan had told him that his secular stand was popular in the town.

The one person who had very mixed feelings about Mahesh Kapoor’s visit was the young Netaji. When he heard that Mahesh Kapoor was in the village, he rushed back from Salimpur on his Harley Davidson. Netaji, who had recently been put up for election to the District Congress Committee, felt that this was an opportunity for contact-making that was too good to be true. Mahesh Kapoor had a name and a following, and, however thinly such silver was beaten into foil, he hoped that some of it might cover him as well. On the other hand, he was no longer the powerful Minister of Revenue but plain Shri Mahesh Kapoor, MLA, a member no longer of the Congress but of a party of uncertain prospects and unmemorable name that even now seemed riven with disagreement about whether to wind itself up. And the acrobatic Netaji, who had his ear to the ground and his finger to the wind, had concrete proof of Mahesh Kapoor’s weakening might and clout. He had heard about Jha’s power in Mahesh Kapoor’s own tehsil of Rudhia, and had imbibed with particular satisfaction the news of the swift transfer of the arrogant English-speaking SDO who had snubbed him so painfully on the platform of Salimpur Station.

Mahesh Kapoor took a walk around the village in the company of Maan and Baba — as well as Netaji, who forced himself upon them. Mahesh Kapoor appeared to be in an excellent mood; perhaps the respite from Prem Nivas had done him good — or the open air — or Majeed Khan’s singing — or simply the fact that he could see political possibilities in this constituency. They were tailed by a motley gang of village children and a small, black, continually bleating goat that one of the children was driving along the muddy path — a glossy-headed goat, with pointed little horns, thick black eyebrows and mild, sceptical yellow eyes. Everywhere Maan was greeted with friendliness and Mahesh Kapoor with respect.