Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘How’s the frog?’ asked Maan, holding Bhaskar’s nose. ‘Is he awake? He’s looking very neat today.’

‘You should have seen him yesterday morning,’ said Kedarnath. ‘You could only see his eyes.’

Bhaskar’s face lit up. ‘What have you brought me?’ he asked Maan. ‘You were the one who was sleeping. You have to pay me a forfeit.’

‘Son—’ began his father reprovingly.

‘Nothing,’ said Maan gravely, releasing his nose and clapping his hand over his mouth. ‘But tell me — what do you want? Quickly!’

Bhaskar furrowed his forehead in thought.

Two men walked past, talking about the impending strike by the basket-wallahs. A radio blared. A policeman shouted. The shop boy brought in two glasses of tea from the market and, after blowing on the surface for a minute, Maan began drinking.

‘Is everything going well?’ he asked Kedarnath. ‘We didn’t get much chance to talk this afternoon.’

Kedarnath shrugged, then nodded.

‘Everything’s fine. But you look preoccupied.’

‘Preoccupied? Me? Oh, no, no—’ Maan protested. ‘But what’s this I hear about the basket-wallahs threatening to go on strike?’

‘Well—’ said Kedarnath.

He could imagine the havoc that the threatened strike would spell, and didn’t want to get on to the subject. He passed his hand through his greying hair in an anxious gesture and closed his eyes.

‘I’m still thinking,’ said Bhaskar.

‘That’s a good habit,’ said Maan. ‘Well, tell me your decision next time — or send me a postcard.’

‘All right,’ said Bhaskar, with the faintest of smiles.

‘Bye, now.’

‘Bye, Maan Maama. . oh, did you know that if you have a triangle like this, and if you draw squares on the sides like this, and then add up these two squares you get that square,’ Bhaskar gesticulated. ‘Every time,’ he added.

‘Yes, I do know that.’ Smug frog, thought Maan.

Bhaskar looked disappointed, then cheered up. ‘Shall I tell you why?’ he asked Maan.

‘Not today. I have to go. Do you want a goodbye sum?’

Bhaskar was tempted to say, ‘Not today,’ but changed his mind. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘What is 256 times 512?’ asked Maan, who had worked this out beforehand.

‘That’s too easy,’ said Bhaskar. ‘Ask me another one.’

‘Well, what’s the answer, then?’

‘One lakh, thirty-one thousand and seventy-two.’

‘Hmm. What’s 400 times 400?’

Bhaskar turned away, hurt.

‘All right, all right,’ said Maan. ‘What’s 789 times 987?’

‘Seven lakhs, seventy-eight thousand, seven hundred and forty-three,’ said Bhaskar after a pause of a few seconds.

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Maan. The thought had suddenly entered his mind that perhaps he had better not risk his luck with Saeeda Bai, who was so notoriously temperamental.

‘Aren’t you going to check?’ asked Bhaskar.

‘No, genius, I have to be off.’ He tousled his nephew’s hair, gave his brother-in-law a nod, and walked out on to the main street of Misri Mandi. There he hailed a tonga to go back home.

On the way he changed his mind yet again and went straight to Saeeda Bai’s instead.

The khaki-turbaned watchman at the entrance appraised him for a moment and told him that Saeeda Bai was not in. Maan thought of writing her a note, but was faced with a problem. Which language should he write it in? Saeeda Bai would certainly not be able to read English and would almost certainly not be able to read Hindi, and Maan could not write Urdu. He tipped the watchman a rupee and said, ‘Please inform her that I came to pay my respects.’

The watchman raised his right hand to his turban in a salute, and said:

‘And Sahib’s name?’

Maan was about to give his name when he thought of something better.

‘Tell her that I am one who lives in love,’ he said. This was an atrocious pun on Prem Nivas.

The watchman nodded impassively.

Maan looked at the small, two-storeyed, rose-coloured house. Some lights were on inside, but that might not mean anything. With a sinking heart and a sense of deep frustration he turned away and walked in the general direction of home. But then he did what he usually did when he was feeling low or at a loose end — he sought out the company of friends. He told the tonga-wallah to take him to the house of the Nawab Sahib of Baitar. Upon finding that Firoz and Imtiaz were out till late, he decided to pay a visit to Pran. Pran hadn’t been pleased about the ducking of the whale, and Maan felt he should smooth his ruffled feathers. His brother struck him as being a decent fellow, but a man of tepid, unboisterous affections. Maan thought cheerfully that Pran just did not have it in him to be as love-struck and miserable as he was.

Returning later to the sadly ill-maintained mansion of Baitar House, Maan chatted till late with Firoz and Imtiaz, and then stayed overnight.

Imtiaz went out very early on a call, yawning and cursing his profession.

Firoz had some urgent work with a client, went into the section of his father’s vast library that served as his chambers, remained closeted in there for a couple of hours, and emerged whistling in time for a late breakfast.

Maan, who had deferred having breakfast until Firoz could eat with him, was still sitting in his guest bedroom, looking over the Brahmpur Chronicle , and yawning. He had a slight hangover.

An ancient retainer of the Nawab Sahib’s family appeared before him and, after making his obeisance and salutation, announced that the younger Sahib — Chhoté Sahib — would be coming for breakfast immediately, and would Maan Sahib be pleased to go downstairs? All this was pronounced in stately and measured Urdu.

Maan nodded. After about half a minute he noticed that the old servant was still standing a little distance away and gazing expectantly at him. Maan looked at him quizzically.

‘Any other command?’ asked the servant, who — Maan noticed — looked at least seventy years old, but quite spry. He would have to be fit, thought Maan, in order to negotiate the stairs of the Nawab Sahib’s house several times a day. Maan wondered why he had never seen him before.

‘No,’ said Maan. ‘You can go. I’ll be down shortly.’ Then, as the old man raised his cupped palm to his forehead in polite salutation and turned to leave, Maan said, ‘Er, wait. . ’

The old man turned around and waited to hear what Maan had to say.

‘You must have been with the Nawab Sahib for many years,’ said Maan.

‘Yes, Huzoor, that I have. I am an old servitor of the family. Most of my life I have worked at Baitar Fort, but now in my old age it has pleased him to bring me here.’

Maan smiled to see how unselfconsciously and with what quiet pride the old man referred to himself in the very words—‘purana khidmatgar’—that Maan had used mentally to classify him.

Seeing Maan silent, the old man went on. ‘I entered service when I was, I think, ten years old. I came from the Nawab Sahib’s village of Raipur on the Baitar Estate. In those days I would get a rupee a month, and it was more than sufficient for my needs. This war, Huzoor, has raised the price of things so much that with many times such a salary people find the going difficult. And now with Partition — and all its troubles, and with the Nawab Sahib’s brother going to Pakistan and all these laws threatening the property — things are uncertain, very’—he paused to find another word, but in the end merely repeated himself—‘very uncertain.’

Maan shook his head in the hope of clearing it and said, ‘Is there any aspirin available here?’

The old man looked pleased that he could be of some use, and said, ‘Yes, I believe so, Huzoor. I will go and get some for you.’