Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘Sorted themselves out? Hasn’t Jha just managed to get rid of you?’

‘Well, I’ve been promoted—’

‘Yes, yes, that’s what I meant,’ said Mahesh Kapoor impatiently. ‘But you’re very popular with everyone in Rudhia. If you weren’t in the IAS, I’d have made you my agent. I’d win the elections easily.’

‘Are you thinking of standing from Rudhia?’ asked Sandeep.

‘I’m not thinking of anything at the moment,’ said Mahesh Kapoor. ‘Everyone else is doing my thinking for me. My son. And my grandson. And my friend the Nawab Sahib. And my Parliamentary Secretary. And Rafi Sahib. And the Chief Minister. And this most helpful gentleman,’ he added, indicating the politician, a short, quiet man who had shared a cell with Mahesh Kapoor many years ago.

‘I am only saying: We should all return to the party of Gandhiji,’ said the politician. ‘To change one’s party is not necessarily to change one’s principles — or to be unprincipled.’

‘Ah, Gandhiji,’ said Mahesh Kapoor, not willing to be drawn out. ‘He would have been eighty-two today, and a miserable man. He would never have reiterated his wish to live to be a hundred and twenty-five. As for his spirit, we feed it with laddus for one day of the year, and once we’ve performed his shraadh we forget all about him.’

Suddenly he turned to his wife: ‘Why is he taking so long making the phulkas? Must we sit here with our stomachs rumbling till four o’clock? Instead of dandling that baby and making it howl, why don’t you get that halfwit cook to feed us?’

Veena said, ‘I’ll go,’ to her mother and went towards the kitchen.

Mrs Mahesh Kapoor once more bowed her head over the baby. She believed that Gandhiji was a saint, more than a saint, a martyr — and she could not bear that anything should be said about him in bitterness. Even now she loved to sing — or to hear sung — the songs from the anthology used in his Ashram. She had just bought three postcards issued by the Posts and Telegraph Department in his memory: one showed him spinning, one showed him with his wife Kasturba, one showed him with a child.

But what her husband said was probably true. Thrust to the sidelines of power at the end of his active life, his message of generosity and reconciliation, it seemed, had been almost forgotten within four years of his death. She felt, however, that he would still have wanted to live. He had lived through times of desperate frustration before, and had borne it with patience. He was a good man, and a man without fear. Surely his fearlessness would have extended into the future.

After lunch, the women went for a walk in the garden. It had been a warmer year than most, but this particular day had been relieved by a little morning rain. The ground was still slightly moist, and the garden fragrant. The pink madhumalati creeper was in bloom near the swing. Mixed with the earth beneath the harsingar tree lay many small white-and-orange flowers that had fallen at dawn; they still held a trace of their fugitive scent. A few gardenias remained on one of two sporadically bearing trees. Mrs Rupa Mehra — who had been singularly quiet during lunch — now held and rocked the baby, who had fallen fast asleep. She sat down on a bench by the harsingar tree. In Uma’s left ear was a most delicate vein that branched out into smaller and smaller ones in an exquisite pattern. Mrs Rupa Mehra looked at it for a while, then sighed.

‘There is no tree like the harsingar,’ she said to Mrs Mahesh Kapoor. ‘I wish we had one in our garden.’

Mrs Mahesh Kapoor nodded. A modest, unhandsome tree by day, the harsingar became glorious at night, full of a delicate fragrance, surrounded by enchanted insects. The tiny, six-petalled flowers with their orange hearts wafted down at dawn. And tonight it would again be full, and the flowers would again float down as the sun rose. The tree flowered, but kept nothing for itself.

‘No,’ agreed Mrs Mahesh Kapoor with a grave smile. ‘There is no tree like it at all.’ After a pause she added: ‘I will have Gajraj plant a seedling in the back garden at Pran’s house, next to the lime tree. Then it will always be as old as Uma. And it should flower in two or three years at the most.’

When Bibbo saw the Nawabzada, she quickly thrust a letter into his hands.

‘How in heaven’s name did you know I would be coming here tonight? I wasn’t invited.’

‘No one can be uninvited tonight,’ said Bibbo. ‘I thought the Nawabzada might be alive to the opportunity.’

Firoz laughed. Bibbo loved intrigue, and it was good for him that she did, because it would have been impossible otherwise for him to communicate with Tasneem. He had seen her only twice, but she fascinated him; and he felt that she must surely feel something for him, for although her letters were gentle and discreet, the very fact that she wrote them without her sister’s knowledge required courage.

‘And does the Nawabzada have a letter in exchange?’ asked Bibbo.

‘Indeed, I do; and something else besides,’ said Firoz, handing her a letter and a ten-rupee note.

‘Oh, but this is unnecessary—’

‘Yes, I know how unnecessary it is,’ said Firoz. ‘Who else is here?’ he continued. He spoke in a low voice. He could hear the sound of a lament being chanted upstairs.

Bibbo reeled off a few names including that of Bilgrami Sahib. To Firoz’s surprise there were several Sunnis among them.

‘Sunnis too?’

‘Why not?’ said Bibbo. ‘Saeeda Begum does not discriminate. Even certain pious women attend — the Nawabzada will admit that that is unusual. And she does not permit any of those mischievous imprecations that mar the atmosphere of most gatherings.’

‘If that is the case I would have asked my friend Maan to come along,’ said Firoz.

‘No, no,’ said Bibbo, startled. ‘Dagh Sahib is a Hindu; that would never do. Id, yes, but Moharram — how would that be possible? It is a different matter altogether. Outdoor processions are open to everybody, but one must discriminate somewhat for a private gathering.’

‘Anyway, he told me to give his love to the parakeet.’

‘Oh, that miserable creature — I would like to wring its neck,’ said Bibbo. Clearly some recent incident had reduced the bird’s lovability in her eyes.

‘And Maan — Dagh Sahib, I mean — also wondered — and I too am wondering — about this legend of Saeeda Begum quenching the thirst of travellers in the wilderness of Karbala with her own fair hands.’

‘The Nawabzada will be gratified to know that it is not a legend,’ said Bibbo, feeling a little annoyed that her mistress’s piety was being questioned, but then suddenly giving Firoz a smile as she remembered the ten-rupee note. ‘She stands at the corner of Khirkiwalan and Katra Mast on the day the tazias are brought out. Her mother, Mohsina Bai, used to do it, and she never fails to do it herself. Of course, you wouldn’t know it was her; she wears a burqa, naturally. But even when she is not well she keeps that post; she is a very devout lady. Some people think one thing precludes another.’

‘I do not doubt what you say,’ said Firoz seriously. ‘I did not mean to give offence.’

Bibbo, delighted with such courtesy from the Nawabzada, said:

‘The Nawabzada is about to get a reward for his own religiosity.’

‘And what is that?’

‘He will see for himself.’

And so Firoz did. Unlike Maan, he did not pause to adjust his cap halfway up the stairs. No sooner had he entered the room where Saeeda Bai — in a dark-blue sari with not a jewel on her face or hands — was holding her session than he saw — or, rather, beheld — Tasneem sitting at the back of the room. She was dressed in a fawn-coloured salwaar-kameez. She looked as beautiful, as delicate as the first time he had seen her. Her eyes were filled with tears. The moment she saw Firoz she lowered them.