Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

And before Maan could respond with an appropriate conciliatory couplet, she had turned to the other thirsty men.

‘Well?’ said Firoz.

Maan scratched his head. ‘No, she wasn’t pleased.’

‘Well, don’t fret; it doesn’t suit you. Let’s see what the market has to offer.’

Maan looked at his watch. ‘No, I can’t. I have to go to watch the Bharat Milaap, or I’ll lose my standing in the eyes of my nephew. Why don’t you come along as well? It’s very affecting. Everyone lines the lanes, cheering and weeping and showering flowers on the procession. Rama and company from the left, Bharat and company from the right. And the two brothers embrace in the middle — just outside the city of Ayodhya.’

‘Well, I suppose there are enough people to manage without me here,’ said Firoz. ‘How far is it?’

‘Misri Mandi — that’s where Ayodhya’s located this year. Only a ten-minute walk from here — very close to Veena’s house. She’ll be pleasantly surprised to see you.’

Firoz laughed. ‘That’s what you thought Saeeda Bai would be,’ he said, as they wandered hand in hand through the bazaar in the direction of Misri Mandi.

The Bharat Milaap processions began on time. Since Bharat had merely to go to the outskirts of his city to meet his brother, he bided his time until the pandit gave him the signal; but Rama had a long journey to make to the holy capital of Ayodhya — to which he was returning in triumph after many years of exile — and just as it became dark he set out on this journey from a temple situated a good half-mile away from the stage where the brothers were at last to be united.

This stage had been festooned with strings of flowers suspended from the bamboo poles that rose from its four corners; it had been put together by almost the whole neighbourhood with much advice and many marigolds; and several cows that had attempted to eat the marigolds had been shooed off by the monkey army. The cows were normally welcome enough in the neighbourhood — their movements at least were unobstructed — and the poor trusting things must have wondered what had created such a sudden change in their popularity.

Today was a day of pure joy and celebration; for not only were Rama and Lakshman to be reunited with their brothers Bharat and Shatrughan, but it was the day when the people would see their Lord return to them, to rule over them and establish perfect righteousness not only in Ayodhya but in the entire world.

The procession began to wind its way through the narrow lanes of Misri Mandi to the sound of drums and shehnais and a raucous popular band. First came the lights, courtesy of Jawaharlal Light House, the same company that had provided the demons’ red eyes the previous evening. The brilliant lights they held above them emitted an intense white glow from what looked like bulbs covered with gauze cloth.

Mahesh Kapoor held his hand against his eyes. He was here partly because his wife wanted him to be, partly because he was more and more coming around to the idea of rejoining the Congress Party and felt he should re-establish his links with his old constituency just in case.

‘This light is too bright — I’m going blind—’ he said. ‘Kedarnath, do something about it. You’re one of the organizers, aren’t you?’

‘Baoji, let’s just let them pass. It’ll be better later on,’ said his son-in-law, who knew that once the procession had begun, there was almost nothing he could do about it. Mrs Mahesh Kapoor had cupped her hands over her ears, but was smiling to herself.

The brass band was deafening. After blaring out a few film songs, they switched to religious melodies. They made a striking sight in their cheap red trousers with white piping and their blue tunics with gold-coloured cotton braid. Every one of their trumpets, trombones and horns was out of tune.

Then came the principal noisemongers, the flat drummers, who had been roasting their instruments carefully over three small fires near the temple to heighten their pitch and crispness. They played as if they had gone mad — in unbelievably swift salvos of unbearable noise. They forced themselves aggressively upon anyone whom they recognized from the Ramlila Committee in a mixture of display and blackmail, compelling them to hand over coins and notes. They thrust their pelvises forward and moved their drums back and forth at a slant from their waists. These were good days for the drummers: they were in demand both by those who celebrated Dussehra and by those who observed Moharram.

‘Where are they from?’ asked Mahesh Kapoor.

‘What?’ asked Kedarnath.

‘I said, where are they from?’

‘I can’t hear you because of these wretched drummers.’

Mahesh Kapoor cupped his hands and shouted into his son-in-law’s ears: ‘I said, where are they from? Are they Muslim?’

‘They’re from the market—’ shouted Kedarnath, which was a way of admitting that they were.

Even before the swaroops — Rama, Lakshman, and Sita — could appear in their beauty and glory, the master of fireworks — who carried a massive sack on his shoulder — brought out a huge packet, tore off the coloured paper from it, ripped open the cardboard box inside, and rolled out another great red carpet of five thousand firecrackers. As they exploded in series, people drew back from the light and noise, their faces flushed with excitement, their hands clapped over their ears or their fingers inserted into them. The noise was so overwhelming that Mahesh Kapoor decided that even his obligation to be seen in his old constituency was not worth the loss of his hearing and sanity.

‘Come,’ he shouted to his wife, ‘we’re going home.’

Mrs Mahesh Kapoor could not hear a word of what he was saying, and kept smiling.

The monkey army, Bhaskar included, was next in the procession, and a great quiver of excitement went through the spectators; the swaroops were to follow shortly. The children started clapping; the old people were the most expectant of all, remembering perhaps the scores of Ramlilas they must have seen enacted in the course of their lives. Some children sat on a low wall along the route, others skilfully scrambled up to the ledges of houses, getting a foothold here or the help of an adult shoulder there. One father, kissing his two-year-old daughter’s bare foot, pushed her up on to the flat top of a decorative pillar and held her there to help her get a better view.

And then at last Lord Rama appeared; and Sita, in a yellow sari; and Lakshman, smiling, his quiver glistening with arrows.

The eyes of the spectators filled with tears of joy, and they began showering flowers on the swaroops. The children clambered down from their perches and followed the procession, chanting ‘Jai Siyaram’ and ‘Ramchandra ji ki jai!’ and sprinkling rose petals and water from the Ganga on them. And the drummers beat their drums with renewed frenzy.

Mahesh Kapoor, his face flushed with annoyance, seized his wife’s hand and pulled her to one side.

‘We are leaving,’ he shouted directly into her ear. ‘Can’t you hear me? I have had enough. . Veena, your mother and I are leaving.’

Mrs Mahesh Kapoor looked at her husband, astonished, almost disbelieving. Tears filled her eyes when she understood what he had said, what she was to be deprived of. Once she had seen the Bharat Milaap at Nati Imli in Banaras, and she had never forgotten it. The tenderness of the occasion — with the two brothers who had remained in Ayodhya throwing themselves at the feet of their two long-exiled brothers — the throng of spectators, at least a lakh of people — the devotion in everyone’s eyes as the small figures came on to the stage — everything came back to her. Whenever she saw the Bharat Milaap here in Brahmpur she thought of that occasion in all its charm and wonder and grace. How simple it was and how wonderful. And it was not merely the tender meeting of long-separated brothers but the first act of Ram Rajya, the rule of Rama when, unlike in these factious, violent, petty times, the four pillars of religion — truth, purity, mercy, and charity — would hold up the edifice of the world.