Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘Muhammad Ismail, Huzoor. And how are you addressed?’

‘Ishaq Khan.’

‘Then we are brothers!’ beamed the stall-keeper. ‘You must always get your birds from my shop.’

‘Yes, yes,’ agreed Ishaq, and walked hurriedly away. This was a good bird he had got, and would delight the heart of young Tasneem.

Ishaq went home, had lunch, and fed the bird a little flour mixed with water. Later, carrying the parakeet in his handkerchief, he made his way to Saeeda Bai’s house. From time to time he looked at it in appreciation, imagining what an excellent and intelligent bird it potentially was. He was in high spirits. A good Alexandrine parakeet was his favourite kind of parrot. As he walked towards Nabiganj he almost bumped into a hand-cart.

He arrived at Saeeda Bai’s house at about four and told Tasneem that he had brought something for her. She was to try and guess what it was.

‘Don’t tease me, Ishaq Bhai,’ she said, fixing her beautiful large eyes on his face. ‘Please tell me what it is.’

Ishaq looked at her and thought that ‘gazelle-like’ really did suit Tasneem. Delicate-featured, tall and slender, she did not greatly resemble her elder sister. Her eyes were liquid and her expression tender. She was lively, but always seemed to be on the point of taking flight.

‘Why do you insist on calling me Bhai?’ he asked.

‘Because you are virtually my brother,’ said Tasneem. ‘I need one, too. And your bringing me this gift proves it. Now please don’t keep me in suspense. Is it something to wear?’

‘Oh no — that would be superfluous to your beauty,’ said Ishaq, smiling.

‘Please don’t talk that way,’ said Tasneem, frowning. ‘Apa might hear you, and then there will be trouble.’

‘Well, here it is. . ’ And Ishaq took out what looked like a soft ball of fluffy material wrapped in a handkerchief.

‘A ball of wool! You want me to knit you a pair of socks. Well, I won’t. I have better things to do.’

‘Like what?’ said Ishaq.

‘Like. .’ began Tasneem, then was silent. She glanced uncomfortably at a long mirror on the wall. What did she do? Cut vegetables to help the cook, talk to her sister, read novels, gossip with the maid, think about life. But before she could meditate too deeply on the subject, the ball moved, and her eyes lit up with pleasure.

‘So you see—’ said Ishaq, ‘it’s a mouse.’

‘It is not—’ said Tasneem with contempt. ‘It’s a bird. I’m not a child, you know.’

‘And I’m not exactly your brother, you know,’ said Ishaq. He unwrapped the parakeet and they looked at it together. Then he placed it on a table near a red lacquer vase. The stubbly ball of flesh looked quite disgusting.

‘How lovely,’ said Tasneem.

‘I selected him this morning,’ said Ishaq. ‘It took me hours, but I wanted to have one that would be just right for you.’

Tasneem gazed at the bird, then stretched out her hand and touched it. Despite its stubble it was very soft. Its colour was very slightly green, as its feathers had only just begun to emerge.

‘A parakeet?’

‘Yes, but not a regular one. He’s a hill parakeet. He’ll talk as well as a myna.’

When Mohsina Bai died, her highly talkative myna had quickly followed her. Tasneem had been even lonelier without the bird, but she was glad that Ishaq had not got her another myna but something quite different. That was doubly considerate of him.

‘What is he called?’

Ishaq laughed. ‘Why do you want to call him anything? Just “tota” will do. He’s not a warhorse that he should be called Ruksh or Bucephalas.’

Both of them were standing and looking at the baby parakeet. At the same moment each stretched out a hand to touch him. Tasneem swiftly drew her hand back.

‘You go ahead,’ said Ishaq. ‘I’ve had him all day.’

‘Has he eaten anything?’

‘A bit of flour mixed with water,’ said Ishaq.

‘How do they get such tiny birds?’ asked Tasneem.

Their eyes were level, and Ishaq, looking at her head, covered with a yellow scarf, found himself speaking without paying any attention to his words.

‘Oh, they’re taken from their nests when they’re very young — if you don’t get them young they don’t learn to speak — and you should get a male one — he’ll develop a lovely rose-and-black ring around his neck — and males are more intelligent. The best talkers come from the foothills, you know. There were three of them in the stall from the same nest, and I had to think quite hard before I decided—’

‘You mean, he’s separated from his brothers and sisters?’ Tasneem broke in.

‘But of course,’ said Ishaq. ‘He had to be. If you get a pair of them, they don’t learn to imitate anything we say.’

‘How cruel,’ said Tasneem. Her eyes grew moist.

‘But he had already been taken from his nest when I bought him,’ said Ishaq, upset that he had caused her pain. ‘You can’t put them back or they’ll be rejected by their parents.’ He put his hand on hers — she didn’t draw back at once — and said: ‘Now it’s up to you to give him a good life. Put him in a nest of cloth in the cage in which your mother’s myna used to be kept. And for the first few days feed him a little parched gram flour moistened with water or a little daal soaked overnight. If he doesn’t like that cage, I’ll get him another one.’

Tasneem withdrew her hand gently from under Ishaq’s. Poor parakeet, loved and unfree! He could change one cage for another. And she would change these four walls for a different four. Her sister, fifteen years her senior, and experienced in the ways of the world, would arrange all that soon enough. And then—

‘Sometimes I wish I could fly. . ’ She stopped, embarrassed.

Ishaq looked at her seriously. ‘It is a good thing we can’t, Tasneem — or can you imagine the confusion? The police have a hard enough time controlling traffic in Chowk — but if we could fly as well as walk it would be a hundred times worse.’

Tasneem tried not to smile.

‘But it would be worse still if birds, like us, could only walk,’ continued Ishaq. ‘Imagine them strolling up and down Nabiganj with their walking sticks in the evenings.’

Now she was laughing. Ishaq too started laughing, and the two of them, delighted by the picture they had conjured up, felt the tears rolling down their cheeks. Ishaq wiped his away with his hand, Tasneem hers with her yellow dupatta. Their laughter sounded through the house.

The baby parakeet sat quite still on the tabletop near the red lacquer vase; his translucent gullet worked up and down.

Saeeda Bai, roused from her afternoon nap, came into the room, and in a surprised voice, with something of a stern edge, said: ‘Ishaq — what’s all this? Is one not to be permitted to rest even in the afternoon?’ Then her eyes alighted on the baby parakeet, and she clicked her tongue in irritation.

‘No — no more birds in this house. That miserable myna of my mother’s caused me enough trouble.’ She paused, then added: ‘One singer is enough in any establishment. Get rid of it.’

No one spoke. After a while Saeeda Bai broke the silence. ‘Ishaq, you are here early,’ she said.

Ishaq looked guilty. Tasneem looked down with half a sob. The parakeet made a feeble attempt to move. Saeeda Bai, looking from one to the other, suddenly said:

‘Where is your sarangi anyway?’

Ishaq realized he had not even brought it. He flushed.

‘I forgot. I was thinking of the parakeet.’

‘Well?’

‘Of course I’ll go and get it immediately.’

‘The Raja of Marh has sent word he will be coming this evening.’