Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘Well,’ said Baba, fixing his eyes on the younger man, ‘you’ll have no problem winning by a large margin in this constituency, even if Nehru doesn’t.’ He spat a blob of reddish spittle on to the ground.

‘Don’t you think there’s any threat to me at all?’ asked Mahesh Kapoor. ‘It’s true that the Congress is winning hands down in all the states that have had early polls.’

‘No threat at all,’ said Baba. ‘None. The Muslims are behind you and behind the Congress, the scheduled castes are behind the Congress whether they’re behind you or not, a few of the upper caste Hindus will go for the Jan Sangh and that other party whose name I forget, but they don’t form much of the population. The left is divided into three. And none of the Independents count for much. Do you really want me to take you around these villages?’

‘Yes, if you don’t mind,’ said Mahesh Kapoor. ‘If I have it all sewn up anyway, let me at least visit my future flock and find out about their needs.’

‘Very well, very well,’ said Baba. ‘So, Maan, what have you been up to since Bakr-Id?’

‘Nothing,’ said Maan, wondering where all that time had disappeared.

‘You must do something,’ said Baba, vaguely but forcefully. ‘Something that makes a mark on the world — something that people hear about and talk about.’

‘Yes, Baba,’ assented Maan.

‘I suppose you’ve met Netaji recently,’ snorted the old man, stressing his younger son’s title.

Maan nodded.

‘In Salimpur. He offered to come with us everywhere and do everything for everyone.’

‘But you’re not travelling with him?’ chuckled Baba.

‘Well, no. I think he rubs Baoji up the wrong way.’

‘Good, good. Too much dust behind his motorcycle and too much self behind his selflessness.’

Maan laughed.

‘The Nawab Sahib’s jeep now,’ said Baba with approval. ‘That’s swifter — and sounder.’ Baba was pleased at the implicit connection it presented. It would help to keep people in the village in awe of him, and to make it clear to them that the Minister was not above coming to an understanding with certain landlords.

Maan looked across at his father, who was now eating paan and talking to Rasheed’s father; he wondered how he would have taken Baba’s remark, had he understood its implications.

‘Baba—’ he said, suddenly. ‘Do you know about Rasheed?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said the old man sternly. ‘He’s been thrown out. We’ve forbidden him entrance to the house.’ Noticing Maan’s appalled look he went on: ‘But don’t worry. He won’t go hungry. His uncle sends him some money every month.’

Maan could say nothing for a while, then burst out: ‘But, Baba — his wife? and his children?’

‘Oh, they’re here. He’s lucky we’re so fond of Meher — and Meher’s mother. He didn’t think of them when he disgraced himself. Nor does he think of them now: does he stop to think of the feelings of his wife? She has suffered enough in life already.’

Maan did not quite understand the last part of this remark, but Baba did not give him time to ask for an explanation. He went on: ‘In our family we don’t marry four women at a time, we do it one by one. One dies, we marry another: we have the decency to wait. But he is talking about another woman now, and he expects his wife to understand. He writes to her saying he wants to marry again, but he wants her agreement first. Obtuse! Marry her, I say, marry her for God’s sake, but don’t torment your wife by asking for permission. Who this woman is, he doesn’t write. We don’t even know what family she comes from. He has grown secretive in everything he does. He was never cunning when he was a boy.’

Maan did not try in the face of Baba’s indignation to defend Rasheed, about whom he himself had such mixed feelings now; but nor did he mention the wild accusations of conspiracy Rasheed had made against him.

‘Baba,’ he said, ‘if he has trouble of this kind, how could it help to close your doors against him?’

The old man paused, as if uncertain. ‘That is not his only offence,’ he said, searching Maan’s face. ‘He has become a complete communist.’

‘Socialist.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Baba, impatient with such quibbling. ‘He wants to take my land away without compensation. What kind of grandson have I produced? The more he studies, the stupider he becomes. If he had stuck to the one Book, his mind would have been more healthy.’

‘But, Baba, these are just his views.’

‘Just his views? Do you not know how he tried to put them into action?’

Maan shook his head. Baba, seeing no guile in his face, sighed again, more deeply this time, and muttered something under his breath. Looking across at his son, who was still talking to Mahesh Kapoor, he said to Maan:

‘Rasheed’s father says that you remind him of his elder son.’ He mused for a few seconds, then went on: ‘I can see you know nothing about this sorry business. I will explain it all later. But now I must take your father round the village. You come as well. We’ll talk after dinner.’

‘Baba, there may not be time later,’ Maan said, knowing Mahesh Kapoor’s impatience to cover as much ground as possible. ‘Baoji will want to move on long before dinner.’

Baba ignored this. The tour of the village began. The path was cleared by Moazzam (who clouted anyone younger than himself who dared impede the progress), Mr Biscuit (yelling ‘Jai Hind!’) and a motley gang of running, shouting village children. ‘Lion, lion!’ they screamed in simulated terror. Baba and Mahesh Kapoor strode energetically in front, their sons straggled along in the rear. Rasheed’s father was friendly enough to Maan, but used his paan as protection against prolonged conversation. Though everyone greeted Maan with affection and friendliness, his mind was on what Baba had said to him and on what he had to say.

‘I will not allow you to return to Salimpur tonight,’ Baba told Mahesh Kapoor flatly after they had completed the circuit. ‘You will eat with us and sleep here. Your son spent a month here, you will have to spend a day.’

Mahesh Kapoor knew when he had met superior force, and consented with good grace.

After dinner, Baba took Maan aside. There was no privacy in the village itself, especially when such a tremendous event as the visit of a Minister was taking place. Baba got a torch and told Maan to put on something warm. They walked towards the school, talking along the way. Baba told Maan in brief about the incident of the patwari, how the family had got together to warn Rasheed, how he had refused to listen, how he had encouraged some of the chamars and other tenants to take matters up with revenue authorities higher than the patwari, and how his plans had backfired. Anyone who had dared to stray from the path of obedience had been thrown off his land. Rasheed, Baba said, had made troublemakers of some of their most faithful chamars, and he had shown no qualms about instigating this betrayal. The family had had no choice but to cut him off.

‘Even Kachheru — do you remember him?’ said Baba. ‘The man who pumped the water for your bath—’

Alas, Maan remembered all too well now what at Bakr-Id had eluded him, the identity of the man whom Baba had shoved aside on the way to the Idgah.

‘It’s not easy to find permanent people,’ continued Baba sadly. ‘The young people find ploughing difficult. Mud, effort, sun. But the older ones have done it since childhood.’

They had by now reached the great tank near the school. On the other side of the water was a small cemetery for the dead of the two villages. The whitewashed tombs stood out at night. Baba said nothing more for a while, and nor did Maan.