Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

The night had become bitterly cold. Firoz stopped, and walked, and stopped again. The mist thinned out here and there, then wound itself around him. The shawl was soaked in blood. His thoughts, his pain, the mist, all dispersed and concentrated about him as if at random. His hands were wet with blood where he had clutched his side. The walking stick slipped in his hand. He did not know if he would be able to get home like this. And if he got home, he thought, how could he bear to look at his father’s old and beloved face?

He had hardly walked a hundred yards when he felt that he would not be able to make it. The loss of blood, the physical pain, and the terrible thoughts that oppressed his mind had brought him almost to collapse. A tonga loomed up out of the mist. He raised his stick and tried to hail it, and collapsed on to the pavement.

It was a quiet night at the Pasand Bagh Police Station, and the station house officer, who was a Sub-Inspector, was yawning, writing up reports, drinking tea, and cracking jokes with his subordinates.

‘This is a very subtle one, Hemraj, so listen carefully,’ he addressed a writer-constable who was making an entry in the daily diary. ‘Two masters each said that their servant was stupider than the other’s. So they had a bet. One summoned his servant and said: “Budhu Ram, there’s a Buick for sale in a shop on Nabiganj. Here is ten rupees. Go and buy it for me.” So Budhu Ram took the ten rupees and went out.’

A couple of the constables burst out laughing, and the Sub-Inspector shut them up. ‘I have hardly begun telling you the joke and you idiots start braying. Shut up and listen. . So the other master said: “You may think that’s stupid, but my servant, Ullu Chand, is even stupider. I’ll prove it.” He summoned Ullu Chand and said: “Now look here, Ullu Chand, I want you to go to the Subzipore Club and see if I’m there. It’s urgent.” Ullu Chand immediately went off to do as he was told.’

The constables started laughing uncontrollably. ‘See if I’m there—’ one said, rolling about. ‘See if I’m there.’

‘Shut up, shut up,’ said the Sub-Inspector. ‘I haven’t finished.’ The constables promptly shut up. The Sub-Inspector cleared his throat. ‘On the way, one servant met the other and said—’

A bewildered tonga-wallah entered the room, and mumbled, in obvious distress: ‘Daroga Sahib—’

‘Oh, shut up, shut up,’ said the Sub-Inspector genially. ‘So one servant met the other and said: “I say, Ullu Chand, my master is a complete idiot. He gave me ten rupees and told me to buy a Buick. But doesn’t he know that today is Sunday and the shops are closed?”’

At this point everyone burst out laughing, including the Sub-Inspector himself. But he hadn’t finished yet, and, when the laughter had died down, he continued:

‘And the other servant said: “Well, that may be stupid, Budhu Ram, but it’s nothing compared to the idiocy of my master. He asked me to find out urgently if he was at the club. But if it was so urgent, why didn’t he simply go to the other room and use the telephone?”’

At this the entire room resounded with hoots and shrieks of laughter, and the Sub-Inspector, very pleased, took a loud sip of tea, some of which wet his moustache. ‘Yes, what do you want?’ he said, noticing the tonga-wallah, who appeared to be trembling.

‘Daroga Sahib, there’s a body lying on the pavement on Cornwallis Road.’

‘It’s a bad night. Must be some poor fellow who’s succumbed to the cold,’ said the Inspector. ‘But Cornwallis Road?’

‘He’s alive,’ said the tonga-wallah. ‘He tried to hail me, then collapsed. He’s covered in blood. I think he’s been stabbed. He looks as if he’s from a good family. I didn’t know whether to leave him or to bring him — to go to the hospital or the police. Please come quickly. Did I do the right thing?’

‘You idiot!’ cried the Sub-Inspector. ‘You’ve been standing here all this while. Why didn’t you speak earlier?’ He addressed the others: ‘Get some bandages. And you, Hemraj, phone the government doctor at the night clinic. Get the police kit together quickly, and bring a couple of extra torches. And you’—he addressed the tonga-wallah—‘come with us and show us where he’s lying.’

‘Did I do the right thing?’ asked the tonga-wallah fearfully.

‘Yes, yes, yes — you didn’t disturb him, did you?’

‘No, Daroga Sahib, I just turned him over to see — to see, well, if he was alive.’

‘For God’s sake, what is taking you so long?’ said the Sub-Inspector impatiently to his subordinates. ‘Come on. How far is it from here?’

‘Just two minutes away.’

‘Then we’ll go in your tonga. Hemraj, use the police jeep to get the doctor. Don’t fill in more than a line in the daily diary. I’ll do the rest later. If he’s still alive maybe I’ll get an FIR from him rather than from the tonga-wallah. I’m taking Bihari with me. The other Assistant Sub-Inspector will handle the station while I’m gone.’

Within two minutes they had got to Firoz. He was semi-conscious and still bleeding. It was immediately clear to the Sub-Inspector that if his life was to be saved there was no question of first aid and bandages. Time was of the essence. He should be moved to the hospital forthwith.

‘Bihari, when the doctor comes, tell him to hurry to the Civil Hospital. We’re going there by tonga. Yes, give me the bandages — I’ll see what I can do on the way to stop the blood. Oh, yes, follow the blood if you can: keep two torches, I’ll take one. I’ll take statements from the tonga-wallah and the injured man. Check the walking stick for a hidden blade. See if the weapon’s lying around, and so on. His wallet is on him — it doesn’t seem as if he’s been robbed. But maybe someone tried to rob him and he managed to get away. On Cornwallis Road!’ The Sub-Inspector shook his head, licked the right side of his moustache, and wondered what Brahmpur was coming to.

They lifted Firoz into the tonga and got in themselves, and it clopped off into the mist. The Sub-Inspector shone his torch carefully at Firoz’s face. Even with the wavering torchlight shining on his pale and distorted features, Firoz’s face looked familiar. The Inspector noticed that he was wearing a woman’s shawl and frowned. Then he opened his wallet, and saw the name and address on his driving licence; and his frown became one of real concern. He shook his head slowly. This case was going to mean trouble and would have to be handled carefully. As soon as they got to the hospital and put Firoz in the hands of the emergency ward staff the Sub-Inspector telephoned the Superintendent of Police, who himself undertook to inform Baitar House.

The emergency ward — which had recently been renamed the casualty department — represented a scene of organized chaos. A woman, clutching her stomach, was screaming in pain in a corner. Two men were brought in with head injuries from a lorry accident — they were still alive, but there was no hope for them. A few people had minor cuts of one kind or another, bleeding to a greater or lesser degree.

Two young house surgeons examined Firoz. The Sub-Inspector filled them in on the background: where he had been found, and his name and address.

‘This must be Dr Imtiaz Khan’s brother,’ said one of them. ‘Has the police informed him? We would like to have him on hand, especially if permission is needed for an operation. He works at the Prince of Wales College Hospital.’

The Sub-Inspector told them that the SP was getting in touch with Baitar House. Meanwhile, could he speak to the patient? He needed to file a First Information Report.