Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

The Raja, whose looks resembled those of a huge water buffalo, pawed the earth dangerously for a while. He suspected duplicity and fell into a drunken and — literally — bloodshot rage; probably the main factor that prevented his hiring someone to get rid of Saeeda Bai was the knowledge that the British, if they discovered the truth, would probably depose him — as they had other Rajas, and even Maharajas, for similar scandals and killings.

Not a great deal of this was known to the maidservant Bibbo, who was, however, keyed into the gossip that the Raja had some years previously proposed to her mistress. Saeeda Bai was talking to Tasneem’s bird — rather prematurely, considering how tiny it was, but Saeeda Bai felt that this was how birds learned best — when Bibbo appeared.

‘Are any special arrangements to be made for the Raja Sahib?’ she asked.

‘Why? No, of course not,’ said Saeeda Bai.

‘Perhaps I should get a garland of marigolds—’

‘Are you crazy, Bibbo?’

‘—for him to eat.’

Saeeda Bai smiled.

Bibbo went on: ‘Will we have to move to Marh, Rani Sahiba?’

‘Oh do be quiet,’ said Saeeda Bai.

‘But to rule a state—’

‘No one really rules their states now; Delhi does,’ said Saeeda Bai. ‘And listen, Bibbo, it would not be the crown I would have to marry but the buffalo underneath. Now go — you are ruining the education of this parakeet.’

The maidservant turned to leave.

‘Oh, yes, and get me a little sugar, and see if the daal that you soaked earlier is soft yet. It probably isn’t.’

Saeeda Bai continued to talk to the parakeet, who was sitting on a little nest of clean rags in the middle of the brass cage that had once held Mohsina Bai’s myna.

‘Now, Miya Mitthu,’ said Saeeda Bai rather sadly to the parakeet, ‘you had better learn good and auspicious things at an early age, or you’ll be ruined for life, like that foul-mouthed myna. As they say, if you don’t learn your alif-be-pe-te clearly, you’ll never amount to a calligrapher. What do you have to say for yourself? Do you want to learn?’

The small, unfeathered ball of flesh was in no position to answer, and didn’t.

‘Now look at me,’ said Saeeda Bai. ‘I still feel young, though I admit I am naturally not as young as you. I am waiting to spend the evening with this disgustingly ugly man who is fifty-five years old, who picks his nose and belches, and who is going to be drunk even before he gets here. Then he’ll want me to sing romantic songs to him. Everyone feels that I am the epitome of romance, Miya Mitthu, but what about my feelings? How can I feel anything for these ancient animals, whose skin hangs from their jaws — like that of the old cattle straying around Chowk?’

The parakeet opened his mouth.

‘Miya Mitthu,’ said Saeeda Bai.

The parakeet rocked a little from side to side. His big head looked unsteady.

‘Miya Mitthu,’ repeated Saeeda Bai, trying to imprint the syllables on his mind.

The parakeet closed his mouth.

‘What I really want tonight is not to entertain but to be entertained. By someone young and handsome,’ she added.

Saeeda Bai smiled at the thought of Maan.

‘What do you think of him, Miya Mitthu?’ continued Saeeda Bai. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, you haven’t yet met Dagh Sahib, you have just brought your presence here today. And you must be hungry, that’s why you are refusing to talk to me — you can’t sing bhajans on an empty stomach. I’m sorry the service is so slow in this establishment, but Bibbo is a very scatterbrained girl.’

But soon Bibbo came in and the parakeet was fed.

The old cook had decided that a little daal should be boiled and then cooled, rather than merely soaked, for the bird. Now she too came to look at him.

Ishaq Khan came in with his sarangi, looking a little shamefaced.

Motu Chand came in and admired the parakeet.

Tasneem put down the novel she was reading, and came in to say ‘Miya Mitthu’ and ‘Mitthu Miya’ several times to the parakeet, delighting Ishaq with each iteration. At least she loved his bird.

And in due course the Raja of Marh was announced.

His Highness the Raja of Marh was less drunk on arrival than he usually was, but rapidly remedied the situation. He had brought along a bottle of Black Dog, his favourite whisky. This immediately reminded Saeeda Bai of one of his more unpleasant characteristics, the fact that he would get incredibly excited when he saw dogs copulating. In Marh, when Saeeda Bai had visited, he had twice got dogs to mount a bitch in heat. This was the prelude to his flinging his own gross body on Saeeda Bai.

This took place a couple of years before Independence; despite Saeeda Bai’s revulsion she had not been able immediately to escape from Marh, where the crass Raja, restrained only by a succession of disgusted but tactful British Residents, held ultimate sway. Afterwards, she was too frightened of the sluggish and brutal man and his hired ruffians to cut off relations completely with him. She could only hope that his visits to Brahmpur would become less frequent with time.

The Raja had degenerated from his student days in Brahmpur, when he had given the impression of being tolerably presentable. His son, who had been protected from his father’s way of life by the Rani and Dowager Rani, was now himself a student at Brahmpur University; no doubt he too, upon returning to feudal Marh as an adult, would shake off the maternal influence and grow to be as tamasic as his father: ignorant, brutal, slothful, and rank.

The father ignored the son during his stay in town and visited a series of courtesans and prostitutes. Today, once again, it was Saeeda Bai’s turn. He arrived adorned with diamond ear-tops and a ruby in his silk turban, and smelling strongly of attar of musk. He placed a small silken pouch containing five hundred rupees on a table near the door of the upstairs room where Saeeda Bai entertained. The Raja then stretched out against a long white bolster on the white-sheeted floor, and looked around for glasses. They were lying on the low table where the tablas and harmonium stood. The Black Dog was opened and the whisky poured into two glasses. The musicians remained downstairs.

‘How long it has been since these eyes last saw you—’ said Saeeda Bai, sipping her whisky and restraining a grimace at its strong taste.

The Raja was too involved with his drink to think of answering.

‘You have become as difficult to sight as the moon at Id.’

The Raja grunted at the pleasantry. After he had downed a few whiskies, he became more affable, and told her how beautiful she was looking — before pushing her thickly towards the door that led into the bedroom.

After half an hour, they came out, and the musicians were summoned. Saeeda Bai was looking slightly sick.

He made her sing the same set of ghazals he always did; she sang them with the same break in her voice at the same heartrending phrases — something she had learned to do without difficulty. She nursed her glass of whisky. The Raja had finished a third of his bottle by now, and his eyes were becoming red. From time to time he shouted, ‘wah! wah!’ in indiscriminate praise, or belched or snorted or gaped or scratched his crotch.

While the ghazals were proceeding upstairs, Maan was walking towards the house. From the street he could not make out the sound of singing. He told the watchman he was there to see Saeeda Bai, but the stolid man told him that she was indisposed.

‘Oh,’ said Maan, his voice filled with concern. ‘Let me go in — I’ll see how she is — perhaps I can fetch a doctor.’

‘Begum Sahiba is not admitting anyone today.’