Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

There were even some — both Hindus and Muslims — who said half-jokingly that he would have made a better leader of the Muslims than Jinnah. Jinnah had no sympathy for them — it was his will that had held them in his sway and led them towards Pakistan. But here was a man who was positively bubbling with sympathy, and who, unembittered by the partition of his country, continued, unlike others, to treat them — as he treated people of all religions or none — with affection and respect. They would have felt a great deal less secure and more fearful if someone else had been ruling in Delhi.

But, as the saying goes, Delhi is far away. And Brahmpur too for that matter — and even the district headquarters of Rudhia. As the days passed, once again local loyalties, local quarrels, local issues, and the local configurations of caste and religion began to reassert themselves. Gossip about Mahesh Kapoor’s son and the Nawabzada, about Saeeda Bai and the Nawab Sahib, continued to be exchanged at the small barber’s shop in Salimpur — more a pavement stall than a shop — in the vegetable market, over an evening hookah in a village courtyard, and wherever people met and talked.

Many upper-caste Hindus decided that Maan had lost his caste by associating with — and, worse still, falling in love with — that Muslim whore. And with Maan’s loss of caste his father had lost his claim on their vote. On the other hand, with the passage of time, many of the poorer Muslims — and most of them were poor — rethought the question of where their interests lay. Though they had a traditional loyalty to the Nawab Sahib, they began to fear what would happen if they elected his man Waris to the Legislative Assembly. What if not only he but other feudal Independents were elected? What if the Congress did not get a clear majority? Would the Zamindari Act — or at least its implementation — not then be at hazard, even if it passed the barrier of the Supreme Court? The danger of permanent tenantry under the cruel control of the munshi and his enforcers held few attractions compared to the possibility of independent ownership, however encumbered, of their own land.

Meanwhile, Kedarnath had some success with the jatavs of Salimpur and the villages around; unlike most upper-caste or even comparatively lower-caste Hindus, he did not refuse to eat with them, and they knew through their relatives or acquaintances in Brahmpur, such as Jagat Ram of Ravidaspur, that he was one of the few footwear traders in Misri Mandi who treated their caste-brethren tolerably well. Nor had Mahesh Kapoor, unlike L.N. Agarwal with his police charge, done anything to dilute their natural affinity for the Congress. Veena for her part continued to go from house to house and village to village with the Congress women’s committees to canvass for her father. She was glad of the work, and she was glad that her father was once again immersed in his campaign. It took his mind off matters which would have been too painful to contemplate. Old Mrs Tandon was running Prem Nivas these days, and Bhaskar was staying there. Veena missed him, but there was nothing she could do about it.

The race was now almost a straight contest between Nehru’s old comrade-in-arms and the lackey of the reactionary Nawab Sahib; or, equally plausibly, between the father of the villainous Maan and the stout and faithful Waris.

The walls of both Baitar and Salimpur were covered with handbills carrying Nehru’s portrait, many defaced with a large green bicycle, whose two wheels covered his two eyes. Waris had been appalled by Nehru’s remarks about his master, whom he revered, and he was determined to avenge both that verbal attack and Maan’s physical attack on the gallant Firoz. He was not excessively nice about his methods. He would use legitimate means where he could, and anything else where he could not. He coaxed money out of the tight-fisted munshi, he threw feasts and distributed sweets and liquor, he coerced whoever he could and cajoled whoever he could, he promised whatever was necessary, he took the Nawab Sahib’s name and God’s, certain that he was speaking on their joint behalf and heedless of the possibility of their future disapproval. Maan, whom he had once instinctively liked and who had proved such a false and dangerous friend, was his arch-enemy. But now, after the disruptive magic of the Nehruvian wand, Waris could not be certain that he would defeat his father.

On the day before the election, when it would be too late for any effective refutation, appeared a small handbill in Urdu, printed in the thousands on flimsy pink paper. It carried a black border. It appeared to have no author. There was no printer’s name at the bottom. It announced that Firoz had died the previous night, and called upon all faithful people, in his grieving father’s name, to cast their vote in such a way as to express their indignation against the author of this great misfortune. The murderer even now walked the streets of Brahmpur, free on bail, free to strangle more helpless Muslim women and slaughter the flower of Muslim manhood. Where could such an abomination occur, such a prostitution of the ideals of justice, than under Congress Raj? It was being said that no matter who or what stood for election as a Congress candidate — even a lamp post or a dog — they would be bound to win. But the people of this constituency should not vote for the shameless lamp post or the foul dog. They should remember that if Mahesh Kapoor got into power, no one’s life or honour would be safe.

The fatal flier — for such it was intended to be — appeared, as befitted its flimsiness, to travel on the wind; for by that evening, when all overt electioneering had ceased, it had found its way to almost every village in the constituency. The next day was the vote, and it was too late to suppress or counter the lie.

‘Whose wife are you?’ asked Sandeep Lahiri, who was Presiding Officer at one of the many polling stations in Salimpur.

‘How can I take his name?’ asked the burqa-clad woman in a shocked whisper. ‘It is written on that slip of paper which I gave you before you left the room just now.’

Sandeep looked down at the slip of paper, then once more at the voting list. ‘Fakhruddin? You are Fakhruddin’s wife? From the village Noorpur Khurd?’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘You have four children, don’t you?’

‘Yes, yes, yes.’

‘Out!’ said Sandeep sternly. He had already ascertained that the real woman in question had two children. Strictly speaking, he should have handed the woman over to the police, but he didn’t feel her offence merited such stern action. Only once had he had recourse to the police in this election. That had been a few days earlier when a drunken man in Rudhia had threatened a member of his polling party and had tried to tear up a copy of the electoral rolls.

Sandeep enjoyed being away from Brahmpur. His work in the Department of Mines was dull and desk-bound compared to his earlier responsibilities out in the subdivision. This election work — though for the most part also performed at a desk — provided a refreshing respite, and he got to see once again the areas that, for all their backwardness, he had grown to feel such affection for. He looked around the room at a torn map of India and a chart of the Hindi alphabet. The polling station happened to be in a local school.

There were sounds of an argument from the adjoining classroom, where the men’s booth was located. Sandeep got up to find out what the matter was and was faced with an unusual sight. A beggar who had no hands was intent on casting his vote, and on doing so unaided by anyone. He refused to be accompanied into the curtained area, insisting that the officer would reveal whom he had voted for. The polling officer was arguing with him, but to no avail, and the flow of voters had halted outside the classroom while voices rose hotly from within. The beggar said that the polling officer should fold his ballot paper for him and put it between his teeth. Then he himself would go behind the curtain and insert it in the box of his choice.