Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

Later, when he was packing hurriedly for his train, Professor Jaikumar was startled to see both Professor Mishra’s sons playing about outside, looking as robust as ever.

At the station Professor Jaikumar recalled, apropos of nothing, that telephone numbers in Brahmpur had three, not five, digits.

How peculiar, he said to himself. But he was never to solve either mystery.

Professor Mishra, pleading a previous appointment, had not gone with him to the railway station. Instead, after a few words in private with the Vice-Chancellor, he had walked over to Pran’s house. He was resigned to congratulating him.

‘My dear boy,’ he said, taking both Pran’s hands in his. ‘It was a close thing, a very close thing. Some of the other candidates were truly excellent, but, well, I believe we have an understanding, you and I, an equation, as it were, and — well, I should not be telling you this until the seal of the envelope containing our decision is broken in the Academic Council — not that your own excellent, er, performance, did not contribute as much to our decision as my own humble words on your behalf—’ Professor Mishra sighed before continuing: ‘There was opposition. Some people said you were too young, too untried. “The atrocious crime of being a young man. .” et cetera. But quite apart from the question of merit, at such a sad time for your family one feels a sense of obligation, one feels one has to do one’s bit. I am not one who talks of humanity in exaggerated terms, but, well — was it not the great Wordsworth who talked about those “little nameless unremembered acts of kindness and of love”?’

‘I believe it was,’ said Pran, slowly and wonderingly, as he shook Professor Mishra’s pale and perspiring hands.

Mahesh Kapoor was at the Collectorate at Rudhia when the count for the Salimpur-cum-Baitar election opened. He had got there late, but the District Magistrate had himself been unavoidably delayed: owing to a problem with the ignition, his jeep had broken down. The counting officers, having grouped all the ballot boxes of each candidate together, now began with the first candidate, who was an Independent named Iqbal Ahmad. They emptied one of his ballot boxes on to each of several tables, and — watched carefully by the counting agents of all the candidates — began simultaneously to count his votes.

Secrecy was enjoined on everyone under the canopy, but of course nothing was secret, and news soon leaked out that Iqbal Ahmad was doing as badly as expected. Since the ballot papers in the first General Elections were not stamped by the voter but simply placed in a candidate’s box, very few ballot papers were rejected as spoiled. Counting continued briskly, and, had it begun on time, should have been over by midnight. But it was now eleven o’clock, everyone was exhausted, and the Congress candidate’s ballot boxes had not yet been completely counted. He was making an unexpectedly good showing: over 14,000 votes, and several more boxes to go.

In some of Mahesh Kapoor’s boxes, astonishingly, there was even, in addition to the ballot papers, a little red powder and a few coins. Presumably, some pious peasants, seeing the holy cattle featured on his box, had placed small offerings inside the slot together with their vote.

While the count was continuing under the careful supervision of the District Magistrate and the Sub-Divisional Officer, Mahesh Kapoor walked over to Waris, who was looking very worried, and said: ‘Adaab arz, Waris Sahib.’

‘Adaab arz,’ replied Waris pugnaciously. The ‘Sahib’ had surely been ironic.

‘Is everything all right with Firoz?’

It was said without any rancour, but Waris felt a burning sense of shame; he thought immediately of the pink fliers.

‘Why do you ask?’ he demanded.

‘I wanted to know,’ said Mahesh Kapoor sorrowfully. ‘I have very little news of him, and I thought you would. I do not see the Nawab Sahib anywhere. Does he plan to come?’

‘He is not a candidate,’ said Waris bluntly. ‘Yes, Firoz is fine.’ He turned his eyes downwards, unable to look Mahesh Kapoor in the face.

‘I am glad,’ said Mahesh Kapoor. He was about to send his good wishes, then thought better of it and turned away.

A little before midnight, the results stood as follows:

1. Iqbal Ahmad

Independent

608

2. Mir Shamsher Ali

Independent

481

3. Mohammed Hussain

KMPP

1,533

4. Shanti Prasad Jha

Ram Rajya Parishad

1,154

5. Mahesh Kapoor

Congress

15,575

At midnight, just after Mahesh Kapoor’s boxes had all been counted, the District Magistrate, as Returning Officer, declared the poll temporarily suspended as part of a nationwide mark of respect for King George VI. He had told the candidates and their counting agents a couple of hours earlier that he had orders to this effect, and asked for their patience. The suspense was terrible, especially since Waris Khan came immediately after Mahesh Kapoor alphabetically; but, owing to the timely warning, there were no protests. He got the counted ballots and the uncounted ballot boxes locked up separately under his own seal in the treasury, and announced that they would be unlocked and the count resumed on the 8th of February.

The results so far determined were bound to leak out, and in both Brahmpur and the constituency most people made the same sort of reckoning that Professor Mishra’s informant had. Mahesh Kapoor too was optimistic. He stayed on his farm at Rudhia, talking to his farm manager as he walked around the wheat fields.

On the morning of the 8th, he woke up with a sense of freshness and thankfulness, a sense that at least one of his burdens had been lifted off his shoulders.

The count proceeded once more, and by the time Waris’s vote had reached 10,000, it began to appear that the contest would in fact be close. Apparently, in the areas immediately surrounding Baitar town, the voting rate had been far in excess of fifty-five per cent — a figure which, to go by other elections whose results had been announced earlier in the week, was itself very high.

By the time it had reached 14,000 and there were a number of ballot boxes still to be counted, a great sense of unease overtook the Congress camp. The District Magistrate had to tell everyone to be quiet and to let his counting agents proceed; if not, he would have to suspend the count again.

This had some effect, but by the time the vote had reached 15,000 there was a tremendous hubbub. Some of the more feisty Congress workers had started challenging entire ballot boxes. Mahesh Kapoor told them sharply to stop their antics. But his face betrayed his dismay, for by now he feared he would lose. The other side had begun cheering in anticipation of surpassing the magic number. They did not have long to wait.

There were still several of Waris’s boxes left to count when the tally reached 15,576. Waris jumped on to a table and shouted for joy. He was raised high on the shoulders of his supporters, and outside the District Headquarters they began to shout to the well-known pattern:

‘The MLA from Baitar, who should he be?’

‘Waris Khan Sahib, one such as he!’

Waris, delighted to win, delighted to have ‘Khan Sahib’ appended to his name, and delighted to have avenged the young Nawabzada, was grinning away, having in the flush of victory forgotten his dirty trick with the posters.

He was soon brought literally down to earth by the District Magistrate, who threatened to throw him out of the Collectorate unless his supporters stopped the ruckus. Waris calmed his followers down, and told one or two of them: ‘Let’s see, let’s see, now that I’m an MLA, who gets thrown out of the Collectorate first, him or me.’