Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

Several Congressmen now urged Mahesh Kapoor, who so far had not lodged a complaint or an election petition, to do so immediately — to challenge the election result. It was clear that, even if nowhere else, in the hinterland of Baitar town the false and flimsy posters announcing Firoz’s death had had a devastating effect in getting people out of their huts and houses to vote for Waris.

But Mahesh Kapoor, bitter and disillusioned, and not wishing to create further bitterness, refused to lodge an election petition. Waris had got 16,748 votes; the difference was too great to justify even requesting a re-count. After a while he went over to congratulate his rival; he looked shattered, the more so because of his premonition that morning. Waris accepted his congratulations graciously and calmly. Victory had wiped out his sense of shame.

Only after the counting of all the candidates’ votes was complete did the District Magistrate officially declare Waris Khan the winner. The radio announced the news in the evening. The final result was as follows:

SALIMPUR-CUM-BAITAR (District Rudhia, Purva Pradesh) LEGISLATIVE ASSEMBLY ELECTION

Name of successful candidate: Waris Mohammad Khan

At Baitar Fort that night there was jubilation.

Waris had an immense bonfire built in the grounds, ordered a dozen sheep and a dozen goats to be slaughtered, invited everyone who had helped him or voted for him to come to the feast, and then added that even the bastards who had voted against him were welcome to join in. He was cautious enough not to serve alcohol, but he himself greeted his guests royally drunk, and made a speech — he was by now proficient at speech-making — about the nobility of the house of Baitar, the excellence of the electorate, the glory of God and the wonder of Waris.

About what he planned to do in the State Assembly he was silent; but in his own mind he was certain that he would learn the legislative ropes as quickly as he had mastered the pulling of electoral strings.

The oily munshi sanctioned all the expenses he demanded, had the grand archway of the Fort festooned with flowers, and greeted Waris with folded hands and tears in his eyes. He had always loved Waris, he had always known of the hidden greatness in him, and now at last his prayers for him had been answered. He fell at his feet and begged Waris for his blessings, and Waris, slurred and benevolent, said:

‘All right, you sister-fucker, I bless you. Now get up or I’ll be sick all over you.’

Mahesh Kapoor sat in his garden at Prem Nivas one afternoon a few days after the count. He was talking to Abdus Salaam. He looked very weary. The many implications of his loss were coming home to him. He felt that his occupation was gone, the thing that gave his life vigour and direction and the capacity to do good. His wing of the state Congress Party would have to do without his guidance in the legislature. His loss of power affected not only his own pride but would affect his ability to help his son, soon to be charged with he knew not what. The loss of his friendship with the Nawab Sahib was another bitter blow; he felt sad and ashamed of what had happened to Firoz — and to the Nawab Sahib himself. And every moment he spent in Prem Nivas, especially in the garden, could not fail to remind him of the loss of his wife.

He looked at the sheet of paper in his hand; it contained the various figures describing the election he had fought. For a few minutes he succeeded in discussing them with Abdus Salaam with something of his old interest and objectivity. If the KMPP had dissolved itself and rejoined the Congress, as Mahesh Kapoor himself had, their combined votes would have defeated Waris. If his wife had been able to help him, she would have made the quiet difference she always did — a couple of thousand votes, if not more. If the poster about Firoz had not been published, or had been published when it was not too late to refute it with the facts, he would still have won. Whatever other rumours Mahesh Kapoor had come to believe about his friend, he refused to believe that the Nawab Sahib had sanctioned that poster. That was Waris and Waris alone; it had to be.

But every thread of his analysis, objective though he attempted to make it, led him back to his own unhappy situation. After a while he closed his eyes and said nothing.

‘Waris is an interesting phenomenon,’ said Abdus Salaam. ‘“I know what is moral and yet I do not have the inclination for it, and I know what is immoral and yet do not have an aversion from it”—as Duryodhana said to Krishna.’

A faint look of exasperation crossed Mahesh Kapoor’s face. ‘No,’ he said, opening his eyes. ‘Waris is a different kind of man. He has no sense of evil or immorality as such. I know him. I’ve been fighting with him and against him. He’s the kind who would murder someone over a woman or land or water or a feud — and then give himself up, boasting, “I finished him off!”—and expect everyone to understand.’

‘You will remain in politics,’ predicted Abdus Salaam.

Mahesh Kapoor laughed shortly. ‘Do you think so?’ he said. ‘I had thought, after my conversation with Jawaharlal, that I might even become Chief Minister. What ambitions! I am not even an MLA. Anyway, I hope you don’t let them fob you off with any minor post; you might be a young man, but you’ve done excellent work and this is your second term. And they’ll want two or three Muslims in the Cabinet, no matter whether it’s Sharma or Agarwal who is CM.’

‘Yes, I suppose that’s so,’ said Abdus Salaam. ‘But I don’t think that Agarwal would choose me even at the point of a bayonet.’

‘So Sharma is going to Delhi after all?’ Mahesh Kapoor noticed a few mynas walking about on the lawn.

‘No one knows,’ replied Abdus Salaam. ‘I don’t, anyway. For every rumour, there’s an equal and opposite rumour.’ He was glad that Mahesh Kapoor was showing at least sporadic interest in the political scene. ‘Why don’t you go to Delhi for a few days?’ he suggested.

‘I will stay here,’ said Mahesh Kapoor quietly, looking around the garden. Abdus Salaam remembered Maan, and said nothing.

After a while he spoke. ‘What happened to your other son and his promotion?’ he said.

Mahesh Kapoor shrugged his shoulders. ‘He was here this morning with my granddaughter. I asked him. He said he thought things had gone quite well at the interview, that was all.’

Pran, fearing that Professor Mishra might yet be up to something unfathomable, and not daring to believe his report, had decided not to tell anyone — not even Savita — of his supposed selection by the committee. He was afraid of the greater disappointment of his family if the good news turned out to be unfounded. He wished he could have told his father, though. In his black mood it might have done him a little good.

‘Well,’ said Abdus Salaam. ‘You need something good to happen to you now. God brings relief to those who suffer.’

The Arabic word Abdus Salaam naturally used for God reminded Mahesh Kapoor of the use to which religion had been put in his own election battle. Again he closed his eyes and said nothing. He felt sick at heart.

Abdus Salaam uncannily sensed what he was thinking, or so his next remark appeared to indicate. ‘Waris’s election was determined by prejudice,’ he stated. ‘You would have felt ashamed to say one word to inflame anyone on the grounds of religion. Waris may at first merely have been a loyal man, but from his use of that poster I would have to say that he became a bad one.’