Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

The Speaker went on to the next items on the day’s business: first, the announcement of bills passed by the state legislature that had received the assent of the Governor of the state or the President of India; next, the most important matter on the agenda for the entire session: the continuing debate on the Zamindari Abolition Bill.

But L.N. Agarwal did not stay to listen to discussions on the bill. As soon as the notice for an adjournment motion had been rejected by the Speaker, he fled — not directly across the well to the exit but along an aisle to the perimeter gallery, and then along the dark, wood-panelled wall. His tension and animus were palpable in the way he walked. He was unconsciously crushing his order papers in his hand. Several members tried to talk to him, to sympathize with him. He brushed them off. He walked unseeingly to the exit, and made straight for the bathroom.

L.N. Agarwal undid the drawstring of his pyjamas and stood at the urinal. But he was so angry that he was unable to urinate for a while.

He stared at the long, white-tiled wall and saw in it an image of the packed chamber, the taunting face of Begum Abida Khan, the furrowed academic expression of Abdus Salaam, Mahesh Kapoor’s uninterpretable frown, the patient but condescending look on the face of the Chief Minister as he had fumbled pathetically through the poisonous swamp of Question Time.

There was no one in the lavatory except a couple of sweepers, and they were talking to each other. A few words of their conversation broke in upon L.N. Agarwal’s fury. They were complaining about the difficulties of obtaining grain even at the government ration shops. They talked casually, not paying any attention to the powerful Home Minister and very little attention to their own work. As they continued to talk, a feeling of unreality descended upon L.N. Agarwal. He was taken out of his own world, his own passions, ambitions, hatreds and ideals into a realization of the continuing and urgent lives of people other than himself. He even felt a little ashamed of himself.

The sweepers were now discussing a movie that one of them had seen. It happened to be Deedar.

‘But it was Daleep Kumar’s role — oh — it brought tears to my eyes — he always has that quiet smile on his lips even when singing the saddest songs — such a good-natured man — blind himself, and yet giving pleasure to the whole world—’

He began humming one of the hit songs from the movie—‘Do not forget the days of childhood. . ’

The second man, who had not seen the movie yet, joined in the song — which, ever since the film had been released, was on almost everyone’s lips.

He now said: ‘Nargis looked so beautiful on the poster I thought I would see the movie last night, but my wife takes my money from me as soon as I get my pay.’

The first man laughed. ‘If she let you keep the money, all she would see of it would be empty envelopes and empty bottles.’

The second man continued wistfully, trying to conjure up the divine images of his heroine. ‘So, tell me, what was she like? How did she act? What a contrast — that cheap dancing girl Nimmi or Pimmi or whatever her name is — and Nargis — so high-class, so delicate.’

The first man grunted. ‘Give me Nimmi any day, I’d rather live with her than with Nargis — Nargis is too thin, too full of herself. Anyway, what’s the difference in class between them? She was also one of those.’

The second man looked shocked. ‘Nargis?’

‘Yes, yes, your Nargis. How do you think she got her first chance in the movies?’ And he laughed and began to hum to himself again. The other man was silent and began to scrub the floor once more.

L.N. Agarwal’s thoughts, as he listened to the sweepers talking, turned from Nargis to another ‘one of those’—Saeeda Bai — and to the now commonplace gossip about her relationship with Mahesh Kapoor’s son. Good! he thought. Mahesh Kapoor may starch his delicately embroidered kurtas into rigidity, but his son lies at the feet of prostitutes.

Though less possessed by rage, he had once again entered his own familiar world of politics and rivalry. He walked along the curved corridor that led to his room. He knew, however, that as soon as he entered his office, he would be set upon by his anxious supporters. What little calm he had achieved in the last few minutes would be destroyed.

‘No — I’ll go to the library instead,’ he muttered to himself.

Upstairs, in the cool, quiet precincts of the library of the Legislative Assembly, he sat down, took off his cap, and rested his chin on his hands. A couple of other MLAs were sitting and reading at the long wooden tables. They looked up, greeted him, and continued with their work. L.N. Agarwal closed his eyes and tried to make his mind blank. He needed to establish his equanimity again before he faced the legislators below. But the image that came before him was not the blank nothingness he sought, but the spurious blankness of the urinal wall. His thoughts turned to the virulent Begum Abida Khan once more, and once more he had to fight down his rage and humiliation. How little there was in common between this shameless, exhibitionistic woman who smoked in private and screeched in public, who had not even followed her husband when he had left for Pakistan but had immodestly and spouselessly remained in Purva Pradesh to make trouble — and his own late wife, Priya’s mother, who had sweetened his life through her years of selfless care and love.

I wonder if some part of Baitar House could be construed as evacuee property now that that woman’s husband is living in Pakistan, thought L.N. Agarwal. A word to the Custodian, an order to the police, and let’s see what I am able to do.

After ten minutes of thought, he got up, nodded at the two MLAs, and went downstairs to his room.

A few MLAs were already sitting in his room when he arrived, and several more gathered in the next few minutes as they came to know that he was holding court. Imperturbable, even smiling slightly to himself, L.N. Agarwal now held forth as he was accustomed to doing. He calmed down his agitated followers, he placed matters in perspective, he mapped out strategy. To one of the MLAs, who had commiserated with his leader because the twin misfortunes of Misri Mandi and Chowk had fallen simultaneously upon him, L.N. Agarwal replied:

‘You are a case in point that a good man will not make a good politician. Just think — if you had to do a number of outrageous things, would you want the public to forget them or remember them?’

Clearly the answer was intended to be ‘Forget them,’ and this was the MLA’s response.

‘As quickly as possible?’ asked L.N. Agarwal.

‘As quickly as possible, Minister Sahib.’

‘Then the answer,’ said L.N. Agarwal, ‘if you have a number of outrageous things to do is to do them simultaneously. People will scatter their complaints, not concentrate them. When the dust settles, at least two or three out of five battles will be yours. And the public has a short memory. As for the firing in Chowk, and those dead rioters, it will all be stale news in a week.’

The MLA looked doubtful, but nodded in agreement.

‘A lesson here and there,’ went on L.N. Agarwal, ‘never did anyone any harm. Either you rule, or you don’t. The British knew that they had to make an example sometimes — that’s why they blew the mutineers from cannons in 1857. Anyway, people are always dying — and I would prefer death by a bullet to death by starvation.’

Needless to say, this was not a choice that faced him. But he was in a philosophical mood.

‘Our problems are very simple, you know. In fact, they all boil down to two things: lack of food and lack of morality. And the policies of our rulers in Delhi — what shall I say? — don’t help much either.’