Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

In equally cultured but slightly ornate Urdu young Murtaza Ali replied: ‘There is nothing to forgive, believe me, Begum Sahiba. I am only sorry that I was fated to be the messenger of such news.’

‘Then let me ask you to tell me as briefly as you can what has happened. What are the police doing here in my father’s house? And is it true that they wish to take over this house? On what grounds?’

‘Begum Sahiba, I don’t know where to begin. They are here, and they intend to take over this house as soon as they can. They were going to enter immediately but the DSP read your note and granted us half an hour’s grace. He has an order from the Custodian of Evacuee Property and the Home Minister to take possession of all parts of the house that are not inhabited, in view of the fact that most of the former residents have now established residence in Pakistan.’

‘Does this include entering the zenana?’ said Zainab as calmly as she could.

‘I do not know what it includes, Begum Sahiba. He said “all unoccupied portions”.’

‘How does he know that so much of the house is unoccupied?’ asked Zainab.

‘I am afraid, Begum Sahiba, that it is obvious. Partly, of course, it is common knowledge. I tried to persuade him that people were living here, but he pointed to the dark windows. Even the Nawab Sahib is not here at the moment. Nor the Nawabzadas.’

Zainab was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘Murtaza Sahib, I am not going to give up in half an hour what has belonged to our family for generations. We must try to contact Abida Chachi immediately. Her property too is at stake. And Kapoor Sahib, the Revenue Minister, who is an old friend of the family. You will have to do this, as there is no telephone in the zenana.’

‘I will do so at once. I pray that I will get through.’

‘I am afraid that you will have to forgo your regular prayers this evening,’ said Zainab with a smile that could be heard in her voice.

‘I fear I will have to,’ replied Murtaza Ali, surprised that he too could smile at such an unhappy moment. ‘Perhaps I should go now and try to get through to the Revenue Minister.’

‘Send the car for him — no, wait—’ said Zainab. ‘It may be needed. Make sure it is standing by.’

She thought for a minute. Murtaza Ali felt the seconds ticking away.

‘Who has the keys to the house?’ asked Zainab. ‘I mean to the empty rooms?’

‘The zenana keys are with—’

‘No, those rooms can’t be seen from the road — they aren’t important — I mean the mardana rooms.’

‘I have some of them, some of them are with Ghulam Rusool, and some, I believe, have been taken by the Nawab Sahib to Baitar with him.’

‘Now this is what you must do,’ said Zainab quietly. ‘We have very little time. Get all the menservants and the maidservants in this house to bring candles, torches, lamps, any kind of flame that we have in the house, and to light up a little of every room in this house that faces the road — you understand — even if it means entering rooms that you normally need permission to enter, and even if it means breaking a lock or a door here or there.’

It was a measure of Murtaza Ali’s mind that he did not expostulate, but simply accepted the good — if desperate — sense of this measure.

‘It must look from the road that the house is inhabited, even if the DSP has reason to believe it is not. He must be given an excuse to withdraw if he is inclined to, even if we do not actually make him believe it.’

‘Yes, Begum Sahiba.’ Murtaza was filled with admiration for this woman with the gentle voice whom he had never seen — nor ever would.

‘I know this house like the back of my hand,’ continued Zainab. ‘I was born here, unlike my aunts. Even though now I am confined to this section, I am familiar with the other section from my childhood, and I know it has not changed much in structure. We are very short of time, and I plan to help personally in lighting the rooms. I know my father will understand, and it does not matter much to me if no one else does.’

‘I beg you, Begum Sahiba,’ said her father’s private secretary, pain and dismay audible in his voice, ‘I beg you do not do so. Arrange things in the zenana and get as many lamps and so on ready as you can so that they can be passed on to us on this side. But please stay where you are. I will see that everything is performed as you command. Now I must go, and I will send word within fifteen minutes about how things are going. God keep your family and this house in his protection.’ With this he took his leave.

Zainab kept Munni with her, and told the other girl to help fetch and light the lamps, and take them across to the other side of the house. She then went back to her room and looked at Hassan and Abbas, who were still sleeping. It is your history, your inheritance, your world too that I am protecting, she thought, passing a hand through the younger one’s hair. Hassan, usually so sullen, was smiling, and he had his arms wrapped around his younger brother. Her aunts were praying aloud in the next room.

Zainab closed her eyes, said the fatiha, and sat down exhausted. Then she remembered something her father had once said to her, reflected on its importance for a few seconds, and began to draft another letter.

She told Munni to wake up the boys and quickly dress them in their formal best — a small white kurta for Abbas, and a white angarkha for his elder brother. On their heads they were to wear white embroidered caps.

When, fifteen minutes later, Zainab had not heard from Murtaza Ali, she sent for him. On his arrival she asked him:

‘Is it done?’

‘Yes, Begum Sahiba, it is. The house looks as if it is lit. There is some light visible from every outside window.’

‘And Kapoor Sahib?’

‘I am afraid that I have not been able to get him on the phone, though Mrs Mahesh Kapoor has sent for him. He may be working late somewhere in the Secretariat. But no one is picking up the phone in his office.’

‘Abida Chachi?’

‘Her telephone appears to be out of order, and I have only just written her a note. Forgive me. I have been remiss.’

‘Murtaza Sahib, you have already done far more than seemed possible to me. Now listen to this letter, and tell me how it can be improved.’

Very swiftly they went through the brief draft of the letter. It was in English, only seven or eight lines long. Murtaza Ali asked for a couple of explanations, and made a couple of suggestions; Zainab incorporated them and made a fair copy.

‘Now, Hassan and Abbas,’ she said to her sons, their eyes still full of sleep and wonderment at this unexpected game, ‘you are to go with Murtaza Sahib and do everything he tells you to do. Your Nana-jaan will be very pleased with you when he comes back, and so will I. And so will Imtiaz Mamu and Firoz Mamu.’ She gave each of them a kiss, and sent them to the other side of the screen, where Murtaza Ali took charge of them.

‘They should be the ones to give him the letter,’ said Zainab. ‘Take the car, tell the Inspector — I mean the DSP — where you are going, and go at once. I do not know how to thank you for your help. If you had not been here we would certainly have been lost already.’

‘I cannot repay your father’s kindness, Begum Sahiba,’ said Murtaza Ali. ‘I will make sure that your sons come back within the hour.’

He walked down the corridor with a boy clutching each hand. He was too full of trepidation to say anything at first to either, but after he had walked for a minute towards the far end of the lawn where the police were standing, he said to the boys:

‘Hassan, Abbas, do adaab to the DSP Sahib.’

‘Adaab arz, DSP Sahib,’ said Hassan in salutation.