The Nawab Sahib looked at his old friend in disbelief. ‘It’s something you ate this morning,’ he said. ‘Or else a piece of wax in my ear.’
14.18
Waris, meanwhile, was having a fine time away from his standard duties in the Fort and the officious eye of the munshi. He galloped happily along; and although he took with him the gun that he had obtained a licence for, he did not use it, since the hunt was not his prerogative. Maan and Firoz enjoyed the ride as much as the hunting; and there was enough game for them to spot or follow even though they did not actively seek it out. The part of the estate through which they rode was a mixture of firm woodland, rocky soil, and what in this season was sporadic marsh. Early in the afternoon, Maan saw a herd of nilgai splashing through the edge of the marsh at a distance. He aimed, fired, missed, and cursed himself good-naturedly. Later, Firoz got a large spotted deer with magnificent antlers. Waris noted the spot, and when they passed a small hamlet not far away he told one of the local men to get it to the Fort on a cart by the evening.
Apart from deer and wild boar, which they spied only occasionally, there were a great number of monkeys, especially langurs, and a great variety of birds, including peacocks, scattered throughout the forest. They even saw a peacock dancing. Maan was transported with pleasure.
It was a warm day, but there was plenty of shade, and from time to time they rested. Waris noticed how delighted the two young men were in each other’s company, and he joined in their banter whenever he felt like it. He had liked Maan from the first, and Firoz’s friendship with him cemented his liking.
As for the two young masters, having been cooped up in Brahmpur for a while, they were happy to be out in the open. They were sitting in the shade of a large banyan tree and talking.
‘Have you ever eaten peacock?’ Waris asked Maan.
‘No,’ said Maan.
‘It’s excellent meat,’ said Waris.
‘Come on, Waris, the Nawab Sahib doesn’t like people shooting peacocks on the estate,’ said Firoz.
‘No, no, by no means,’ said Waris. ‘But if you shoot one of them by mistake, you may as well eat the bastard. No point in leaving him to the jackals.’
‘By mistake!’ said Firoz.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Waris, making an effort at invention or recall. ‘Once there was a sudden rustling in the bushes when I was sitting under a tree—just as we are sitting now, and I thought it was a wild boar—so I shot at it, and it was only a peacock. Poor thing. Delicious.’
Firoz frowned. Maan laughed.
‘Shall I tell you the next time I do that?’ asked Waris. ‘You’ll like it, Chhoté Sahib, let me tell you. My wife is an excellent cook.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Firoz, who had several times eaten junglefowl cooked by her.
‘Chhoté Sahib always believes in doing the right thing,’ said Waris. ‘That’s why he is a lawyer.’
‘I thought that was a disqualification,’ said Maan.
‘Soon, if they make him a judge, he will get the zamindari decisions reversed,’ asserted Waris.
There was a sudden movement in the bushes not thirty feet away. A large wild boar, its tusks lowered, came charging in their direction, aiming either towards them or past them. Without thinking, Maan lifted his rifle and—hardly taking conscious aim—fired at it when it was just a dozen feet away.
The boar collapsed in its tracks. The three of them got to their feet—at first in fear—and then, standing around it at a safe distance, heard its grunts and squeals and watched it thrash about for a minute or so, while its blood soaked the leaves and mud around it.
‘My God—’ said Firoz, staring at the beast’s huge tusks.
‘Not a fucking peacock,’ was Waris’s comment.
Maan did a little dance. He was looking a little dazed and very pleased with himself.
‘Well, what will we do with it?’ said Firoz.
‘Eat it, of course,’ said Maan.
‘Don’t be an idiot—we can’t eat it. We’ll give it to—well, someone or other. Waris can tell us which of the servants won’t object to eating it.’
They loaded the boar on to Waris’s horse. By the time it was evening they were all tired. Maan was resting his rifle in the saddle, holding the reins in his left hand and practising polo strokes with his right. They had come within a few hundred yards of the mango orchard, and were looking forward to a rest before the evening meal. The deer would have preceded them; perhaps it was being prepared at this very moment. It was almost sunset. From the mosque at the Fort they could hear the sound of the evening azaan in the muezzin’s fine voice. Firoz, who had been whistling, stopped.
They were almost at the border of the orchard when Maan, who was riding in front, saw a jungle cat on the path—a couple of feet long, lithe and long-legged, with fur that looked to him almost golden, and with sharp, greenish eyes that it turned upon him in an intent and narrow, almost cruel, gaze. The horse, who had not resented the weight of the boar or its scent of death, came to an immediate halt, and Maan again instinctively raised his rifle.
‘No—no—don’t—’ cried Firoz.
The jungle cat bounded away into the tall grass to the right of the path.
Maan turned angrily on Firoz.
‘What do you mean—don’t? I would have had it.’
‘It isn’t a tiger or a panther—there’s nothing heroic about shooting one. Anyway, my father doesn’t like killing what we can’t eat—unless, of course, it’s an immediate threat.’
‘Come on, Firoz, I know you’ve shot panther before,’ said Maan.
‘Well, I don’t shoot jungle cats. They’re too beautiful and harmless. I’m fond of them.’
‘What an idiot you are,’ said Maan regretfully.
‘All of us like jungle cats,’ explained Firoz, who didn’t want his friend to remain annoyed. ‘Once Imtiaz shot one, and Zainab didn’t speak to him for days.’
Maan was still shaking his head. Firoz drew alongside him and put his arm around his shoulder. By the time they had crossed the orchard, Maan was mollified.
‘Did a cart carrying a deer come this way?’ asked Waris of an old man who was walking through the orchard with a stick.
‘No, Sahib, I haven’t seen any such thing,’ said the old man. ‘But I’ve only been here a little while.’ He stared at the trussed-up boar, its huge-tusked head hanging across the haunch of Waris’s horse.
Waris, pleased to have been called Sahib, grinned and said optimistically:
‘It’s probably got to the kitchen by now. And we’ll be late for the evening prayer. Too bad,’ he grinned.
‘I need a bath,’ said Firoz. ‘Have you had our things put in my room?’ he asked Waris. ‘Maan Sahib is sleeping in my room.’
‘Yes, I gave orders just before we left. That’s where he slept the last time too,’ said Waris. ‘But I doubt he’ll be able to sleep tonight with that grim fellow gargling away till the early hours. Last time it was the owl.’
‘Waris pretends to be thicker than he is,’ said Firoz to Maan. ‘Ustad Majeed Khan will be singing tonight after dinner.’
‘Good,’ said Maan.
‘When I suggested getting your favourite singer over, my father got annoyed. Not that I was really serious.’
‘Well, Veena studies music under Khan Sahib, so we’re used to that sort of gargling,’ said Maan.
‘Here we are,’ said Firoz, dismounting and stretching himself.
14.19
The excellent dinner included a roasted haunch of venison. They ate not in the dark-panelled dining room but in the highest of the several open courtyards under a clear sky. Unlike at lunch, the Nawab Sahib was rather quiet throughout dinner; he was thinking about his munshi, who had annoyed him by complaining about the size of the fee that Ustad Majeed Khan now felt he should command. ‘What? All this for a song?’ was the munshi’s view of the matter.
After dinner they adjourned to the Imambara to listen to Ustad Majeed Khan. Since Moharram
was still a few weeks away, the Imambara continued to be used as a general meeting hall; indeed, the Nawab Sahib’s father had used it as a durbar of sorts except during Moharram itself. Despite the fact that the Nawab Sahib was in general devout—there were, for example, no drinks served at dinner—a number of paintings depicting scenes from the martyrdom of Hussain decorated the walls of the Imambara. These, out of consideration for anyone who followed very strictly the injunctions against representational art, especially with respect to religious depiction, had been covered with white cloth. A few tazias—replicas in various materials of the tomb of Hussain—stood at the far end behind tall white pillars; some Moharram lances and standards stood in a corner.
Chandeliers glinted down in red and white from the ceiling, but the electric bulbs they contained had not been lit. So that the distant sound of the generator would not disturb them, the hall had been lit by candlelight instead. Ustad Majeed Khan was notoriously temperamental when it came to his art. It was true that he often practised at home in the midst of an appalling domestic racket, the result of his wife’s excessive sociability. But when he performed, even the necessity of earning his living at least partly through the diminishing patronage of zamindars and princes would not allow him to compromise with the seriousness of attention he demanded—and the absolute lack of disturbance. If it was true, as it was said, that he sang for himself and God alone, it was equally true that this bond was strengthened by an appreciative audience and strained by a restless one. The Nawab Sahib had not invited any guests from the town of Baitar, largely because he had not found anyone there who appreciated good music. Apart from the musicians there was no one but himself, his friend, and their two sons.
Ustad Majeed Khan was accompanied by his own tabla player; and by Ishaq Khan as an accompanying vocalist, not as a sarangi player. The great musician was now at the stage where he treated Ishaq not as a student or even a nephew but as a son. Ishaq had all the musicality Ustad Majeed Khan could have wished for in a student; and he had, besides, that passionate reverence for his teachers—including his own late father—that had got him into trouble with his Ustad in the first place. Their subsequent reconciliation had astonished them both. The Ustad had seen in it the hand of God. Ishaq did not know what to ascribe it to, but was deeply grateful. Since adaptation to the style of the main performer was instinctive to him as a sarangi player, Ishaq, who had a fine voice, quickly adapted himself to the style of his teacher; and since his teacher’s style drew with it a certain bent of mind and a certain manner of creativity, within a few months of his first lessons with Ustad Majeed Khan he was singing with a confidence and ease that first alarmed, and then—despite his own considerable ego—pleased the Ustad. At last he had a disciple worthy of the name; and one, moreover, who more than compensated in the honour he did him for any fleeting dishonour he may have been guilty of in the past.
It was late when they settled down after dinner, and Ustad Majeed Khan immediately, and without tackling any lighter raag to warm up his voice, began to sing Raag Darbari. How appropriate, thought the Nawab Sahib, was the raag to the surroundings, and how his father, whose one sensual vice had been music, would have enjoyed it had he been alive. The regally slow unfolding of the alaap, the wide vibratos on the third and sixth degrees, the stately descents in alternating rises and falls, the richness of the Khan Sahib’s voice accompanied from time to time by his young disciple, and the invariant, undazzling, solid beat of the tabla created a structure of majesty and perfection that hypnotized both musicians and audience. Very rarely did any of the listeners even say ‘wah! wah!’ at some particular brilliance. It was more than two hours and late after midnight when he ended.
‘See to the candles, they are guttering,’ said the Nawab Sahib quietly to a servant. ‘Tonight, Khan Sahib, you have outdone yourself.’
‘Through His grace, and yours.’
‘Will you rest a little?’
‘No, there is life in me still. And the will to sing before this kind of an audience.’
‘What will you give us now?’
‘What will it be?’ said Ustad Majeed Khan, turning to Ishaq. ‘It’s far too early for Bhatiyar, but I’m in the mood for it, so God will forgive us.’
The Nawab Sahib, who had never heard the master sing with Ishaq before, and had certainly never seen—or even heard of—the Khan Sahib consulting anyone about what he should or should not sing, was astonished, and asked to be introduced to the young singer.
Maan suddenly recalled where he had seen Ishaq Khan.
‘We’ve met before,’ he said before he could give himself time to think. ‘At Saeeda Begum’s, wasn’t it? I’ve been trying to work it out. You were her sarangi player, weren’t you?’
There was a sudden and frigid silence. Everyone present except the tabla player looked at Maan with discomfiture or shock. It was as if no one wanted to be reminded at this magical moment of anything from that other world. Whether as patron or employee or lover or acquaintance or fellow-artist or rival, in one sense or another every one of them was tied to Saeeda Bai.
Ustad Majeed Khan got up, as he said, to relieve himself. The Nawab Sahib had bowed his head. Ishaq Khan had started talking in a low voice to the tabla player. Everyone seemed eager to exorcize this unwanted muse.
Ustad Majeed Khan returned and sang Raag Bhatiyar as beautifully as if nothing had happened. Now and then he paused to sip a glass of water. At three o’clock he got up and yawned. As if in response, so did everyone else.
14.20
Later in their room, Maan and Firoz lay in bed, yawning and talking.
‘I’m exhausted. What a day,’ said Maan.
‘It’s good I didn’t open my emergency bottle of Scotch before dinner, or we’d have been snoring through the Bhatiyar.’
There was a pause.
‘What exactly was wrong about my mentioning Saeeda Bai?’ asked Maan. ‘Everyone froze. So did you.’
‘Did I?’ said Firoz, leaning on his arm and looking at his friend rather intently.
‘Yes.’ Firoz was wondering what, if anything, to say in reply, when Maan went on: ‘I like that photograph, the one by the window of you and the family—you look just the same now as then.’
‘Nonsense,’ laughed Firoz. ‘I’m five years old in that photograph. And I’m much better-looking now,’ he added in a factual sort of way. ‘Better-looking than you, in fact.’
Maan explained himself. ‘What I meant was that you have the same kind of look, with your head tilted at an angle and that frown.’
‘All that that tilt reminds me of is the Chief Justice,’ said Firoz. After a while he said: ‘Why are you leaving tomorrow? Stay for a few days more.’
Maan shrugged. ‘I’d like to. I don’t get much time to spend with you. And I really like your Fort. We could go hunting again. The trouble is that I promised some people I know in Debaria that I’d be back for Bakr-Id. And I thought I’d show Baoji the place as well. He’s a politician in search of a constituency, so the more he sees of this one the better. Anyway, it’s not Bakr-Id so much as Moharram that’s important at Baitar, didn’t you tell me?’
Firoz yawned again. ‘Yes, yes, that’s right. Well, but this year I won’t be here. I’ll be in Brahmpur.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, Imtiaz and I take it by turns: Burré Sahib one year, Chhoté Sahib the next. The fact is, we haven’t shared a Moharram since we’ve been eighteen. One of us has to be here, and the other in Brahmpur to take part in the processions there.’
‘Don’t tell me you beat your breast and flagellate yourself,’ said Maan.
‘No. But some people do. Some even walk on fire. Come and see it for yourself this year.’
‘Perhaps I will,’ said Maan. ‘Goodnight. Isn’t the light switch by your side of the bed?’
‘Do you know that even Saeeda Bai closes shop during Moharram?’ asked Firoz.
‘What?’ said Maan in a more wakeful voice. ‘How do you know?’
‘Everyone knows,’ said Firoz. ‘She’s very devout. Of course, the Raja of Marh will be pretty annoyed. Usually he counts on having a good time around Dussehra.’
Maan’s response was a grunt.
Firoz went on: ‘But she won’t sing for him, and she won’t play with him. All she’ll consent to sing is marsiyas, laments for the martyrs of the battle of Karbala. Not very titillating.’
‘No,’ agreed Maan.
‘She won’t even sing for you,’ said Firoz.
‘I suppose not,’ said Maan, slightly crestfallen and wondering why Firoz was being so unkind.
‘Nor for your friend.’
‘My friend?’ asked Maan.
‘The Rajkumar of Marh.’
Maan laughed. ‘Oh, him!’ he said.
‘Yes, him,’ said Firoz.
There was something in Firoz’s voice that reminded Maan of their younger days.
‘Firoz!’ laughed Maan, turning towards him. ‘All that is over. We were just kids. Don’t tell me you’re jealous.’
‘Well, as you once said, I never tell you anything.’
‘Oh?’ said Maan, rolling over on his side towards his friend, and taking him in his arms.
‘I thought you were sleepy,’ said Firoz, smiling to himself in the dark.
‘So I am,’ said Maan. ‘But so what?’
Firoz began to laugh quietly. ‘You’ll think I’ve planned all this.’
‘Well, perhaps you have,’ said Maan. ‘But I don’t mind,’ he added with a small sigh as he passed a hand through Firoz’s hair.
14.21
Mahesh Kapoor and Maan borrowed a jeep from the Nawab Sahib and drove off towards Debaria. So full of pits and pools was the dirt road that led off the main road to the village that it was normally impossible to get to it in the monsoon. But they managed somehow, partly because it had not rained too heavily in the past week.
Most of the people they met were very pleased to see Maan; and Mahesh Kapoor—in spite of what the Nawab Sahib had told him—was quite astonished at the popularity of his vagabond son. It struck him with amazement that of the two activities necessary for a politician—the ability to win votes, and the capacity to do something with your mandate after victory—Maan possessed the first in abundant measure, at least in this constituency. The people of Debaria had taken him to their hearts.