A Suitable Boy

  ‘No. Baoji had to visit friends later this evening.’

  When a voice came on the line Veena said: ‘I would like to speak to the Sahib.’

  An aged voice at the other end said, ‘Which Sahib? The Nawab Sahib or the Burré Sahib or the Chhoté Sahib?’

  ‘Anyone,’ said Veena.

  ‘But the Nawab Sahib is in Baitar with the Burré Sahib, and Chhoté Sahib has not yet come home from the Imambara.’ The aged voice—it was Ghulam Rusool—was halting and agitated. ‘They say there has been trouble in town, that you can see fires even from the roof of this house. I must go now. There are arrangements—’

  ‘Please be patient—’ said Veena quickly. ‘I will speak to anyone—put Sahib’s secretary on the line—or anyone responsible. Call someone—anyone—to the line, please. This is Mahesh Kapoor’s daughter Veena speaking, and I need to pass on an urgent message.’

  There was silence for a few seconds, then the young voice of Murtaza Ali came on the line. He sounded both embarrassed and extremely anxious. He had sensed that perhaps there might be some news of Firoz.

  Veena said, choosing her words with extreme care: ‘I am Mahesh Kapoor’s daughter. This is about Sahib’s younger son.’

  ‘The Nawab Sahib’s younger son? The Chhoté Sahib?’

  ‘Exactly. There is nothing to worry about. He is unharmed, and quite safe, and staying in Misri Mandi tonight. Please inform Sahib of that in case he should inquire.’

  ‘God is merciful!’ came the quiet response.

  ‘He will go home tomorrow when curfew is relaxed. Meanwhile, no search parties should be sent out for him. No one should go to the police station to get a curfew pass—or come here—or talk to anyone about his being here. Just say he is staying with me—with his sister.’

  ‘Thank you, Madam, thank you for calling us—we were just about to set out in an armed party—it would have been terrible—we imagined the worst—’

  ‘I must go now,’ said Veena, knowing that the longer she talked the more difficult it would be to maintain a protective ambiguity.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Murtaza Ali. ‘Khuda haafiz.’

  ‘Khuda haafiz,’ replied Veena without thinking, and put down the phone.

  Her neighbour looked at her strangely.

  Unwilling to make further conversation with the curious woman, Veena explained that she had to go back home immediately because Bhaskar had sprained his ankle running about; and Maan and her husband needed to be fed; and old Mrs Tandon, with her memories of Pakistan, was in a panic and would need to be soothed.

  15.14

  But when she got back to the house, she found her mother-in-law, who was downstairs, almost incoherent with shock. Kedarnath had just gone out into the night, planning, no doubt, to calm down any people he found: to prevent them from harming others and, in case they had not heard about the curfew, themselves.

  Veena almost fainted. She leaned against the wall and stared ahead of her. Finally her mother-in-law stopped sobbing and her words began to make more sense.

  ‘He said that in this area there would be no risk from Muslims,’ she whispered. ‘He wouldn’t listen to me. He said that it wasn’t Lahore—that he would be back very shortly,’ she continued, looking at Veena’s face for comfort. ‘“Very shortly” he said. He said he would be back very shortly.’ She broke down once again at the words.

  Veena’s mouth began to tremble. It was the phrase Kedarnath was fond of using when he went away on his interminable sales trips.

  There was no comfort for the old lady to be found in Veena’s face. ‘Why didn’t you stop him? Why didn’t Maan stop him?’ she cried. She was furious at her husband for this selfish and irresponsible heroism. Did she and Bhaskar and his mother not exist for him?

  ‘Maan was on the roof,’ said the old lady.

  Now Bhaskar came down the stairs. Something had obviously been troubling him for a while.

  ‘Why did Firoz Maama have so much blood all over him?’ he demanded. ‘Did Maan Maama beat him up? He said he didn’t. But he was holding the lathi.’

  ‘Be quiet, Bhaskar,’ said Veena in a desperate voice. ‘Go upstairs at once. Go upstairs and back to bed. Everything’s all right. I’m here if you need me.’ She gave him a hug.

  Bhaskar wanted to know exactly what the matter was. ‘Nothing,’ said Veena. ‘I have to prepare some food—don’t get in my way.’ She knew that if Maan got to know about what had happened he would immediately go out to look for his brother-in-law and would put himself at very grievous risk. Kedarnath at least did know exactly where the Hindu areas ended. But she was tormented with anxiety for him. Before Bhaskar had come down she had been on the verge of going out herself. Now she just waited—the most difficult thing of all.

  She quickly heated some food for Maan and Firoz, and took it up, pausing on the stairs in order to appear calm.

  Maan smiled when he saw her.

  ‘It’s quite warm,’ said Maan. ‘We’ll sleep together on the roof. Just give us a mattress and a light quilt, and we’ll be fine. Firoz will need a wash, and I could do with one too. Is something wrong?’

  Veena shook her head. ‘He almost gets killed, then asks me if something is wrong.’

  She took a light quilt out of a trunk, and shook out from its folds the dried neem leaves that she used to preserve winter clothing from pests.

  ‘Sometimes the night flowers on the roof attract insects,’ she warned them.

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ said Firoz. ‘I am so grateful to you.’

  Veena shook her head. ‘Sleep well,’ she said.

  Kedarnath returned home five minutes before curfew. Veena wept, and refused to speak to him. She buried her face in his scarred hands.

  For an hour or so Maan and Firoz remained awake. It felt as if the world was trembling beneath them. The distant sound of gunfire had died down, probably as a result of the imposition of curfew, but the glow from the fires, especially to the west, continued through the night.

  15.15

  On Sharad Purnima, the brightest night of the year, Pran and Savita hired a boat and went up the Ganga to look at the Barsaat Mahal. Curfew had been lifted that morning. Mrs Rupa Mehra had advised them not to go, but Savita said that no one could set fire to the river.

  ‘And it isn’t good for Pran’s asthma either,’ added Mrs Rupa Mehra, who believed that he should be confined to his bed and his rocking chair, and not overexert himself.

  Pran had in fact slowly recovered from the worst of his illness. He was still not able to play cricket, but had built up his strength by walking, at first only around the garden, then a few hundred yards, and finally around campus or along the Ganga. He had avoided the incendiary festivities of Dussehra, and would have to avoid the firecrackers of Divali. But his trouble had not recurred in its acute form, and he had for the most part not allowed it to interfere with his academic work. Some days, when he was feeling weaker, he sat and lectured. His students were protective of him, and even his overworked colleagues on the disciplinary committee tried to relieve him of whatever duties they could.

  Tonight, in particular, he felt much better. He reflected on Maan and Firoz’s providential escape—and indeed Kedarnath’s as well—and was inclined to minimize his own problems.

  ‘Don’t worry, Ma,’ he reassured his mother-in-law. ‘If anything, the river air will do me good. It’s still quite warm.’

  ‘Well, it won’t be warm on the river. You should take a shawl each. Or a blanket,’ grumbled Mrs Rupa Mehra.

  After a pause, she said to Lata: ‘Why are you looking like that? Do you have a headache?’

  ‘No, Ma, I don’t, please let me read.’

  She had been thinking: thank God Maan is safe.

  ‘What are you reading?’ persisted her mother.

  ‘Ma!’

  ‘Bye, Lata, bye, Ma,’ said Pran. ‘Keep your knitting needles out of Uma’s clutches.’

  Mrs Rupa Mehra made a sound that was almost a grunt. She believed th
at one shouldn’t mention such unspeakable dangers. She was knitting booties for the baby in the expectation of colder weather.

  Pran and Savita walked down to the river, Pran leading the way with a torch, and helping Savita with a hand where the path was steep. He warned her to watch out for the roots of the banyan tree.

  The boatman they hired from near the dhobi-ghat happened to be the same one who had taken Lata and Kabir to see the Barsaat Mahal some months previously at dawn. As usual he demanded an outrageous price. Pran brought it down slightly, but was in no mood for further haggling. He was glad Uma was too small to come with them; he was happy to be alone with Savita if only for an hour or two.

  The river was still high, and a pleasant breeze was blowing.

  ‘Ma was right—it is cold—you’d better hold on to me for warmth,’ Pran said.

  ‘Aren’t you going to recite a ghazal by Mast for me?’ asked Savita as she looked out, past the ghats and the Fort towards the vague silhouette of the Barsaat Mahal.

  ‘Sorry, you’ve married the wrong brother,’ said Pran.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Savita. She leaned her head against his shoulder. ‘What is that thing there with the walls and chimney—beyond the Barsaat Mahal?’

  ‘Hmm—I don’t know—perhaps the tannery or the shoe factory,’ said Pran. ‘But everything looks different from this side, especially at night.’

  They were silent for a while.

  ‘What’s the latest on that front?’ said Pran.

  ‘You mean Haresh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know. Lata’s being secretive. But he does write and she does reply. You’re the one who’s met him. You said you liked him.’

  ‘Well, it’s impossible to judge someone on the basis of a single meeting,’ said Pran.

  ‘Oh, so you think so!’ said Savita archly, and they both laughed. A thought struck Pran.

  ‘I suppose I too am going to be judged soon enough on the basis of a single meeting,’ he said.

  ‘Soon enough!’ said Savita.

  ‘Well, things really are going ahead at last—’

  ‘Or so Professor Mishra assures you.’

  ‘No, no—in a month or two at the latest they’re going to have their interviews—someone who works in the Registrar’s Office mentioned it to one of my father’s ex-PAs. So let’s see, it’s the middle of October now—’ Pran looked across towards the burning ghat. He lost the thread of his thoughts.

  ‘How quiet the city looks,’ he said. ‘And when you think that Maan and Firoz could have been murdered—’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Sorry, darling. Anyway, what were you saying?’

  ‘I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Oh, well.’

  ‘I think,’ said Savita, ‘that you’re in danger of becoming complacent.’

  ‘Who—me?’ said Pran, surprised rather than affronted. ‘Why should I be complacent? A humble university lecturer with a weak heart, who will have to puff his way up the cliff at the end of this boat ride.’

  ‘Well, perhaps not,’ said Savita. ‘Anyway, what does it feel like to have a wife and child?’

  ‘What does it feel like? It feels wonderful.’

  Savita smiled into the darkness. She had fished for a compliment, and landed one.

  ‘This is where you’ll get the best view,’ said the boatman, driving his long pole deep into the bed of the river. ‘I can’t go further back into the current. The river’s too high.’

  ‘And I suppose it must be quite pleasant to have a husband and child,’ added Pran.

  ‘Yes,’ said Savita thoughtfully. ‘It is.’ After a while she said: ‘Sad about Meenakshi.’

  ‘Yes. But you’ve never been very fond of her, have you?’

  Savita did not reply.

  ‘Has her miscarriage made you like her more?’ said Pran.

  ‘What a question! It has, in a way. Well, let me think about that. I’ll know immediately when I see her again.’

  ‘You know,’ said Pran, ‘I don’t look forward to staying with your brother and sister-in-law over the New Year.’ He closed his eyes; there was a mild and pleasant breeze on the river.

  ‘I’m not sure there’ll even be room for all of us at Sunny Park,’ said Savita. ‘Ma and Lata can stay with them as usual. And you and I can camp in the garden. Rock-a-bye Baby can hang from the treetop.’

  Pran laughed. ‘Well, at least the baby doesn’t take after your brother, as I feared she might.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Either. But I meant Arun. Well, they’ll have to put us up somewhere—I suppose at the Chatterjis. I liked that boy, what’s his name—’

  ‘Amit?’

  ‘No, the other one—the holy man who was fond of Scotch.’

  ‘Dipankar.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. . . . At any rate, you’ll meet him when we go to Calcutta in December,’ said Pran.

  ‘But I’ve already met him,’ Savita pointed out. ‘At the Pul Mela, most recently.’

  ‘I meant Haresh. You can appraise him at your leisure.’

  ‘But you were just talking about Dipankar.’

  ‘Was I, dear?’

  ‘Really, Pran, I wish you would keep track of your conversation. It’s very confusing. I’m sure this isn’t how you lecture.’

  ‘I lecture rather well,’ said Pran, ‘even if I say so myself. But don’t take my word for it. Ask Malati.’

  ‘I have no intention of asking Malati how you lecture. The last time she listened to you, you were so overcome you fainted away.’

  The boatman was getting tired of holding his boat steady against the current. ‘Do you want to talk or to watch the Barsaat Mahal?’ he asked. ‘You’re paying me good money to come here.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Pran vaguely.

  ‘You should have come here three nights ago,’ said the boatman—‘there were fires burning all along there. Beautiful it looked, and you couldn’t smell it here on the Ganga. And the next day lots of corpses at the ghat there. Too many for one ghat to handle. The municipality has been planning another burning ghat for years now but they’ll never get down to deciding where.’

  ‘Why?’ Pran couldn’t resist asking.

  ‘If it’s on the Brahmpur side it’ll face north like this one. Of course, by rights it should face south, in the direction of Yama. But that would put it on the other shore, and they’d have to ferry the bodies—and the passengers—across.’

  ‘They? You mean you.’

  ‘I suppose so. I wouldn’t complain.’

  For a while Pran and Savita looked at the Barsaat Mahal, lit in the full light of the full moon. Beautiful by itself, its reflection at night made it look lovelier than ever. The moon shivered gently in the water. The boatman said nothing further.

  Another boat passed them. For some reason Pran shuddered.

  ‘What’s the matter, darling?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Savita took a small coin out of her purse and put it in Pran’s hand.

  ‘Well, what I was thinking was how peaceful it all looks.’

  Savita nodded to herself in the darkness. Pran suddenly realized she was crying.

  ‘What’s the matter, darling? What have I said?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m so happy. I’m just happy.’

  ‘How strange you are,’ said Pran, stroking her hair.

  The boatman released his pole and, guided only casually by him, the boat began to move downstream again. Quietly they moved down the calm and sacred river that had come down to earth so that its waters might flow over the ashes of those long dead, and that would continue to flow long after the human race had, through hatred and knowledge, burned itself out.

  15.16

  For the last few weeks Mahesh Kapoor had been in two minds—two uncertain and troubled minds—about whether to go back to the Congress Party. He, who was so full of definite, often dismissive, opinion, had found himself lost in a dust storm of ind
ecision.

  Too many factors were whirling around in his head and each time they came to rest they formed a new configuration.

  What the Chief Minister had said to him in his garden; what the Nawab Sahib had said to him at the Fort; the visit to Prem Nivas of the seceder from U.P. who had rejoined the Congress; Baba’s advice in Debaria; Nehru’s coup; Rafi Sahib’s circuitous return to the fold; his own beloved legislation which he wanted to make sure did not merely moulder on the statute-books; irritatingly enough, even his wife’s unspoken but palpable view of the whole matter: all these told him to go back to the party that, until his slow but thorough disillusionment, had unquestionably been his home.

  Things had doubtless changed greatly since that disillusionment. And yet, when he thought about it deeply, how much had really changed? Could he belong in a party that contained—could he bear to belong to a government that might possibly be run by—the likes of the present Home Minister? The list of Congress candidates that was being drawn up in the state did nothing to dispel his disillusionment. Nor, after his talk with his old Parliamentary Secretary, could he honestly claim to himself that he sensed in Nehru any new surge of decisiveness. Nehru could not even ensure the passage of his favourite bill through Parliament. Compromise and muddle had reigned, and compromise and muddle would reign.

  And having once made his break, thought Mahesh Kapoor, would he not be displaying the very indecisiveness he usually condemned by returning? After decades of loyalty to one party, he who believed in principle and firmness would have turned his coat twice in the course of a few months. Kidwai may have returned, but Kripalani had not. Whose had been the more honourable course?

  Angry at himself for his own uncharacteristic dithering, Mahesh Kapoor told himself that he had had enough time and enough advice to determine twenty such matters. Whatever he decided, there would be aspects of his decision he would find difficult to live with. He should stop fretting, examine the nub of the matter, and once and for all say Yes or No.

  Yet what, if anything, was the nub?

  Was it the zamindari legislation? Was it his dread of communal hatred and violence? Was it the real and delicious possibility that he, not Agarwal, might become Chief Minister? Was it the fear that if he remained outside the Congress, he would lose his seat—that he could maintain his purity only in the wilderness? Surely all these things pointed in the same direction. What was really holding him back but uncertainty and pride?