Firoz, in a not unkindly tone, said: ‘Are you sure he meant today?’
‘Yes, quite sure.’
‘If my father had said he was to be disturbed, he would have left word,’ said Firoz. ‘The problem is that once my father is in the library, well, he’s in a different world. You will, I am afraid, have to wait till he comes out. Or could you perhaps come back later?’
A strong emotion began to work at the corners of the young man’s mouth. Clearly he needed the income from the job, but equally clearly he had a sense of pride. ‘I am not prepared to run around like this,’ he said clearly but quietly.
Firoz was surprised. This definiteness, it appeared to him, bordered on incivility. He had not said, for example: ‘The Nawabzada will appreciate that it is difficult for me . . .’ or any such ameliorative phrase. Simply: ‘I am not prepared. . . .’
‘Well, that is up to you,’ said Firoz, easily. ‘Now, forgive me, I have to be somewhere very soon.’ He frowned slightly as he got into the car.
2.12
The previous evening, when Maan had stopped by, Saeeda Bai had been entertaining an old but gross client of hers: the Raja of Marh, a small princely state in Madhya Bharat. The Raja was in Brahmpur for a few days, partly to supervise the management of some of his Brahmpur lands, and partly to help in the construction of a new temple to Shiva on the land he owned near the Alamgiri Mosque in Old Brahmpur. The Raja was familiar with Brahmpur from his student days twenty years ago; he had frequented Mohsina Bai’s establishment when she was still living with her daughter Saeeda in the infamous alley of Tarbuz ka Bazaar.
Throughout Saeeda Bai’s childhood she and her mother had shared the upper floor of a house with three other courtesans, the oldest of whom, by virtue of the fact that she owned the place, had acted for years as their madam. Saeeda Bai’s mother did not like this arrangement, and as her daughter’s fame and attractiveness grew she was able to assert their independence. When Saeeda Bai was seventeen or so, she came to the attention of the Maharaja of a large state in Rajasthan, and later the Nawab of Sitagarh; and from then on there had been no looking back.
In time, Saeeda Bai had been able to afford her present house in Pasand Bagh, and had gone to live there with her mother and young sister. The three women, separated by gaps of about twenty and fifteen years respectively, were all attractive, each in her own way. If the mother had the strength and brightness of brass, Saeeda Bai had the tarnishable brilliance of silver, and young, soft-hearted Tasneem, named after a spring in Paradise, protected by both mother and sister from the profession of their ancestors, had the lively elusiveness of mercury.
Mohsina Bai had died two years ago. This had been a terrible blow for Saeeda Bai, who sometimes still visited the graveyard and lay weeping, stretched out on her mother’s grave. Saeeda Bai and Tasneem now lived alone in the house in Pasand Bagh with two women servants: a maid and a cook. At night the calm watchman guarded the gate. Tonight Saeeda Bai was not expecting to entertain visitors; she was sitting with her tabla player and sarangi player, and amusing herself with gossip and music.
Saeeda Bai’s accompanists were a study in contrast. Both were about twenty-five, and both were devoted and skilled musicians. Both were fond of each other, and deeply attached—by economics and affection—to Saeeda Bai. But beyond that the resemblance ended. Ishaq Khan, who bowed his sarangi with such ease and harmoniousness, almost self-effacement, was a slightly sardonic bachelor. Motu Chand, so nicknamed because of his plumpness, was a contented man, already a father of four. He looked a bit like a bulldog with his large eyes and snuffling mouth, and was benignly torpid except when frenziedly drumming his tabla.
They were discussing Ustad Majeed Khan, one of the most famous classical singers of India, a notoriously aloof man who lived in the old city, not far from where Saeeda Bai had grown up.
‘But what I don’t understand, Saeeda Begum,’ said Motu Chand, leaning awkwardly backwards because of his paunch, ‘is why he should be so critical of us small people. There he sits with his head above the clouds, like Lord Shiva on Kailash. Why should he open his third eye to burn us up?’
‘There is no accounting for the moods of the great,’ said Ishaq Khan. He touched his sarangi with his left hand and went on, ‘Now look at this sarangi—it’s a noble instrument—yet the noble Majeed Khan hates it. He never allows it to accompany him.’
Saeeda Bai nodded; Motu Chand made reassuring sounds. ‘It is the loveliest of all instruments,’ he said.
‘You kafir,’ said Ishaq Khan, smiling twistedly at his friend. ‘How can you pretend to like this instrument? What is it made of?’
‘Well, wood of course,’ said Motu Chand, now leaning forward with an effort.
‘Look at the little wrestler,’ laughed Saeeda Bai. ‘We must feed him some laddus.’ She called out for her maid, and sent her to get some sweets.
Ishaq continued to wind the coils of his argument around the struggling Motu Chand.
‘Wood!’ he cried. ‘And what else?’
‘Oh, well, you know, Khan Sahib—strings and so on,’ said Motu Chand, defeated as to Ishaq’s intention.
‘And what are these strings made of?’ continued Ishaq Khan relentlessly.
‘Ah!’ said Motu Chand, getting a glimpse of his meaning. Ishaq was not a bad fellow, but he appeared to get a cruel pleasure from worsting Motu Chand in an argument.
‘Gut,’ said Ishaq. ‘These strings are made of gut. As you well know. And the front of a sarangi is made of skin. The hide of a dead animal. Now what would your brahmins of Brahmpur say if they were forced to touch it? Would they not be polluted by it?’
Motu Chand looked downcast, then rallied. ‘Anyway, I’m not a brahmin, you know . . .’ he began.
‘Don’t tease him,’ said Saeeda Bai to Ishaq Khan.
‘I love the fat kafir too much to want to tease him,’ said Ishaq Khan.
This was not true. Since Motu Chand was of an alarmingly equable bent of mind, what Ishaq Khan liked more than anything else was to upset his balance. But this time Motu Chand reacted in an irksomely philosophical manner.
‘Khan Sahib is very kind,’ he said. ‘But sometimes even the ignorant have wisdom, and he would be the first to acknowledge this. Now for me the sarangi is not what it is made of but what it makes—these divine sounds. In the hands of an artist even this gut and this skin can be made to sing.’ His face wreathed with a contented, almost Sufi, smile. ‘After all, what are we all but gut and skin? And yet’—his forehead creased with concentration—‘in the hands of one who—the One. . . .’
But the maid now came in with the sweets and Motu Chand’s theological meanderings halted. His plump and agile fingers quickly reached for a laddu as round as himself and popped it whole into his mouth.
After a while Saeeda Bai said, ‘But we were not discussing the One above’—she pointed upwards—‘but the One to the West.’ She pointed in the direction of Old Brahmpur.
‘They are the same,’ said Ishaq Khan. ‘We pray both westwards and upwards. I am sure Ustad Majeed Khan would not take it amiss if we were mistakenly to turn to him in prayer one evening. And why not?’ he ended ambiguously. ‘When we pray to such lofty art, we are praying to God himself.’ He looked at Motu Chand for approval, but Motu appeared to be either sulking or concentrating on his laddu.
The maid re-entered and announced: ‘There is some trouble at the gate.’
Saeeda Bai looked more interested than alarmed.
‘What sort of trouble, Bibbo?’ she asked.
The maid looked at her cheekily and said, ‘It seems that a young man is quarrelling with the watchman.’
‘Shameless thing, wipe that expression off your face,’ said Saeeda Bai. ‘Hmm,’ she went on, ‘what does he look like?’
‘How would I know, Begum Sahiba?’ protested the maid.
‘Don’t be troublesome, Bibbo. Does he look respectable?’
‘Yes,’ admitted the maid. ‘But the streetlights were not br
ight enough for me to see anything more.’
‘Call the watchman,’ said Saeeda Bai. ‘There’s only us here,’ she added, as the maid looked hesitant.
‘But the young man?’ asked the maid.
‘If he’s as respectable as you say, Bibbo, he’ll remain outside.’
‘Yes, Begum Sahiba,’ said the maid and went to do her bidding.
‘Who do you think it could be?’ mused Saeeda Bai aloud, and was silent for a minute.
The watchman entered the house, left his spear at the front entrance, and climbed heavily up the stairs to the gallery. He stood at the doorway of the room where they were sitting, and saluted. With his khaki turban, khaki uniform, thick boots and bushy moustache, he was completely out of place in that femininely furnished room. But he did not seem at all ill at ease.
‘Who is this man and what does he want?’ asked Saeeda Bai.
‘He wants to come in and speak with you,’ said the watchman phlegmatically.
‘Yes, yes, I thought as much—but what is his name?’
‘He won’t say, Begum Sahiba. Nor will he take no for an answer. Yesterday too he came, and told me to give you a message, but it was so impertinent, I decided not to.’
Saeeda Bai’s eyes flashed. ‘You decided not to?’ she asked.
‘The Raja Sahib was here,’ said the watchman calmly.
‘Hmmh. And the message?’
‘That he is one who lives in love,’ said the watchman impassively.
He had used a different word for love and had thus lost the pun on Prem Nivas.
‘One who lives in love? What can he mean?’ remarked Saeeda Bai to Motu and Ishaq. The two looked at each other, Ishaq Khan with a slight smirk of disdain.
‘This world is populated by donkeys,’ said Saeeda Bai, but whom she was referring to was unclear. ‘Why didn’t he leave a note? So those were his exact words? Neither very idiomatic nor very witty.’
The watchman searched his memory and came out with a closer approximation to the actual words Maan had used the previous evening. At any rate, ‘prem’ and ‘nivas’ both figured in his sentence.
All three musicians solved the riddle immediately.
‘Ah!’ said Saeeda Bai, amused. ‘I think I have an admirer. What do you say? Shall we let him in? Why not?’
Neither of the others demurred—as, indeed, how could they? The watchman was told to let the young man in. And Bibbo was told to tell Tasneem to stay in her room.
2.13
Maan, who was fretting by the gate, could hardly believe his good fortune at being so speedily admitted. He felt a surge of gratitude towards the watchman and pressed a rupee into his hand. The watchman left him at the door of the house, and the maid pointed him up to the room.
As Maan’s footsteps were heard in the gallery outside Saeeda Bai’s room, she called out, ‘Come in, come in, Dagh Sahib. Sit down and illumine our gathering.’
Maan stood outside the door for a second, and looked at Saeeda Bai. He was smiling with pleasure, and Saeeda Bai could not help smiling back at him. He was dressed simply and immaculately in a well-starched white kurta-pyjama. The fine chikan embroidery on his kurta complemented the embroidery on his fine white cotton cap. His shoes—slip-on jutis of soft leather, pointed at the toe—were also white.
‘How did you come?’ asked Saeeda Bai.
‘I walked.’
‘These are fine clothes to risk in the dust.’
Maan said simply, ‘It is just a few minutes away.’
‘Please—sit down.’
Maan sat cross-legged on the white-sheeted floor.
Saeeda Bai began to busy herself making paan. Maan looked at her wonderingly.
‘I came yesterday too, but was less fortunate.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Saeeda Bai. ‘My fool of a watchman turned you away. What can I say? We are not all blessed with the faculty of discrimination. . . .’
‘But I’m here today,’ said Maan, rather obviously.
‘Wherever Dagh has sat down, he has sat down?’ asked Saeeda Bai, with a smile. Her head was bent, and she was spreading a little white dab of lime on the paan leaves.
‘He may not quit your assembly at all this time,’ said Maan.
Since she was not looking directly at him, he could look at her without embarrassment. She had covered her head with her sari before he had come in. But the soft, smooth skin of her neck and shoulders was exposed, and Maan found the tilt of her neck as she bent over her task indescribably charming.
Having made a pair of paans she impaled them on a little silver toothpick with tassels, and offered them to him. He took them and put them in his mouth, pleasantly surprised at the taste of coconut, which was an ingredient Saeeda Bai was fond of adding to her paan.
‘I see you are wearing your own style of Gandhi cap,’ said Saeeda Bai, after popping a couple of paans into her mouth. She did not offer any to Ishaq Khan or Motu Chand, but then they seemed to have virtually melted into the background.
Maan touched the side of his embroidered white cap nervously, unsure of himself.
‘No, no, Dagh Sahib, don’t trouble yourself. This isn’t a church, you know.’ Saeeda Bai looked at him and said, ‘I was reminded of other white caps one sees floating around in Brahmpur. The heads that wear them have grown taller recently.’
‘I am afraid you are going to accuse me of the accident of my birth,’ said Maan.
‘No, no,’ said Saeeda Bai. ‘Your father has been an old patron of the arts. It is the other Congress-wallahs I was thinking of.’
‘Perhaps I should wear a cap of a different colour the next time I come,’ said Maan.
Saeeda Bai raised an eyebrow.
‘Assuming I am ushered into your presence,’ Maan added humbly.
Saeeda Bai thought to herself: What a well-brought-up young man. She indicated to Motu Chand that he should bring the tablas and harmonium that were lying in the corner of the room.
To Maan she said, ‘And now what does Hazrat Dagh command us to sing?’
‘Why, anything,’ said Maan, throwing banter to the winds.
‘Not a ghazal, I hope,’ said Saeeda Bai, pressing down a key on the harmonium to help the tabla and sarangi tune up.
‘No?’ asked Maan, disappointed.
‘Ghazals are for open gatherings or the intimacy of lovers,’ said Saeeda Bai. ‘I’ll sing what my family is best known for and what my Ustad best taught me.’
She began a thumri in Raag Pilu, ‘Why then are you not speaking to me?’ and Maan’s face brightened up. As she sang he floated off into a state of intoxication. The sight of her face, the sound of her voice, and the scent of her perfume were intertwined in his happiness.
After two or three thumris and a dadra, Saeeda Bai indicated that she was tired, and that Maan should leave.
He left reluctantly, showing, however, more good humour than reluctance. Downstairs, the watchman found a five-rupee note pressed into his hand.
Out on the street Maan trod on air.
She will sing a ghazal for me sometime, he promised himself. She will, she certainly will.
2.14
It was Sunday morning. The sky was bright and clear. The weekly bird market near the Barsaat Mahal was in full swing. Thousands of birds—mynas, partridges, pigeons, parakeets—fighting birds, eating birds, racing birds, talking birds—sat or fluttered in iron or cane cages in little stalls from which rowdy hawkers cried out the excellence and cheapness of their wares. The pavement had been taken over by the bird market, and buyers or passers-by like Ishaq had to walk on the road surface, bumping against rickshaws and bicycles and the occasional tonga.
There was even a pavement stall with books about birds. Ishaq picked up a flimsy, blunt-typed paperback about owls and spells, and looked idly through to see what uses this unlucky bird could be put to. It appeared to be a book of Hindu black magic, The Tantra of Owls, though it was printed in Urdu. He read:
Sovereign Remedy to Obtain Employment
Take the tail-feathers of an owl and a crow, and burn them together in a fire made from mango wood until they form ash. Place this ash on your forehead like a caste-mark when you go to seek employment, and you will most certainly obtain it.
He frowned and read on:
Method of Keeping a Woman in Your Power
If you want to keep a woman in your control, and wish to prevent her from coming under the influence of anyone else, then use the technique described below:
Take the blood of an owl, the blood of a jungle fowl and the blood of a bat in equal proportions, and after smearing the mixture on your penis have intercourse with the woman. Then she will never desire another man.
Ishaq felt almost sick. These Hindus! he thought. On an impulse he bought the book, deciding that it was an excellent means of provoking his friend Motu Chand.
‘I have one on vultures as well,’ said the bookseller helpfully.
‘No, this is all I want,’ said Ishaq, and walked on.
He stopped at a stall where a large number of tiny, almost formless grey-green balls of stubbly flesh lay imprisoned in a hooped cage.
‘Ah!’ he said.
His look of interest had an immediate effect on the white-capped stall-keeper, who appraised him, glancing at the book in his hand.
‘These are not ordinary parakeets, Huzoor, these are hill parakeets, Alexandrine parakeets as the English sahibs say.’
The English had left more than three years ago, but Ishaq let it pass.
‘I know, I know,’ he said.
‘I can tell an expert when I see one,’ said the stall-keeper in a most friendly manner. ‘Now, why not have this one? Only two rupees—and it will sing like an angel.’
‘A male angel or a female angel?’ said Ishaq severely.
The stall-keeper suddenly became obsequious.
‘Oh, you must forgive me, you must forgive me. People here are so ignorant, one can hardly bear to part with one’s most promising birds, but for one who knows parakeets I will do anything, anything. Have this one, Huzoor.’ And he picked out one with a larger head, a male.