In a couple of places Mahesh Kapoor was surprised to be asked if it was true that S.S. Sharma was going to be called to Delhi and that he himself was going to be elected the next Chief Minister of Purva Pradesh. He denied the first rumour, and said that even if it were true, the second would not necessarily follow. They could rest assured that he would almost certainly be a Minister, but he was not asking them to vote him in because of that. He wanted them to vote for him simply as their MLA. In this he was entirely sincere, and it went down very well.
By and large, even those villagers who stood to benefit from the abolition of landlordism maintained an attitude of respect for the Nawab Sahib and his wishes. ‘Remember,’ said Waris, wherever they went, ‘the Nawab Sahib is asking for your vote not in my name but in the Minister Sahib’s. So put your ballot paper in the box marked with the two bullocks, not in the one marked with a bicycle. And remember to put it inside the box, through the hole in the top. Don’t just put it on the top of the box, or the next person who enters the booth will be able to put your ballot paper into any box he chooses. Understand?’
The Congress volunteers and village-level workers, who were very pleased and honoured to see Mahesh Kapoor, and who garlanded him repeatedly, told him which villages they were going to canvass support in and where and when he should try to appear, either with or—and they implied that this was preferable—without Waris. They, being unfettered by a retainer of the Nawab Sahib, were able to play the powerful anti-zamindari card in a much more fiery manner than the author of the Zamindari Abolition Act himself. They walked about in groups of four or five from village to village, with nothing more than a stick, a water bottle, and a handful of dried cereal, gathering potential voters together, singing party, patriotic, or even devotional songs, and dinning into any ears that were willing to listen the great achievements of the Congress Party since its inception. They spent the night in the villages, so that no money was spent out of Mahesh Kapoor’s accountable funds. The one thing that disappointed them was that his jeep had not come laden with Congress posters and flags, and they made Mahesh Kapoor promise to provide these in large numbers. They also filled him in on events and issues that were important to particular villages, specific caste structures in various areas, and—as important as anything else—local jokes and references that would go down well.
From time to time Waris would shout out various names, almost at random, in order to stir up the crowd:
‘Nawab Sahib—’
‘Zindabad!’
‘Jawaharlal Nehru—’
‘Zindabad!’
‘Minister Mahesh Kapoor Sahib—’
‘Zindabad!’
‘Congress Party—’
‘Zindabad!’
‘Jai—’
‘Hind!’
After a few days of such electioneering in the cold and heat and dust, everyone’s voice was painfully hoarse. Finally, after promising to return to the Baitar area in due course, Mahesh Kapoor and his son said goodbye to Waris and, taking a jeep from the Fort with them, made for the Salimpur area. Here their headquarters was the home of a local Congress Party official, and here again they did the rounds of the caste leaders of the small qasbah town: the Hindu and Muslim goldsmiths who were the heads of the jewellery bazaar, the khatri who ran the cloth market, the kurmi who was the spokesman of the vegetable sellers. Netaji, who had inveigled himself on to the local Congress Committee, drove up on his motorcycle, pasted over with Congress flags and symbols, to greet Maan and his father. He embraced Maan like an old friend. One of his first suggestions was that the leaders of the chamars be sent two large tins of locally brewed liquor to sweeten their taste for the Congress. Mahesh Kapoor refused to do any such thing. Netaji looked at Mahesh Kapoor in astonishment, wondering how he had managed to become such a big leader with so little common sense.
That night Mahesh Kapoor confided in his son:
‘What country is this that I have had the misfortune to be born into? This election is worse than any previous one. Caste, caste, caste, caste. We should never have extended the franchise. It has made it a hundred times worse.’
Maan said, by way of consolation, that he thought that other things mattered as well, but he could see that his father was deeply disturbed, not by his own chances of winning, which were virtually unassailable, but by the state of the world. He had begun to respect his father more and more as the days passed. Mahesh Kapoor worked as hard and straightforwardly and tactlessly at his campaign as he had worked at the various clauses of the Zamindari Bill. He worked cannily, but with a sense of principle. And this work, besides being much more physically gruelling than the work in the Secretariat, began at dawn and often ended after midnight. Several times he mentioned that he wished that Maan’s mother had been there to help him; once or twice he even wondered about her health. But he never complained that circumstances had forced him out of the security of his constituency in Old Brahmpur into a rural district he had hardly even visited, let alone cultivated, before.
17.8
If Mahesh Kapoor had been surprised by Maan’s popularity during his Bakr-Id visit, not only he but Maan himself was amazed to discover how popular he now was in the area around Salimpur. While no word had leaked out in Baitar about his attack on the munshi, Maan’s stay in Debaria earlier in the year had passed from fact into rumour into a kind of myth, and many exploits of his visit were recounted to him which he found hard to recognize. While in Salimpur he had looked up the spindly and sarcastic schoolteacher Qamar, and had introduced him to his father. Qamar had told Mahesh Kapoor laconically that he could count on his vote. What struck Maan as somewhat odd about this conversation was that neither Mahesh Kapoor nor Maan had asked him for his vote yet. He did not know that Netaji had mentioned rather contemptuously to Qamar Mahesh Kapoor’s attitude towards bribing the chamars with liquor, and that Qamar had said forthwith that Mahesh Kapoor, though a Hindu, was the man he would vote for.
Mahesh Kapoor’s own very brief visit to Salimpur at Bakr-Id was not forgotten. Although he was an outsider, people felt that he was not merely interested in them for their votes, a fickle migratory bird visible only at election time.
Maan enjoyed meeting people and asking for their votes on his father’s behalf. At times he felt quite protective of him. Even when Mahesh Kapoor got annoyed, as he sometimes still did when he was very tired, Maan took it in good part. Perhaps I will become a politician after all, he thought. Certainly, I enjoy it more than most other things I’ve done. But even if I do manage to become an MLA or MP, what will I do once I get there?
Whenever he felt restless, Maan would take over from the driver and hurtle the colourfully decorated flag-decked jeep at breakneck speed down roads that were meant at best for bullock-carts. This gave him an exhilarating sense of freedom and everyone else a physical and psychological shock. The jeep, which was meant to accommodate two passengers in front and at most four in the back, was often crammed with ten or a dozen people, food, megaphones, posters, and all sorts of other paraphernalia besides. Its horn blew unceasingly and it trailed impressive clouds of dust and glory. Once, when its radiator began to leak, the driver scolded it and mixed some turmeric into the water. This sealed the leak miraculously.
One morning, they drove towards the twin villages of Debaria and Sagal, which were on the agenda for the day. As they approached the village Maan fell into a sudden depression. He had remembered Rasheed on and off during these last few days, and was glad they had been so busy that the memory had not preyed on him even more. But now he thought of what he was going to have to say to Rasheed’s family. Perhaps they already knew about him. Certainly, neither Netaji nor Qamar had asked about him. But then, when they had met, there had been very little time to inquire.
Some other questions came to Maan’s mind, and instead of humming a ghazal, as he sometimes did when driving, he fell silent. Was Rasheed serious when he had spoken of canvassing for the Socialist Party? What had brought his disturbing rift
of delusion about Tasneem to the surface? Again he thought back to the day when they had visited the old and sick man at Sagal. He felt that Rasheed was at heart a good man, not the calculating ogre of Saeeda Bai’s fancy.
It was almost the end of the year, and Maan had not seen Saeeda Bai now for two weeks. During the days he was so busy that she did not often enter his mind. But at night, even though he was exhausted, and just before sleep took over, his mind would turn to her. He would think not of her steely tantrums but of her gentleness and softness, of her unhappiness about Tasneem, of the scent of attar of roses, of the taste of Banarasi paan on her lips, of the intoxicating atmosphere of her two rooms. How strange, he thought, that he had never met her anywhere other than in those two rooms—except twice. It had been nine months since Holi evening in Prem Nivas, when he had first quoted Dagh to her in light-spirited public banter. And it seemed ages since he had tasted the sherbet from her hands. Even for one who continued to feel tenderly towards almost all the women he had had affairs with, it was a new experience for Maan to be obsessed by one woman—sexually and emotionally—for so long.
‘For God’s sake, Maan, drive straight. Do you want to have the election cancelled?’ said his father. There was a rule to the effect that if a candidate died before the poll, it would be countermanded and a new election declared.
‘Yes, Baoji,’ said Maan. ‘Sorry.’
In the event, Maan did not have to say much to anyone about Rasheed. Baba, who had met Mahesh Kapoor on the last visit, took over the reins as soon as they arrived in the village.
‘So you’ve rejoined the Congress,’ he said to the Minister.
‘Yes, I have,’ said Mahesh Kapoor. ‘It was good advice you gave me.’
Baba was pleased that Mahesh Kapoor had remembered.
‘Well,’ said Baba, fixing his eyes on the younger man, ‘you’ll have no problem winning by a large margin in this constituency, even if Nehru doesn’t.’ He spat a blob of reddish spittle on to the ground.
‘Don’t you think there’s any threat to me at all?’ asked Mahesh Kapoor. ‘It’s true that the Congress is winning hands down in all the states that have had early polls.’
‘No threat at all,’ said Baba. ‘None. The Muslims are behind you and behind the Congress, the scheduled castes are behind the Congress whether they’re behind you or not, a few of the upper caste Hindus will go for the Jan Sangh and that other party whose name I forget, but they don’t form much of the population. The left is divided into three. And none of the Independents count for much. Do you really want me to take you around these villages?’
‘Yes, if you don’t mind,’ said Mahesh Kapoor. ‘If I have it all sewn up anyway, let me at least visit my future flock and find out about their needs.’
‘Very well, very well,’ said Baba. ‘So, Maan, what have you been up to since Bakr-Id?’
‘Nothing,’ said Maan, wondering where all that time had disappeared.
‘You must do something,’ said Baba, vaguely but forcefully. ‘Something that makes a mark on the world—something that people hear about and talk about.’
‘Yes, Baba,’ assented Maan.
‘I suppose you’ve met Netaji recently,’ snorted the old man, stressing his younger son’s title.
Maan nodded.
‘In Salimpur. He offered to come with us everywhere and do everything for everyone.’
‘But you’re not travelling with him?’ chuckled Baba.
‘Well, no. I think he rubs Baoji up the wrong way.’
‘Good, good. Too much dust behind his motorcycle and too much self behind his selflessness.’
Maan laughed.
‘The Nawab Sahib’s jeep now,’ said Baba with approval. ‘That’s swifter—and sounder.’ Baba was pleased at the implicit connection it presented. It would help to keep people in the village in awe of him, and to make it clear to them that the Minister was not above coming to an understanding with certain landlords.
Maan looked across at his father, who was now eating paan and talking to Rasheed’s father; he wondered how he would have taken Baba’s remark, had he understood its implications.
‘Baba—’ he said, suddenly. ‘Do you know about Rasheed?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the old man sternly. ‘He’s been thrown out. We’ve forbidden him entrance to the house.’ Noticing Maan’s appalled look he went on: ‘But don’t worry. He won’t go hungry. His uncle sends him some money every month.’
Maan could say nothing for a while, then burst out: ‘But, Baba—his wife? and his children?’
‘Oh, they’re here. He’s lucky we’re so fond of Meher—and Meher’s mother. He didn’t think of them when he disgraced himself. Nor does he think of them now: does he stop to think of the feelings of his wife? She has suffered enough in life already.’
Maan did not quite understand the last part of this remark, but Baba did not give him time to ask for an explanation. He went on: ‘In our family we don’t marry four women at a time, we do it one by one. One dies, we marry another: we have the decency to wait. But he is talking about another woman now, and he expects his wife to understand. He writes to her saying he wants to marry again, but he wants her agreement first. Obtuse! Marry her, I say, marry her for God’s sake, but don’t torment your wife by asking for permission. Who this woman is, he doesn’t write. We don’t even know what family she comes from. He has grown secretive in everything he does. He was never cunning when he was a boy.’
Maan did not try in the face of Baba’s indignation to defend Rasheed, about whom he himself had such mixed feelings now; but nor did he mention the wild accusations of conspiracy Rasheed had made against him.
‘Baba,’ he said, ‘if he has trouble of this kind, how could it help to close your doors against him?’
The old man paused, as if uncertain. ‘That is not his only offence,’ he said, searching Maan’s face. ‘He has become a complete communist.’
‘Socialist.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Baba, impatient with such quibbling. ‘He wants to take my land away without compensation. What kind of grandson have I produced? The more he studies, the stupider he becomes. If he had stuck to the one Book, his mind would have been more healthy.’
‘But, Baba, these are just his views.’
‘Just his views? Do you not know how he tried to put them into action?’
Maan shook his head. Baba, seeing no guile in his face, sighed again, more deeply this time, and muttered something under his breath. Looking across at his son, who was still talking to Mahesh Kapoor, he said to Maan:
‘Rasheed’s father says that you remind him of his elder son.’ He mused for a few seconds, then went on: ‘I can see you know nothing about this sorry business. I will explain it all later. But now I must take your father round the village. You come as well. We’ll talk after dinner.’
‘Baba, there may not be time later,’ Maan said, knowing Mahesh Kapoor’s impatience to cover as much ground as possible. ‘Baoji will want to move on long before dinner.’
Baba ignored this. The tour of the village began. The path was cleared by Moazzam (who clouted anyone younger than himself who dared impede the progress), Mr Biscuit (yelling ‘Jai Hind!’) and a motley gang of running, shouting village children. ‘Lion, lion!’ they screamed in simulated terror. Baba and Mahesh Kapoor strode energetically in front, their sons straggled along in the rear. Rasheed’s father was friendly enough to Maan, but used his paan as protection against prolonged conversation. Though everyone greeted Maan with affection and friendliness, his mind was on what Baba had said to him and on what he had to say.
‘I will not allow you to return to Salimpur tonight,’ Baba told Mahesh Kapoor flatly after they had completed the circuit. ‘You will eat with us and sleep here. Your son spent a month here, you will have to spend a day.’
Mahesh Kapoor knew when he had met superior force, and consented with good grace.
17.9
After dinner, Baba took Maan aside. There
was no privacy in the village itself, especially when such a tremendous event as the visit of a Minister was taking place. Baba got a torch and told Maan to put on something warm. They walked towards the school, talking along the way. Baba told Maan in brief about the incident of the patwari, how the family had got together to warn Rasheed, how he had refused to listen, how he had encouraged some of the chamars and other tenants to take matters up with revenue authorities higher than the patwari, and how his plans had backfired. Anyone who had dared to stray from the path of obedience had been thrown off his land. Rasheed, Baba said, had made troublemakers of some of their most faithful chamars, and he had shown no qualms about instigating this betrayal. The family had had no choice but to cut him off.
‘Even Kachheru—do you remember him?’ said Baba. ‘The man who pumped the water for your bath—’
Alas, Maan remembered all too well now what at Bakr-Id had eluded him, the identity of the man whom Baba had shoved aside on the way to the Idgah.
‘It’s not easy to find permanent people,’ continued Baba sadly. ‘The young people find ploughing difficult. Mud, effort, sun. But the older ones have done it since childhood.’
They had by now reached the great tank near the school. On the other side of the water was a small cemetery for the dead of the two villages. The whitewashed tombs stood out at night. Baba said nothing more for a while, and nor did Maan.
Remembering what Rasheed had once said about how generation succeeds generation in working mischief Maan now murmured to himself with a bitter smile: ‘The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.’
Baba looked at him and frowned. ‘I don’t understand English,’ he said quietly. ‘We here are simple people. We do not have any great learning. But Rasheed treats us as if we are ignorant to the core. He writes us letters, threatening us and boasting of his own humanism. Everything has gone—logic, respect, decency; but his pride and his sense of self, lunatically, remain. When I read his letters I weep.’ He looked towards the school. ‘He had a classmate who became a dacoit. Even he treats his family with more respect.’