A Suitable Boy

  As Bilgrami Sahib had feared, their attempt to bring influence into play had attracted the attention of the Raja of Marh, who quite blatantly began to pay journalists to dig up what dirt they could about the scandal—and particularly to attempt to prevent any subversion of justice by Maan’s friends and family. He had also attempted to fund a couple of the Independent candidates who were standing against Mahesh Kapoor in the elections, but this had proved to be a less fruitful investment.

  One night the Raja of Marh came with a gang of three guards and virtually forced his way into Saeeda Bai’s house. He was delighted by recent events. Mahesh Kapoor, the plunderer of his rightful lands and the derider of his great temple, had been humbled; Maan—whom he saw both as his competitor and as the brother of the man who had expelled his son—was locked safely away; the Nawab Sahib—whose religion and high cultural airs he equally loathed—was stricken with shame and with fear and grief for his son; and Saeeda Bai had been disgraced further before the world and would doubtless abase herself to his, the Raja of Marh’s, commands.

  ‘Sing!’ he commanded her. ‘Sing! I hear your voice has gained a richer tone since your neck was wrung.’

  It was fortunate for both him and Saeeda Bai that the watchman had alerted the police. They came in, and he was forced to leave. He did not know, either then or afterwards, how close he had come to becoming that well-washed fruit knife’s second victim.

  17.31

  Firoz lay between life and death for several days. Eventually the Nawab Sahib grew so exhausted that he was ordered home by his elder son.

  It was the fear of Firoz’s death that finally forced Mahesh Kapoor, that upright and law-abiding man, to speak to the Superintendent of Police. He knew what he was doing: he did it with his eyes open, and he was ashamed, but he did it. He had lost his wife, he could not bear to lose his son. If Firoz died, and the investigating officer and committal magistrate saw fit, Maan might be tried under Section 302 of the Indian Penal Code—and this thought was so horrific—and to his mind, unjust—that he could not bear it. The SP for his part was a man who knew how many ways bread could be buttered. He said that it was a difficult problem now that matters had been aired so openly in the press, but that he would do what he could. He repeated several times that he had always had the greatest respect for Mahesh Kapoor. Mahesh Kapoor repeated, though the words tore at his sense of his own integrity, that his feelings towards the SP were very similar.

  He visited Maan once more in jail. Once again, father and son did not have much to say to each other. He then left for Salimpur for a few days. He did not tell anyone what he had done, and he reproached himself both for having done it and for not having done it earlier.

  Maan had begun working in the jail garden, and this did help him somewhat. Even now, he found the visits of his brother and sister painful. Once he asked Pran to send some money anonymously to Rasheed and gave him his address. Once he asked for a few harsingar flowers from the garden of Prem Nivas and Veena had told him that the season was over. For the most part Maan did not know what to say to them. He continued to feel that the shock of his crime had killed their mother, and that they felt the same. But time passed, and exhaustion eased his mind.

  Firoz too became better. The advances in medicine of the previous ten years had saved his life, but only just. Had antibiotics not been available in Brahmpur, or had doctors not been sufficiently skilled in their administration, he would surely not have gazed at that lizard again. But despite the wound and the infections, whether he wished to or not, he lived.

  A change came over Maan too with the slow recovery of his friend. It was as if he had come out of the valley of the shadow of his own death. If his own danger had caused Saeeda Bai to realize how much she loved him, the danger Firoz had been in had given him a similar insight. He cheered up as soon as Pran told him that Firoz was finally and definitely on the mend. His appetite recovered. He asked for certain kinds of food to be brought from Prem Nivas. He joked about rum chocolates, which a friend had once brought from Calcutta, as a means of smuggling alcohol into jail. He asked for certain visitors: not his immediate family, but people who would bring him a sense of something different: Lata (if she wouldn’t mind paying him a visit) and one of his old girlfriends, who was now married. Both came, on consecutive days: one with Pran (after she had overcome Mrs Rupa Mehra’s objections), one with her husband (after she had overcome his).

  Lata, despite the sad and, in some ways, sinister venue, was pleased to see Maan. It was true that their worlds hardly intersected. It had amazed her that Pran had been able, last April Fool’s, to convince her mother of their elopement. But she remembered Maan as she always had—jovial and affectionate—and she was glad to think that he had remembered her. She was not determinedly cheerful, but she could see that talking with her was doing Maan good. They talked about Calcutta, particularly the Chatterjis, and—partly because she wanted to keep him interested—she talked a great deal more freely with him than she normally would have, or than she ordinarily did with Pran. The jail officers sat out of clear hearing, but they looked at them curiously when they burst out laughing. They were not accustomed to that sound in the visiting room.

  The next day they heard more of the same. Maan was visited by his old friend Sarla and her husband, who for some reason was called Pigeon by all his friends. Sarla, who had not seen Maan for months, regaled him with a description of a New Year’s party that she and Pigeon had been to. It had been organized by Pigeon’s friends.

  ‘In order to add a little spice to the gathering,’ said Sarla, ‘they decided this year to be bold and hire a cabaret dancer—from a cheap hotel in Tarbuz ka Bazaar—one of those hotels that advertises stripteases with a new Salome every week and is constantly being raided by the police.’

  ‘Lower your voice,’ laughed Maan.

  ‘Well,’ said Sarla, ‘she danced, and took off a few of her clothes, and danced some more—and all so suggestively and lasciviously that the women were appalled. The men—well, they had mixed emotions. Pigeon, for instance.’

  ‘No—no,’ said Pigeon.

  ‘Pigeon, she sat on your lap, and you didn’t stop her.’

  ‘How could I?’ said Pigeon.

  ‘Yes, he’s right—it isn’t easy,’ said Maan.

  Sarla gave Maan a look, and continued: ‘Well, anyway, she then set upon Mala and Gopu, and began to caress Gopu in all kinds of ways. He was quite tipsy, and didn’t object. But you know how possessive Mala is of her husband. She pulled him away. But the other woman pulled him back. Quite shameless. Gopu got scolded badly the next day, and all the wives vowed: Never again.’

  Maan burst out laughing, Sarla joined in, and even Pigeon smiled, a little guiltily.

  ‘But you haven’t heard the best part,’ said Sarla. ‘A week later the police raided that Tarbuz ka Bazaar hotel, and it was discovered that the cabaret dancer was a boy! Well, we teased those two unmercifully after that! I can still hardly believe it. He had us all fooled—the voice, the eyes, the gait, the feel of the whole situation—and all along it was a boy!’

  ‘I suspected it all along,’ said Pigeon.

  ‘You didn’t suspect anything,’ said Sarla. ‘If you did and still behaved the way you did I’d be even more worried.’

  ‘Well, not all along,’ said Pigeon.

  ‘He must have enjoyed himself,’ said Sarla. ‘Fooling us like that. No wonder he could act so shamelessly. No girl would!’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Pigeon sarcastically. ‘No girl would. Sarla thinks all women are paragons.’

  ‘Well, compared to men we certainly are,’ said Sarla. ‘The trouble is, Pigeon, you don’t appreciate us. Well, most of you don’t. Maan’s an exception; he always did. You’d better come out of jail fast and rescue me, Maan. What do you say, Pigeon?’

  As their time was up, her husband was spared from having to think of an answer. But for half an hour after they left, Maan kept picturing the scene she had conjured up, and kept laughi
ng to himself in his cell. His fellow-prisoners could not think what had got into him.

  17.32

  Towards the end of January Maan’s case came up for committal proceedings before a magistrate. The question at issue was what charges were to be preferred against him, if any.

  Clearly, there would have to be a charge-sheet; no policeman, however dedicated he might be to undo his duty or to misuse his discretion, could easily have spoiled such a case sufficiently to issue a ‘final report’, which would have stated that there was no case to answer. The Sub-Inspector could perhaps have tried to go around winning over witnesses in such an attempt, but as investigating officer he had done his job well; and he was unhappy enough as it was that his investigation was being interfered with by his superiors. He knew that the matter was still in the public eye, and he also knew who the scapegoat would be if there was any suggestion of interference with the course of justice.

  Maan and his lawyer were both present at the committal proceedings.

  The Sub-Inspector stood before the committal magistrate and described the events that had led to the investigation, provided a summary of the investigation itself, submitted the documents relevant to the case, stated that the victim was now definitely out of danger, and asserted in conclusion that Maan should be charged with voluntarily causing grievous hurt.

  The magistrate was puzzled.

  ‘What about attempted murder?’ he said, looking the policeman in the eye, and avoiding Maan’s.

  ‘Attempted murder?’ said the policeman unhappily, tugging a little at his moustache.

  ‘Or at least attempted culpable homicide,’ said the magistrate. ‘But from these statements, I am not sure the former charge cannot be made out. Even if there had been grave and sudden provocation, it was not given by the victim. Nor does it appear prima facie that the wound was inflicted by mistake or accident.’

  The policeman was silent, but nodded his head.

  Maan’s lawyer whispered to Maan that he thought they were in trouble.

  ‘And why Section 325 instead of Section 326?’ continued the magistrate.

  The former section dealt with grievous hurt; when the case came up for trial, the maximum sentence that could be imposed would be seven years; but for the moment Maan could be let out on bail. The latter section also dealt with grievous hurt, but with a dangerous weapon. This was not bailable, and the maximum punishment was life imprisonment.

  The Sub-Inspector mumbled something about the weapon not having been discovered.

  The magistrate looked at him severely. ‘Do you think these injuries’—he looked down at the medical certificate—‘these lacerations of the intestine and so on were caused by a stick?’

  The Sub-Inspector said nothing.

  ‘I think you should, well, investigate further,’ said the magistrate. ‘And re-examine your own evidence and the charges that suggest themselves.’

  Maan’s lawyer stood up to propose that such matters were within the discretion of the investigating officer.

  ‘I am aware of that,’ snapped the magistrate, who was disgusted with the proceedings. ‘I am not telling him what charge to prefer.’ He reflected that if it had not been for the medical certificate, the Sub-Inspector would probably have put forward a charge of simple hurt.

  Glancing at Maan, the magistrate noticed that he looked unaffected enough by events. Presumably he was one of those criminals who learned nothing from their crimes.

  Maan’s lawyer asked that Maan be let out on bail, since the only present charge against him was bailable. The magistrate granted this, but it was clear that he was very annoyed. Part of his annoyance stemmed from the lawyer’s reference to ‘my client’s grievous distress consequent on the demise of his mother’.

  Maan’s lawyer whispered: ‘Thank God you won’t be tried by him.’

  Maan, who had begun to take an interest in his defence, said: ‘Am I free?’

  ‘Yes; for the moment.’

  ‘What will I be charged with?’

  ‘I’m afraid that isn’t clear. This magistrate for some reason is after your blood, and is out to—well, to do you grievous hurt.’

  The magistrate, however, was not interested in Maan’s blood but merely in upholding the law. He would not be a party to the subversion of justice by influential people, and that is what he suspected this to be. He knew of courts where this might be possible, but his was not one of them.

  17.33

  ‘No person shall vote at any election if he is confined in a prison, whether under a sentence of imprisonment or transportation or otherwise, or is in the lawful custody of the police.’

  The Representation of the People Act, 1951, was quite unambiguous about this, and so it happened that Maan was not able to vote in the great General Elections for which he had fought so hard. He was registered in Pasand Bagh, and elections for the Brahmpur (East) constituency for the Legislative Assembly were held on the 21st of January.

  Curiously enough, had he been a resident of Salimpur-cum-Baitar, he would have succeeded in voting; for, owing to a shortage of trained personnel, voting in different constituencies was staggered, and the Legislative Assembly elections there were held on the 30th of January.

  The fight now was an extremely harsh one. Waris was as bitter a rival to Mahesh Kapoor as he had been a doughty supporter. Everything had changed; and the Zamindari Act, rumours and scandals, pro- and anti-Congress feeling, religion, nothing was left unexploited in the mauling battle that led up to the polls.

  The Nawab Sahib had not stated as such that Waris should fight against Mahesh Kapoor, but it was clear that he did not want him to support him. And Waris, who saw Maan no longer as the saviour but as the attempted murderer of the young Nawabzada, was passionate in his denunciation of him and his father, his clan, his religion, and his party. When the local Congress office belatedly sent a large number of posters and flags to Baitar Fort, he made a bonfire of them.

  Waris spoke powerfully because he was so aroused. Already well liked in the area, he now rose on a great wave of popularity. He was the Nawab Sahib’s champion, and the champion of his injured son, who even now (so it was convenient to assert) lay at the point of death owing to the treachery of his seeming friend. The Nawab Sahib had to remain in Brahmpur, claimed Waris, but if he could have campaigned, he would have exhorted the people from every podium in the district to throw the betrayer of the salt of his hospitality, the vile Mahesh Kapoor and all he stood for out of the constituency into which he had so recently crawled.

  And what did Mahesh Kapoor and the Congress stand for? continued Waris, who had begun to enjoy his role as a political and feudal leader. What had they given the people? The Nawab Sahib and his family had worked for the people for generations, had fought the British in the Mutiny—long before the Congress had even been conceived—had died heroically, had suffered with the people’s sufferings, had taken pity on their poverty, had helped them in every way they could. Look at the power station, the hospital, the schools founded by the Nawab Sahib’s father and grandfather, said Waris. Look at the religious trusts they had either established or contributed to. Think of the great processions at Moharram—the grand climax of the festivities of the Baitar year—which the Nawab Sahib paid for out of his own pocket as an act of public piety and private charity. And yet Nehru and his ilk were trying to destroy the man who was so well-beloved, and replace him with what? A voracious pack of petty government officials who would eat the very vitals of the people. To those who complained that the zamindars exploited the people he suggested that they compare the state of the peasants on the Baitar estate with those of a certain village just outside, where they were sunk in destitution which aroused not pity so much as horror. There the peasants—especially the landless chamars—were so poor that they sifted the bullocks’ droppings on the threshing-floor for residual grain—and washed it and dried it and ate it. And yet many chamars were going to vote blindly for the Congress, the party of the government that had oppre
ssed them for so long. He begged his scheduled caste brothers to see the light and to vote for the bicycle they might aspire to and not for the pair of bullocks, which should only remind them of the degrading scenes they knew so well.

  Mahesh Kapoor found himself entirely on the defensive. In any case, his heart lay in Brahmpur now: in a prison cell, in a hospital ward, in the room in Prem Nivas where his wife no longer slept. Increasingly, the fight, which had begun as an irregular ten-pointed star with one huge gleaming point, his own, had polarized into a struggle between two men: the man who tried to project himself as the Nawab Sahib’s candidate and the man who realized that his only chance of victory lay in suppressing his individuality and projecting himself as the candidate of Jawaharlal Nehru.

  He talked not about himself now but about the Congress Party. But he was heckled at every meeting and asked to explain the actions of his son. Was it true that he had used his influence to try to get him off? What if the young Nawabzada died? Was this a plot to wipe out the leaders of the Muslims one by one? For one who had spent his life fighting for communal amity, such accusations were hard to bear. If he had not been sick at heart, he would have responded as furiously as he usually did in the presence of aggressive stupidity, and this would have done him less good still.

  Not once, either by studied implication or in a fit of anger, did he mention the rumours gathering around the Nawab Sahib. Yet now these rumours too began to float around Salimpur and Baitar and the hinterland of the two small towns. They were more damaging morally than those that touched Mahesh Kapoor, even though what they imputed was two decades old; and the Hindu communalist parties tried to use them as well as they could.

  But many people, particularly around Baitar, refused to believe these rumours of illegitimacy and rape. And some, who believed them, held that the Nawab Sahib had been punished enough by God through his grief for his son; and that charity suggested that there was a statute of limitations on one’s sins.