‘But by then we have yimportant committees like this one to take up our time,’ Professor Jaikumar pointed out. ‘And also we may know too much by then and have no yexpress motivation for writing. Writing is yitself discovery. Yexplication is yexploration.’ Professor Mishra shuddered inwardly while his colleague continued: ‘Ripeness is not all. Perhaps, ripe in years, and thinking he academically now knows yevrything, our university teacher turns from knowledge to religion that goes beyond knowledge—from gyaan to bhakti. Rationality has a very tenuous hold on the Indian psyche.’ (He rhymed it with bike.) ‘Even the great Shankara, Adi-Shankara, who said in his advaita that the great yinfinite idea was that of Brahman—which needed to be brought down by uncomprehending Man to mere Ishvara, whom did he pray to? To Durga!’ Professor Jaikumar nodded his head around the room and in particular to Dr Ila Chattopadhyay. ‘To Durga!’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Dr Ila Chattopadhyay. ‘But I have a train to catch.’
‘Well,’ said the Vice-Chancellor. ‘Let us then make our decision.’
‘That shouldn’t take us long,’ said Dr Ila Chattopadhyay. ‘That thin, dark fellow, Prem Khanna, is head and shoulders above everyone else.’
‘Pran Kapoor,’ Professor Mishra corrected her, pronouncing the syllables with delicate distaste.
‘Yes, Prem, Pran, Prem, Pran: I’m always getting things like this wrong. Really, I sometimes wonder what has happened to my brain. But you know whom I mean.’
‘Indeed.’ Professor Mishra pursed his lips. ‘Well, there might be certain difficulties there. Let us look at a few more possibilities—in justice to the other candidates.’
‘What difficulties?’ said Dr Ila Chattopadhyay bluntly, thinking of the prospect of another night amid lace and coir, and determined not to let this discussion go on at any great length.
‘Well, he has had a bereavement recently. His poor mother. He will be in no condition to undertake—’
‘Well, he certainly didn’t let the thought of his dead mother get in the way of his duelling this afternoon.’
‘Yes, when he said that Shakespeare was implausible,’ said Professor Mishra, pursing his lips to indicate his sense of how unsound and even sacrilegious Pran’s opinions were.
‘Nonsense!’ said Dr Ila Chattopadhyay, looking quite fierce. ‘He said that the plotting of The Winter’s Tale was implausible. And so it is. But seriously, this question of duty and bereavement is surely none of our concern.’
‘Dear lady,’ said Professor Mishra in exasperation, ‘I am the one who has to run this department. I must see that everyone pulls his weight. Professor Jaikumar will, I am sure, agree that one must not rock the boat.’
‘And I suppose that those whom the captain deems unfit for first-class accommodation must be kept firmly, by whatever means necessary, in steerage,’ said Dr Ila Chattopadhyay.
She had sensed that Professor Mishra did not like Pran. In the subsequent heated discussion she discovered that he and the Vice-Chancellor had a favourite candidate, one whom she had judged very ordinary, but to whom, she recalled, they had been excessively courteous during the interview.
Assisted by the Vice-Chancellor and with the extremely tacit acquiescence of the Chancellor’s nominee, Professor Mishra built up a case for this candidate. Pran was tolerable as an academic, but not very cooperative in the running of the department. He needed to mature. Perhaps, in two years’ time, they could consider him again. This other candidate was equally good and a greater asset. Besides, Pran had the strangest views about the syllabus. He thought that Joyce—yes, Joyce—should be thrust down people’s throats. His brother was a bad lot and would bring scandal to the name of the department; these might seem to outsiders to be extraneous matters, but one had to observe certain proprieties. And his health was poor; he came late for classes; why, Professor Jaikumar himself had once seen him collapse in mid-lecture. And there had been complaints that he was involved with a certain woman student. In the nature of things, it would be unreasonable to expect concrete evidence for these complaints, but they had to be considered.
‘Yes, and I suppose he drinks as well?’ said Dr Ila Chattopadhyay. ‘I was wondering when the passes-classes-glasses argument was going to come up.’
‘Really!’ exclaimed the Vice-Chancellor. ‘Do you need to cast aspersions on Professor Mishra’s motives? You should accept with grace—’
‘I will not accept with grace what is a disgrace,’ said Dr Ila Chattopadhyay. ‘I don’t know what is going on but something certainly is, and I am not going to be a part of it.’ She had as acute a nose for what she called ‘intellectual squalor and academic sordor’ as for faulty plumbing.
Professor Mishra was staring at her in outrage. Her treasonous ingratitude to him was beyond belief.
‘I think you should discuss matters coolly,’ he spluttered.
‘Coolly?’ cried Dr Ila Chattopadhyay. ‘Coolly? If there is one thing I cannot stand, it is rudeness!’ Seeing that Professor Mishra had been floored by this remark, she continued: ‘And if there is one thing I refuse to deny, it is merit. That young man has merit. He knows his subject. I am sure he makes a very stimulating teacher. And from his folder and the number of committees he is sitting on and the extracurricular activities he is involved in, it does not appear to me that he does not pull his weight in the department or the university. Rather the opposite. He should get the job. Outside panellists like Professor Jaikumar and myself are here as a check on academic—’ she was about to say ‘rascality’ but changed it in mid-flight to ‘irresponsibility’, before continuing—‘I am sorry, I am a very stupid woman, but one thing I have learned is that when it is necessary to speak, one must. If we cannot come to a proper decision and you force your candidate through, I will insist that you put down in your report that the experts disagreed with you—’
Even Professor Jaikumar looked shocked. ‘Self-control leads to heaven,’ he murmured to himself in Tamil, ‘but uncontrolled passion is the road to endless darkness.’ No one ever voted on these matters. They were decided by consensus. Voting meant that the matter would have to be put up to the Executive Council of the university for a decision, and no one wanted that. This was rocking the boat with a vengeance. It would mean the end of all stability, all order. Professor Mishra looked at Dr Ila Chattopadhyay as if he would not mind jettisoning her forthwith—and hoped that the water was infested with jellyfish.
‘Yif I may speak—’ It was Professor Jaikumar, actually interrupting, which was something he almost never did. ‘I do not feel a minority report by the outside yexperts is called for. But there should be a proper decision.’ He paused. He was a genuinely learned man of deep and unflamboyant probity, and he had been greatly upset by his tête-à-tête with his host the previous evening. He had decided there and then that whoever he selected, it would not be the man who had been so irregularly recommended to him. ‘Should we not think of a third candidate?’
‘Of course not,’ said Dr Ila Chattopadhyay, in whom the zest of battle now raged warmly: ‘Why select someone third-rate as a compromise when we have a first-rate man at hand?’
‘Certainly, yit is true,’ said Professor Jaikumar, ‘as yit says in the Tirukural’—and here he paused to translate—‘that after assessing that this man can do this task because of this competence he has, and this tool he can use, that task must be assigned to that man. But yit also says: “Yit is a part of wisdom to conform to the ways of the world.” But in yet another place yit says—’
The telephone rang. Professor Mishra sprang up. The Vice-Chancellor reached out for the phone. ‘Vice-Chancellor here. . . . I’m sorry, I’m in a meeting. . . . Oh, it’s for you, Professor Mishra. Were you expecting a call?’
‘Er, yes, I asked the doctor to call me—well, yes—Mishra speaking.’
18.11
‘You old jackal!’ said Badri Nath on the phone. ‘I heard all that.’
‘Er, yes, Doctor, well, what news?’ said Professor Mishra in Hindi.
&n
bsp; ‘Bad.’
Professor Mishra’s jaw dropped. Everyone looked at him. The others in the room tried to talk, but it was impossible for them not to listen to his side of the conversation.
‘I see. How bad?’
‘The counting went alphabetically. It stopped after Kapoor and just before Khan.’
‘Then how do you know who—’
‘Mahesh Kapoor got 15,575 votes. There aren’t enough votes left for Waris Khan to defeat him. Mahesh Kapoor is bound to win.’
Professor Mishra’s free hand went to his forehead. Beads of sweat began to form on it.
‘What do you mean? How do you know? Could you go a little slowly for me? I’m not used to the terminology.’
‘All right, Professor. You will need to ask the Vice-Chancellor for a pen and some paper.’ Badri Nath, though obviously unhappy about the result of his inquiries, was nevertheless extracting what little enjoyment he could out of the situation.
‘I have them here,’ said Professor Mishra. He took a pen and an envelope out of his pocket. ‘Please go slowly.’
Badri Nath sighed. ‘Why don’t you simply accept what I’m saying?’ he asked.
Professor Mishra wisely refrained from replying: ‘Because you told me this very morning to accept that he’d lost, and now you’re telling me to accept that he’s won.’ He said: ‘I’d like to know how you came to this conclusion.’
Badri Nath relented. After another sigh, he said, very slowly and carefully:
‘Please listen carefully, Professor. There are 66,918 voters. Given a very high turn-out for this part of the country, say, fifty-five per cent, that would mean a total of 37,000 votes cast in the election. Shall I go on? The first five candidates have been counted. Their total comes to 19,351. That leaves about 18,700 for the last five candidates. Apart from Waris, the other four are bound to get at least 5,000 votes: they include the socialist and the Jan Sangh candidate as well as a fairly popular and well-funded Independent. So what does that leave for Waris Khan, Professor Sahib? Less than 14,000. And Mahesh Kapoor has already got 15,575.’ He paused, then continued: ‘Too bad. Chacha Nehru’s visit turned the tide. Do you want me to repeat the figures?’
‘No, no, thank you. When does—when does it resume?’
‘When does what resume? You mean the counting?’
‘Yes. The treatment.’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Thank you. May I call you later this evening?’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll be in the casualty department,’ cackled Badri Nath, and put down the phone.
Professor Mishra sat down heavily in his chair.
‘Not bad news, I hope,’ said Professor Jaikumar. ‘Both your sons looked so well yesterday.’
‘No, no—’ said Professor Mishra bravely, mopping his forehead. ‘We all have our private crosses to bear. But we must press on with our duty. I am so sorry for keeping you all waiting.’
‘Not at all,’ said Dr Ila Chattopadhyay, thinking that she’d been a bit rough on the poor, pulpy fellow who had, after all, once encouraged her. Really, though, she thought to herself, he can’t be allowed to get away with this.
But it now appeared that Professor Mishra was no longer vociferously opposed to Pran. He even found one or two good things to say about him. Dr Ila Chattopadhyay wondered if, in the face of possible minority dissension and scandal, he had merely succumbed to the inevitable—or if perhaps his son’s ill health had brought him face to face with his own uncertain soul.
By the end of the meeting, Professor Mishra had regained some of his air of placidity; he was still staggered, however, by the turn of events.
‘You have left your telephone numbers behind,’ said Professor Jaikumar, handing him his envelope as he walked to the door.
‘Oh, yes—’ said Professor Mishra. ‘Thank you.’
Later, when he was packing hurriedly for his train, Professor Jaikumar was startled to see both Professor Mishra’s sons playing about outside, looking as robust as ever.
At the station Professor Jaikumar recalled, apropos of nothing, that telephone numbers in Brahmpur had three, not five, digits.
How peculiar, he said to himself. But he was never to solve either mystery.
Professor Mishra, pleading a previous appointment, had not gone with him to the railway station. Instead, after a few words in private with the Vice-Chancellor, he had walked over to Pran’s house. He was resigned to congratulating him.
‘My dear boy,’ he said, taking both Pran’s hands in his. ‘It was a close thing, a very close thing. Some of the other candidates were truly excellent, but, well, I believe we have an understanding, you and I, an equation, as it were, and—well, I should not be telling you this until the seal of the envelope containing our decision is broken in the Academic Council—not that your own excellent, er, performance, did not contribute as much to our decision as my own humble words on your behalf—’ Professor Mishra sighed before continuing: ‘There was opposition. Some people said you were too young, too untried. “The atrocious crime of being a young man . . .” et cetera. But quite apart from the question of merit, at such a sad time for your family one feels a sense of obligation, one feels one has to do one’s bit. I am not one who talks of humanity in exaggerated terms, but, well—was it not the great Wordsworth who talked about those “little nameless unremembered acts of kindness and of love”?’
‘I believe it was,’ said Pran, slowly and wonderingly, as he shook Professor Mishra’s pale and perspiring hands.
18.12
Mahesh Kapoor was at the Collectorate at Rudhia when the count for the Salimpur-cum-Baitar election opened. He had got there late, but the District Magistrate had himself been unavoidably delayed: owing to a problem with the ignition, his jeep had broken down. The counting officers, having grouped all the ballot boxes of each candidate together, now began with the first candidate, who was an Independent named Iqbal Ahmad. They emptied one of his ballot boxes on to each of several tables, and—watched carefully by the counting agents of all the candidates—began simultaneously to count his votes.
Secrecy was enjoined on everyone under the canopy, but of course nothing was secret, and news soon leaked out that Iqbal Ahmad was doing as badly as expected. Since the ballot papers in the first General Elections were not stamped by the voter but simply placed in a candidate’s box, very few ballot papers were rejected as spoiled. Counting continued briskly, and, had it begun on time, should have been over by midnight. But it was now eleven o’clock, everyone was exhausted, and the Congress candidate’s ballot boxes had not yet been completely counted. He was making an unexpectedly good showing: over 14,000 votes, and several more boxes to go.
In some of Mahesh Kapoor’s boxes, astonishingly, there was even, in addition to the ballot papers, a little red powder and a few coins. Presumably, some pious peasants, seeing the holy cattle featured on his box, had placed small offerings inside the slot together with their vote.
While the count was continuing under the careful supervision of the District Magistrate and the Sub-Divisional Officer, Mahesh Kapoor walked over to Waris, who was looking very worried, and said: ‘Adaab arz, Waris Sahib.’
‘Adaab arz,’ replied Waris pugnaciously. The ‘Sahib’ had surely been ironic.
‘Is everything all right with Firoz?’
It was said without any rancour, but Waris felt a burning sense of shame; he thought immediately of the pink fliers.
‘Why do you ask?’ he demanded.
‘I wanted to know,’ said Mahesh Kapoor sorrowfully. ‘I have very little news of him, and I thought you would. I do not see the Nawab Sahib anywhere. Does he plan to come?’
‘He is not a candidate,’ said Waris bluntly. ‘Yes, Firoz is fine.’ He turned his eyes downwards, unable to look Mahesh Kapoor in the face.
‘I am glad,’ said Mahesh Kapoor. He was about to send his good wishes, then thought better of it and turned away.
A little before midnight, the results stood as follows:
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1. Iqbal Ahmad Independent 608
2. Mir Shamsher Ali Independent 481
3. Mohammed Hussain KMPP 1,533
4. Shanti Prasad Jha Ram Rajya Parishad 1,154
5. Mahesh Kapoor Congress 15,575
At midnight, just after Mahesh Kapoor’s boxes had all been counted, the District Magistrate, as Returning Officer, declared the poll temporarily suspended as part of a nationwide mark of respect for King George VI. He had told the candidates and their counting agents a couple of hours earlier that he had orders to this effect, and asked for their patience. The suspense was terrible, especially since Waris Khan came immediately after Mahesh Kapoor alphabetically; but, owing to the timely warning, there were no protests. He got the counted ballots and the uncounted ballot boxes locked up separately under his own seal in the treasury, and announced that they would be unlocked and the count resumed on the 8th of February.
The results so far determined were bound to leak out, and in both Brahmpur and the constituency most people made the same sort of reckoning that Professor Mishra’s informant had. Mahesh Kapoor too was optimistic. He stayed on his farm at Rudhia, talking to his farm manager as he walked around the wheat fields.
On the morning of the 8th, he woke up with a sense of freshness and thankfulness, a sense that at least one of his burdens had been lifted off his shoulders.
18.13
The count proceeded once more, and by the time Waris’s vote had reached 10,000, it began to appear that the contest would in fact be close. Apparently, in the areas immediately surrounding Baitar town, the voting rate had been far in excess of fifty-five per cent—a figure which, to go by other elections whose results had been announced earlier in the week, was itself very high.
By the time it had reached 14,000 and there were a number of ballot boxes still to be counted, a great sense of unease overtook the Congress camp. The District Magistrate had to tell everyone to be quiet and to let his counting agents proceed; if not, he would have to suspend the count again.