A Suitable Boy

  This had some effect, but by the time the vote had reached 15,000 there was a tremendous hubbub. Some of the more feisty Congress workers had started challenging entire ballot boxes. Mahesh Kapoor told them sharply to stop their antics. But his face betrayed his dismay, for by now he feared he would lose. The other side had begun cheering in anticipation of surpassing the magic number. They did not have long to wait.

  There were still several of Waris’s boxes left to count when the tally reached 15,576. Waris jumped on to a table and shouted for joy. He was raised high on the shoulders of his supporters, and outside the District Headquarters they began to shout to the well-known pattern:

  ‘The MLA from Baitar, who should he be?’

  ‘Waris Khan Sahib, one such as he!’

  Waris, delighted to win, delighted to have ‘Khan Sahib’ appended to his name, and delighted to have avenged the young Nawabzada, was grinning away, having in the flush of victory forgotten his dirty trick with the posters.

  He was soon brought literally down to earth by the District Magistrate, who threatened to throw him out of the Collectorate unless his supporters stopped the ruckus. Waris calmed his followers down, and told one or two of them: ‘Let’s see, let’s see, now that I’m an MLA, who gets thrown out of the Collectorate first, him or me.’

  Several Congressmen now urged Mahesh Kapoor, who so far had not lodged a complaint or an election petition, to do so immediately—to challenge the election result. It was clear that, even if nowhere else, in the hinterland of Baitar town the false and flimsy posters announcing Firoz’s death had had a devastating effect in getting people out of their huts and houses to vote for Waris.

  But Mahesh Kapoor, bitter and disillusioned, and not wishing to create further bitterness, refused to lodge an election petition. Waris had got 16,748 votes; the difference was too great to justify even requesting a re-count. After a while he went over to congratulate his rival; he looked shattered, the more so because of his premonition that morning. Waris accepted his congratulations graciously and calmly. Victory had wiped out his sense of shame.

  Only after the counting of all the candidates’ votes was complete did the District Magistrate officially declare Waris Khan the winner. The radio announced the news in the evening. The final result was as follows:

  SALIMPUR-CUM-BAITAR (District Rudhia, Purva Pradesh) LEGISLATIVE ASSEMBLY ELECTION

  Name of successful candidate: Waris Mohammad Khan

  18.14

  At Baitar Fort that night there was jubilation.

  Waris had an immense bonfire built in the grounds, ordered a dozen sheep and a dozen goats to be slaughtered, invited everyone who had helped him or voted for him to come to the feast, and then added that even the bastards who had voted against him were welcome to join in. He was cautious enough not to serve alcohol, but he himself greeted his guests royally drunk, and made a speech—he was by now proficient at speech-making—about the nobility of the house of Baitar, the excellence of the electorate, the glory of God and the wonder of Waris.

  About what he planned to do in the State Assembly he was silent; but in his own mind he was certain that he would learn the legislative ropes as quickly as he had mastered the pulling of electoral strings.

  The oily munshi sanctioned all the expenses he demanded, had the grand archway of the Fort festooned with flowers, and greeted Waris with folded hands and tears in his eyes. He had always loved Waris, he had always known of the hidden greatness in him, and now at last his prayers for him had been answered. He fell at his feet and begged Waris for his blessings, and Waris, slurred and benevolent, said:

  ‘All right, you sister-fucker, I bless you. Now get up or I’ll be sick all over you.’

  18.15

  Mahesh Kapoor sat in his garden at Prem Nivas one afternoon a few days after the count. He was talking to Abdus Salaam. He looked very weary. The many implications of his loss were coming home to him. He felt that his occupation was gone, the thing that gave his life vigour and direction and the capacity to do good. His wing of the state Congress Party would have to do without his guidance in the legislature. His loss of power affected not only his own pride but would affect his ability to help his son, soon to be charged with he knew not what. The loss of his friendship with the Nawab Sahib was another bitter blow; he felt sad and ashamed of what had happened to Firoz—and to the Nawab Sahib himself. And every moment he spent in Prem Nivas, especially in the garden, could not fail to remind him of the loss of his wife.

  He looked at the sheet of paper in his hand; it contained the various figures describing the election he had fought. For a few minutes he succeeded in discussing them with Abdus Salaam with something of his old interest and objectivity. If the KMPP had dissolved itself and rejoined the Congress, as Mahesh Kapoor himself had, their combined votes would have defeated Waris. If his wife had been able to help him, she would have made the quiet difference she always did—a couple of thousand votes, if not more. If the poster about Firoz had not been published, or had been published when it was not too late to refute it with the facts, he would still have won. Whatever other rumours Mahesh Kapoor had come to believe about his friend, he refused to believe that the Nawab Sahib had sanctioned that poster. That was Waris and Waris alone; it had to be.

  But every thread of his analysis, objective though he attempted to make it, led him back to his own unhappy situation. After a while he closed his eyes and said nothing.

  ‘Waris is an interesting phenomenon,’ said Abdus Salaam. ‘“I know what is moral and yet I do not have the inclination for it, and I know what is immoral and yet do not have an aversion from it”—as Duryodhana said to Krishna.’

  A faint look of exasperation crossed Mahesh Kapoor’s face. ‘No,’ he said, opening his eyes. ‘Waris is a different kind of man. He has no sense of evil or immorality as such. I know him. I’ve been fighting with him and against him. He’s the kind who would murder someone over a woman or land or water or a feud—and then give himself up, boasting, “I finished him off!”—and expect everyone to understand.’

  ‘You will remain in politics,’ predicted Abdus Salaam.

  Mahesh Kapoor laughed shortly. ‘Do you think so?’ he said. ‘I had thought, after my conversation with Jawaharlal, that I might even become Chief Minister. What ambitions! I am not even an MLA. Anyway, I hope you don’t let them fob you off with any minor post; you might be a young man, but you’ve done excellent work and this is your second term. And they’ll want two or three Muslims in the Cabinet, no matter whether it’s Sharma or Agarwal who is CM.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that’s so,’ said Abdus Salaam. ‘But I don’t think that Agarwal would choose me even at the point of a bayonet.’

  ‘So Sharma is going to Delhi after all?’ Mahesh Kapoor noticed a few mynas walking about on the lawn.

  ‘No one knows,’ replied Abdus Salaam. ‘I don’t, anyway. For every rumour, there’s an equal and opposite rumour.’ He was glad that Mahesh Kapoor was showing at least sporadic interest in the political scene. ‘Why don’t you go to Delhi for a few days?’ he suggested.

  ‘I will stay here,’ said Mahesh Kapoor quietly, looking around the garden. Abdus Salaam remembered Maan, and said nothing.

  After a while he spoke. ‘What happened to your other son and his promotion?’ he said.

  Mahesh Kapoor shrugged his shoulders. ‘He was here this morning with my granddaughter. I asked him. He said he thought things had gone quite well at the interview, that was all.’

  Pran, fearing that Professor Mishra might yet be up to something unfathomable, and not daring to believe his report, had decided not to tell anyone—not even Savita—of his supposed selection by the committee. He was afraid of the greater disappointment of his family if the good news turned out to be unfounded. He wished he could have told his father, though. In his black mood it might have done him a little good.

  ‘Well,’ said Abdus Salaam. ‘You need something good to happen to you now. God brings relief to those who
suffer.’

  The Arabic word Abdus Salaam naturally used for God reminded Mahesh Kapoor of the use to which religion had been put in his own election battle. Again he closed his eyes and said nothing. He felt sick at heart.

  Abdus Salaam uncannily sensed what he was thinking, or so his next remark appeared to indicate. ‘Waris’s election was determined by prejudice,’ he stated. ‘You would have felt ashamed to say one word to inflame anyone on the grounds of religion. Waris may at first merely have been a loyal man, but from his use of that poster I would have to say that he became a bad one.’

  Mahesh Kapoor sighed again. ‘That is a pointless speculation. Anyway, “bad” is too strong a word. He is fond of Firoz, that’s all. He’s served that family all his life.’

  ‘He will become just as fond of his own position in time,’ said Abdus Salaam. ‘I will have to face him across the floor of the House soon enough. But what I am curious about is this: how soon will he assert his position against the Nawab Sahib?’

  ‘Well,’ said Mahesh Kapoor after a while. ‘I don’t think he will. But if he does, there’s nothing to be done about it. If he’s bad, as you say, he’s bad.’

  Abdus Salaam said: ‘Anyway, it is not the prejudices of bad people that are the problem.’

  ‘Ah, and what is the problem then?’ said Mahesh Kapoor with a slight smile.

  ‘If only bad people were prejudiced, that would not have such a strong effect. Most people would not wish to imitate them—and so, such prejudices would not have much effect—except in exceptional times. It is the prejudices of good people that are so dangerous.’

  ‘That is too subtle,’ said Mahesh Kapoor. ‘You should give blame where blame is due. The inflammatory ones are the bad.’

  ‘Ah, but many of the inflammable ones are the otherwise good.’

  ‘I won’t argue with you.’

  ‘That is just what I want you to do.’

  Mahesh Kapoor made an impatient sound but said nothing.

  ‘The Congress will win seventy per cent of the assembly seats in P.P. You’ll soon come back in a by-election,’ said Abdus Salaam. ‘I suppose people are surprised that you aren’t submitting an election petition against the Salimpur result.’

  ‘What people think—’ began Mahesh Kapoor, then shook his head.

  Abdus Salaam tried one final time to shake his mentor out of his listlessness. He began one of his ruminations, partly because he enjoyed them, mainly because he wanted to strike some spark from the Minister Sahib.

  ‘It is interesting to see how, after just four years of Independence, the Congress has changed so much,’ he began. ‘Those people who broke their heads fighting for freedom are now breaking each other’s. And we have new entrants to the business. If I were a criminal, for example, and I could get into politics profitably and without too much difficulty, I would not say: “I can deal in murder or drugs, but politics is sacred.” It would be no more sacred to me than prostitution.’

  He looked towards Mahesh Kapoor, who had closed his eyes again. Abdus Salaam went on: ‘More and more money is required to fight elections, and politicians will be forced to demand more and more money from businessmen. Then, being corrupt themselves, they won’t be able to wipe out corruption in the civil service. They won’t even want to. Sooner or later the appointments of judges, election commissioners, the top civil servants and policemen, will be decided by these same corrupt men, and all our institutions will give way. The only hope,’ continued Abdus Salaam treasonously, ‘is that the Congress will be wiped out two elections from now. . . .’

  As at a concert a single false note sung outside the strict scope of a raag can wake up a listener who is apparently asleep, so too Abdus Salaam’s last assertion made Mahesh Kapoor open his eyes.

  ‘Abdus Salaam, I am not in a mood to argue with you. Don’t make idle statements.’

  ‘Everything I have said is possible. I would say probable.’

  ‘The Congress won’t be wiped out.’

  ‘Why not, Minister Sahib? We have got less than fifty per cent of the vote. Next time our opponents will understand electoral arithmetic better and will band together. And Nehru, our vote-catcher, will be dead by then, or retired. He won’t last five years more in this job. He will be burned out.’

  ‘Nehru will outlive me, and probably you,’ said Mahesh Kapoor.

  ‘Should we take a bet on that?’ said Abdus Salaam.

  Mahesh Kapoor stirred restlessly. ‘Are you trying to get me angry?’ he said.

  ‘Just a friendly bet.’

  ‘Now please leave.’

  ‘All right, Minister Sahib. I’ll come by again tomorrow at the same time.’

  Mahesh Kapoor said nothing.

  After a while he looked out at the garden. The kachnar tree was just coming into blossom: the buds looked like long green pods with a slight hint of deep mauve where the flowers would burst forth. Scores of small squirrels were either running around or on the tree, playing with each other. The sunbird, as usual, was flying in and out of the pomelo tree; and from somewhere a barbet was calling insistently. Mahesh Kapoor did not know either the Hindi or the English names of the birds and flowers that surrounded him, but perhaps in his present state of mind he enjoyed the garden more truly for that. It was his only refuge, and a nameless, wordless one, with birdsong its only sound—and it was dominated, when he closed his eyes, by the least intellectualizable sense—that of scent.

  When his wife had been alive she had occasionally asked him for his opinion before laying out a new bed or planting a new tree. This had only served to annoy Mahesh Kapoor. ‘Do whatever you want,’ he had snapped. ‘Do I ask you for your opinion on my files?’ After a while she had ceased to ask for his advice.

  But to Mrs Mahesh Kapoor’s great if quiet delight and to the frustration of her various more imposing competitors, who could not understand what she had over them by way of resources or expertise or foreign seeds, the garden at Prem Nivas had won numerous prizes in the Flower Show year after year; and this year would win the First Prize as well, for the first and, needless to say, the last time.

  18.16

  On the front wall of Pran’s house, the yellow jasmine had begun to bloom. Inside, Mrs Rupa Mehra muttered, ‘Plain, purl, plain, purl. Where’s Lata?’

  ‘She’s gone out to buy a book,’ said Savita.

  ‘Which book?’

  ‘I don’t think she knows yet. A novel, probably.’

  ‘She shouldn’t be reading novels but studying for her exams.’

  This was, as it happened, what the bookseller was telling Lata at almost the same moment. Luckily for his business, students rarely took his advice.

  He reached out for the book with one hand, and extracted wax from his ear with the other.

  ‘I’ve studied enough, Balwantji,’ said Lata. ‘I’m tired of my studies. In fact, I’m tired of everything,’ she ended dramatically.

  ‘You look just like Nargis when you say that,’ said Balwant.

  ‘I am afraid I only have a five-rupee note.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Balwant. ‘Where is your friend Malatiji?’ he continued. ‘I never see her these days.’

  ‘That’s because she’s not wasting her time buying novels,’ said Lata. ‘She’s studying hard. I hardly see her myself.’

  Kabir entered the shop, looking quite cheerful. He noticed Lata and stopped.

  The whole of their last meeting flashed before Lata’s eyes—and, immediately afterwards, their first meeting in the bookstore. They looked at each other for a few seconds before Lata broke the silence with a hello.

  ‘Hello,’ replied Kabir. ‘I see you’re on your way out.’ Here was another meeting brought about by coincidence, and to be governed, no doubt, by awkwardness.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lata. ‘I came in to buy a Wodehouse, but I’ve bought myself a Jane Austen instead.’

  ‘I’d like you to have a coffee with me at the Blue Danube.’ It was a statement more than a request.
br />   ‘I have to get back,’ said Lata. ‘I told Savita I’d be back in an hour.’

  ‘Savita can wait. I was going to buy a book, but that too can wait.’

  ‘Which book?’ asked Lata.

  ‘What does it matter?’ replied Kabir. ‘I don’t know. I was just going to browse. Not in Poetry or Mathematics, though,’ he added.

  ‘All right,’ said Lata recklessly.

  ‘Good. The cake will be better, at least. Of course, I don’t know what excuse you’ll make if someone you know walks in.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Lata.

  ‘Good.’

  The Blue Danube was just a couple of hundred yards along Nabiganj. They sat down and placed their orders.

  Neither spoke. Finally Lata said:

  ‘Good news about the cricket.’

  ‘Excellent.’ India had just won the fifth Test match against England in Madras by an innings and eight runs, and no one could quite believe it.

  After a while the coffee came. Stirring it slowly, Kabir said: ‘Were you serious?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You are writing to this man?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How serious is it?’

  ‘Ma wants me to marry him.’

  Kabir said nothing, but looked down at his right hand as it kept stirring the coffee.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say something?’ she asked him.

  He shrugged.

  ‘Do you hate me?’ asked Lata. ‘Don’t you care whom I marry?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’ Kabir sounded disgusted with her. ‘And please stop those tears. They won’t improve your coffee or my appetite.’ For again, though she was half unconscious of them, tears had slowly filled Lata’s eyes and were falling down her cheeks one by one. She did not try to wipe them away, nor did she take her eyes off Kabir’s face. She did not care what the waiters or anyone else thought. Or even he, for that matter.