‘You should keep your books in better order,’ said Mahesh Kapoor. ‘It’s one of the finest private libraries in the country. It would be a tragedy if the books were to be damaged.’
‘I suppose you might say it is a national treasure,’ said the Nawab Sahib with a faint smile.
‘Yes,’ said Mahesh Kapoor.
‘But I doubt that the national purse would open itself to help maintain it.’
‘No.’
‘And, thanks to plunderers like you, I certainly can’t any longer.’
Mahesh Kapoor laughed. ‘I was wondering what you were aiming at. Anyway, even if you lose your case in the Supreme Court you’ll still be a few thousand times richer than me. And I work for my living, unlike you — you’re just decorative.’
The Nawab Sahib helped himself to some biryani. ‘You’re a useless person,’ he countered. ‘What does a politician do, in fact, except make trouble for others?’
‘Or counter the troubles that other people make,’ said Mahesh Kapoor.
Neither he nor the Nawab Sahib needed to mention what he was referring to. Mahesh Kapoor had succeeded, while he was still with the Congress, in getting the Minister for Rehabilitation to bend the ear of the Prime Minister to get the government to grant the Nawab Sahib and Begum Abida Khan certificates entitling them to the permanent retention of their property in Brahmpur. This had been necessary in order to counter an order by the Custodian-General of Evacuee Property issued on the grounds that Begum Abida Khan’s husband was a permanent evacuee. Their case was only one of several where similar action had needed to be taken at the governmental level.
‘Well,’ continued the ex-Minister of Revenue, ‘where will you cut back when half your rents disappear? I really do hope that your library won’t suffer.’
The Nawab Sahib frowned. ‘Kapoor Sahib,’ he said, ‘I am less concerned about my own house than those who depend on me. The people of Baitar expect me to put on a proper show for our festivals, especially for Moharram. I will have to keep that up in some fashion. I have certain other expenses — the hospital and so on, the monuments, the stables, musicians like Ustad Majeed Khan who expect to be retained by me a couple of times a year, poets who depend on me, various endowments, pensions; God — and my munshi — knows what else. At least my sons don’t make vast demands on me; they’re educated, they have their own professions, they aren’t wastrels, like the sons of others in my position—’
He stopped suddenly, thinking of Maan and Saeeda Bai.
‘But tell me,’ he continued after the briefest of pauses, ‘what, for your part, are you going to do?’
‘Me?’ said Mahesh Kapoor.
‘Why don’t you run for the elections from here?’
‘After what I’ve done to you — you want me to run from here?’
‘No, really, Kapoor Sahib, you should.’
‘That’s what my grandson says.’
‘Veena’s boy?’
‘Yes. He’s worked out that this constituency is the most favourable for me — among the rural ones.’
The Nawab Sahib smiled at his friend and looked towards the portrait of his great-grandfather. Mahesh Kapoor’s remark had made him think of his own grandsons, Hassan and Abbas — who had been named after the brothers of Hussain, the martyr of the festival of Moharram. He thought for a while of Zainab too, and the unhappiness of her marriage. And, fleetingly and regretfully, of his own wife, who lay buried in the cemetery just outside the Fort.
‘But why do you think it is such a good idea?’ Mahesh Kapoor was asking.
A servant offered the Nawab Sahib some fruit — including sharifas, whose short season had just begun — but the Nawab Sahib refused them. Then he changed his mind, felt three or four sharifas and selected one. He broke the knobbly fruit in half and scooped out the delicious white pulp with a spoon, placing the black seeds (which he transferred from his mouth to the spoon) on the side of his plate. For a minute or two he said nothing. Mahesh Kapoor helped himself to a sharifa as well.
‘It is like this, Kapoor Sahib,’ said the Nawab Sahib, thoughtfully, putting together the two equal scooped-out halves of his sharifa and then separating them. ‘If you look at the population in this constituency, it is about evenly divided between Muslims and Hindus. This is just the kind of place where Hindu communalist parties can whip people into an anti-Muslim panic. They have already begun to do so. And every day there are fresh reasons for Hindus and Muslims to learn to hate each other. If it isn’t some idiocy in Pakistan — some threat to Kashmir, some plot, real or imagined, to divert the waters of the Sutlej or to capture Sheikh Abdullah or to impose a tax on Hindus — it is one of our own home-grown brilliances like the dispute over that mosque in Ayodhya which has suddenly flared up again recently after lying quiet for decades — or our own Brahmpur version, which is different — but not so vastly different. Bakr-Id is coming up in a few days; someone is certain to kill a cow somewhere instead of a goat, and there’ll be fresh trouble. And, worst of all, Moharram and Dussehra will coincide this year.’
Mahesh Kapoor nodded, and the Nawab Sahib continued. ‘I know that this house was one of the strongholds of the Muslim League. I have never held with my father’s or my brother’s views on the subject, but people do not discriminate in these matters. To men like Agarwal the very name of Baitar is like a red rag — or perhaps a green one — to a bull. Next week he will try to force his Hindi bill through the Legislative Assembly, and Urdu, my language, the language of Mast, the language of most of the Muslims of this province, will be made more useless than ever. Who can protect us and our culture? Only people like you, who know us as we are, who have friends among us, who do not prejudge us because you can judge us from experience.’
Mahesh Kapoor did not say anything, but he was moved by the trust reposed in him by the Nawab Sahib.
The Nawab Sahib frowned, divided his black sharifa pips into two separate piles with his spoon, and went on. ‘Perhaps it is worse in this part of the country than elsewhere. This was the heartland of the struggle for Pakistan, this is where much of the bitterness was created, but those of us who have not been able to or have chosen not to leave our homeland are now a smaller minority in a predominantly Hindu territory. No matter what troubles rage around us, I will probably manage to keep my head above water; so will Firoz and Imtiaz and Zainab — those who have means always manage somehow. But most of the ordinary people I talk to are downcast and fearful; they feel beleaguered. They mistrust the majority, and they feel mistrusted by them. I wish you would fight from here, Kapoor Sahib. Quite apart from my support, I hear that your son has made himself popular in the Salimpur area.’ The Nawab Sahib allowed himself a smile. ‘What do you think?’
‘Why don’t you stand for election yourself?’ asked Mahesh Kapoor. ‘Quite frankly, I would rather stand, if I have to, from my old urban constituency of Misri Mandi, redrawn though it has been — or, if it has to be a rural one, from Rudhia West, where my farm is located. Salimpur-cum-Baitar is too unfamiliar. I have no personal standing here — and no personal scores to settle.’ Mahesh Kapoor thought for a moment of Jha, then continued: ‘It’s you who should stand. You would win hands down.’
The Nawab Sahib nodded. ‘I have thought about it,’ he said slowly. ‘But I am not a politician. I have my work — if nothing else, my literary work. I would not enjoy sitting in the Legislative Assembly. I have been there and I have heard the proceedings and, well, I am not suited for that kind of life. And I’m not sure I would win hands down. For a start, the Hindu vote would be a problem for me. And, most importantly, I just couldn’t go around Baitar and the villages asking people for votes — at least I could not do that for myself. I would not be able to bring myself to do that.’