They were almost at the border of the orchard when Maan, who was riding in front, saw a jungle cat on the path — a couple of feet long, lithe and long-legged, with fur that looked to him almost golden, and with sharp, greenish eyes that it turned upon him in an intent and narrow, almost cruel, gaze. The horse, who had not resented the weight of the boar or its scent of death, came to an immediate halt, and Maan again instinctively raised his rifle.
‘No — no — don’t—’ cried Firoz.
The jungle cat bounded away into the tall grass to the right of the path.
Maan turned angrily on Firoz.
‘What do you mean — don’t? I would have had it.’
‘It isn’t a tiger or a panther — there’s nothing heroic about shooting one. Anyway, my father doesn’t like killing what we can’t eat — unless, of course, it’s an immediate threat.’
‘Come on, Firoz, I know you’ve shot panther before,’ said Maan.
‘Well, I don’t shoot jungle cats. They’re too beautiful and harmless. I’m fond of them.’
‘What an idiot you are,’ said Maan regretfully.
‘All of us like jungle cats,’ explained Firoz, who didn’t want his friend to remain annoyed. ‘Once Imtiaz shot one, and Zainab didn’t speak to him for days.’
Maan was still shaking his head. Firoz drew alongside him and put his arm around his shoulder. By the time they had crossed the orchard, Maan was mollified.
‘Did a cart carrying a deer come this way?’ asked Waris of an old man who was walking through the orchard with a stick.
‘No, Sahib, I haven’t seen any such thing,’ said the old man. ‘But I’ve only been here a little while.’ He stared at the trussed-up boar, its huge-tusked head hanging across the haunch of Waris’s horse.
Waris, pleased to have been called Sahib, grinned and said optimistically:
‘It’s probably got to the kitchen by now. And we’ll be late for the evening prayer. Too bad,’ he grinned.
‘I need a bath,’ said Firoz. ‘Have you had our things put in my room?’ he asked Waris. ‘Maan Sahib is sleeping in my room.’
‘Yes, I gave orders just before we left. That’s where he slept the last time too,’ said Waris. ‘But I doubt he’ll be able to sleep tonight with that grim fellow gargling away till the early hours. Last time it was the owl.’
‘Waris pretends to be thicker than he is,’ said Firoz to Maan. ‘Ustad Majeed Khan will be singing tonight after dinner.’
‘Good,’ said Maan.
‘When I suggested getting your favourite singer over, my father got annoyed. Not that I was really serious.’
‘Well, Veena studies music under Khan Sahib, so we’re used to that sort of gargling,’ said Maan.
‘Here we are,’ said Firoz, dismounting and stretching himself.
14.19
The excellent dinner included a roasted haunch of venison. They ate not in the dark-panelled dining room but in the highest of the several open courtyards under a clear sky. Unlike at lunch, the Nawab Sahib was rather quiet throughout dinner; he was thinking about his munshi, who had annoyed him by complaining about the size of the fee that Ustad Majeed Khan now felt he should command. ‘What? All this for a song?’ was the munshi’s view of the matter.
After dinner they adjourned to the Imambara to listen to Ustad Majeed Khan. Since Moharram was still a few weeks away, the Imambara continued to be used as a general meeting hall; indeed, the Nawab Sahib’s father had used it as a durbar of sorts except during Moharram itself. Despite the fact that the Nawab Sahib was in general devout — there were, for example, no drinks served at dinner — a number of paintings depicting scenes from the martyrdom of Hussain decorated the walls of the Imambara. These, out of consideration for anyone who followed very strictly the injunctions against representational art, especially with respect to religious depiction, had been covered with white cloth. A few tazias — replicas in various materials of the tomb of Hussain — stood at the far end behind tall white pillars; some Moharram lances and standards stood in a corner.
Chandeliers glinted down in red and white from the ceiling, but the electric bulbs they contained had not been lit. So that the distant sound of the generator would not disturb them, the hall had been lit by candlelight instead. Ustad Majeed Khan was notoriously temperamental when it came to his art. It was true that he often practised at home in the midst of an appalling domestic racket, the result of his wife’s excessive sociability. But when he performed, even the necessity of earning his living at least partly through the diminishing patronage of zamindars and princes would not allow him to compromise with the seriousness of attention he demanded — and the absolute lack of disturbance. If it was true, as it was said, that he sang for himself and God alone, it was equally true that this bond was strengthened by an appreciative audience and strained by a restless one. The Nawab Sahib had not invited any guests from the town of Baitar, largely because he had not found anyone there who appreciated good music. Apart from the musicians there was no one but himself, his friend, and their two sons.
Ustad Majeed Khan was accompanied by his own tabla player; and by Ishaq Khan as an accompanying vocalist, not as a sarangi player. The great musician was now at the stage where he treated Ishaq not as a student or even a nephew but as a son. Ishaq had all the musicality Ustad Majeed Khan could have wished for in a student; and he had, besides, that passionate reverence for his teachers — including his own late father — that had got him into trouble with his Ustad in the first place. Their subsequent reconciliation had astonished them both. The Ustad had seen in it the hand of God. Ishaq did not know what to ascribe it to, but was deeply grateful. Since adaptation to the style of the main performer was instinctive to him as a sarangi player, Ishaq, who had a fine voice, quickly adapted himself to the style of his teacher; and since his teacher’s style drew with it a certain bent of mind and a certain manner of creativity, within a few months of his first lessons with Ustad Majeed Khan he was singing with a confidence and ease that first alarmed, and then — despite his own considerable ego — pleased the Ustad. At last he had a disciple worthy of the name; and one, moreover, who more than compensated in the honour he did him for any fleeting dishonour he may have been guilty of in the past.
It was late when they settled down after dinner, and Ustad Majeed Khan immediately, and without tackling any lighter raag to warm up his voice, began to sing Raag Darbari. How appropriate, thought the Nawab Sahib, was the raag to the surroundings, and how his father, whose one sensual vice had been music, would have enjoyed it had he been alive. The regally slow unfolding of the alaap, the wide vibratos on the third and sixth degrees, the stately descents in alternating rises and falls, the richness of the Khan Sahib’s voice accompanied from time to time by his young disciple, and the invariant, undazzling, solid beat of the tabla created a structure of majesty and perfection that hypnotized both musicians and audience. Very rarely did any of the listeners even say ‘wah! wah!’ at some particular brilliance. It was more than two hours and late after midnight when he ended.
‘See to the candles, they are guttering,’ said the Nawab Sahib quietly to a servant. ‘Tonight, Khan Sahib, you have outdone yourself.’
‘Through His grace, and yours.’
‘Will you rest a little?’
‘No, there is life in me still. And the will to sing before this kind of an audience.’
‘What will you give us now?’