‘What will it be?’ said Ustad Majeed Khan, turning to Ishaq. ‘It’s far too early for Bhatiyar, but I’m in the mood for it, so God will forgive us.’
The Nawab Sahib, who had never heard the master sing with Ishaq before, and had certainly never seen — or even heard of — the Khan Sahib consulting anyone about what he should or should not sing, was astonished, and asked to be introduced to the young singer.
Maan suddenly recalled where he had seen Ishaq Khan.
‘We’ve met before,’ he said before he could give himself time to think. ‘At Saeeda Begum’s, wasn’t it? I’ve been trying to work it out. You were her sarangi player, weren’t you?’
There was a sudden and frigid silence. Everyone present except the tabla player looked at Maan with discomfiture or shock. It was as if no one wanted to be reminded at this magical moment of anything from that other world. Whether as patron or employee or lover or acquaintance or fellow-artist or rival, in one sense or another every one of them was tied to Saeeda Bai.
Ustad Majeed Khan got up, as he said, to relieve himself. The Nawab Sahib had bowed his head. Ishaq Khan had started talking in a low voice to the tabla player. Everyone seemed eager to exorcize this unwanted muse.
Ustad Majeed Khan returned and sang Raag Bhatiyar as beautifully as if nothing had happened. Now and then he paused to sip a glass of water. At three o’clock he got up and yawned. As if in response, so did everyone else.
14.20
Later in their room, Maan and Firoz lay in bed, yawning and talking.
‘I’m exhausted. What a day,’ said Maan.
‘It’s good I didn’t open my emergency bottle of Scotch before dinner, or we’d have been snoring through the Bhatiyar.’
There was a pause.
‘What exactly was wrong about my mentioning Saeeda Bai?’ asked Maan. ‘Everyone froze. So did you.’
‘Did I?’ said Firoz, leaning on his arm and looking at his friend rather intently.
‘Yes.’ Firoz was wondering what, if anything, to say in reply, when Maan went on: ‘I like that photograph, the one by the window of you and the family — you look just the same now as then.’
‘Nonsense,’ laughed Firoz. ‘I’m five years old in that photograph. And I’m much better-looking now,’ he added in a factual sort of way. ‘Better-looking than you, in fact.’
Maan explained himself. ‘What I meant was that you have the same kind of look, with your head tilted at an angle and that frown.’
‘All that that tilt reminds me of is the Chief Justice,’ said Firoz. After a while he said: ‘Why are you leaving tomorrow? Stay for a few days more.’
Maan shrugged. ‘I’d like to. I don’t get much time to spend with you. And I really like your Fort. We could go hunting again. The trouble is that I promised some people I know in Debaria that I’d be back for Bakr-Id. And I thought I’d show Baoji the place as well. He’s a politician in search of a constituency, so the more he sees of this one the better. Anyway, it’s not Bakr-Id so much as Moharram that’s important at Baitar, didn’t you tell me?’
Firoz yawned again. ‘Yes, yes, that’s right. Well, but this year I won’t be here. I’ll be in Brahmpur.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, Imtiaz and I take it by turns: Burré Sahib one year, Chhoté Sahib the next. The fact is, we haven’t shared a Moharram since we’ve been eighteen. One of us has to be here, and the other in Brahmpur to take part in the processions there.’
‘Don’t tell me you beat your breast and flagellate yourself,’ said Maan.
‘No. But some people do. Some even walk on fire. Come and see it for yourself this year.’
‘Perhaps I will,’ said Maan. ‘Goodnight. Isn’t the light switch by your side of the bed?’
‘Do you know that even Saeeda Bai closes shop during Moharram?’ asked Firoz.
‘What?’ said Maan in a more wakeful voice. ‘How do you know?’
‘Everyone knows,’ said Firoz. ‘She’s very devout. Of course, the Raja of Marh will be pretty annoyed. Usually he counts on having a good time around Dussehra.’
Maan’s response was a grunt.
Firoz went on: ‘But she won’t sing for him, and she won’t play with him. All she’ll consent to sing is marsiyas, laments for the martyrs of the battle of Karbala. Not very titillating.’
‘No,’ agreed Maan.
‘She won’t even sing for you,’ said Firoz.
‘I suppose not,’ said Maan, slightly crestfallen and wondering why Firoz was being so unkind.
‘Nor for your friend.’
‘My friend?’ asked Maan.
‘The Rajkumar of Marh.’
Maan laughed. ‘Oh, him!’ he said.
‘Yes, him,’ said Firoz.
There was something in Firoz’s voice that reminded Maan of their younger days.
‘Firoz!’ laughed Maan, turning towards him. ‘All that is over. We were just kids. Don’t tell me you’re jealous.’
‘Well, as you once said, I never tell you anything.’
‘Oh?’ said Maan, rolling over on his side towards his friend, and taking him in his arms.
‘I thought you were sleepy,’ said Firoz, smiling to himself in the dark.
‘So I am,’ said Maan. ‘But so what?’
Firoz began to laugh quietly. ‘You’ll think I’ve planned all this.’
‘Well, perhaps you have,’ said Maan. ‘But I don’t mind,’ he added with a small sigh as he passed a hand through Firoz’s hair.
14.21
Mahesh Kapoor and Maan borrowed a jeep from the Nawab Sahib and drove off towards Debaria. So full of pits and pools was the dirt road that led off the main road to the village that it was normally impossible to get to it in the monsoon. But they managed somehow, partly because it had not rained too heavily in the past week.
Most of the people they met were very pleased to see Maan; and Mahesh Kapoor — in spite of what the Nawab Sahib had told him — was quite astonished at the popularity of his vagabond son. It struck him with amazement that of the two activities necessary for a politician — the ability to win votes, and the capacity to do something with your mandate after victory — Maan possessed the first in abundant measure, at least in this constituency. The people of Debaria had taken him to their hearts.
Rasheed, of course, was not there, since it was term-time, but his wife and daughters were staying with his father rather than hers for a few days. Meher and the village urchins and the shock-headed Moazzam were all delighted at Maan’s arrival. He provided even more entertainment than the various black goats tied up to posts and trees around the village that were due to be sacrificed the next day. Moazzam, who had always been fascinated by Maan’s watch, demanded to see it again. Even Mr Biscuit paused in his eating to yell out a triumphant if variant version of the azaan before Baba, furious at his impiety, dealt with him.
The orthodox Baba, who had told Maan to come back for Bakr-Id but had very much doubted that he would, did not actually smile — but it was very apparent that he was glad to see him. He praised him to his father.
‘He is a good boy,’ said Baba, nodding vigorously at Mahesh Kapoor.
‘Yes?’ said Mahesh Kapoor.
‘Yes, indeed, he is very respectful of our ways. He has won our hearts by his simplicity.’
Simplicity? thought Mahesh Kapoor, but said nothing.
That Mahesh Kapoor, the architect of the Zamindari Abolition Act, had come to the village was a great event in itself, and it was also a matter of great consequence that he had arrived in the Nawab Sahib’s jeep. Rasheed’s father had no strong views on politics except if something impinged on his interests: any such view was communism. But Baba, who wielded considerable influence in the surrounding villages, respected Mahesh Kapoor for his resignation from the Congress at about the time that Kidwai had resigned. He also identified, as did many people, with the Nawab Sahib.