Bhaskar was tempted to say, ‘Not today,’ but changed his mind. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘What is 256 times 512?’ asked Maan, who had worked this out beforehand.
‘That’s too easy,’ said Bhaskar. ‘Ask me another one.’
‘Well, what’s the answer, then?’
‘One lakh, thirty-one thousand and seventy-two.’
‘Hmm. What’s 400 times 400?’
Bhaskar turned away, hurt.
‘All right, all right,’ said Maan. ‘What’s 789 times 987?’
‘Seven lakhs, seventy-eight thousand, seven hundred and forty-three,’ said Bhaskar after a pause of a few seconds.
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Maan. The thought had suddenly entered his mind that perhaps he had better not risk his luck with Saeeda Bai, who was so notoriously temperamental.
‘Aren’t you going to check?’ asked Bhaskar.
‘No, genius, I have to be off.’ He tousled his nephew’s hair, gave his brother-in-law a nod, and walked out on to the main street of Misri Mandi. There he hailed a tonga to go back home.
On the way he changed his mind yet again and went straight to Saeeda Bai’s instead.
The khaki-turbaned watchman at the entrance appraised him for a moment and told him that Saeeda Bai was not in. Maan thought of writing her a note, but was faced with a problem. Which language should he write it in? Saeeda Bai would certainly not be able to read English and would almost certainly not be able to read Hindi, and Maan could not write Urdu. He tipped the watchman a rupee and said, ‘Please inform her that I came to pay my respects.’
The watchman raised his right hand to his turban in a salute, and said:
‘And Sahib’s name?’
Maan was about to give his name when he thought of something better.
‘Tell her that I am one who lives in love,’ he said. This was an atrocious pun on Prem Nivas.
The watchman nodded impassively.
Maan looked at the small, two-storeyed, rose-coloured house. Some lights were on inside, but that might not mean anything. With a sinking heart and a sense of deep frustration he turned away and walked in the general direction of home. But then he did what he usually did when he was feeling low or at a loose end — he sought out the company of friends. He told the tonga-wallah to take him to the house of the Nawab Sahib of Baitar. Upon finding that Firoz and Imtiaz were out till late, he decided to pay a visit to Pran. Pran hadn’t been pleased about the ducking of the whale, and Maan felt he should smooth his ruffled feathers. His brother struck him as being a decent fellow, but a man of tepid, unboisterous affections. Maan thought cheerfully that Pran just did not have it in him to be as love-struck and miserable as he was.
2.10
Returning later to the sadly ill-maintained mansion of Baitar House, Maan chatted till late with Firoz and Imtiaz, and then stayed overnight.
Imtiaz went out very early on a call, yawning and cursing his profession.
Firoz had some urgent work with a client, went into the section of his father’s vast library that served as his chambers, remained closeted in there for a couple of hours, and emerged whistling in time for a late breakfast.
Maan, who had deferred having breakfast until Firoz could eat with him, was still sitting in his guest bedroom, looking over the Brahmpur Chronicle, and yawning. He had a slight hangover.
An ancient retainer of the Nawab Sahib’s family appeared before him and, after making his obeisance and salutation, announced that the younger Sahib — Chhoté Sahib — would be coming for breakfast immediately, and would Maan Sahib be pleased to go downstairs? All this was pronounced in stately and measured Urdu.
Maan nodded. After about half a minute he noticed that the old servant was still standing a little distance away and gazing expectantly at him. Maan looked at him quizzically.
‘Any other command?’ asked the servant, who — Maan noticed — looked at least seventy years old, but quite spry. He would have to be fit, thought Maan, in order to negotiate the stairs of the Nawab Sahib’s house several times a day. Maan wondered why he had never seen him before.
‘No,’ said Maan. ‘You can go. I’ll be down shortly.’ Then, as the old man raised his cupped palm to his forehead in polite salutation and turned to leave, Maan said, ‘Er, wait. . ’
The old man turned around and waited to hear what Maan had to say.
‘You must have been with the Nawab Sahib for many years,’ said Maan.
‘Yes, Huzoor, that I have. I am an old servitor of the family. Most of my life I have worked at Baitar Fort, but now in my old age it has pleased him to bring me here.’
Maan smiled to see how unselfconsciously and with what quiet pride the old man referred to himself in the very words—‘purana khidmatgar’—that Maan had used mentally to classify him.
Seeing Maan silent, the old man went on. ‘I entered service when I was, I think, ten years old. I came from the Nawab Sahib’s village of Raipur on the Baitar Estate. In those days I would get a rupee a month, and it was more than sufficient for my needs. This war, Huzoor, has raised the price of things so much that with many times such a salary people find the going difficult. And now with Partition — and all its troubles, and with the Nawab Sahib’s brother going to Pakistan and all these laws threatening the property — things are uncertain, very’—he paused to find another word, but in the end merely repeated himself—‘very uncertain.’
Maan shook his head in the hope of clearing it and said, ‘Is there any aspirin available here?’
The old man looked pleased that he could be of some use, and said, ‘Yes, I believe so, Huzoor. I will go and get some for you.’
‘Excellent,’ said Maan. ‘No, don’t get it for me,’ he added, having second thoughts about making the old man exert himself. ‘Just leave a couple of tablets near my plate when I come downstairs for breakfast. Oh, by the way,’ he went on, as he visualized the two small tablets at the side of his plate, ‘why is Firoz called Chhoté Sahib, when he and Imtiaz were born at the same time?’
The old man looked out of the window at the spreading magnolia tree which had been planted a few days after the twins had been born. He coughed for a second, and said, ‘Chhoté Sahib, that is Firoz Sahib, was born seven minutes after Burré Sahib.’
‘Ah,’ said Maan.
‘That is why he looks more delicate, less robust, than Burré Sahib.’
Maan was silent, pondering this physiological theory.
‘He has his mother’s fine features,’ said the old man, then stopped, as if he had transgressed some limit of explanation.
Maan recalled that the Begum Sahiba — the Nawab of Baitar’s wife and the mother of his daughter and twin sons — had maintained strict purdah throughout her life. He wondered how a male servant could have known what she looked like, but could sense the old man’s embarrassment and did not ask. Possibly a photograph, much more likely discussion among the servants, he thought.
‘Or so they say,’ added the old man. Then he paused, and said, ‘She was a very good woman, rest her soul. She was good to us all. She had a strong will.’
Maan was intrigued by the old man’s hesitant but eager incursions into the history of the family to which he had given his life. But he was — despite his headache — quite hungry now, and decided that this was not the time to talk. So he said, ‘Tell Chhoté Sahib I will be down in, well, in seven minutes.’
If the old man was puzzled by Maan’s unusual sense of timing, he did not show it. He nodded and was about to go.
‘What do they call you?’ asked Maan.
‘Ghulam Rusool, Huzoor,’ said the old servant.