‘And what are these strings made of?’ continued Ishaq Khan relentlessly.
‘Ah!’ said Motu Chand, getting a glimpse of his meaning. Ishaq was not a bad fellow, but he appeared to get a cruel pleasure from worsting Motu Chand in an argument.
‘Gut,’ said Ishaq. ‘These strings are made of gut. As you well know. And the front of a sarangi is made of skin. The hide of a dead animal. Now what would your brahmins of Brahmpur say if they were forced to touch it? Would they not be polluted by it?’
Motu Chand looked downcast, then rallied. ‘Anyway, I’m not a brahmin, you know. .’ he began.
‘Don’t tease him,’ said Saeeda Bai to Ishaq Khan.
‘I love the fat kafir too much to want to tease him,’ said Ishaq Khan.
This was not true. Since Motu Chand was of an alarmingly equable bent of mind, what Ishaq Khan liked more than anything else was to upset his balance. But this time Motu Chand reacted in an irksomely philosophical manner.
‘Khan Sahib is very kind,’ he said. ‘But sometimes even the ignorant have wisdom, and he would be the first to acknowledge this. Now for me the sarangi is not what it is made of but what it makes — these divine sounds. In the hands of an artist even this gut and this skin can be made to sing.’ His face wreathed with a contented, almost Sufi, smile. ‘After all, what are we all but gut and skin? And yet’—his forehead creased with concentration—‘in the hands of one who — the One. . ’
But the maid now came in with the sweets and Motu Chand’s theological meanderings halted. His plump and agile fingers quickly reached for a laddu as round as himself and popped it whole into his mouth.
After a while Saeeda Bai said, ‘But we were not discussing the One above’—she pointed upwards—‘but the One to the West.’ She pointed in the direction of Old Brahmpur.
‘They are the same,’ said Ishaq Khan. ‘We pray both westwards and upwards. I am sure Ustad Majeed Khan would not take it amiss if we were mistakenly to turn to him in prayer one evening. And why not?’ he ended ambiguously. ‘When we pray to such lofty art, we are praying to God himself.’ He looked at Motu Chand for approval, but Motu appeared to be either sulking or concentrating on his laddu.
The maid re-entered and announced: ‘There is some trouble at the gate.’
Saeeda Bai looked more interested than alarmed.
‘What sort of trouble, Bibbo?’ she asked.
The maid looked at her cheekily and said, ‘It seems that a young man is quarrelling with the watchman.’
‘Shameless thing, wipe that expression off your face,’ said Saeeda Bai. ‘Hmm,’ she went on, ‘what does he look like?’
‘How would I know, Begum Sahiba?’ protested the maid.
‘Don’t be troublesome, Bibbo. Does he look respectable?’
‘Yes,’ admitted the maid. ‘But the streetlights were not bright enough for me to see anything more.’
‘Call the watchman,’ said Saeeda Bai. ‘There’s only us here,’ she added, as the maid looked hesitant.
‘But the young man?’ asked the maid.
‘If he’s as respectable as you say, Bibbo, he’ll remain outside.’
‘Yes, Begum Sahiba,’ said the maid and went to do her bidding.
‘Who do you think it could be?’ mused Saeeda Bai aloud, and was silent for a minute.
The watchman entered the house, left his spear at the front entrance, and climbed heavily up the stairs to the gallery. He stood at the doorway of the room where they were sitting, and saluted. With his khaki turban, khaki uniform, thick boots and bushy moustache, he was completely out of place in that femininely furnished room. But he did not seem at all ill at ease.
‘Who is this man and what does he want?’ asked Saeeda Bai.
‘He wants to come in and speak with you,’ said the watchman phlegmatically.
‘Yes, yes, I thought as much — but what is his name?’
‘He won’t say, Begum Sahiba. Nor will he take no for an answer. Yesterday too he came, and told me to give you a message, but it was so impertinent, I decided not to.’
Saeeda Bai’s eyes flashed. ‘You decided not to?’ she asked.
‘The Raja Sahib was here,’ said the watchman calmly.
‘Hmmh. And the message?’
‘That he is one who lives in love,’ said the watchman impassively.
He had used a different word for love and had thus lost the pun on Prem Nivas.
‘One who lives in love? What can he mean?’ remarked Saeeda Bai to Motu and Ishaq. The two looked at each other, Ishaq Khan with a slight smirk of disdain.
‘This world is populated by donkeys,’ said Saeeda Bai, but whom she was referring to was unclear. ‘Why didn’t he leave a note? So those were his exact words? Neither very idiomatic nor very witty.’
The watchman searched his memory and came out with a closer approximation to the actual words Maan had used the previous evening. At any rate, ‘prem’ and ‘nivas’ both figured in his sentence.
All three musicians solved the riddle immediately.
‘Ah!’ said Saeeda Bai, amused. ‘I think I have an admirer. What do you say? Shall we let him in? Why not?’
Neither of the others demurred — as, indeed, how could they? The watchman was told to let the young man in. And Bibbo was told to tell Tasneem to stay in her room.
2.13
Maan, who was fretting by the gate, could hardly believe his good fortune at being so speedily admitted. He felt a surge of gratitude towards the watchman and pressed a rupee into his hand. The watchman left him at the door of the house, and the maid pointed him up to the room.
As Maan’s footsteps were heard in the gallery outside Saeeda Bai’s room, she called out, ‘Come in, come in, Dagh Sahib. Sit down and illumine our gathering.’
Maan stood outside the door for a second, and looked at Saeeda Bai. He was smiling with pleasure, and Saeeda Bai could not help smiling back at him. He was dressed simply and immaculately in a well-starched white kurta-pyjama. The fine chikan embroidery on his kurta complemented the embroidery on his fine white cotton cap. His shoes — slip-on jutis of soft leather, pointed at the toe — were also white.
‘How did you come?’ asked Saeeda Bai.
‘I walked.’
‘These are fine clothes to risk in the dust.’
Maan said simply, ‘It is just a few minutes away.’
‘Please — sit down.’
Maan sat cross-legged on the white-sheeted floor.
Saeeda Bai began to busy herself making paan. Maan looked at her wonderingly.
‘I came yesterday too, but was less fortunate.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Saeeda Bai. ‘My fool of a watchman turned you away. What can I say? We are not all blessed with the faculty of discrimination. . ’
‘But I’m here today,’ said Maan, rather obviously.
‘Wherever Dagh has sat down, he has sat down?’ asked Saeeda Bai, with a smile. Her head was bent, and she was spreading a little white dab of lime on the paan leaves.
‘He may not quit your assembly at all this time,’ said Maan.
Since she was not looking directly at him, he could look at her without embarrassment. She had covered her head with her sari before he had come in. But the soft, smooth skin of her neck and shoulders was exposed, and Maan found the tilt of her neck as she bent over her task indescribably charming.
Having made a pair of paans she impaled them on a little silver toothpick with tassels, and offered them to him. He took them and put them in his mouth, pleasantly surprised at the taste of coconut, which was an ingredient Saeeda Bai was fond of adding to her paan.
‘I see you are wearing your own style of Gandhi cap,’ said Saeeda Bai, after popping a couple of paans into her mouth. She did not offer any to Ishaq Khan or Motu Chand, but then they seemed to have virtually melted into the background.