‘No, no, thank you. When does — when does it resume?’
‘When does what resume? You mean the counting?’
‘Yes. The treatment.’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Thank you. May I call you later this evening?’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll be in the casualty department,’ cackled Badri Nath, and put down the phone.
Professor Mishra sat down heavily in his chair.
‘Not bad news, I hope,’ said Professor Jaikumar. ‘Both your sons looked so well yesterday.’
‘No, no—’ said Professor Mishra bravely, mopping his forehead. ‘We all have our private crosses to bear. But we must press on with our duty. I am so sorry for keeping you all waiting.’
‘Not at all,’ said Dr Ila Chattopadhyay, thinking that she’d been a bit rough on the poor, pulpy fellow who had, after all, once encouraged her. Really, though, she thought to herself, he can’t be allowed to get away with this.
But it now appeared that Professor Mishra was no longer vociferously opposed to Pran. He even found one or two good things to say about him. Dr Ila Chattopadhyay wondered if, in the face of possible minority dissension and scandal, he had merely succumbed to the inevitable — or if perhaps his son’s ill health had brought him face to face with his own uncertain soul.
By the end of the meeting, Professor Mishra had regained some of his air of placidity; he was still staggered, however, by the turn of events.
‘You have left your telephone numbers behind,’ said Professor Jaikumar, handing him his envelope as he walked to the door.
‘Oh, yes—’ said Professor Mishra. ‘Thank you.’
Later, when he was packing hurriedly for his train, Professor Jaikumar was startled to see both Professor Mishra’s sons playing about outside, looking as robust as ever.
At the station Professor Jaikumar recalled, apropos of nothing, that telephone numbers in Brahmpur had three, not five, digits.
How peculiar, he said to himself. But he was never to solve either mystery.
Professor Mishra, pleading a previous appointment, had not gone with him to the railway station. Instead, after a few words in private with the Vice-Chancellor, he had walked over to Pran’s house. He was resigned to congratulating him.
‘My dear boy,’ he said, taking both Pran’s hands in his. ‘It was a close thing, a very close thing. Some of the other candidates were truly excellent, but, well, I believe we have an understanding, you and I, an equation, as it were, and — well, I should not be telling you this until the seal of the envelope containing our decision is broken in the Academic Council — not that your own excellent, er, performance, did not contribute as much to our decision as my own humble words on your behalf—’ Professor Mishra sighed before continuing: ‘There was opposition. Some people said you were too young, too untried. “The atrocious crime of being a young man. .” et cetera. But quite apart from the question of merit, at such a sad time for your family one feels a sense of obligation, one feels one has to do one’s bit. I am not one who talks of humanity in exaggerated terms, but, well — was it not the great Wordsworth who talked about those “little nameless unremembered acts of kindness and of love”?’
‘I believe it was,’ said Pran, slowly and wonderingly, as he shook Professor Mishra’s pale and perspiring hands.
18.12
Mahesh Kapoor was at the Collectorate at Rudhia when the count for the Salimpur-cum-Baitar election opened. He had got there late, but the District Magistrate had himself been unavoidably delayed: owing to a problem with the ignition, his jeep had broken down. The counting officers, having grouped all the ballot boxes of each candidate together, now began with the first candidate, who was an Independent named Iqbal Ahmad. They emptied one of his ballot boxes on to each of several tables, and — watched carefully by the counting agents of all the candidates — began simultaneously to count his votes.
Secrecy was enjoined on everyone under the canopy, but of course nothing was secret, and news soon leaked out that Iqbal Ahmad was doing as badly as expected. Since the ballot papers in the first General Elections were not stamped by the voter but simply placed in a candidate’s box, very few ballot papers were rejected as spoiled. Counting continued briskly, and, had it begun on time, should have been over by midnight. But it was now eleven o’clock, everyone was exhausted, and the Congress candidate’s ballot boxes had not yet been completely counted. He was making an unexpectedly good showing: over 14,000 votes, and several more boxes to go.
In some of Mahesh Kapoor’s boxes, astonishingly, there was even, in addition to the ballot papers, a little red powder and a few coins. Presumably, some pious peasants, seeing the holy cattle featured on his box, had placed small offerings inside the slot together with their vote.
While the count was continuing under the careful supervision of the District Magistrate and the Sub-Divisional Officer, Mahesh Kapoor walked over to Waris, who was looking very worried, and said: ‘Adaab arz, Waris Sahib.’
‘Adaab arz,’ replied Waris pugnaciously. The ‘Sahib’ had surely been ironic.
‘Is everything all right with Firoz?’
It was said without any rancour, but Waris felt a burning sense of shame; he thought immediately of the pink fliers.
‘Why do you ask?’ he demanded.
‘I wanted to know,’ said Mahesh Kapoor sorrowfully. ‘I have very little news of him, and I thought you would. I do not see the Nawab Sahib anywhere. Does he plan to come?’
‘He is not a candidate,’ said Waris bluntly. ‘Yes, Firoz is fine.’ He turned his eyes downwards, unable to look Mahesh Kapoor in the face.
‘I am glad,’ said Mahesh Kapoor. He was about to send his good wishes, then thought better of it and turned away.
A little before midnight, the results stood as follows:
1. Iqbal Ahmad
Independent
608
2. Mir Shamsher Ali
Independent
481
3. Mohammed Hussain
KMPP
1,533
4. Shanti Prasad Jha
Ram Rajya Parishad
1,154
5. Mahesh Kapoor
Congress
15,575
At midnight, just after Mahesh Kapoor’s boxes had all been counted, the District Magistrate, as Returning Officer, declared the poll temporarily suspended as part of a nationwide mark of respect for King George VI. He had told the candidates and their counting agents a couple of hours earlier that he had orders to this effect, and asked for their patience. The suspense was terrible, especially since Waris Khan came immediately after Mahesh Kapoor alphabetically; but, owing to the timely warning, there were no protests. He got the counted ballots and the uncounted ballot boxes locked up separately under his own seal in the treasury, and announced that they would be unlocked and the count resumed on the 8th of February.
The results so far determined were bound to leak out, and in both Brahmpur and the constituency most people made the same sort of reckoning that Professor Mishra’s informant had. Mahesh Kapoor too was optimistic. He stayed on his farm at Rudhia, talking to his farm manager as he walked around the wheat fields.
On the morning of the 8th, he woke up with a sense of freshness and thankfulness, a sense that at least one of his burdens had been lifted off his shoulders.