And if I had died, thought Firoz to himself, what would it have mattered to the universe? What have I ever done for anyone? I am a man without attributes, very handsome, very forgettable. Imtiaz is a man of substance, of some use to the world. All that would be left of me is a walking stick, the grief of my family, and terrible danger for my friend.
He had asked to see Maan once or twice, but no one had passed the message on to Prem Nivas. Imtiaz could see no good coming of the meeting, either for his brother or for his father. He knew Maan well enough to realize that the attack had been a sudden one, unpremeditated, almost unintentional. But his father did not see it that way; and Imtiaz wanted to spare him any avoidable shock of emotion, any access of hatred or recrimination. Imtiaz believed that Mrs Mahesh Kapoor’s death had indeed been hastened by the sudden and terrible events that had struck their two houses. He would insulate his father from anything similar, and his brother from any agitation about Maan or, through the revival of his memory of that night, about Tasneem.
Tasneem, though she was no doubt his half-sister, meant nothing to Imtiaz at all. Zainab too, though she was curious, realized that wisdom lay in closing the door of interpretation.
Finally, Firoz wrote a note to Maan, which read simply: ‘Dear Maan, Please visit me. I’m well enough to see you. Firoz.’ He half-suspected his brother of mollycoddling him, and he had had enough of it. He gave the note to Ghulam Rusool, and told him that he was to see that it got to Prem Nivas.
Maan received the note in the late afternoon and did not hesitate. Without telling his father, who was sitting on a bench reading some legislative papers, he walked over to Baitar House. Perhaps this call, rather than a summons from the court of the committal magistrate, was what in his state of idle tension he had been waiting for all along. As he approached the grand main gates, he looked instinctively about him, thinking of the she-monkey who had attacked him here earlier. This time he carried no stick.
A servant asked him to enter. But the Nawab Sahib’s secretary, Murtaza Ali, happened to be passing by, and asked him, with stern courtesy, what he imagined he was doing there. He had been given strict orders not to admit anyone from Mahesh Kapoor’s family. Maan, whose instinct not very long ago would have been to tell him to go hang himself had been shaken by his jail life into responding to the orders of his social inferiors. He showed him Firoz’s note.
Murtaza Ali looked worried but thought quickly. Imtiaz was at the hospital, Zainab was in the zenana, and the Nawab Sahib was at his prayers. The note was unambiguous. He told Ghulam Rusool to take Maan up to see Firoz for a few minutes and asked Maan if he would like something to drink.
Maan would have liked a gallon of whisky to fortify himself. ‘No, thank you,’ he replied.
Firoz’s face lit up when he saw his friend. ‘So you’ve come!’ he said. ‘I feel I’m in jail here. I’ve been asking for you for a week, but the Superintendent won’t let messages out. I hope you’ve brought me some whisky.’
Maan started weeping. Firoz looked so pale — really, as if he had just returned from death.
‘Have a look at my scar,’ Firoz said, trying to lighten the situation. He pushed the bedsheet down and pulled up his kurta.
‘Impressive,’ said Maan, still in tears. ‘Centipede.’
He went to Firoz’s bedside, and touched his friend’s face.
They talked for a few minutes, each attempting to avoid what might cause the other pain except in such a way as would more probably defuse it.
‘You’re looking well,’ said Maan.
‘How poorly you lie,’ said Firoz. ‘I wouldn’t take you on as a client. . These days I find I lack concentration. My mind wanders,’ he added with a smile. ‘It’s quite interesting.’
They were silent for a minute. Maan put his forehead to Firoz’s and sighed painfully. He did not say how sorry he was for all he had done.
He sat down near Firoz.
‘Does it hurt?’ he asked.
‘Yes, at times.’
‘Is everyone at home all right?’
‘Yes,’ said Firoz. ‘How are — how is your father?’
‘As well as can be expected,’ said Maan.
Firoz did not say how sorry he was about Maan’s mother, but shook his head in regret, and Maan understood.
After a while he got up.
‘Come again,’ said Firoz.
‘When? Tomorrow?’
‘No — in two or three days.’
‘You’ll have to send me another note,’ said Maan. ‘Or I’ll be thrown out.’
‘Here, give me the old note. I’ll revalidate it,’ said Firoz with a smile.
As Maan walked home, it struck him that they had avoided talking directly about Saeeda Bai or Tasneem or his experience of prison or the forthcoming case against him, and he was glad.
18.23
That evening, Dr Bilgrami came over to Prem Nivas to have a word with Maan. He told him that Saeeda Bai wished to see him. Dr Bilgrami looked exhausted, and Maan agreed to go with him. The meeting was a painful one.
Saeeda Bai’s voice was still not itself, though she had recovered her looks. She reproached Maan for not having visited her since his release from jail. Had he changed so much? she asked with a smile. Had she changed? Had he not received her notes? What had kept him away? She was ill, she was desperate to see him. Her voice broke. She was going mad without him. She impatiently waved Dr Bilgrami away, and turned to Maan with longing and pity. How was he? He looked so thin. What had they done to him?
‘Dagh Sahib — what has happened to you? What will happen to you?’
‘I don’t know.’
He looked around the room. ‘The blood?’ he asked.
‘What blood?’ she asked. It had been a month ago.
The room smelt of attar of roses and of Saeeda Bai herself. Sadly and sensuously she leaned back on her cushions against the wall. But Maan thought he saw a scar on her face, and the face itself turned into a portrait of the varicose Victoria.
So shattering had been his mother’s death, Firoz’s danger, his own disgrace, and his terrible sense of guilt that he had begun to suffer a violent revulsion of feeling against himself and Saeeda Bai. Perhaps he saw her too as a victim. But his greater understanding of events gave him no greater control over his feelings. He had been too deeply scoured by what had occurred, and his present vision of her horrified him. He stared at her face.
I am becoming like Rasheed, he thought. I’m seeing things that don’t exist.
He stood up, his face pale. ‘I am going,’ he said.
‘You aren’t well,’ she said.
‘No — no, I’m not,’ he said.
Hurt and frustrated by his behaviour, she had been about to rebuke him for his attitude towards her, for what he had done to her household, to her reputation, to Tasneem. But one look at his bewildered face told her it would be no use. He was in another world — beyond the reach of her affections or attractions. She hid her face in her hands.
‘Are you all right?’ said Maan uncertainly, as if feeling his way to something in the past. ‘I am to blame for all that has happened.’
‘You don’t love me — don’t tell me you do — I can see it—’ she wept.
‘Love—’ said Maan. ‘Love?’ Suddenly he sounded furious.
‘And even the shawl that my mother gave me—’ said Saeeda Bai.