***
Maulvi Muzaffar stamped his feet on the floor and protested, ‘Hey, new employees get only twenty-five!’ The County Treasurer shot him a fiery glance that shut him up. Then he wrote a note in English on Basharat’s file indicating that, in this candidate, he had found all the lofty qualities of an ambitious young man who could become a successful accountant or schoolteacher, if placed under the proper supervision. And that even though he had no free time to speak of, he was personally ready to give him some time and attention. Last of all, he wrote that he had given the candidate an eighty out of hundred, but that he was willing to up the score five points considering his good handwriting. That being said, he would also need to deduct five points due to his bad poetry.
The Virtues of Radishes and a Good Name
Basharat didn’t eat lunch at the orphanage but at the house of Maulvi Badal (Ibadullah), the Persian teacher at the school. The buttery bread, mashed potatoes, and garlic chutney really hit the spot. Maulvi Badal assured him of his affection and that he was willing to help him, ‘Son, I’m going to teach you how to darn, how to knead dough, and how to make every type of gravy under the sun. I swear to God, you won’t miss having a wife at all!’ His recipe for fried radishes was quite complicated and dangerous. That was because it began with having to go into the radish fields before dawn. He explained that, contrary to the countryside’s customs, Basharat shouldn’t cavalierly enter the green fields in the early morning but rather he should stop on the field’s edge and clear his throat in the way that people do when approaching a doorless outhouse or one with just a ratty piece of cloth for a door. Then he instructed him in the proper manner for asking the owner of the field, Dhapan, who wore skirts one hand’s length above the ankles and blouses with necklines that hung one hand’s length beneath the collarbone, as to where in the field he could find the freshest, most round, and most tender radishes, and how to ask this in such a way that he shouldn’t seem to be looking at those parts of her body that were worth looking at. He also advanced the notion that vegetables that look like bats are the source of vitality and relieve flatulence. By these ‘bat-like’ vegetables, he meant those plants whose feet face heaven, for example, carrots, cabbage, and turnips. Then he showed him radish greens and instructed him in how to tell which is bitter-tasting; and which is plump, but tasteless; and which is firm but stringy — as these will be so acidic that you will pucker your lips as you eat them and afterwards your stomach too will pucker. But some are so well-shaped and sweet that you will wish they were three-feet long. He also said that if you happen to pull up an acidic radish by mistake, don’t throw it away. Rather, make it into juice and put it in a camel-hide flask. Then, after forty days, use a cotton ball to apply it to your eczema or herpes. If God wishes it to be so, your skin will clear up, and it will look like the skin of a newborn babe. And afterwards when Basharat used cotton balls to dab this distillation onto the boils of his uncle’s eczema, the old man did actually scream just like a newborn babe!
The dog followed him to Maulvi Badal’s house, as well. Basharat considered the dog to have been the source of the miracle that had happened during the interview. When it was time to board the pickup back to Kanpur, the dog leapt into the truck, and all the passengers there shrank back in fear. The driver’s assistant picked up the engine crank and raised it to hit the dog. Basharat lunged forward and grabbed his wrist. The dog rode on the roof of the truck all the way. At this point, calling such a loyal dog just a dog made him feel guilty; he started calling him Lord Wellesley after the general who had turned Tipu Sultan into a martyr.
Once back in Kanpur, he petted him for the first time. He had had no idea that a dog’s body was that hot. The dog had wounds all over his body from the stones boys had thrown at him. He bought a pretty collar and chain for the dog.
4.
In the Presence of the Great Man, the Munificent County Treasurer
The next day Basharat packed his entire world into a trunk and left for Dhiraj Ganj. He paid a painter four annas to paint in white his name, degree, and pen name — which the painter was able to stretch out to only two lines. This trunk was older than Basharat himself, and he attached to it a new four-lever brass lock. He had so few articles of clothing that during the journey his small, Muradabadi water pitcher kept clanking around inside. (Another reason why it made so much noise might have been that this freshly plated tin pitcher was the most expensive thing he owned.) After arriving, Basharat didn’t even have the chance to freshen up before the County Treasurer’s servant came in carrying a stick and a message that the most respected and august County Treasurer wanted to see him. Basharat asked, ‘Right now?’ The servant responded, ‘When else? He wants you there already! In person!’ Hearing this surprised and yet pleased Basharat. But his happiness quickly vanished when this man demanded in the same officious tone that the price for bringing the message was lunch money and provisions for his return journey. He said, ‘This is how things are done in the countryside. Yours truly is a mere wage-earner.’2 As Basharat was considering these demands, the servant obsessively spit-shined the silver ferrule of his stick with his cotton scarf.
In the brutal afternoon heat, Basharat walked two miles to the County Treasurer’s house, where, still huffing and puffing, he learned that the County Treasurer was taking a nap. After an hour or so, he was called inside. The pleasing chill of the sweet-scented grass screen permeated his body. His eyes, which had been burning from the hot wind, were suddenly filled with a cool light. The punkah fan hanging from the roof was moving like an elephant’s ear. The white cool of the sheet that was spread on the floor felt very pleasant against his burning palms. And when the heat of his palms warmed the white sheet, then he placed his palms elsewhere. The County Treasurer welcomed him warmly. He offered him a piece of watermelon that had been kept in ice and some peeled water chestnuts, as well. He said, ‘Please recite some of your poems — some of the ones that aren’t absurd, ones that have long lines, that keep to a metre, and that aren’t indecent.’ After he recited a couple of poems to warm applause, the County Treasurer recited his own new poem, ‘The Particles of Earth Have Turned into Moon and Stars Tonight,’ which he had written for the deputy collector’s recent visit to Dhiraj Ganj. After he handed the poem to Basharat, he said that the deputy collector’s brother-in-law’s wedding was on the twenty-seventh and that Basharat was to write a lively wedding poem, according to his example, and show it to him. Then he winked at him and said that the metre could be that of ‘The Supplication of the Widow.’
Everyone Gets His Due (Especially the County Treasurer)
During all this, the County Treasurer had been scratching his thigh. Somehow a black fly had got into his skintight churidar pyjamas. He had tried over and over to kill the bug by pinching it.
Then a good-looking, young servant named Nazo brought a glass of fresh falsa-berry sherbet. The County Treasurer watched Basharat from the corner of his eyes to see if he looked at her or not. She was a knockout in her coarse, white muslin kurta. When she bent down to hand the glass to Basharat, the delightful scent of her sweat wafted from her body. She bent so far down that he touched the little bells hanging from her neckline’s silver buttons. Her frilled pyjamas were flush against her thighs, and the patches that had been sewn on had, in one or two places, opened at their seams and so he could see her enticing skin, which seemed to be giggling at him. After Basharat drank the sherbet, the County Treasurer said, ‘Well, you must be tired. You can start teaching Urdu to my kids tomorrow. They’re real rascals. The littlest of the three has just started.’ When Basharat hesitated, the County Treasurer’s manner suddenly changed. He turned cold, ‘As you must have known — and do know now — and will know in the future — your real salary is only twenty-five rupees. The fifteen rupees that I personally tacked on to make it forty, well, that’s for tutoring my kids. You think I’m crazy enough to waste fifteen rupees of the hard-earned money of a Muslim charity on a young buck like you? After all, a trustee has some duties to uphold. You should know that the school’s principal only makes forty rupees! And, on top of it, he has a BA and a BT from Aligarh, for which he was second division. He’s from Amroha, but he’s extremely honourable. He’s a Sayyid. Also, he doesn’t compose love poetry with a shaved head.’ And with that phrase, he struck Basharat to the very core. Basharat was speechless.