Zainab closed her eyes, said the fatiha, and sat down exhausted. Then she remembered something her father had once said to her, reflected on its importance for a few seconds, and began to draft another letter.
She told Munni to wake up the boys and quickly dress them in their formal best – a small white kurta for Abbas, and a white angarkha for his elder brother. On their heads they were to wear white embroidered caps.
When, fifteen minutes later, Zainab had not heard from Murtaza Ali, she sent for him. On his arrival she asked him: ‘Is it done?’
‘Yes, Begum Sahiba, it is. The house looks as if it is lit. There is some light visible from every outside window.’
‘And Kapoor Sahib?’
‘I am afraid that I have not been able to get him on the phone, though Mrs Mahesh Kapoor has sent for him. He may be working late somewhere in the Secretariat. But no one is picking up the phone in his office.’
‘Abida Chachi?’
‘Her telephone appears to be out of order, and I have only just written her a note. Forgive me. I have been remiss.’
‘Murtaza Sahib, you have already done far more than seemed possible to me. Now listen to this letter, and tell me how it can be improved.’
Very swiftly they went through the brief draft of the letter. It was in English, only seven or eight lines long. Murtaza Ali asked for a couple of explanations, and made a couple of suggestions; Zainab incorporated them and made a fair copy.
‘Now, Hassan and Abbas,’ she said to her sons, their eyes still full of sleep and wonderment at this unexpected game, ‘you are to go with Murtaza Sahib and do everything he tells you to do. Your Nana-jaan will be very pleased with you when he comes back, and so will I. And so will Imtiaz Mamu and Firoz Mamu.’ She gave each of them a kiss, and sent them to the other side of the screen, where Murtaza Ali took charge of them.
‘They should be the ones to give him the letter,’ said Zainab. ‘Take the car, tell the Inspector – I mean the DSP – where you are going, and go at once. I do not know how to thank you for your help. If you had not been here we would certainly have been lost already.’
‘I cannot repay your father’s kindness, Begum Sahiba,’ said Murtaza Ali. ‘I will make sure that your sons come back within the hour.’
He walked down the corridor with a boy clutching each hand. He was too full of trepidation to say anything at first to either, but after he had walked for a minute towards the far end of the lawn where the police were standing, he said to the boys: ‘Hassan, Abbas, do adaab to the DSP Sahib.’
‘Adaab arz, DSP Sahib,’ said Hassan in salutation.
Abbas looked up at his brother and repeated his words, except that his came out as ‘Dipsy Sahib’.
‘The Nawab Sahib’s grandsons,’ explained the private secretary.
The Deputy Superintendent of Police smiled warily. ‘I am sorry,’ he said to Murtaza Ali. ‘My time is up and so is yours. The house may look as if it is lived in, but our information tells us otherwise, and we will have to investigate. We must do our duty. The Home Minister himself has instructed us.’
‘I quite understand, DSP Sahib,"said Murtaza Ali. ‘But may I beg you for a little more time? These two boys are carrying a letter which must be delivered before any action can be taken.’
The DSP shook his head. He held up his hand to indicate that enough was enough, and said: ‘Agarwalji has told me personally that he will not entertain any petitions in this respect and that we are not to brook any delay. I am sorry. The decision can always be challenged or appealed later.’
‘This letter is for the Chief Minister.’
The policeman stiffened slightly. ‘What does this mean?’ he said in a voice that was both irritated and bewildered. ‘What does the letter say? What do you hope to achieve by this?’
Murtaza Ali said gravely: ‘I cannot be expected to know the contents of a private and urgent letter between the daughter of the Nawab Sahib of Baitar and the Chief Minister of Purva Pradesh. Clearly it touches on this matter of the house, but about what it says it would be impertinent of me to speculate. The car, however, is ready, and I must escort these little messengers to Sharmaji’s house before they lose their own. DSP Sahib, I hope you will wait for my return before you do anything sudden.’
The DSP, foiled for the moment, said nothing. He knew he would have to wait.
Murtaza Ali took his leave, gathered his charges and drove off in the Nawab Sahib’s car.
Fifty yards outside the gates of Baitar House, however, the car came to a sudden halt and could not be re-started. Murtaza Ali told the driver to wait, walked back to the house with Abbas, deposited him with a servant, got out his bicycle and returned. He then propped a surprisingly unprotesting Hassan in front of him, and cycled off with him into the night.