Rasheed smiled rather ruefully and said nothing. Perhaps, thought Maan, he was thinking that at this rate he would learn very little Urdu during his stay in the village. But what does that matter? he felt like saying. Instead he said: ‘They must have horses at the fort.’
‘They do,’ said the farmer, with sudden enthusiasm and new respect. ‘Many horses. A whole stable. And two jeeps also. And for Moharram they have a tremendous procession and lots of ceremonies. You really know the Nawab Sahib?’
‘Well, it’s his sons I know,’ said Maan.
Rasheed, who was rather tired with the farmer, said quietly: ‘This is Mahesh Kapoor’s son.’
The farmer’s mouth dropped open. This statement was so improbable as to be almost certainly true. But what was he – the son of the great Minister – doing, travelling for all the world like an ordinary citizen in a second-class carriage, and wearing a crumpled kurta-pyjama?
‘And I have been joking with you,’ he said, shocked by his own temerity.
Maan, whose discomfort he had enjoyed, now enjoyed his discomfort.
‘I won’t tell my father,’ he said.
‘He’ll take my land away if he hears of it,’ said the farmer – who either believed in the exaggerated powers of the Minister of Revenue, or else thought it politic to exaggerate his fear.
‘He’ll do nothing of the kind,’ said Maan. Thinking of his father he felt a sudden spasm of outrage.
‘When zamindari is abolished, all these lands will be taken by him,’ said the farmer. ‘Even the Nawab Sahib’s estates. What can a small landowner like me do?’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Maan. ‘Don’t tell me your name. Then you’ll be safe.’
The farmer seemed amused by this idea, and repeated it to himself a couple of times.
Suddenly the train started jolting, as if the brake had been applied, and in a short while came to a halt in open countryside.
‘This always happens,’ said Rasheed with a flicker of irritation.
‘What does?’ said Maan.
‘These schoolboys pulling the chain and stopping the train when it gets close to their village. It’s just the boys of this particular locality. By the time the guards get to their carriage, they’ve disappeared into the sugarcane fields.’
‘Can’t they do something about it?’ said Maan.
‘There’s no way of controlling them. Either they should simply halt the train here and admit defeat. Or else they should catch one of them somehow, and make an example of him.’
‘How?’
‘Oh, beat him up soundly,’ said Rasheed calmly. ‘And lock him up for a few days.’
‘But that’s very harsh,’ said Maan, trying to imagine what it would be like to be locked up for a few days in a cell.
‘It’s quite effective. We were equally unruly at that age,’ continued Rasheed with a brief smile. ‘My father beat me up regularly. Once my grandfather – whom you will meet – beat my brother to within an inch of his life – and that was a turning-point in his life. He became a wrestler!’
‘Your grandfather beat him, not your father?’ said Maan.
‘My grandfather. He was the one we were most terrified of,’ said Rasheed.
‘Still?’
‘Less so now. He’s over seventy. But well into his sixties he was the terror of ten villages. Haven’t I mentioned him to you before?’
‘You mean he terrorized them?’ said Maan, trying to picture this strange patriarch.
‘I mean, they all respected him, and came to him to solve their disputes. He’s a landowner, a medium-sized landowner, so he has some standing in our community. He is a religious and just man, so that people look up to him. And he himself was a wrestler in his youth, so they’re afraid of his arm. He used it to beat up any ruffians he could lay his hands on.’
‘I suppose I shouldn’t gamble or drink while I’m in your village,’ said Maan cheerfully.
Rasheed looked very serious. ‘No, really, Kapoor Sahib,’ he said, quite formally, Maan thought. ‘You are my guest, and my family does not know you are coming. For the month you are with me, your behaviour will reflect on me.’
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Maan said impulsively, ‘I won’t do anything that will cause you any trouble. I promise.’
Rasheed looked relieved, and Maan realized the rashness of his promise. He had never so far in his life succeeded in behaving himself for a whole month.
8.3
AT THE SMALL subdivisional town of Salimpur, they dismounted, loaded their bags on the flimsy back of a cycle-rickshaw, and got unbalancedly on.