A Suitable Boy(264)

The rickshaw jolted and swerved along the pitted road that led from Salimpur to Rasheed’s native village of Debaria. It was evening, and everywhere birds were chattering in the trees. The neem trees rustled in the warm evening breeze. Underneath a small stand of straight, broad-leafed teak trees a donkey, two of its legs tied together, was hobbling painfully forward. On every culvert sat a crowd of children, who shouted at the rickshaw as it went along. There was very little traffic other than the many bullock-carts making their way village-wards from the harvest or a few boys driving cattle down the road.

Since Maan had changed into an orange kurta before getting off the train – the one he had been wearing earlier was drenched with sweat – he presented a colourful spectacle, even in the waning light. As for Rasheed, several people on foot or on bullock-carts greeted him along the way.

‘How are you?’

‘Very well. And you? Everything all right?’

‘Everything all right.’

‘How is the harvest?’

‘Well – not too good. Back from Brahmpur?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long will you be staying?’

‘A month.’

Throughout the conversation, they would stare not at Rasheed but at Maan, looking him up and down.

The sunset was pink, smoky, and still. The fields stretched out to the dark horizon on either side. There was not a cloud in the sky. Maan began to think once again of Saeeda Bai, and he felt in his bones that it would be impossible for him to live for a whole month without her.

What was he doing anyway in this doltish place so far away from all civilization – among suspicious peasants, illiterate and unelectrified, who knew nothing better than to stare at strangers?

There was a sudden lurch, and Maan, Rasheed, and their luggage were nearly pitched out of the rickshaw.

‘What did you do that for?’ said Rasheed sharply to the rickshaw-wallah.

‘Aré, bhai, there was a hole in the road. I’m not a panther that I can see in the dark,’ said the rickshaw-wallah abruptly.

After a while they turned off the road onto an even more inadequate mud track that led to the village, a mile away. This track would clearly become impassable in the rainy season, and the village would virtually be cut off from the world. At the moment it was all the rickshaw-wallah could do to keep his balance. After a while he gave up and asked his passengers to get off.

‘I should charge you three rupees for this, not two,’ he said.

‘One rupee eight annas,’ was Rasheed’s quiet reply. ‘Now get on with it.’

It was completely dark by the time they got to Rasheed’s house – or, as he usually called it, his father’s house. It appeared to be a moderately large single-storey building made of whitewashed brick. A kerosene lamp was burning on the roof. Rasheed’s father was up on the roof, and called out when he heard the sound of the rickshaw – which was bumping along the village lane, guided by the light of Maan’s torch.

‘Who’s that?’

‘It’s Rasheed, Abba-jaan.’

‘Good. We were expecting you.’

‘Is everything well here?’

‘As well as can be. The harvest is not much good. I’m coming down. Is that someone with you?’

It struck Maan that the voice from the roof sounded like that of a toothless man, more like the voice that he imagined Rasheed’s grandfather, not his father, would have.

By the time he came downstairs the man had two kerosene lamps in his hands and a couple of paans in his mouth. He greeted his son with very mild affection. Then the three of them sat on a charpoy out in front of the house under a great neem tree.

‘This is Maan Kapoor, Abba-jaan,’ said Rasheed.

His father nodded, then said to Maan: ‘Are you here on a visit or are you an officer of some kind?’

Maan smiled. ‘I’m here on a visit. Your son has been teaching me Urdu in Brahmpur. Now I hope he will continue to teach me in Debaria.’

Maan noticed, by the light of the lamp, that Rasheed’s father had large gaps in his teeth. This explained his peculiar voice and the absence of certain consonants. But it made him look sinister even when he was attempting to be welcoming.

Meanwhile another figure emerged out of the dark from across the way to greet Rasheed. He was introduced to Maan, and sat down on another stringed bedstead, which had been laid out in front of the house. He was a man of about twenty, and, therefore, younger than Rasheed, though he was his uncle – his father’s younger brother in fact. He was talkative – indeed, very full of himself.

A servant brought out some sherbet in a glass for each of them.

‘You’ve had a long journey,’ said Rasheed’s father. ‘Wash your hands, rinse out your mouth, and drink your sherbet.’