‘Good night,’ said Maan, pleased with the story. However, he remained awake for a minute or two thinking about it. The owls were still on the branch when he fell off to sleep.
The next morning he woke up to the sound of someone saying, with great affection and severity: ‘Wake up! Wake up! Won’t you say your morning prayers? Oh, Rasheed, go and get some water, your friend has to wash his hands before his prayers.’ An old man, powerful in build and looking like a prophet with his beard, bare-chested and wearing a loosely folded green cotton lungi, was standing over him. Maan guessed that this must be Rasheed’s grandfather, or ‘Baba’ as Rasheed called him. So affectionate and determined was the old man in enforcing piety that Maan hardly had the courage to refuse.
‘Well?’ said Baba. ‘Get up, get up. As it says in the call, prayer is better than sleep.’
‘Actually,’ – Maan found his voice at last – ‘I don’t go to prayer.’
‘You don’t read the namaaz?’ Baba looked more than injured; he looked shocked. What kind of people was Rasheed bringing home to his village? He felt like pulling the impious young lout out of bed.
‘Baba – he’s a Hindu,’ explained Rasheed, intervening to prevent further embarrassment. ‘His name is Maan Kapoor.’ He emphasized Maan’s surname.
The old man looked at Maan in astonishment. The thought had not occurred to him at all. Then he looked at his grandson and opened his mouth as if to ask him something. But he obviously thought better of it, because the question remained unasked.
There was a pause for a few seconds. Then the old man spoke. ‘Oh, he’s a Hindu!’ he said at last, and turned away from Maan.
8.4
RASHEED explained to Maan a little later where they would have to go for their morning toilet – out in the fields with a brass lota to carry water in. It was the only time of day when it was somewhat cool and when there was a bit of privacy. Maan, feeling quite uncomfortable, rubbed his eyes, filled his lota with water, and followed Rasheed out into the fields.
It was a fine, clear morning. They passed a pond close to the village. A few ducks were swimming among the reeds and a glossy black water-buffalo was bathing in it, as deep as its nostrils. A young girl in a pink and green salwaar-kameez appeared from a house at the outskirts, saw Maan, gave a shy gasp, and quickly disappeared.
Rasheed was lost in his thoughts. ‘It’s such a waste,’ he said.
‘What is?’
‘All this.’ He pointed in a wide sweep to the countryside around him, taking in the fields, the pond, the village, and another village visible in the distance. Then, since Maan did not ask him why, he continued: ‘It is my dream to completely transform…’
Maan began smiling, and lost the thread of what Rasheed was saying. For all Rasheed’s knowledge about mahua trees and the finer points of the landscape, Maan felt that he was an impractical visionary. If he had been so exacting with Maan’s meems, it would take a millennium for village life to attain the kind of perfection that would satisfy him. Rasheed was now walking very fast, and it was all Maan could do to keep up. Walking on the mud ridges dividing the fields was not easy, especially in rubber chappals. He slipped, and narrowly avoided a twisted ankle. His lota, however, fell, and the water in it splashed and trickled out.
Rasheed, noticing that his companion had fallen behind, turned around, and was alarmed to see him on the ground, rubbing his ankle.
‘Why didn’t you shout?’ he asked. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ said Maan. Then, so as not to make a fuss, he added: ‘But what were you saying about transforming all this?’
For a moment, Rasheed’s rather lean-featured, lupine face carried a worried expression. Then he said: ‘That pond, for instance. They could stock it with fish and use it. And there’s a large pond, which is part of the common property of the village, like the common grazing ground. But it isn’t used for anything. It’s an economic waste. Even the water –’ He paused, and looked at Maan’s spilled lota.
‘Here,’ he said, about to pour half the water from his lota into Maan’s. Then he stopped. ‘On second thoughts,’ he said, ‘I’ll pour it later, when we’ve reached our destination.’
‘All right,’ said Maan.
Rasheed, remembering that it was his duty to educate Maan and recalling how keen he had been to absorb information yesterday, now began telling him the names of various plants that they passed. But Maan was not in an educable mood this morning, and confined his responses to the occasional repetition of a word to show that his attention had not wandered.