‘He wanted to come,’ said Rasheed. ‘But what are you doing here yourself?’
‘I’m off to Salimpur. There’s a dinner there. I thought I’d go early and sort some things out at the Congress Party office there.’
This young man was very energetic and ambitious and had his finger in several pies, including local politics. It was because of these qualities of self-interested leadership that he was called Netaji by most people. Eventually his family had taken to calling him Netaji as well. He didn’t like it.
Rasheed was careful not to do so. ‘I don’t see your motorcycle anywhere,’ he said.
‘It won’t start,’ said Netaji plaintively. His second-hand Harley Davidson (war stock originally sold off by the army, it had passed through several hands already) was the pride of his heart.
‘That’s a pity. So why don’t you get your rickshaw to take you there?’
‘I’ve hired it out for the day. Really, this motorcycle is more trouble than it’s worth. Since I’ve got it I’ve spent more time worrying about it than using it. The village boys, and especially that bastard Moazzam, are always doing things to it. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve put water in the fuel tank.’
Like a genie conjured up by his name, Moazzam appeared out of nowhere. He was a boy of about twelve or so, quite strong and compact, and one of the chief trouble-makers of the village. He had a very friendly face with hair that bristled up like a porcupine’s. Sometimes his face would become dark with some unexpressed thought. He seemed to be beyond anyone’s control, especially his parents’. People put him down as eccentric, and hoped that he would sort himself out in a few years. Whereas no one liked Mr Biscuit, Moazzam had his admirers.
‘You bastard!’ said Netaji as soon as he saw Moazzam. ‘What have you done to my motorcycle?’
Moazzam, taken aback by this sudden attack, retreated into a dark expression. Maan looked at him with interest, and Moazzam appeared to wink at him in a fleeting expression of conspiracy.
‘Can’t you hear me?’ said Netaji, advancing towards him.
Moazzam said, in a surly tone: ‘I can hear you. I’ve done nothing to your motorcycle. Why should I care about your wretched motorcycle?’
‘I saw you hanging around it this morning with two of your friends.’
‘So?’
‘Don’t ever go near it again. Understand? If I ever see you near it again, I’ll run you over.’
Moazzam gave a short laugh.
Netaji wanted to slap Moazzam, but thought better of it. ‘Let’s leave the swine,’ he said dismissively to the others. ‘By rights he should have his brain shown to a doctor, but his father is too much of a miser to do so. I must be on my way.’
Moazzam now performed a little dance of rage, and cried to Netaji: ‘Swine! Swine yourself! You are the swine. And the miser. You lend money on interest, and you buy rickshaws and won’t let anyone use them free. Look at our great leader, the Netaji of the village! I don’t have time for you. Migrate to Salimpur with your motorcycle, I don’t care.’
When Netaji, muttering black threats under his breath, had left, Moazzam decided to attach himself to Rasheed and Maan… Now he asked to see Maan’s watch.
Maan promptly took it off, and showed it to Moazzam, who, after examining it, put it in his pocket. Rasheed said quite sharply to Moazzam: ‘Give the watch to me. Is this the way to behave with guests?’
Moazzam looked puzzled at first, then disgorged the watch. He handed it to Rasheed, who gave it back to Maan.
‘Thank you, I’m very grateful,’ said Maan to Moazzam.
‘Don’t be polite to him,’ said Rasheed to Maan, as if Moazzam wasn’t present, ‘or he’ll take advantage of you. Keep your things close by you if he’s around. He’s well-known for making things disappear by sleight of hand.’
‘All right,’ said Maan, smiling.
‘He’s not bad at heart,’ Rasheed went on.
‘Not bad at heart,’ repeated Moazzam absently. His attention, though, was elsewhere. An old man with a stick was walking down the narrow lane towards him. There was an amulet around his wrinkled neck which attracted Moazzam’s attention. As they passed each other, he reached out for it.
‘Give it to me,’ he said.
The old man leaned on his stick and said in a slow and exhausted voice: ‘Young man, I have no strength.’
This appeared to please Moazzam, who promptly released the amulet.
A girl of about ten was walking towards them with a goat. Moazzam, who was in an acquisitive mood, made as if to grab for the rope, and said: ‘Give it to me!’ in the voice of a fierce dacoit.