‘None,’ said the patwari, indicating his ledgers with a casual gesture.
‘None?’ said Rasheed. ‘But everyone knows we have both sharecroppers and rent-paying tenants –’
‘Hired employees,’ corrected the patwari. ‘And in the future they will very wisely be rotated from field to field.’
‘But Kachheru, for example’ – burst out Rasheed – ‘everyone knows that he’s had that field for years. You yourself understood immediately what I meant by Kachheru’s field.’
‘It’s a manner of speaking,’ said the patwari, amused by Rasheed’s attempt to play the devil’s advocate. ‘If I were to refer to Khan Sahib’s university, it would not mean that Brahmpur University belonged to you – or that you had been there for five years.’ He gave a short laugh, inviting participation; but when Rasheed did not respond, he continued: ‘From my records it appears that, yes, Kachheru, son of Mangalu chamar, did sharecrop the field on occasion, but never for a period of five years without a break. There has always been an interruption –’
‘You say the field is now nominally mine?’ said Rasheed.
‘Yes.’
‘I want you to register a change of ownership to Kachheru.’
It was the patwari’s turn to look shocked. He looked at Rasheed as if he had taken leave of his senses. He was about to say that the Khan Sahib was, of course, joking, when he realized with a start that he was not.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Rasheed. ‘I’ll pay you your standard – what should I say? – your standard fee.’
The patwari licked his lips with anxiety.
‘But your family? Are they all –’
‘Are you questioning my credentials in this matter?’
‘Oh no, Khan Sahib, heaven forbid –’
‘Our family has discussed this matter at length,’ said Rasheed carefully. ‘And that is why I am here.’ He paused. ‘If the mutation of ownership cannot be performed quickly or involves other legal documents, it would be good if the tenancy records for this plot were made to reflect, well, the reality of things. Yes, that is a better method and will cause less disturbance. Make it clear, please, that the chamar has been a continuous tenant.’
The patwari nodded obediently. ‘As Huzoor commands,’ he said quietly.
Rasheed tried to hide his contempt as he took out some money.
‘Here is a little something in advance to express my appreciation. As a student of history, I have been most impressed by the meticulousness of these records. And, as a landlord, I must agree with you that the government’s policy of rotating patwaris is a great pity.’
‘Some more sherbet, Khan Sahib? Or may I offer you something a little more substantial? Life in the city has worn you down you are looking very thin…’
‘No thank you,’ said Rasheed. ‘I must go. But I will call again in a couple of weeks. That should be sufficient time, shouldn’t it?’
‘It should,’ agreed the patwari.
‘Good, then. Khuda haafiz.’
‘Khuda haafiz, Khan Sahib,’ said the patwari softly. And indeed God would have to protect Rasheed from the trouble he had just plunged himself – and not just himself – into.
Part Nine
9.1
‘YOU’RE looking very thin, darling,’ said Mrs Rupa Mehra to Kalpana Gaur – who was large-boned and and vivacious, but less substantial than usual. Mrs Rupa Mehra had just arrived in Delhi in search of a prospective husband for Lata. Since her sons had proven hopeless, she would get Kalpana Gaur, who was ‘like a daughter’ to her, to deliver the goods.
‘Yes, the silly girl has been ill,’ said her father, who was impatient with illness. ‘God knows how at such a young age she manages to contract all these illnesses. It is some kind of ’flu this time: ’flu at the height of summer – very silly. No one goes for walks nowadays. My niece never walked; too lazy. She got appendicitis, had to be operated on, and, naturally, took a long time to recover. When I was in Lahore we would get up every morning at five, and all of us – from my father down to my six-year-old brother – would go walking for an hour. That was how we kept up our health.’
Kalpana Gaur turned to Mrs Rupa Mehra: ‘Now you will need tea and rest.’ Snuffling a bit, she got busy with the servants and the luggage, and paid off the tonga-wallah. Mrs Rupa Mehra protested, then submitted. ‘You must stay with us for a month,’ continued Kalpana. ‘How can you go travelling in this heat? How is Savita? When is the baby due exactly? And Lata? Arun? Varun? I haven’t heard from you in months. We keep reading about the floods in Calcutta, but in Delhi there isn’t a cloud in the sky. Everyone is praying that the monsoons will come on time. Let me just tell the servants to get things ready, then you must tell us all your news. Fried tomatoes as usual for breakfast tomorrow? Daddy hasn’t been too well, you know. Heart.’ She looked indulgently at her father, who frowned back.