‘Yes, young man, what can I do for you?’ said Sir David Gower, neither getting up nor beckoning Haresh to a chair.
‘Quite frankly, Sir David,’ said Haresh, ‘I am looking for a job. I believe I am qualified for it, and I hope you will give me one.’
Part Ten
10.1
A FEW DAYS after the storm, there was something of an exodus from the village of Debaria. For a variety of reasons several people left within a few hours for the subdivisional town of Salimpur, the closest railway station for the branch line.
Rasheed left in order to catch the train to go to his wife’s village; he planned to get his wife and two children back to Debaria, where they would remain until his studies called him back to Brahmpur.
Maan was to accompany Rasheed. He was not at all keen to do so. To visit the village where Rasheed’s wife lived with her father, to travel back without being able to speak a word to her, to see her covered from head to foot in a black burqa, to spend his time imagining what she looked like, to sense Rasheed’s discomfort as he attempted to keep two separate two-way conversations going, to exert himself in any way in this terrible heat, none of these struck Maan as being in the least enjoyable. Rasheed, however, had invited him; he had presumably felt that it would be inhospitable not to do so: Maan was, after all, his personal guest before he was his family’s. Maan had found it difficult to refuse without a reasonable excuse, and there were none at hand. Besides, to remain in the village was driving him crazy. He was seized with frustration against his life in Debaria and all its discomforts and boredoms.
The Bear and his companion the guppi had completed whatever business they had in Debaria, and were headed somewhere else.
Netaji was going because he had ‘some business in the subdivisional courts’, but really because he wanted to hobnob with the local administrative functionaries and small-time politicians in Salimpur.
Finally, there was the eminent archaeologist, Vilayat Sahib, of whom Maan had not yet caught a glimpse. He was to return to Brahmpur on his way back to Delhi. Characteristically, he disappeared from Debaria on his own on a bullock-cart before anyone could make the friendly gesture of offering to share their rickshaw with him.
It’s as if he didn’t exist, thought Maan – as if he’s in purdah. I’ve heard of him but I’ve never seen him – like the women of the family. I suppose they exist as well. Or perhaps they don’t. Perhaps all women are just a rumour. He was beginning to feel immensely restless.
Netaji, very dashing and mustachioed, had insisted that Maan ride into Salimpur on the back of his Harley Davidson. ‘Why would you want to ride for an hour in a ramshackle cycle-rickshaw in this heat?’ he had asked. ‘As a Brahmpur-wallah, you’re accustomed to luxury, you couldn’t be used to having your brains baked. Anyway, I want to talk to you.’ Maan had acquiesced, and was now bouncing up and down along the pitted country road on the motorcycle, having his brains vibrated rather than baked.
Rasheed had warned Maan about Netaji and his attempt to extract personal advantage from every possible situation, so Maan was not surprised at the turn their conversation took.
‘How are you enjoying yourself? Can you hear me?’ asked Netaji.
‘Oh, yes,’ Maan replied.
‘I said, how are you enjoying yourself?’
‘Very much. Where did you get this motorcycle?’
‘I meant, are you enjoying yourself in our village?’
‘Why not?’
‘Why not? That means you aren’t.’
‘No, no – I’m enjoying myself very much.’
‘Well, what do you enjoy about it?’
‘Er, there’s a lot of fresh air in the country,’ said Maan.
‘Well, I hate it,’ shouted Netaji.
‘What was that?’
‘I hate it. There’s nothing to do here. There isn’t even any proper politics. That’s why if I don’t leave the village and visit Salimpur at least twice a week, I fall ill.’
‘Ill?’ asked Maan.
‘Yes, ill. Everyone in the village makes me ill. And the village louts are the worst. That Moazzam for instance, he has no respect for other people’s property… You aren’t holding on tight. You’ll fall off. Hold close to me for balance.’
‘All right.’
‘I can’t even keep my motorcycle safe from them. I have to keep it in an open courtyard, and they damage it out of spite. Now Brahmpur, there’s a city!’
‘You’ve been to Brahmpur then?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Netaji impatiently. ‘You know what I like about Brahmpur?’