A Suitable Boy(330)

Needless to say, Pandit Nehru – in distant Delhi, with a few other matters to think of – had no such plan. Nor did the Purva Pradesh Zamindari Abolition Bill – now only a presidential signature away from becoming an act – plan to take over forts or residences or even the self-managed land of the zamindars. But Maan let it go.

‘What do you stand to gain from all this?’ he asked the rickshaw-wallah.

‘I? Nothing! Nothing at all, nothing at all. Not here, anyway. Now if I could get a room, that would be fine. If I could get two, that would be even better; I would rent one out to some other poor fool and live off the sweat of his efforts. Otherwise I will continue to pedal my rickshaw during the day and sleep on it at night.’

‘But what do you do during the monsoon?’ asked Maan.

‘Oh, I find some shelter somewhere – Allah provides, Allah provides, and He will provide as He has always done.’

‘ls the Nawab Sahib popular in these parts?’ asked Maan.

‘Popular? He’s the sun and moon put together!’ said the rickshaw-wallah. ‘And so are the young Nawabzadas, especially Chhoté Sahib. Everyone likes his temperament. And what handsome figures of men. You should see them when they are together: truly a sight to behold. The old Nawab Sahib with one son on either hand. Like the Viceroy and his officers.’

‘But if they are so well-liked, why do people want to take over their estates?’

‘Why not?’ said the rickshaw-wallah. ‘People want to get land wherever they can. In my village, where my wife and family live, we have worked our land for many years – since my father’s uncle’s time. But we still have to pay rent to the Nawab Sahib – to his bloodsucker of a munshi. Why should we pay rent? Tell me. We have watered it with our sweat for fifty years, it should be our land, we should own it.’

When they got to the huge, wooden, brass-studded gate in the wall of Baitar Fort, the rickshaw-wallah asked him for twice the normal fare. Maan argued for a minute, since the amount asked was clearly unreasonable; then, feeling bad for the rickshaw-wallah, he took out what he had asked for – plus another four annas – from his kurta pocket and gave it to him.

The rickshaw-wallah went off, well-satisfied with his judgment that Maan was slightly crazy. Perhaps he had really imagined he was going to meet the Nawab Sahib. Poor chap, poor chap.





10.7


THE PORTER at the gate took a similar view of things and told Maan to clear off. He had described Maan to the munshi, and the munshi had issued the instructions.

Maan, amazed, wrote a few words on a scrap of paper and said: ‘I do not want to talk to any munshi. Now see that the Nawab Sahib or Burré Sahib or Chhoté Sahib gets this. Go and take it in.’

The porter, seeing Maan write something in English, this time asked Maan to follow him, though he did not offer to carry his bag. They entered the inner gate, and walked towards the main building of the Fort: a huge structure, four storeys high, with courtyards on two levels, and turrets at the top.

Maan was left in a courtyard flagged with grey stone; the porter climbed a flight of stairs and disappeared once again. It was late afternoon, and the heat was still intense in this paved and walled oven. Maan looked around him. There was no sign of the porter or Firoz or Imtiaz or anyone. Then he detected a slight movement in one of the windows above. A rustic, middle-aged, well-fleshed face with a grey-and-white walrus moustache was examining him from the upper window.

A minute or two later, the porter returned. ‘The munshi asks, what do you want?’

Maan said angrily: ‘I told you to give that note to Chhoté Sahib, not the munshi.’

‘But the Nawab Sahib and the Nawabzadas are not here.’

‘What do you mean, not here? When did they leave?’ asked Maan, dismayed.

‘They have not been here for a week,’ said the porter.

‘Well, tell that oaf of a munshi that I am a friend of the Nawabzada’s and will be spending the night here.’ Maan had raised his voice, and it reverberated around the courtyard.

The munshi scurried down. Though it was hot, he was wearing a bundi over his kurta. He was irritated. It was the end of a long day and he had been looking forward to cycling back into Baitar town, where he lived. Now this unshaven and unfamiliar stranger was demanding to be received at the Fort. What was all this about?

‘Yes?’ said the munshi, placing his reading-glasses in his pocket. He looked Maan up and down and licked a corner of his walrus moustache. ‘Of what service can I be to you?’ he asked in polite Hindi. But behind his compliant tone and gentle demeanour Maan heard the rapid motion of the cogs of calculation.