Maan was delighted with Waris’s sense of loyalty; he clearly felt that the honour and prosperity of the house of Baitar rested entirely on his shoulders.
Maan now descended to the dining room for dinner. What struck him there was not so much the rich carpet or long teak table or carved sideboard, but the oil portraits hanging on the walls: for there were four, two on each of the longer walls.
One was of the Nawab Sahib’s dashing great-grandfather, complete with horse, sword and green plume, who had died fighting against the British at Salimpur. The other portrait on the same wall was of his son, who had been permitted his inheritance by the British and who had gone in for more scholarly and philanthropic pursuits. He was not on horseback, merely standing, though in full nawabi regalia. There was a sense of calm, even of withdrawal, in his eyes – as opposed to the attractive arrogance in his father’s. On the opposite wall, the elder facing the elder and the younger the younger, hung portraits of Queen Victoria and King Edward VII. Victoria, seated, stared out of the painting with an air of glum plumpness that was emphasized by the tiny round crown on her head. She was wearing a long, dark blue gown and a cloak trimmed in ermine, and carrying a small sceptre. Her portly, rakish son stood crown-less but not sceptre-less against a dark background; he had on a red tunic with a dark grey sash, an ermine cloak and velvet gown, and he bristled with braid and tassels. He had a great deal more cheerfulness in his expression but none of his mother’s assurance. Maan looked at each of the portraits in turn between courses during his over-spiced and solitary meal.
Later he returned to his room. For some reason the taps and flushes in his bathroom did not work, but there were buckets and brass pots of water sufficient for his needs. After a few days of going out into-the fields, or the fairly rudimentary facilities of the SDO’s bungalow, the marble-tiled bathroom of Firoz’s room, even if he had to pour his own water, was for Maan an extreme luxury. Apart from a tub and shower and two sinks, there was a dusty-seated European-style toilet and an Indian one as well. The former was inscribed in a kind of quatrain as follows:
J B Norton & Sons Ld
Sanitary Engineers
Old Court House Corner
Calcutta
The latter said, more simply:
Norton’s Patent
‘The Hindu’
Combined Closet
Calcutta
Maan, as he used the latter, wondered whether anyone before him in this erstwhile stronghold of the Muslim League had meditated on this subversive inscription, rebelling perhaps at the thought that this item of their common cultural heritage should have been so arbitrarily ascribed by the British to those of the other and rival religion.
10.9
THE next morning Maan met the munshi as he was bicycling in; they exchanged a few words. The munshi was eager to know if everything had been to Maan’s satisfaction: the food, the room, the behaviour of Waris. He apologized for Waris’s crudity: ‘But, Sir, what can we do, they are such yokels hereabouts.’ Maan told him that he planned to be taken around town by the yokel, and the munshi licked his moustache in nervous displeasure.
Then he brightened up and informed Maan that he was going to arrange a hunt for him the next day.
Waris packed lunch, offered Maan a choice of hats, and showed him around the sights of the town, telling him all about the improvements that had taken place since the time of the Nawab Sahib’s heroic great-grandfather. He shouted roughly at people who stared at the white-shirted, white-trousered sahib. By late afternoon they had returned to the Fort. At the gate the porter spoke sternly to Waris: ‘Munshiji said you were to be back by three. There is a shortage of wood in the kitchen. He is very annoyed. He is sitting with the estate tehsildar in the big office room and he says you are to report to him immediately.’
Waris grimaced. He realized he was in some sort of minor trouble. The munshi was always irritable at this time of day; it was like a malarial cycle. Maan, however, said: ‘Look, I’ll come with you and explain things.’
‘No, no, Maan Sahib, why bother? A hornet bites the haramzada’s penis at four-thirty every day.’
‘It’s no trouble.’
‘You are very good, Maan Sahib. You must not forget me when you go away.’
‘Of course I won’t. Now let’s see what your munshi has to say.’
They entered the hot paved courtyard and walked up the stairs to the large office room. The munshi was sitting not at the big desk in the corner (reserved presumably for the Nawab Sahib) but cross-legged on the floor in front of a small, wooden, brass-inlaid writing desk with a sloping surface. The knuckles of his left hand were pressed into his grey-and-white moustache. He was looking disgustedly at an old woman, very poor by the look of her tattered sari, who was standing before him, her face streaked with tears.