‘All right,’ said Maan, beginning to be curious. ‘I suppose it’s all right for me to tag along.’
10.14
WHEN they were not far from the old man’s place, Rasheed told Maan a little about his background.
‘He is about sixty years old and comes from a very wealthy family of many brothers. He himself had many children, but they are all dead now except for the two daughters who take care of him alternately. He’s a good man who never did anything wrong in his life – and while his crooked brothers are flourishing with wealth and children, he is in a pitiable condition.’ Rasheed paused, then speculated: ‘Some say a jinn did this to him. Though they are evil themselves, they often seek the company of good people. Anyway –’ Rasheed stopped suddenly. A tall, venerable-looking man passed by him in the narrow lane, and they exchanged greetings, sullen on Rasheed’s side.
‘That is one of his brothers,’ he said to Maan a few moments later, ‘one of the brothers who has robbed him of his share of the family’s wealth. He is one of the leaders of the community, and when the Imam of the mosque is absent he often leads the congregation in prayer. Even greeting him makes me uncomfortable.’
They now entered a courtyard and came across a strange scene.
Two thin bullocks were tethered to a peg near a feeding trough. A small goat was lying on a charpoy next to a sleeping child, a boy around whose beautiful face a few flies were buzzing. Grass was growing on the wall of the small courtyard; a broom made of twigs was leaning against it in a corner. A pretty eight-year-old girl dressed in red was looking at them. She was holding up the slack wing of a dead crow that stared at them with one opaque grey eye. A bucket, a broken clay drinking pot, a stone board and roller for crushing spices, a few other odds and ends – all these lay scattered around the courtyard as if no one knew what they were for and no one cared.
On the porch of the ramshackle two-room thatched house was a sagging charpoy, and on this lay an old man. Gaunt-featured, with peppery stubble and sunken eyes, he was lying on his side on a dirty, checked-green covering. His body was entirely emaciated and rib-ridden; his hands were like twisted claws, and his spindly legs too were twisted inwards. He looked as if he was ninety years old and near death. But his voice was clear and, when he saw them approach, he said, since he could see their forms only vaguely: ‘Who? Who is that?’
‘Rasheed,’ said Rasheed loudly, knowing that the man was hard of hearing.
‘Who?’
‘Rasheed.’
‘Oh, when did you come?’
‘I’ve just come back from my wife’s village.’ Rasheed did not wish to say that he had been in Debaria for longer but had not visited until now.
The old man digested this, then said: ‘Who is that with you?’
‘This is a Babu from Brahmpur,’ said Rasheed. ‘He comes from a good family.’
Maan did not know what to think of this succinct biography, but reflected that ‘Babu’ was probably a term of respect in these parts.
The old man leaned forward slightly, then sank back with a sigh.
‘How are things in Brahmpur?’ he asked.
Rasheed nodded towards Maan.
‘Very hot still,’ said Maan, not knowing what was expected of him.
‘Just turn towards that wall for a moment,’ said Rasheed to Maan quietly.
Maan did so without asking why. He turned back, however, before he was told to do so, and caught a brief glimpse of the pretty and fair face of a woman dressed in a yellow sari who hurriedly disappeared behind a square pillar on the porch. In her arms was the child who had been sleeping on the charpoy. Later she joined the conversation from this improvised form of purdah. The little girl in red had dropped her dead crow somewhere and had gone to play with her mother and brother behind the pillar.
‘That was his younger daughter,’ said Rasheed to Maan.
‘Very pretty,’ said Maan. Rasheed silenced him with a sharp glance.
‘Why don’t you sit on the charpoy? Shoo the goat away,’ said the woman hospitably.
‘All right,’ said Rasheed.
From where they were now sitting it was more difficult for Maan to avoid casting a furtive look at her every so often. He did so whenever he was sure Rasheed was not looking. Poor Maan, he had been deprived so long of female company that he felt his heart leap and thud every time he caught the slightest glimpse of her face.
‘How is he?’ Rasheed asked the woman.
‘You can see. The worst is to come. The doctors refuse to treat him. My husband says we should make him comfortable, try to give him what he asks for, that’s the extent of it.’ She had a happy voice and a lively manner of speech.