They discussed him for a while as if he weren’t present.
Then the old man suddenly roused himself to speak. ‘Babu!’ he said in a loud voice.
Rasheed nodded at Maan again. .
‘Yes?’ said Maan, probably too softly for the man to hear.
‘What can I tell you, Babu – I’ve been ill for twenty-two years – and bedridden for twelve. I am so crippled I can’t even sit up. I wish God would take me. I had six children and six daughters too’ – Maan was struck by his manner of describing his twelve children – ‘and only two are left. My wife died three years ago. Never get ill, Babu. It is the worst fate. I eat here, I sleep here, I wash here, I talk here, I pray here, I weep here, I shit and piss here. Why did God do this to me?’
Maan looked at Rasheed. He looked stricken.
‘Rasheed !’ cried the old man.
‘Yes, Phupha-jaan.’
‘Her mother’ – the old man indicated his daughter with his head – ‘took care of your father when he was ill. Now he doesn’t even visit. It’s since your stepmother came. Previously, every time I went past their house – ah, twelve years ago – they insisted that I had to have tea. They visited when I fell ill. Now only you do. I hear Vilayat Sahib was here too. He didn’t visit.’
‘Vilayat Sahib never visits anyone, Phupha-jaan.’
‘What’s that you say?’
‘Vilayat Sahib never visits anyone.’
‘Yes. But your father? Don’t take it badly. I’m not criticizing.’
‘No, no,’ said Rasheed. ‘I know. It’s not right. I don’t say it’s right.’ He shook his head slowly and looked down. Then he went on: ‘I don’t take it badly. It’s best to say what one thinks. I’m sorry that this is so. But I must listen to it. It’s only right.’
‘You must visit again before you go back… How do you manage in Brahmpur?’
‘I manage very well,’ said Rasheed, reassuringly if not accurately. ‘I give tuitions, and that covers things comfortably. I am in good shape. I’ve brought a small gift for you – some sweets.’
‘Sweets?’
‘Yes. I’ll give them to her.’
To the woman Rasheed said: ‘They are easy to digest, but don’t give him more than one or two at a time.’ To the old man he said: ‘I must go now, Phupha-jaan.’
‘You are a good man.’
‘It’s easy to earn that title in Sagal,’ said Rasheed.
The old man chuckled a little. ‘Yes,’ he said, finally.
Rasheed got up to go, and Maan followed.
The old man’s daughter, with a tender formality in her voice, said: ‘What you have done restores our faith in people.’
But as they left the courtyard, Maan heard Rasheed say to himself: ‘And what the good people have done to you makes me doubt my faith in God.’
10.15
ON the way out of the village of Sagal, they passed a small open area in front of the mosque. Here, standing and talking, was a group of about ten village elders, most of them bearded, including the man who had passed them outside the old man’s house. Rasheed recognized two more of the invalid’s brothers among the group, but could not see their expressions in the late twilight. They appeared, however, to be looking at him, and their stance was hostile. As he drew nearer, he saw that their expression was no less so. For a few seconds they looked him up and down. Maan, still in his white shirt and trousers, also came under their scrutiny.
‘So you’ve come,’ said one in a slightly mocking tone.
‘Yes,’ said Rasheed, without any warmth, and not even using the customary title of the man who spoke.
‘You’ve taken your time.’
‘Well,’ said Rasheed, ‘some things take time.’
‘So you sat talking and exchanging the time of day until it became too late to say the namaaz,’ said another, the man who had passed by him a little while ago.
This was indeed true; so involved had Rasheed been that he had not even noticed the evening call to prayer.
‘Yes,’ he responded angrily. ‘That’s precisely right.’
He was enraged that he was being baited in this open gathering, not out of any attempt to improve his attendance at prayer but out of sheer mockery and ill-will. They’re jealous, he thought, because I’m young and have made progress. And they’re threatened by my beliefs – they’ve decided that I’m a communist. And what they hate most of all is my association with that man whose life makes their own a source of shame.
A tall, thick-set man glowered at Rasheed. ‘And who is this?’ he asked, indicating Maan. ‘Are you not going to do us the favour of an introduction? Then we will be able to judge what company the Maulana Sahib keeps and benefit from it too.’ The orange kurta that Maan had been wearing when he first arrived had given rise to the rumour that he was a Hindu holy man.