‘What do you mean by that?’ said his father sharply. He noticed Kachheru passing by. ‘Ei, Kachheru, go to the bania’s shop and get me some supari – I’ve run out of it for my paan. Yes, yes – I want the usual amount. Ah, the Football is waddling along to pay us a visit; he’s probably come because of your Hindu friend. Yes, people’s lives are important, but that is no excuse – anyway, no excuse for speaking in that way to the big people of a village. Have you considered my honour when you behave like that? Or your own position in the village?’
Rasheed’s eye followed Kachheru for a while. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘please forgive me – the mistake is all mine.’
But ignoring his insincere apology, his father was now greeting his guest with a broad smile, his red mouth wide open: ‘Welcome, welcome, Tiwariji.’
‘Hello, hello,’ said the Football. ‘What were father and son discussing so heatedly?’
‘Nothing,’ said both father and son simultaneously.
‘Oh, well. Two or three of us have been thinking of visiting you for some time now, but what with the harvest and so on we couldn’t find the time. And then we heard that your guest had gone away for a few days, so we decided to wait till his return.’
‘So you’ve really come to see Kapoor Sahib, not us,’ said his host.
The Football shook his head vehemently: ‘What are you saying, what are you saying, Khan Sahib? Our friendship goes back for decades. And one gets so little chance to talk to Rasheed either, now that he is improving his mind in Brahmpur most of the year.’
‘Anyway,’ continued Rasheed’s father rather mischievously, ‘why don’t you have a cup of tea now that you’ve made such an effort to come? I’ll summon Rasheed’s friend, and we will talk. Who else is coming, by the way? Rasheed, ask for tea for all of us.’
The Football became agitated. ‘No, no –’ he said, gesticulating as if he were brushing away a swarm of wasps, ‘no tea, no tea.’
‘But we will all be having it together, Tiwariji, it is not poisoned. Even Kapoor Sahib will join us.’
‘He drinks tea with all of you?’ said Tiwari.
‘Indeed. He eats with us too.’
The Football was silent while he, so to speak, digested this. After a while he said: ‘But I have just had tea, you know, with my breakfast – I’ve just had tea and also far too much to eat before I left my house. Look at me. I must be careful. Your hospitality knows no bounds. But –’
‘You aren’t saying, by any chance, Tiwariji, are you, that what we are offering falls below your expectations? Why don’t you like to eat with us? Do you think we will pollute you?’
‘Oh, no, no, no, it is just that an insect of the gutter like myself does not feel happy when offered the luxuries of a palace. Heh heh heh!’ The Football wobbled a little at his witticism, and even Rasheed’s father smiled. He decided not to press the point. All of the other brahmins were straightforward about their caste rules, which forbade eating with non-brahmins, but the Football was always evasive.
Mr Biscuit approached their charpoy, attracted by tea and biscuits.
‘Clear off, or I’ll fry you in ghee,’ Moazzam said, his hedgehog-hair bristling. ‘He’s a glutton,’ he explained to Maan.
Mr Biscuit stared at them with a blank gaze.
Meher offered him one of her two biscuits, and he came forward like a zombie to ingest it.
Rasheed was pleased at Meher’s generosity, but not at all pleased with Mr Biscuit.
‘He does nothing but eat and shit, eat and shit the whole day,’ he told Maan. ‘That’s his entire business in life. He’s seven years old, and can hardly read a word. What can one do? – it’s the atmosphere of the village. People think he’s funny and encourage him.’
As if to prove his other skills, Mr Biscuit, having absorbed the offering, now put his hands to his ears and called out, in a mockery of the muezzin’s call to prayer: ‘Aaaaaaye Lalla e lalla alala! Halla o halla!’
Moazzam shouted: ‘You low creature!’ and made as if to slap him, but Maan restrained him.
Moazzam, once again fascinated by Maan’s watch, said: ‘Lookz the two hands are coming together now.’
‘Don’t give Moazzam your watch,’ advised Rasheed. ‘I’ve warned you already. Or your torch. He likes to find out what makes them work, but he doesn’t operate very scientifically. I once found him bashing my watch with a brick. He had taken it out of my bag when I wasn’t looking. Luckily, the basic machinery still worked. But the glass, needle, spring – all were smashed. It cost me twenty rupees to have it repaired.’