A Suitable Boy(525)

Chandeliers glinted down in red and white from the ceiling, but the electric bulbs they contained had not been lit. So that the distant sound of the generator would not disturb them, the hall had been lit by candles instead. Ustad Majeed Khan was notoriously temperamental when it came to his art. It was true that he often practised at home in the midst of an appalling domestic racket, the result of his wife’s excessive sociability. But when he performed, even the necessity of earning his living at least partly through the diminishing patronage of zamindars and princes would not allow him to compromise with the seriousness of attention he demanded – and the absolute lack of disturbance. If it was true, as it was said, that he sang for himself and God alone, it was equally true that this bond was strengthened by an appreciative audience and strained by a restless one. The Nawab Sahib had not invited any guests from the town of Baitar, largely because he had not found anyone there who appreciated good music. Apart from the musicians there was no one but himself, his friend, and their two sons.

Ustad Majeed Khan was accompanied by his own tabla player; and by Ishaq Khan as an accompanying vocalist, not as a sarangi player. The great musician was now at the stage where he treated Ishaq not as a student or even a nephew but as a son. Ishaq had all the musicality Ustad Majeed Khan could have wished for in a student; and he had, besides, that passionate reverence for his teachers – including his own late father – that had got him into trouble with his Ustad in the first place. Their subsequent reconciliation had astonished them both. The Ustad had seen in it the hand of God. Ishaq did not know what to ascribe it to, but was deeply grateful. Since adaptation to the style of the main performer was instinctive to him as a sarangi player, Ishaq, who had a fine voice, quickly adapted himself to the style of his teacher; and since his teacher’s style drew with it a certain bent of mind and a certain manner of creativity, within a few months of his first lessons with Ustad Majeed Khan he was singing with a confidence and ease that first alarmed, and then – despite his own considerable ego – pleased the Ustad. At last he had a disciple worthy of the name; and one, moreover, who more than compensated in the honour he did him for any fleeting dishonour he may have been guilty of in the past.

It was late when they settled down after dinner, and Ustad Majeed Khan immediately, and without tackling any lighter raga to warm up his voice, began to sing Raag Darbari. How appropriate, thought the Nawab Sahib, was the raag to the surroundings, and how his father, whose one sensual vice had been music, would have enjoyed it had he been alive. The regally slow unfolding of the alaap, the wide vibratos on the third and sixth degrees, the stately descents in alternating rises and falls, the richness of the Khan Sahib’s voice accompanied from time to time by his young disciple, and the invariant, undazzling, solid beat of the tabla created a structure of majesty and perfection that hypnotized both musicians and audience. Very rarely did any of the listeners even say, ‘wah! wah!’ at some particular brilliance. It was more than two hours and late after midnight when he ended.

‘See to the candles, they are guttering,’ said the Nawab Sahib quietly to a servant. ‘Tonight, Khan Sahib, you have outdone yourself.’

‘Through His grace, and yours.’

‘Will you rest a little?’

‘No, there is life in me still. And the will to sing before this kind of an audience.’

‘What will you give us now?’

‘What will it be?’ said Ustad Majeed Khan, turning to Ishaq. ‘It’s far too early for Bhatiyar, but I’m in the mood for it, so God will forgive us.’

The Nawab Sahib, who had never heard the master sing with Ishaq before, and had certainly never seen – or even heard of – the Khan Sahib consulting anyone about what he should or should not sing, was astonished, and asked to be introduced to the young singer.

Maan suddenly recalled where he had seen Ishaq Khan.

‘We’ve met before,’ he said before he could give himself time to think. ‘At Saeeda Begum’s, wasn’t it? I’ve been trying to work it out. You were her sarangi player, weren’t you?’

There was a sudden and frigid silence. Everyone present except the tabla player looked at Maan with discomfiture or shock. It was as if no one wanted to be reminded at this magical moment of anything from that other world. Whether as patron or employee or lover or acquaintance or fellow-artist or rival, in one sense or another every one of them was tied to Saeeda Bai.

Ustad Majeed Khan got up, as he said, to relieve himself. The Nawab Sahib had bowed his head. Ishaq Khan had started talking in a low voice to the tabla player. Everyone seemed eager to exorcize this unwanted muse.