‘Maan, you’re not going anywhere,’ said his sister. ‘Are you mad? It’s a five minute walk through the alleys – this isn’t why I tied the rakhi around your wrist.’ After a minute’s thought she said: ‘I’ll go to the neighbour whose phone I use in an emergency. It’s only two rooftops away. You met her that day – she’s a good woman, the only trouble is that she is rabidly anti-Muslim. Let me think. What’s the number of Baitar House?’
Maan told her.
Veena came up to the roof with him, crossed over the connected rooftops, and descended the stairs to her neighbour’s house.
Veena’s large and voluble neighbour, out of her usual friendliness and curiosity, hung around while Veena made the call. The phone, after all, was in her room. Veena told her she was trying to get in touch with her father.
‘But I just saw him at the Bharat Milaap, near the temple –’
‘He had to go home. The noise was too much for him. And the smoke was not good for my mother either. Or for Pran’s lungs – he didn’t come. But Maan is here – he’s had a lucky escape from a Muslim mob.’
‘It must be providence,’ said the woman. ‘If they had got hold of him –’
The telephone was not a dialling machine; and Veena had to give the Baitar House number to the operator.
‘Oh, you’re not calling Prem Nivas?’ said the woman, who knew that number from Veena’s previous calls.
‘No. Baoji had to visit friends later this evening.’
When a voice came on the line Veena said: ‘I would like to speak to the Sahib.’
An aged voice at the other end said, ‘Which Sahib? The Nawab Sahib or the Burre Sahib or the Burré Sahib or the Chhoté Sahib?’
‘Anyone,’ said Veena.
‘But the Nawab Sahib is in Baitar with the Burré Sahib, and Chhoté Sahib has not yet come home from the Imambara.’ The aged voice – it was Ghulam Rusool – was halting and agitated. ‘They say there has been trouble in town, that you can see fires even from the roof of this house. I must go now. There are arrangements –’
‘Please be patient –’ said Veena quickly. ‘I will speak to anyone – put Sahib’s secretary on the line – or anyone responsible. Call someone – anyone – to the line, please. This is Mahesh Kapoor’s daughter Veena speaking, and I need to pass on an urgent message.’
There was silence for a few seconds, then the young voice of Murtaza Ali came on the line. He sounded both embarrassed and extremely anxious. He had sensed that perhaps there might be some news of Firoz.
Veena said, choosing her words with extreme care: ‘I am Mahesh Kapoor’s daughter. This is about Sahib’s younger son.’
‘The Nawab Sahib’s younger son? The Chhoté Sahib?’
‘Exactly. There is nothing to worry about. He is unharmed, and quite safe, and staying in Misri Mandi tonight. Please inform Sahib of that in case he should inquire.’
‘God is merciful!’ came the quiet response.
‘He will go home tomorrow when curfew is relaxed. Meanwhile, no search parties should be sent out for him. No one should go to the police station to get a curfew pass – or come here – or talk to anyone about his being here. Just say he is staying with me – with his sister.’
‘Thank you, Madam, thank you for calling us – we were just about to set out in an armed party – it would have been terrible – we imagined the worst –’
‘I must go now,’ said Veena, knowing that the longer she talked the more difficult it would be to maintain a protective ambiguity.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Murtaza Ali. ‘Khuda haafiz.’
‘Khuda haafiz,’ replied Veena without thinking, and put down the phone.
Her neighbour looked at her strangely. Unwilling to make ‘further conversation with the curious woman, Veena explained that she had to go back home immediately because Bhaskar had sprained his ankle running about; and Maan and her husband needed to be fed; and old Mrs Tandon, with her memories of Pakistan, was in a panic and would need to be soothed.
15.14
BUT when she got back to the house, she found her mother-in-law, who was downstairs, almost incoherent with shock. Kedarnath had just gone out into the night, planning, no doubt, to calm down any people he found: to prevent them from harming others and, in case they had not heard about the curfew, themselves.
Veena almost fainted. She leaned against the wall and stared ahead of her. Finally her mother-in-law stopped sobbing and her words began to make more sense.
‘He said that in this area there would be no risk from Muslims,’ she whispered. ‘He wouldn’t listen to me. He said that it wasn’t Lahore – that he would be back very shortly,’ she continued, looking at Veena’s face for comfort. ‘ “Very shortly,” he said. He said he would be back very shortly.’ She broke down once again at the words.