He had shrunk further into his library in the course of the last month, but every visit to Firoz’s bedside and every appearance at meal-time was infinitely painful to him. His children, however, understood this, and continued to be outwardly as respectful towards him as before. Firoz’s illness or the acts of the distant past were not to be allowed to split the shell of the family. The grace was said, the meat stew was passed, the kababs served, the permission to rise accepted with routine decorum. Nothing was said or shown to him that might add to his disequilibrium. He had still not heard about the fliers announcing that Firoz had died.
And if I had died, thought Firoz to himself, what would it have mattered to the universe? What have I ever done for anyone? I am a man without attributes, very handsome, very forgettable. Imtiaz is a man of substance, of some use to the world. All that would be left of me is a walking-stick, the grief of my family, and terrible danger for my friend.
He had asked to see Maan once or twice, but no one had passed the message on to Prem Nivas. Imtiaz could see no good coming of the meeting, either for his brother or for his father. He knew Maan well enough to realize that the attack had been a sudden one, unpremeditated, almost unintentional. But his father did not see it that way; and Imtiaz wanted to spare him any avoidable shock of emotion, any access of hatred or recrimination. Imtiaz believed that Mrs Mahesh Kapoor’s death ad indeed been hastened by the sudden and terrible events that ad struck their two houses. He would insulate his father from anything similar, and his brother from any agitation about Maan or, through the revival of his memory of that night, about Tasneem.
Tasneem, though she was no doubt his half sister, meant nothing to Imtiaz at all. Zainab too, though she was curious, realized that wisdom lay in closing the door of interpretation.
Finally, Firoz wrote a note to Maan, which read simply: ‘Dear Maan, Please visit me. I’m well enough to see you. Firoz.’ He half-suspected his brother of mollycoddling him, and he had had enough of it. He gave the note to Ghulam Rusool, and told him that he was to see that it got to Prem Nivas.
Maan received the note in the late afternoon and did not hesitate. Without telling his father, who was sitting on a bench reading some legislative papers, he walked over to Baitar House.
Perhaps this call, rather than a summons from the court of the committal magistrate, was what in his state of idle tension he had been waiting for all along. As he approached the grand main gates, he looked instinctively about him, thinking of the she-monkey who had attacked him here earlier. This time he carried no stick.
A servant asked him to enter. But the Nawab Sahib’s secretary, Murtaza Ali, happened to be passing by, and asked him, with stern courtesy, what he imagined he was doing there. He had been given strict orders not to admit anyone from Mahesh Kapoor’s family. Maan, whose instinct not very long ago would have been to tell him to go hang himself, had been shaken by his jail life into responding to the orders of his social inferiors. He showed him Firoz’s note.
Murtaza Ali looked worried but thought quickly. Imtiaz was at the hospital, Zainab was in the zenana, and the Nawab Sahib was at his prayers. The note was unambiguous. He told Ghulam Rusool to take Maan up to see Firoz for a few minutes and asked Maan if he would like something to drink.
Maan would have liked a gallon of whisky to fortify himself. ‘No, thank you,’ he replied.
Firoz’s face lit up when he saw his friend. ‘So you’ve come!’ he said. ‘I feel I’m in jail here. I’ve been asking for you for a week, but the Superintendent won’t let messages out. I hope you’ve brought me some whisky.’
Maan started weeping. Firoz looked so pale – really, as if he had just returned from death.
‘Have a look at my scar,’ Firoz said, trying to lighten the situation. He pushed the bedsheet down and pulled up his kurta.
‘Impressive,’ said Maan, still in tears. ‘Centipede.’
He went to Firoz’s bedside, and touched his friend’s face.
They talked for a few minutes, each attempting to avoid what might cause the other pain except in such a way as would more probably defuse it.
‘You’re looking well,’ said Maan.
‘How poorly you lie,’ said Firoz. ‘I wouldn’t take you on as a client… These days I find I lack concentration. My mind wanders,’ he added with a smile. ‘It’s quite interesting’
They were silent for a minute. Maan put his forehead to Firoz’s and sighed painfully. He did not say how sorry he was for all he had done.
He sat down near Firoz. ‘Does it hurt?’ he asked.
‘Yes, at times.’