A Suitable Boy(78)
‘Three poets will be reading from their own work today,’ continued Mr Nowrojee, ‘following which I hope you will join us for tea. I am sorry to see that my young friend Mr Sorabjee has not been able to make the time to come,’ he added in tones of gentle rebuke.
Mr Sorabjee, fifty-seven years old, and – like Mr Nowrojee himself – a Parsi, was the Proctor of Brahmpur University. He rarely missed a meeting of the literary societies of either the university or the town. But he always managed to avoid meetings where members read out their own literary efforts.
Mr Nowrojee smiled indecisively. ‘The poets reading today are Dr Vikas Makhijani, Mrs Supriya Joshi –’
‘Shrimati Supriya Joshi,’ said a booming female voice. The broad-bosomed Mrs Joshi had stood up to make the correction.
‘Er, yes, our, er, talented poetess Shrimati Supriya Joshi – and, of course, myself, Mr R.P. Nowrojee. As I am already seated at the table I will avail myself of the chairman’s prerogative of reading my own poems first – by way of an apéritif to the more substantial fare that is to follow. Bon appetit.’ He allowed himself a sad, rather wintry, chuckle before clearing his throat and taking another sip of water.
‘The first poem that I would like to read is entitled “Haunting Passion”,’ said Mr Nowrojee primly. And he read the following poem:
I’m haunted by a tender passion,
The ghost of which will never die.
The leaves of autumn have grown ashen:
I’m haunted by a tender passion.
And spring-time too, in its own fashion,
Burns me with love’s sweet song – so I –
l’m haunted by a tender passion,
The ghost of which will never die.
As Mr Nowrojee completed his poem, he seemed to be manfully holding back his tears. He looked out towards the garden, towards the sundial, and, pulling himself together, said: ‘That is a triolet. Now I will read you a ballade. It is called “Buried Flames”.’
After he had read this and three other poems in a similar vein with diminishing vigour, he stopped, spent of all emotion. He then got up like one who had completed an infinitely distant and exhausting journey, and sat down on a stuffed chair not far from the speaker’s table.
In the brief interval between him and the next reader Kabir looked inquiringly at Lata and she looked quizzically back at him. They were both trying to control their laughter, and looking at each other was not helping them do this.
Luckily, the happy, plump-faced man who had handed them the poems that he planned to read now rushed forward energetically to the speaker’s table and, before sitting down, said the single word: ‘Makhijani.’
After he had announced his name, he looked even more delighted than before. He riffled through his sheaf of papers with an expression of intense and pleasurable concentration, then smiled at Mr Nowrojee, who shrank in his chair like a Sparrow cowering in a niche before a gale. Mr Nowrojee had tried at one stage to dissuade Dr Makhijani from reading, but had met with such good-natured outrage that he had had to give in. But having read a copy of the poems earlier in the day, he could not help wishing that the banquet had ended with the apéritif.
‘A Hymn to Mother India,’ said Dr Makhijani sententiously, then beamed at his audience. He leaned forward with the concentration of a burly blacksmith and read his poem through, including the stanza numbers, which he hammered out like horseshoes.
1. Who a child has not seen drinking milk
At bright breasts of Mother, rags she wears or silks?
Love of mild Mother like rain-racked gift of cloud.
In poet’s words, Mother to thee I bow.
2. What poor gift when doctor patient treats.
Hearts he hears but so much his heart bleats?
Where is doctor that can cure my pains?
Why suffers Mother? Where to base the blame?
3. Her raiments rain-drenched with May or Monsoon,
Like Savitri sweet she wins from Yama her sons,
Cheating death with millions of population,
Leading to chaste and virtuous nation.
4. From shore of Kanyakumari to Kashmir,
From tiger of Assam to rampant beast of Gir,
Freedom’s dawn now bathing, laving her face,
Tremble of jetty locks is Ganga’s grace.
5. How to describe bondage of Mother pure
By pervert punies chained through shackles of law?
British cut-throat, Indian smiling and slave:
Such shame will not dispense till a sweating grave.
While reading the above stanza, Dr Makhijani became highly agitated, but he was restored to equanimity by the next one:
6. Let me recall history of heroes proud,
Mother-milk fed their breasts, who did not bow.
Fought they fiercely, carrying worlds of weight,
Establishing firm foundation of Indian state.