Mahesh Kapoor smiled. Ever since 1937 he had stood from the same urban constituency in the heart of Old Brahmpur – a constituency that included much of Misri Mandi, the home of the shoe trade of the city. Despite his farm and his knowledge of rural affairs – he was the prime mover of a bill to abolish large and unproductive landholdings in the state – it was unimaginable that he would desert his electoral home and choose to contest from a rural constituency. By way of answer, he indicated his garments; the handsome black achkan he was wearing, the tight off-white pyjamas, and the brilliantly embroidered white jutis with their upturned toes would present an incongruous picture in a rice field.
‘Why, nothing is impossible in politics,’ said Sharmaji slowly. ‘After your Zamindari Abolition Bill goes through, you will become a hero throughout the countryside. If you chose, you could become Chief Minister. Why not?’ said Sharmaji generously and warily. He looked around, and his eye fell on the Nawab Sahib of Baitar, who was stroking his beard and looking around perplexedly. ‘Of course, you might lose a friend or two in the process,’ he added.
Mahesh Kapoor, who had followed his glance without turning his head, said quietly: ‘There are zamindars and zamindars. Not all of them tie their friendship to their land. The Nawab Sahib knows that I am acting out of principle.’ He paused, and continued: ‘Some of my own relatives in Rudhia stand to lose their land.’
The Chief Minister nodded at the sermon then rubbed his hands, which were cold. ‘Well, he is a good man,’ he said indulgently. ‘And so was his father,’ he added.
Mahesh Kapoor was silent. The one thing Sharmaji could not be called was rash; and yet here was a rash statement if ever there was one. It was well known th’at the Nawab Sahib‘s father the late Nawab Sahib of Baitar, had been an active member of the Muslim League; and though he had not lived to see the birth of Pakistan, that above all was what he had dedicated his life to.
The tall, grey-bearded Nawab Sahib, noticing four eyes on him gravely raised his cupped hand to his forehead in polite salutation then tilted his head sideways with a quiet smile, as if to congratulate his old friend.
‘You haven‘t seen Firoz and Imtiaz anywhere, have you?’ he asked Mahesh Kapoor, after walking slowly over.
‘No, no - but I haven’t seen my son either, so I assume …
The Nawab Sahib raised his hands slightly, palms forward, in a gesture of helplessness.
After a while he said: ‘So Pran is married and Maan is next. I would imagine you will find him a little less tractable.’
‘Well, tractable or not, there are some people in Banaras I have been talking to,’ said Mahesh Kapoor in a determined tone ‘Maan has met the father. He’s also in the cloth business. We’re making enquiries. Let’s see. And what about your twins? A joint wedding to two sisters?’
‘Let’s see, let’s see,’ said the Nawab Sahib, thinking rather sadly about his wife, buried these many years; ‘Inshallah, all of them will settle down soon enough.’
1.7
‘TO the law,’ said Maan, raising his third glass of Scotch to Firoz who was sitting ons his bed with a glass of his own. Imtiaz was lounging in a stuffed chair and examining the bottle.
‘Thank you,’ said Firoz. ‘But not to new laws, I hope.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, don’t worry, my father’s bill will never pass,’ said Maan. ‘And even if it does, you’ll be much richer than me. Look at me,’ he added, gloomily. ‘I have to work for a living.’
Since Firoz was a lawyer and his brother a doctor, it was not as if they fitted the popular mould of the idle sons of aristocracy.
‘And soon,’ went on Maan, ‘if my father has his way, I’ll have to work on behalf of two people. And later for more. Oh God !’
‘What - your father isn’t getting you married off, is he?’ asked Firoz, halfway between a smile and a frown.
‘Well, the buffer zone disappeared tonight,’ said Maan disconsolately. ‘Have another.’
‘No, no thanks, I still have plenty,’ said Firoz. Firoz enjoyed his drink, but with a slightly guilty feeling; his father would approve even less than Maan’s. ‘So when’s the happy hour?’ he added uncertainly.
‘God knows. It’s at the enquiry stage,’ said Maan.
‘At the first reading,’ Imtiaz added.
For some reason, this delighted Maan. ‘At the first reading?’ he repeated. ‘Well, let‘s hope it never gets to the third reading! And, even if it does, that the President withholds his assent!’