A Suitable Boy

1.6

Her lord and master the Minister of Revenue was meanwhile accepting

congratulations from the Chief Minister of Purva Pradesh, Shri S.S. Sharma.

Sharmaji was rather a hulking man with a perceptible limp and an unconscious

and slight vibration of the head, which was exacerbated when, as now, he had

had a long day. He ran the state with a mixture of guile, charisma and

benevolence. Delhi was far away and rarely interested in his legislative and administrative fief. Though he was uncommunicative about his discussion with

his Home Minister, he was nevertheless in good spirits.

Noticing the rowdy kids from Rudhia, he said in his slightly nasal voice to

Mahesh Kapoor:

‘So you’re cultivating a rural constituency for the coming elections?’

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 up-turned 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

that 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 inquiries. 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.’