by Vikram Seth
Meanwhile, Kedarnath had some success with the jatavs of Salimpur and the villages around; unlike most upper-caste or even comparatively lower-caste Hindus, he did not refuse to eat with them, and they knew through their relatives or acquaintances in Brahmpur, such as Jagat Ram of Ravidaspur, that he was one of the few footwear traders in Misri Mandi who treated their caste-brethren tolerably well. Nor had Mahesh Kapoor, unlike L.N. Agarwal with his police charge, done anything to dilute their natural affinity for the Congress. Veena for her part continued to go from house to house and village to village with the Congress women’s committees to canvass for her father. She was glad of the work, and she was glad that her father was once again immersed in his campaign. It took his mind off matters which would have been too painful to contemplate. Old Mrs Tandon was running Prem Nivas these days, and Bhaskar was staying there. Veena missed him, but there was nothing she could do about it.
The race was now almost a straight contest between Nehru’s old comrade-in-arms and the lackey of the reactionary Nawab Sahib; or, equally plausibly, between the father of the villainous Maan and the stout and faithful Waris.
The walls of both Baitar and Salimpur were covered with handbills carrying Nehru’s portrait, many defaced with a large green bicycle, whose two wheels covered his two eyes. Waris had been appalled by Nehru’s remarks about his master, whom he revered, and he was determined to avenge both that verbal attack and Maan’s physical attack on the gallant Firoz. He was not excessively nice about his methods. He would use legitimate means where he could, and anything else where he could not. He coaxed money out of the tight-fisted munshi, he threw feasts and distributed sweets and liquor, he coerced whoever he could and cajoled whoever he could, he promised whatever was necessary, he took the Nawab Sahib’s name and God’s, certain that he was speaking on their joint behalf and heedless of the possibility of their future disapproval. Maan, whom he had once instinctively liked and who had proved such a false and dangerous friend, was his arch-enemy. But now, after the disruptive magic of the Nehruvian wand, Waris could not be certain that he would defeat his father.
On the day before the election, when it would be too late for any effective refutation, appeared a small handbill in Urdu, printed in the thousands on flimsy pink paper. It carried a black border. It appeared to have no author. There was no printer’s name at the bottom. It announced that Firoz had died the previous night, and called upon all faithful people, in his grieving father’s name, to cast their vote in such a way as to express their indignation against the author of this great misfortune. The murderer even now walked the streets of Brahmpur, free on bail, free to strangle more helpless Muslim women and slaughter the flower of Muslim manhood. Where could such an abomination occur, such a prostitution of the ideals of justice, than under Congress Raj? It was being said that no matter who or what stood for election as a Congress candidate—even a lamp post or a dog—they would be bound to win. But the people of this constituency should not vote for the shameless lamp post or the foul dog. They should remember that if Mahesh Kapoor got into power, no one’s life or honour would be safe.
The fatal flier—for such it was intended to be—appeared, as befitted its flimsiness, to travel on the wind; for by that evening, when all overt electioneering had ceased, it had found its way to almost every village in the constituency. The next day was the vote, and it was too late to suppress or counter the lie.
17.36
‘Whose wife are you?’ asked Sandeep Lahiri, who was Presiding Officer at one of the many polling stations in Salimpur.
‘How can I take his name?’ asked the burqa-clad woman in a shocked whisper. ‘It is written on that slip of paper which I gave you before you left the room just now.’
Sandeep looked down at the slip of paper, then once more at the voting list. ‘Fakhruddin? You are Fakhruddin’s wife? From the village Noorpur Khurd?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘You have four children, don’t you?’
‘Yes, yes, yes.’
‘Out!’ said Sandeep sternly. He had already ascertained that the real woman in question had two children. Strictly speaking, he should have handed the woman over to the police, but he didn’t feel her offence merited such stern action. Only once had he had recourse to the police in this election. That had been a few days earlier when a drunken man in Rudhia had threatened a member of his polling party and had tried to tear up a copy of the electoral rolls.
Sandeep enjoyed being away from Brahmpur. His work in the Department of Mines was dull and desk-bound compared to his earlier responsibilities out in the subdivision. This election work—though for the most part also performed at a desk—provided a refreshing respite, and he got to see once again the areas that, for all their backwardness, he had grown to feel such affection for. He looked around the room at a torn map of India and a chart of the Hindi alphabet. The polling station happened to be in a local school.
There were sounds of an argument from the adjoining classroom, where the men’s booth was located. Sandeep got up to find out what the matter was and was faced with an unusual sight. A beggar who had no hands was intent on casting his vote, and on doing so unaided by anyone. He refused to be accompanied into the curtained area, insisting that the officer would reveal whom he had voted for. The polling officer was arguing with him, but to no avail, and the flow of voters had halted outside the classroom while voices rose hotly from within. The beggar said that the polling officer should fold his ballot paper for him and put it between his teeth. Then he himself would go behind the curtain and insert it in the box of his choice.
‘I can’t do that,’ said the officer.
‘Why not?’ insisted the beggar. ‘Why should I let you come in with me? How do I know you are not one of the Nawab Sahib’s spies? Or the Minister’s?’ he added hastily.
Sandeep made a quiet gesture to the polling officer, indicating that he should allow the man’s request. The beggar performed his electoral duty for both Parliament and the Legislative Assembly. When he emerged for the second time, he gave the officer a contemptuous snort. The officer was quite miffed.
‘Wait a second,’ said another officer. ‘We forgot to mark you with the ink.’
‘You’ll recognize me if you see me again,’ said the beggar.
‘Yes, but you might try to vote somewhere else. It’s a rule. Everyone has to have their left forefinger marked.’
The beggar snorted again. ‘Find my left forefinger,’ he said.
The entire polling party appeared to be held at bay by one man. ‘I have the answer to that,’ Sandeep told his officer with a smile, turned to a page of his instructions, and read out:
‘Any reference in this rule or in rule 23 to the left fore-finger of an elector shall, in the case where the elector has his left fore-finger missing, be construed as a reference to any other finger of his left hand, and shall, in the case where all the fingers of his left hand are missing, be construed as a reference to the fore-finger or any other finger of his right hand, and shall, in the case where all his fingers of both the hands are missing, be construed as a reference to such extremity of his left or right arm as he possesses.’
He dipped the glass rod into the phial of ink, and smiled weakly at the beggar, who, defeated by the labyrinthine brains of the Raj-trained drafters of the Ministry of Law, held out his left stump with very bad grace.
Polling was fairly brisk. By noon, about three in every ten names on the voting list had been crossed off. After an hour’s break for lunch came the second four-hour voting period. By the time the polls closed at five, fifty-five per cent or so of those eligible to vote at that polling station had cast their votes. This represented a very good turnout, Sandeep thought. He knew from his experience of the last few days that—contrary to what he had expected—the urban turnout in most areas was lower than the rural one.
At five o’clock, the school gates were closed, and signed paper slips were given to those already in the queue. When they too had cas
t their votes, the slits of the ballot boxes were closed with a paper seal, and stamped with a red seal of lac. The polling agents of the various candidates added their own seals. Sandeep made arrangements for the ballot boxes to be locked in the schoolroom overnight and posted a guard over them. The next day these boxes, along with others, were taken under the care of the SDO of Salimpur to the Collectorate at Rudhia, where they were locked up, together with ballot boxes that had begun to arrive from all over the district, in the government treasury.
Because the voting itself had been staggered, the counting of votes too was staggered, with the constituencies that had gone to the polls first being counted first. Some of the polling parties now became counting parties. As a result of this schedule, seven to ten days generally elapsed between the poll and the count in a typical constituency in Purva Pradesh in the General Elections of 1952.
These were days of tormenting anxiety for any candidate who fancied that he or she might have a chance of winning. Certainly, it was so for Waris Khan, though no one would have thought it would be otherwise. But despite his many other anxieties, it was true for Mahesh Kapoor as well.
Part Eighteen
18.1
Lata was not an active participant in the dramatic events of January. She reflected, however, on Meenakshi’s prediction, or at least expectation, of excitement in the New Year. Had Brahmpur been Calcutta and Savita’s family hers, Meenakshi could not have been entirely disappointed by events: a stabbing, a scandal, a death, a vicious election—and all in a family that was for the most part used to nothing more exciting than strong words between a mother and a daughter—or stronger words between a father and a son.
This was the term that would culminate in her final exams. Each day Lata attended her lectures, her mind only half on what was being said about old novels and older plays. Most of her fellow-students, including Malati, were concentrating on their studies; there were very few extracurricular activities, certainly no plays or anything that required an investment of time. The weekly meetings of the Brahmpur Literary Society continued as before, but Lata had no heart to attend them. Maan had very recently been released from prison on bail, which was a relief but it appeared that the final charge-sheet was going to be more serious than they had come to hope it might.
Lata enjoyed managing Uma, who was a very obliging baby, and whose smiles made her forget that there was a sorrowing or troubled world around her. The baby had inexhaustible energy, and a determined grip on life, her surroundings, and any hair within reach. She had taken to singing and to dictatorially thumping the edge of her wicker cot.
Uma, Lata noticed, had a pacifying effect on Savita and even on Pran. Her father, when he dandled her in his arms, was unconscious for a few moments of his own father—smarting between grief and anger; or his brother, caught equally in the toils of love and the law; or his wife; or his late mother; or his own health and work and ambitions. Pran had learned ‘The Lady Baby’ by heart, and would declaim it to Uma from time to time. Mrs Rupa Mehra, who had undertaken enormous quantities of winter knitting, would look up, half delighted and half suspicious, whenever Pran began one of his recitations.
Kabir had made no attempt to contact Lata in Calcutta. He did not meet her in Brahmpur either. He saw her at the chautha, and once from a distance on the college campus. She looked quietly unapproachable. With all the recent uproar in the press he could imagine that she, like Pran, would be unable to escape endless expressions of sympathy and curiosity from friends, acquaintances, and strangers.
He reflected unhappily that their meetings had always had a somewhat illogical, incomplete, and insubstantial feel about them. They always met for a very short time, were constantly aware of the risk of discovery, and so, even during the brief while that they were together, seemed extremely awkward with each other. Kabir was straightforward in his conversations with everyone except Lata, and he wondered if she too might not be at her most complex and difficult when she was with him.
He did not expect any longer that she would be thinking much about him. Even if she had not been at the unsettled periphery of so many distractions and distresses, he would not have expected it. He could not know she had heard that he had been in Calcutta and had wanted to meet her. He had no idea of Malati’s letter. He too was involved in his studies, and he too had his private sadnesses and consolations. His weekly visit to his mother was an unavoidable sadness—and he found his own solace in whatever interests he could: in playing cricket, for example, or in further news of the Test series with England, the last match of which was still to be played in Madras. Recently, with Mr Nowrojee’s active enthusiasm, he had arranged for the poet Amit Chatterji to come to Brahmpur to read and discuss his work at a meeting of the Brahmpur Literary Society. This was due to take place in the first week of February. He hoped, but did not expect, that Lata would be there. He assumed she had heard of Chatterji’s work.
At ten past five on the appointed day, there was an air of great excitement at 20 Hastings Road. The stuffed chairs with their flowery prints were all occupied. Glasses of water covered with lace doilies stood on the table from which Mr Nowrojee would introduce the speaker and Amit would recite his poetry. Mrs Nowrojee’s rock-like delicacies lurked in a nearby room. The late light fell gently on the translucent skin of Mr Nowrojee, as he looked out with a melancholy tremor at his sundial and wondered why the poet Chatterji had not yet appeared. Kabir was sitting at the back of the room. He was dressed in whites, having just played a friendly match between the History Department and the Eastern India Railway Cricket Club. He had cycled over and was still sweating. The booming poetess, Mrs Supriya Joshi, sniffed the air daintily.
She turned to Mr Makhijani, the patriotic poet.
‘I always feel, Mr Makhijani,’ she murmured in her resonant voice, ‘I always feel—’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr Makhijani fervently. ‘That is the ticket. One must feel. Without feeling, wherefrom would the Muse strike?’
Mrs Supriya Joshi continued: ‘I always feel that one should approach poetry in a spirit of purity. One must have a freshness of mind, a cleanliness of body. One must lave oneself in sparkling springs—’
‘Lave—ah, yes, lave,’ said Mr Makhijani.
‘Genius may be ninety-nine per cent perspiration, but ninety-nine per cent perspiration is the prerogative of genius.’ She looked pleased with her formulation.
Kabir turned to Mrs Supriya Joshi. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I was just playing a match.’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Supriya Joshi.
‘May I say how very glad I was where I happened to be when you read your remarkable poetry a few months ago.’ Kabir beamed at her; she looked smitten. It was not for nothing that he planned to join the diplomatic service. The smell of his sweat had suddenly become aphrodisiac. Indeed, thought Mrs Supriya Joshi, this young man is very good-looking and very courteous.
‘Ah—’ she whispered. ‘Here comes the young master.’ Amit had just entered with Lata and Pran. Mr Nowrojee immediately began to talk to Amit earnestly and inaudibly.
Kabir noticed that Lata was looking around for a place to sit in the crowded room. In the gladness and surprise of seeing her, he did not even wonder why she had come in together with Amit.
He stood up. ‘There’s a place here,’ he said.
Lata’s mouth opened a little and she took in a quick breath. She glanced at Pran, but his back was turned. Without a word, she joined Kabir, squeezing in between him and Mrs Supriya Joshi, who did not look at all pleased. Far too courteous, she thought.
18.2
Mr Nowrojee, now smiling in wintry relief at the distinguished guest and the distinguished audience which included the Proctor, Mr Sorabjee, as well as the eminent Professor Mishra—removed Amit’s doily and his own, and took a sip of water before declaring the meeting open.
He introduced the speaker as ‘not the least of those who have merged the vigour of the West with a sensibility distinctly Indian’ and then proceed
ed to treat his audience to a disquisition on the word ‘sensibility’. Having touched on several senses of the word ‘sensible’, he continued to other adjectives: sensitive, sensile, sensate, sensuous and sensual. Mrs Supriya Joshi grew restless. She said to Mr Makhijani:
‘Such long long speeches he loves to give.’
Her voice carried, and Mr Nowrojee’s cheek, already flushed as a result of his discussion of the last two adjectives, took on a darker tinge of embarrassment.
‘But I do not mean to deprive you of the talents of Amit Chatterji with my own poor meanderings,’ he stated in a stricken manner, sacrificing the brief history of Indian Poetry in English that he had planned to deliver (it was to have climaxed in a triolet to ‘our supreme poetess Toru Dutt’). Mr Nowrojee continued: ‘Mr Chatterji will read a selection of his poems and then answer questions about his work.’
Amit began by saying how pleased he was to be in Brahmpur. The invitation had been extended at a cricket match; he noticed that Mr Durrani, who had invited him, was still dressed for cricket.
Lata looked astonished. Amit had told her when he arrived the previous day from Calcutta that he had been invited by the Literary Society, and Lata had simply assumed that it was Mr Nowrojee who had initiated the process. She turned to Kabir and he shrugged. There was a scent of sweat to him that reminded her of the day when she had watched him practising at the nets. He was behaving all too coolly. Was he like this with this other woman? Well, Lata told herself, two could be cool.