'Ah!' said Motu Chand, getting a glimpse of his meaning. Ishaq was not a bad fellow, but he appeared to get a cruel pleasure from worsting Motu Chand in an argument.
'Gut,' said Ishaq. 'These strings are made of gut. As you well know. And the front of a sarangi is made of skin. The hide of a dead animal. Now what would your brahmins of Brahmpur say if they were forced to touch it ? Would they not be polluted by it ?'
Motu Chand looked downcast, then rallied. 'Anyway, I'm not a brahmin, you know …' he began.
'Don't tease him,' said Saeeda Bai to Ishaq Khan.
'I love the fat kafir too much to want to tease him,' said Ishaq Khan.
This was not true. Since Motu Chand was of an alarmingly equable bent of mind, what Ishaq Khan liked more than anything else was to upset his balance. But this time Motu Chand reacted in an irksomely philosophical manner.
'Khan Sahib is very kind,' he said. 'But sometimes even the ignorant have wisdom, and he would be the first to acknowledge this. Now for me the sarangi is not what it is made of but what it makes - these divine sounds. In the hands of an artist even this gut and this skin can be made to sing.' His face wreathed with a contented, almost Sufi, smile. 'After all, what are we all but gut and skin ? And yet'- his forehead creased with concentration - 'in the hands of one who - the One….'
But the maid now came in with the sweets and Motu Chand's theological meanderings halted. His plump and agile fingers quickly reached for a laddu as round as himself and popped it whole into his mouth.
After a while Saeeda Bai said, 'But we were not discussing the One above' - she pointed upwards - 'but the One
146to the West.' She pointed in the direction of Old Brahmpur.
'They are the same,' said Ishaq Khan. 'We pray both westwards and upwards. I am sure Ustad Majeed Khan would not take it amiss if we were mistakenly to turn to him in prayer one evening. And why not?' he ended ambiguously. 'When we pray to such lofty art, we are praying to God himself.' He looked at Motu Chand for approval, but Motu appeared to be either sulking or concentrating on his laddu.
The maid re-entered and announced: 'There is some trouble at the gate.'
Saeeda Bai looked more interested than alarmed.
'What sort of trouble, Bibbo ?' she asked.
The maid looked at her cheekily and said, 'It seems that a young man is quarrelling with the watchman.'
'Shameless thing, wipe that expression off your face,' said Saeeda Bai. 'Hmm,' she went on, 'what does he look like?'
'How would I know, Begum Sahiba?' protested the maid.
'Don't be troublesome, Bibbo. Does he look respectable ?'
'Yes,' admitted the maid. 'But the street-lights were not bright enough for me to see anything more.'
'Call the watchman,' said Saeeda Bai. 'There's only us here,' she added, as the maid looked hesitant.
'But the young man ?' asked the maid.
'If he's as respectable as you say, Bibbo, he'll remain outside.'
'Yes, Begum Sahiba,' said the maid and went to do her bidding.
'Who do you think it could be ?' mused Saeeda Bai aloud, and was silent for a minute.
The watchman entered the house, left his spear at the front entrance, and climbed heavily up the stairs to the gallery. He stood at the doorway of the room where they were sitting, and saluted. With his khaki turban, khaki uniform, thick boots and bushy moustache, he was corn-
147pletely out of place in that femininely furnished room. But he did not seem at all ill at ease.
'Who is this man and what does he want ?' asked Saeeda Bai.
'He wants to come in and speak with you,' said the watchman phlegmatically.
'Yes, yes, I thought as much - but what is his name ?'
'He won't say, Begum Sahiba. Nor will he take no for an answer. Yesterday too he came, and told me to give you a message, but it was so impertinent, I decided not to.'
Saeeda Bai's eyes flashed. 'You decided not to ?' she asked.
'The Raja Sahib was here,' said the watchman calmly.
'Hmmh. And the message ?'
'That he is one who lives in love,' said the watchman impassively.
He had used a different word for love and had thus lost the pun on Prem Nivas.
'One who lives in love ? What can he mean ?' remarked Saeeda Bai to Motu and Ishaq. The two looked at each other, Ishaq Khan with a slight smirk of disdain.
'This world is populated by donkeys,' said Saeeda Bai, but whom she was referring to was unclear. 'Why didn't he leave a note? So those were his exact words? Neither very idiomatic nor very witty.'
The watchman searched his memory and came out with a closer approximation to the actual words Maan had used the previous evening. At any rate, 'prem' and 'nivas' both figured in his sentence.
All three musicians solved the riddle immediately.
'Ah!' said Saeeda Bai, amused. 'I think I have an admirer. What do you say ? Shall we let him in ? Why not ?'
Neither of the others demurred - as, indeed, how could they ? The watchman was told to let the young man in. And Bibbo was told to tell Tasneem to stay in her room.
148*
2.13
MAAN, who was fretting by the gate, could hardly believe his good fortune at being so speedily admitted. He felt a surge of gratitude towards the watchman and pressed a rupee into his hand. The watchman left him at the door of the house, and the maid pointed him up to the room.
As Maan's footsteps were heard in the gallery outside Saeeda Bai's room, she called out, 'Come in, come in, Dagh Sahib. Sit down and illumine our gathering.'
Maan stood outside the door for a second, and looked at Saeeda Bai. He was smiling with pleasure, and Saeeda Bai could not help smiling back at him. He was dressed simply and immaculately in a well-starched white kurtapyjama. The fine chikan embroidery on his kurta complemented the embroidery on his fine white cotton cap. His shoes - slip-on jutis of soft leather, pointed at the toe were also white.
'How did you come ?' asked Saeeda Bai.
'I walked.'
'These are fine clothes to risk in the dust.'
Maan said simply, 'It is just a few minutes away.'
'Please - sit down.'
Maan sat cross-legged on the white-sheeted floor.
Saeeda Bai began to busy herself making paan. Maan looked at her wonderingly.
'I came yesterday too, but was less fortunate.'
'I know, I know,' said Saeeda Bai. 'My fool of a watchman turned you away. What can I say ? We are not all blessed with the faculty of discrimination '
'But I'm here today,' said Maan, rather obviously.
'Wherever Dagh has sat down, he has sat down ?' asked Saeeda Bai, with a smile. Her head was bent, and she was spreading a little white dab of lime on the paan leaves.
'He may not quit your assembly at all this time,' said Maan.
Since she was not looking directly at him, he could look at her without embarrassment. She had covered her head with her sari before he had come in. But the soft, smooth
149skin of her neck and shoulders was exposed, and Maan found the tilt of her neck as she bent over her task indescribably charming.
Having made a pair of paans she impaled them on a little silver toothpick with tassels, and offered them to him. He took them and put them in his mouth, pleasantly surprised at the taste of coconut, which was an ingredient Saeeda Bai was fond of adding to her paan.
'I see you are wearing your own style of Gandhi cap,' said Saeeda Bai, after popping a couple of paans into her mouth. She did not offer any to Ishaq Khan or Motu Chand, but then they seemed to have virtually melted into the background.
Maan touched the side of his embroidered white cap nervously, unsure of himself.
'No, no, Dagh Sahib, don't trouble yourself. This isn't a church, you know.' Saeeda Bai looked at him and said, 'I was reminded of other white caps one sees floating around in Brahmpur. The heads that wear them have grown taller recently.'
'I am afraid you are going to accuse me of the accident of my birth,' said Maan.
'No, no,' said Saeeda Bai. 'Your father has been an old patron of the arts. It is the other Congress-wallahs I was thinking of.'
'Perhaps I should wear a cap of a different colour the next time I come,' said Maan.
Saeeda Bai raised an eyebrow.
'Assuming I am ushered into your presence,' Maan added humbly.
Saeeda Bai thought to herself: What a well-brought-up young man. She indicated to Motu Chand that he should bring the tablas and harmonium that were lying in the corner of the room.
To Maan she said, 'And now what does Hazrat Dagh command us to sing ?'
'Why, anything,' said Maan, throwing banter to the winds.
'Not a ghazal, I hope,' said Saeeda Bai, pressing down a
150r
key on the harmonium to help the tabla and sarangi tune up.
'No ?' asked Maan, disappointed.
'Ghazals are for open gatherings or the intimacy of lovers,' said Saeeda Bai. Til sing what my family is best known for and what my Ustad best taught me.'
She began a thumri in Raag Pilu, 'Why then are you not speaking to me ?' and Maan's face brightened up. As she sang he floated off into a state of intoxication. The sight of her face, the sound of her voice, and the scent of her perfume were intertwined in his happiness.
After two or three thumris and a dadra, Saeeda Bai indicated that she was tired, and that Maan should leave.
He left reluctantly, showing, however, more good humour than reluctance. Downstairs, the watchman found a five-rupee note pressed into his hand.
Out on the street Maan trod on air.
She will sing a ghazal for me sometime, he promised himself. She will, she certainly will.
2.14
IT was Sunday morning. The sky was bright and clear. The weekly bird market near the Barsaat Mahal was in full swing. Thousands of birds - mynas, partridges, pigeons, parakeets - fighting birds, eating birds, racing birds, talking birds - sat or fluttered in iron or cane cages in little stalls from which rowdy hawkers cried out the excellence and cheapness of their wares. The pavement had been taken over by the bird market, and buyers or passers-by like Ishaq had to walk on the road surface, bumping against rickshaws and bicycles and the occasional tonga.
There was even a pavement stall with books about birds. Ishaq picked up a flimsy, blunt-typed paperback about owls and spells, and looked idly through to see what uses this unlucky bird could be put to. It appeared to be a book of Hindu black magic, The Tantra of Owls, though it was printed in Urdu. He read :
151Sovereign Remedy to Obtain Employment Take the tail-feathers of an owl and a crow, and burn them together in a fire made from mango wood until they form ash. Place this ash on your forehead like a caste-mark when you go to seek employment, and you will most certainly obtain it.
He frowned and read on :
Method of Keeping a Woman in Your Power If you want to keep a woman in your control, and wish to prevent her from coming under the influence of anyone else, then use the technique described below :
Take the blood of an owl, the blood of a jungle fowl and the blood of a bat in equal proportions, and after smearing the mixture on your penis have intercourse with the woman. Then she will never desire another man.'
Ishaq felt almost sick. These Hindus! he thought. On an impulse he bought the book, deciding that it was an excellent means of provoking his friend Motu Chand.
'I have one on vultures as well,' said the bookseller helpfully.
'No, this is all I want,' said Ishaq, and walked on.
He stopped at a stall where a large number of tiny, almost formless grey-green balls of stubbly flesh lay imprisoned in a hooped cage.
'Ah!' he said.
His look of interest had an immediate effect on the white-capped stall-keeper, who appraised him, glancing at the book in his hand.
'These are not ordinary parakeets, Huzoor, these are hill parakeets, Alexandrine parakeets as the English sahibs say.'
The English had left more than three years ago, but Ishaq let it pass.
'I know, I know,' he said.
'I can tell an expert when I see one,' said the stall-keeper
152.in a most friendly manner. 'Now, why not have this one? Only two rupees - and it will sing like an angel.'
'A male angel or a female angel ?' said Ishaq severely.
