A Division Of The Spoils (Raj Quartet 4) (62 page)

And here he was, Mehboob, Booby, Booby-Sahib, sitting beside him, weighing the Daimler down at the left-hand side.

‘Were there any letters after I left?’ Mr Kasim asked, turning his attention from the window.

‘I have them here,’ Mr Mehboob said. ‘Three are marked personal so I have not opened them. One of them is from Bapu. Another from your daughter, Mrs Hydyatullah.’

‘And the third?’

‘From our indefatigable suppliant, Pandit Baba Sahib.’

‘You could have looked at that. After all
CID
will already have done so.’

The door on Mehboob’s side opened. Ahmed leaned in.

‘Everything is ready,’ he said.

‘Then come along.’

‘I’m going in the escort vehicle.’

‘You would be more comfortable here.’

‘It’s all arranged. An alteration would create confusion.’

Kasim nodded. Ahmed shut the door. The driver got in. Presently the car moved. Kasim closed his eyes and didn’t respond when Mehboob said, ‘Premanagar very depressed area. Here too much erosion, too much poverty, no industry. Government has just abandoned it as hopeless. Here presently we shall have communists, isn’t it? Everyone very bolshie. Why else are they giving us an armed escort?’

Kasim didn’t answer. It was mainly Mehboob’s fault that Ahmed had elected to go in the other vehicle. His younger son and his new secretary had never pulled on well together. Mehboob despised Ahmed for having no political sense; Ahmed was simply indifferent to Mehboob. He was indifferent to everybody. He lived his own life. He was dutiful when it was necessary to be dutiful. But there was no affection. He had seemed to love only his mother. When she died he had acted as if her death need not have happened, and as if he blamed his father for the fact that she died without having seen Sayed again.

‘Give me my daughter’s letter, then,’ he told Mehboob.

‘Light! Light!’ Mehboob instructed the driver.

‘No, no, no light. Just give me the letter. I’ll read it later.’

Mehboob opened his own briefcase, got out some envelopes, leaned forward, putting his face close to them, and eventually handed one to him.

‘Did you notice the post-mark?’

‘Yes, it is from Lahore.’

‘Good. Then she is back from Srinagar.’

‘Also I noticed it had been opened. You can always tell.’

‘And Bapu’s?’

‘This too.’

‘Achchha.’

He held the letter at an angle to the window getting what light he could to confirm his daughter’s handwriting. Politically it didn’t bother him that the Lahore Government had intercepted, opened and read the letter and reported its contents to Delhi. Any letter from his daughter could only strengthen the impression Government had that he was being tempted over to the League. Her husband, Hydyatullah, was now an ardent Leaguist and separatist. She had become one too and a potentially staunch supporter of the
INA,
therefore of Sayed. But privately Kasim was outraged to think that strangers had read the letter. He had never got used to the idea that his personal life was also government property. He folded the letter carefully so that it would fit neatly into the breast pocket of his coat.

‘Did anything else of interest happen after I left Nanoora?’

‘Government House in Ranpur rang confirming your appointment tomorrow, but I think really to make sure that you had left for Premanagar. Also there was a call from
The Statesman’s
man in Ranpur. He asked if it was true that you were now coming back to Ranpur. I told him that if he was exercising patience the truth or otherwise of this rumour would be revealed to him in due course.’

‘You are beginning to talk like Bapu. Was he content with this evasive reply?’

‘He wasn’t pursuing it further at the moment. He said his paper was very much anxious to obtain an exclusive interview. I said exclusive interviews had never been the Minister’s policy.’

‘Did he comment on your using that title?’

‘No. He called you Minister himself, and was seeking favours. He said, “Has the Minister said anything about the Viceroy’s broadcast announcing elections?” I said obviously the Minister has said things about it, all India is saying things and also wondering why really the Viceroy has now flown back to London. So he switched subject. He said, “What is Minister’s view of the reports of the death in an air crash of Subhas Chandra Bose?” ’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said the Minister had read these reports and assumed that they were probably correct.’

‘And his response?’

‘His response was that not everybody assumed this. But he did not pursue it. He was anxious to maintain cordiality and the prospects of an exclusive interview when you get back to Ranpur.’

After a while Kasim said, ‘He did not mention Sayed?’

‘No, Minister. He did not mention him but of course was thinking and wondering. The newspapers are still saying nothing for the moment.’

When Booby called him Minister to his face he always felt himself being flattered in a way that amounted to a rebuke.

*

Light was just beginning to come when they reached the Circuit House. Deliberately he kept his eyes lowered so that he would not inadvertently catch a glimpse of the fort. The compound and the Circuit House itself seemed smaller than he remembered them. A year – nearly fifteen months ago – after imprisonment in the fort the whole landscape and everything in it had looked immense. When the car stopped he said, ‘I wish to see no one for some time. Ask Ahmed to come and collect me when it is confirmed that there is a room for me to go to and be alone. Then I shall wish to bathe and have breakfast.’

‘All that is arranged, Minister. No, no, no, no, no! Wait! Wait!’

Someone had opened the door on Mehboob’s side. The door shut again. In the compound Mr Kasim could see figures of
men, waiting, one of them with a slung rifle. The sight of the man with the rifle unnerved him. The presence of such a man suggested that they had already brought Sayed from the fort.

‘Something is wrong,’ he began.

‘Nothing is wrong, Minister. All arrangements have been checked, double-checked. It is simply that the British always like to put on a show. Here is Ahmed now.’

Mehboob lowered the window and said, ‘Your father is waiting here. Tell them to show you the room and tell them that the Minister will see no one for some time, isn’t it? Also that all these people should disperse. It is like a bloody circus.’

‘Ahmed –’ Kasim said, but Mehboob held up a hand.

‘Your father is not wanting anybody. I am waiting here with him until you tell us everything is as he wishes. Private room and no damned reception committee or all that nonsense.’

Ahmed went. Mehboob rolled the window back up and began to complain about the English weakness for making a
tamasha
of everything. ‘Take all this show away from them and what is left? Look at all these people milling around in the name of security.’

But, Kasim thought,
tamasha
was precisely what the British could most easily dispense with; and presently when the shadowy figures in the compound had mostly disappeared and the man with the rifle had made himself scarce, going down towards the culvert-entrance, when the compound was quiet, unpopulated, he felt more than ever the weight of the
raj’s
authority; and, feeling it, allowed himself to focus clearly on the dawn-image of the fort – on the place, rather, where the silhouette should be, some miles distant but elevated commandingly above the plain on a hill.

He did not at first identify it. And then did, and stared, fascinated by the evidence of its relatively diminutive proportions. It had originally been a Rajput fort. The Muslims had conquered it. It was they who had built the mosque and the zenana house in the inner courtyard where Kasim had spent his imprisonment. The Mahrattas had invested it. The British had acquired it. So much history in so insignificant a monument? Insignificant, that was to say, in relation to the vast stretches of the Indian plain.

He had bathed and shaved. He had prayed. He had had a light breakfast. Now he had read for the planned ten minutes from the works of Gaffur. He put the book away, retained his spectacles and took his daughter’s letter from the table where he had placed it ready. It was dated August 20, six days ago.

‘We reached home yesterday and found your letter which of course had been opened. Guzzy suggests that we should send all our letters unsealed to save them this bother but I said why should we save them bother? If they want to pry into our private affairs let them go to whatever trouble is necessary. Tomorrow we are having a party to listen to Wavell on the radio which I expect will be the usual guff, everyone knows he is going to announce elections. Guzzy says he has no alternative but that the results will surprise him and force him to recognize the reality of the problems that divide the country. We were glad to get away from Kashmir. On
VJ
day people excelled themselves. The place was packed with British and Americans and the drunkenness and vulgarity had to be seen to be believed. I am sorry, daddy, that we could not break off to go down to Pankot. Poor old Mahsoodi. I cried all night after getting your telegram (I hope you got mine? Your letter does not say).

‘Poor Sayed has at last been allowed to answer my last letter to him but of course it tells me nothing that is necessary to hear. He writes mostly of childhood recollections. Please, daddy, write to him. He says little but I know he is hurt never to have heard from you and blames Government since this is the only explanation he can find as a dutiful and loving son much devoted to his father. He asks me to tell you to thank Ahmed for his last note. Soon I hope you will write and tell me you are back home for good in Ranpur. Then perhaps Guzzy and I can visit you and bring the children. I never liked coming
to Nanoora since I knew you didn’t like being there but stuck it out. Also it was bad having to get permission, even when darling mummy was so ill. Guzzy and I were much amused by the picture in the newspaper of the Governor’s stonelaying ceremony in Ranpur. You looked very bored and distinguished, as Guzzy said “Like a man keeping his own counsel.” I was very proud. In pictures so many people just look like hangers on. Your loving daughter.’

He refolded the letter and returned it to its envelope, opened his briefcase and put the envelope inside, then the book of Gaffur’s poems, then his Astrakhan cap. From the briefcase he took the white Congress cap. In the old days he had been criticized for wearing it. It had not been worn for months. It was necessary to wear it now. He placed it on his head. The crown of thorns. It was nearly eight o’clock. At eight, promptly, Mehboob knocked and came in and stood arrested. Mehboob had never seen him wearing the cap, except presumably years ago before they were closely associated.

‘It is eight o’clock, Minister,’ Booby said. ‘They are here.’

‘And Sayed?’

‘I have not seen Sayed, but they assure me he is here. He is probably still in the compound.’

‘Has he breakfasted?’

‘I will go and ask, Minister.’

‘Please! Do not call me that. And by all means go and ask. It should not be necessary but do it now. You should think of these things. You should anticipate my questions. They have probably pulled him from his bed and brought him here without even asking him if he wants a cup of tea.’

‘I will find out –’

‘Yes, yes! Find out! I will see nobody until I am assured he has breakfasted. It should all have been thought of.’

Mehboob went. Kasim, after a moment, covered his face with his hands and whispered: ‘Glory be to You who made Your servant go by night from the Sacred Mosque to the Farther mosque. Praise be to Allah who has never begotten a son, who has no partner in His Kingdom, who needs none to defend Him from humiliation.’

*

When Mehboob came back his pale copper-coloured face was flushed. ‘I am unable to find out whether Sayed has breakfasted,’ he announced.

‘What has made you so angry?’

‘It is impossible dealing with such people. They cannot answer even civil questions. They treat everybody like dirt.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Two English subalterns wearing revolvers. They are in the court-room, feet on the table and smirking and hardly bothering to reply.’

‘Only these two?’

‘There are also the people who were here when we arrived, a police inspector and another young Englishman who is assistant to the Divisional Commissioner. But they are only local, in charge of the general arrangements. They have nothing to do with the party coming from the fort.’

There was a knock on the door. Mehboob opened it just sufficiently to see who it was.

An English voice said, ‘The party is fully present now but the senior conducting officer would appreciate a preliminary word with Mr Kasim.’

‘Who is that?’ Kasim called out. Mehboob opened the door wider. A young English civilian stepped in.

‘Good-morning, sir. My name’s Everett. I’m assistant to Mr Harding, the Divisional Commissioner. He asked me to apologize for not being here himself. I hope the arrangements have been all right, so far?’

‘Thank you, Mr Everett. Perfectly satisfactory. Is Lieutenant Kasim here now?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘He was not a moment ago and my secretary had difficulty in getting an answer to the question whether he had breakfasted properly.’

‘Yes, I know. That was unfortunate. But I’ve just asked the senior conducting officer myself and he assures me your son had a good breakfast.’

‘And the senior conducting officer wants to have a word with me?’

‘Yes, if that’s all right –’, Everett broke off because Ahmed tapped at the open door and now came in–, ‘and if it might be in private.’

‘I’ll let you know. I’ll send word.’

Everett went out, closing the door.