A Fine Family: A Novel Read online

  The servant brought in his polished shoes and helped him put them on. Then he assisted him with his waistcoat. It was time to put on the turban, an important moment, so all political thoughts were suspended. He wore his turban in a particular fashion which he had acquired as a youth from a stylish judge whom he admired when he first set up his practice in Lyallpur. He made one, two and then three turns around his head with the starched white cloth. And it was done. The servant offered him a silk handkerchief and his gold watch. He glanced at the mirror as he was leaving and was pleased with what he saw, especially by the trim moustache. He felt that he looked like a man of substance, which reflected his own view of himself. He smiled at this thought and marched off briskly to his office rooms on the ground floor.

  His chambers were normally airy and bright. The whitewashed walls shone as the brilliant sunshine streamed in through the open window, which the servant opened daily when he came to dust in the morning. In the summers, espedally before the monsoon, they became too bright; so a straw mat of khus-khus grass was thrown across the window which cut the glare; periodically, cold water poured over the mat kept the room cool. The white fan on the ceiling drculated the cool air.

  To Bauji’s relief, his Munshi was not present, and so there wasn’t any bad news to start the day. The energetic Munshi delighted in showing him the ledgers first, and insisted on depressing him with a detailed account of all the debts which had not been paid. He never volunteered information on the other side—the income which had been received from numerous urban and rural properties.

  On an impulse, he pushed aside the straw curtain and looked out of the window. The brightness hurt his eyes at first. As they got accustomed to it he felt the same luminous quiet in the air caused by the blazing midday sun.

  He turned around, and for an instant luxuriated in the contrasting sensation produced by the cool and dark room. He walked over to his desk. Before sitting down, he gently felt the minute carving on the dark Burma teak chair. It had a woven cane bottom, which had been periodically restrung. He had got the chair twenty years ago when he had been a ‘promising young lawyer’, much talked about in the courts and in the club, because of two sensational murder cases that he had won in quick succession. The chair had been ordered from the fees of the first case. Every evening he had begun to visit the club to play tennis and bridge, and to talk. He used to enjoy being made much of, and felt he was one of the fortunate people alive.

  While he was no longer a ‘promising young man’, he was aware of his considerable achievements and public successes. He continued to be highly respected in the town and in his profession. He felt that he was much freer from the vanity, animosity and envy of his younger days. His bodily and mental powers, though, were somewhat diminished. His instincts especially were not as sharp as they used to be. But he certainly was not lacking in manly drives—in lustful passion, in moral indignation, in ambition and assertive-ness. However, he suffered less and less from the tyranny of these drives. There were exceptions, of course, such as during Karan’s visit.

  The first awareness of his loss in youthful vitality had been accompanied by a hurt to his narcissistic pride—especially when he compared himself to Karan. But that feeling was mostly behind him, although it could flare up on occasion when Karan came to visit. He had begun to deal with his age and his mortality. With the recognition of his own vulnerability had emerged a new empathy and compassion. The suffering of others had started to have a new meaning.

  He sat down to read the daily papers that were meticulously folded on his desk. After three-quarters-of-an-hour his reading was interrupted by the smell of onions and garlic frying in the kitchen upstairs. Soon the aroma of a dozen spices joined in, and he knew that the cook was putting the finishing touches to the roasted aubergine that Bhabo had ordered last night. He felt hungry.

  He liked to eat and feed his family well. That is why he personally selected fresh vegetables on the way back from his morning walk to the Company Bagh. Unfortunately, the cooking left much to be desired. Perhaps because there were too many in the house—at any time there were twenty to thirty mouths to feed, including servants, relatives and friends. Any visitor to Lyallpur from his village felt it his right to stopat his house for a meal before returning to the village. Sometimes he felt that Bhabo had extra food cooked in order to serve leftovers to the poor. He didn’t mind feeding the poor, but why must they eat the same food as the rest of the family?

  To the earlier smells was now added the aroma of baked rotis, fresh out of the tandoor. And he knew lunch was ready. Fortunately, when it came to bread, there was no compromise because it was made by Bhua. Twenty years ago an impoverished widow from a ‘decent family’ in his village had arrived at his doorstep. He had given her shelter temporarily; but she had shown such skill in making rotis that she had stayed on. She had built a magnificent four-feet-tall tandoor out of baked clay. And she personally went to the bazaar to select the charcoal which was burned inside, and the whole wheat flour which she kneaded into dough. She began to address Bauji as ‘younger brother’ and she had become a member of the family.

  He got up and walked towards the dining room. At Big Uncle’s insistence a few years ago, they had converted one of the east rooms into a dining room, but he hadn’t liked the idea. The food always got cold by the time it reached them from the kitchen. It was a new fashionable idea amongst their class, which they had learned from the English. Since most of Big Uncle’s college friends ate in a dining room, they too had to eat in one. He much preferred eating in or near the kitchen. In the winters, they still ate in the kitchen, where it was nice and warm.

  About twenty famished people were already assembled eagerly waiting for their brass thalis to be filled with food when he reached the dining room. Apart from the immediate family, there were nephews, grandsons, aunts, friends of nephews, friends of friends, and a few others whose faces he did not recognize. But he hoped someone did. It became quiet as soon as he entered. The older people from the village had not joined in, as they felt uncomfortable sitting at a table; they ate near the kitchen on a straw mat. The meal started quietly and proceeded uneventfully. Just as he was about to remark on the delicate quality of the lentils, Bhabo suddenly burst out, ‘I am getting tired of your clients knocking down the door in the middle of the night when all godly people are fast asleep. The night before last we had a dozen from Akalgarh. We had to cook for them at midnight and prepare their beds. Is this some kind of inn? And would you believe it, one of them even complained about the salt in the food!’

  Since Bauji was in no mood to spoil his lunch over a subject they had discussed for the past twenty years, he merely smiled and concentrated on the aubergine. As the silence was uncomfortable, the others also smiled. But he felt contrite; he sympathized with poor Bhabo’s problem. It had become customary for a successful lawyer to feed and house his out-of-town clients. The lawyer more than made up for his trouble through his fees. It had probably started because there were no inns or hotels in Lyallpur. Even if there had been, rural clients were unwilling to stay at impersonal places. But this situation was getting out of hand because a client didn’t come alone; he sometimes brought half the village along, and they often stayed for weeks. The villagers were quite happy to enjoy the sights of the city free of cost, and were more than willing to offer false testimony in return. Bauji wanted to end this practice at his house, but he did not know how to do it. He was willing to lose the business, but he didn’t want his actions to reflect a lack of hospitality in the eyes of the world. Big Uncle, who sometimes returned late at night, would tell everyone the next morning how many beds he had found outside each lawyer’s house in the neighbourhood. It had become a status symbol and the number of charpais reflected a lawyer’s prosperity and standing.

  Bauji’s eyes fell on his fat and bald nephew, Megh Nath, who was sitting diagonally across to his left, and who happened to belch at that moment. Bauji scowled. But the thick-skinned Megh Nath did not take n
otice and continued eating. Belching was traditionally a mark of appreciation of the food, and no one thought anything of it, except the younger children who glanced at each other and tittered. When they saw Bauji’s disapproving look, their smiles quickly faded. Bauji intensely disliked his greedy nephew.

  ‘I hear you are becoming a rich man, Megh Nath,’ said Bauji. There was a rumour that his nephew had recently multiplied his land holdings by driving out peasant proprietors, and replacing them with tenants. The rumour had gained credence because he had invested his ill-gotten gains in a grain shop in the Lyallpur wholesale market.

  ‘It is God’s will, heh. . . heh. . . heh. I merely fulfil my dharma. I give all I earn back to God.’ Megh Nath was also famous for his donations to temples.

  ‘Was it God’s wish that you should bribe the Sessions Judge last week?’ asked Bauji.

  ‘What bribe?’ asked Megh Nath looking sweetly innocent.

  ‘I was told that the Sessions Judge received a hundred oranges last Thursday.’

  ‘Oh, it was merely a small goodwill gesture from my orchards in Rampur,’ said Megh Nath unctuously.

  ‘Ah. . . I see. It was merely coincidental that your case was to be heard the next day.’

  Megh Nath smiled sanctimoniously.

  ‘But your orchard does not grow oranges, Megh Nath. Those oranges were bought in the wholesale market.’

  ‘Heh. . . heh. . . heh. How can a judge tell where an orange comes from? It is all God’s creation.’

  ‘This judge apparently can tell the difference. And it seems he does not approve of bribes either. So you do have a problem, nephew,’ said Bauji, smiling sardonically at his nephew. He was trying hard to control his temper. He saw a hint of worry on his crooked nephew’s imperturbable brow, and he was pleased.

  ‘By the way, what is your case all about?’

  ‘Oh the usual tenancy troubles, Bauji. As a matter of fact I wanted to take your advice.’ Megh Nath was relieved that the subject had changed from oranges. Everyone knew that he only visited Bauji’s house when he was looking for free legal advice.

  ‘Does it by any chance concern a certain widow named Bibi Pritam Kaur, dear nephew?’

  For the first time Megh Nath’s face changed colour. After a short pause, he asked, ‘How did you know, Bauji?’

  ‘She happens to be my client, nephew.’ Bauji smiled.

  ‘Disgraceful!’ interrupted Bhabo. ‘Bauji, how can you side-against your own flesh and blood? And against such a god-fearing, religious man like Megh Nath, who does puja daily, who visits all the temples, who bathes in the Ganges every year. It’s not right.’

  ‘It so happens that our pious nephew has fabricated evidence and collected false witnesses for the purpose of depriving this widow of her sole means of livelihood.’

  ‘I still think it is wrong to go against your own in public, whatever the case,’ said Bhabo. ‘Now enough of these matters. Enjoy your food, and let the others do the same.’ From Bauji her eyes turned to Megh Nath. ‘You are not eating properly, nephew. What can I pass you? We seem to be forgetting how to treat a guest in this house. And tell us about your last pilgrimage.’

  As his nephew launched on a pious and long-winded account of his latest religious pilgrimage, Bauji realized that neither his sarcasm nor the exposure of his evil ways was likely to have any effect on his two-faced relative. Megh Nath had a powerful following among the conservative members of the family, and especially those who still lived in the village. In their eyes, Megh Nath was like a god who could do no wrong. They talked incessantly about him: how he woke up before dawn, bathed with cold water both in the summer and the winter, and sat down to puja for two hours; how he was a strict vegetarian, and ate only one meal a day; how he spent months on pilgrimages; how he was constantly donating money to temples. He was held up to be a model and admired by many, including Bhabo.

  For this reason Bauji knew that he had a delicate problem on his hands. The conservative side of the family would certainly condemn him, if he publicly defended the widow in court against his own nephew. They would regard it as a betrayal. Yet Bauji was determined not to let this insincere man get away. He would have to be careful with his family. And the opinion and the esteem of his family mattered to Bauji. As he was a successful man, Bauji too could count on the support of many family members whom he had fed and looked after all these years. As a man of the world he had also learned to manipulate opinion in his favour. Bauji knew that he had a formidable adversary, and he never underestimated an opponent.

  Bauji felt disgusted with a religion that could not only condone but praise evil men like Megh Nath, who brought incalculable suffering to poor vulnerable widows. What kind of religion was it, he questioned, that not only accepted the wicked gains of such men, but held them up as models of social behaviour? It was people like Megh Nath and their supporters, who gave a bad name to all Indians in the eyes of the English. It was no wonder that English magistrates distrusted the testimony of all Indian witnesses. When every second witness was willing to give false testimony without any moral compunction, the English were not wrong in believing that Indians were liars. Honesty was probably a less important virtue to a Hindu than loyalty and piety, he concluded.

  After lun+ch Bauji returned to his study for a nap. He lay down on the white diwan and his mind wandered again to Tara. Despite Megh Nath, the meal had revived his spirits and he felt generous and kindly towards the world. He had by now forgiven Tara her display with Karan in the morning. He felt it was a passing fancy which Karan aroused in all women, who would always fall for him like ripe mangoes. Yes, he liked his daughter. She had zest. He enjoyed her company more than any of his children. She was the only one he could talk to, and he would be sad to lose her.

  He recalled the hot June day two years ago, when Tara had returned home from Lahore and had calmly announced that she was going to work. While sipping a glass of cold fresh lime, she had matter-of-factly recounted how she had got the job of a school teacher in Lyallpur.

  After Tara had finished school, he had agreed to let her go to Lahore to attend college. After completing her BA, she had trained to be a teacher; then one day she had quietly gone to the Department of Education in Lahore and applied for a job. They had offered her one in a distant village. Tara had known that it would be a battle to persuade her family to be permitted to work. Women teachers were still a novelty: the few that were there tended to come from lower caste converts to Christianity ‘who needed the money’. Thus to work outside her home town was out of the question. With great difficulty she had persuaded the Department to let her have a post in Lyallpur instead. The Department at first was reluctant to agree, since she had a mediocre academic record, but she seemed to have a strong will which counted in her favour. Thus she had arrived in Lyallpur with a job and had immediately created a sensation.

  ‘Tara is going to work, Tara is going to work,’ the whole town had whispered. Even Bauji, who was more progressive than the others, had found this hard to stomach. He had regarded the education of his daughters as a respectable and leisurely way for them to kill time before they got married. That education also increased their prospects in the marriage market was not lost on him.

  In any case, Tara’s demand was the subject of heated discussion in the family for weeks. Chachi disapproved. Big Uncle sided with Tara and put up a spirited defence on her behalf, but his vote did not count for much. Bhabo, as expected, had put up the biggest fight. She had vehemently protested, ‘Can’t we feed her? My friends keep asking. Why does she have to work?’

  ‘You obviously have the wrong kind of friends,’ he had replied.

  ‘Not just my friends. Your side of the family keeps needling me too,’ moaned Bhabo.

  ‘They are all living in the Dark Ages, woman. They are trapped in the old ideas of the village. We are now living in a modern town and it is 1942,’ he had retorted.

  Chachi had supported Bhabo, but Karan had come out strongly in favour of Tara, and
he counted for a great deal with Bauji. Bhabo had finally given in, and his favourite daughter had gone to work. A few months later, Tara wanted her own room, and to her surprise she got it easily. Tara furnished her room with much care. She always kept flowers in a vase, and often invited her friends there for tea. He used to enjoy the sight of her pretty friends around the house.

  With that recollection, he calmly slid off to sleep.

  5

  The British government reacted quickly. A few hours after Gandhi called for the English to ‘Quit India’, all the members of the Congress Working Committee were arrested in Bombay. They were bundled into a special train at five a. m. the next day for the journey to prison. The arrest of the Congress leaders set off a political reaction in towns and cities across the sub-continent. And Lyallpur was one such town. As the news arrived of Gandhi’s arrest, the students of the Government College burned the Income Tax office, much to the delight of the tax payers, including Bauji. From their terrace, Bauji’s family could see the smoke coming out of the Lal Kothi, the railway accounts office. For a brief period they saw flames in the clock tower, but the fire brigade came quickly and put it out. The family stood on the roof counting the columns of smoke. There was much excitement throughout the day. Big Uncle returned home on his bicycle in the afternoon and reported that the mill workers were on strike, lamp posts had been uprooted in Kacheri Bazaar, and there were hundreds of police in the other bazaars. He had seen Karan leading a procession towards the Company Bagh; this news upset everyone, especially Tara.