There was no one in the lavatory except a couple of sweepers, and they were talking to each other. A few words of their conversation broke in upon L.N. Agarwal's fury. They were complaining about the difficulties of obtaining grain even at the government ration shops. They talked casually, not paying any attention to the powerful Home Minister and very little attention to their own work. As they continued to talk, a feeling of unreality descended upon L.N. Agarwal. He was taken out of his own world, his own passions, ambitions, hatreds and ideals into a realization of the continuing and urgent lives of people other than himself. He even felt a little ashamed of himself.
349The sweepers were now discussing a movie that one of them had seen. It happened to be Deedar.
'But it was Daleep Kumar's role - oh - it brought tears to my eyes - he always has that quiet smile on his lips even when singing the saddest songs - such a good-natured man - blind himself, and yet giving pleasure to the whole world -'
He began humming one of the hit songs from the movie - 'Do not forget the days of childhood '
The second man, who had not seen the movie yet, joined in the song - which, ever since the film had been released, was on almost everyone's lips.
He now said : 'Nargis looked so beautiful on the poster I thought I would see the movie last night, but my wife takes my money from me as soon as I get my pay.'
The first man laughed. 'If she let you keep the money, all she would see of it would be empty envelopes and empty bottles.'
The second man continued wistfully, trying to conjure up the divine images of his heroine. 'So, tell me, what was she like? How did she act? What a contrast - that cheap dancing girl Nimmi or Pimmi or whatever her name is and Nargis - so high-class, so delicate.'
The first man grunted. 'Give me Nimmi any day, I'd rather live with her than with Nargis - Nargis is too thin, too full of herself. Anyway, what's the difference in class between them? She was also one of those.'
The second man looked shocked. 'Nargis?'
'Yes, yes, your Nargis. How do you think she got her first chance in the movies?' And he laughed and began to hum to himself again. The other man was silent and began to scrub the floor once more.
L.N. Agarwal's thoughts, as he listened to the sweepers talking, turned from Nargis to another 'one of those' Saeeda Bai - and to the now commonplace gossip about her relationship with Mahesh Kapoor's son. Good! he thought. Mahesh Kapoor may starch his delicately embroidered kurtas into rigidity, but his son lies at the feet of prostitutes.
350Though less possessed by rage, he had once again entered his own familiar world of politics and rivalry. He walked along the curved corridor that led to his room. He knew, however, that as soon as he entered his office, he would be set upon by his anxious supporters. What little calm he had achieved in the last few minutes would be destroyed.
'No - I'll go to the library instead,' he muttered to himself.
Upstairs, in the cool, quiet precincts of the library of the Legislative Assembly, he sat down, took off his cap, and rested his chin on his hands. A couple of other MLAs were sitting and reading at the long wooden tables. They looked up, greeted him, and continued with their work. L.N. Agarwal closed his eyes and tried to make his mind blank. He needed to establish his equanimity again before he faced the legislators below. But the image that came before him was not the blank nothingness he sought, but the spurious blankness of the urinal wall. His thoughts turned to the virulent Begum Abida Khan once more, and once more he had to fight down his rage and humiliation. How little there was in common between this shameless, exhibitionistic woman who smoked in private and screeched in public, who had not even followed her husband when he had left for Pakistan but had immodestly and spouselessly remained in Purva Pradesh to make trouble - and his own late wife, Priya's mother, who had sweetened his life through her years of selfless care and love.
I wonder if some part of Baitar House could be construed as evacuee property now that that woman's husband is living in Pakistan, thought L.N. Agarwal. A word to the Custodian, an order to the police, and let's see what I am able to do.
After ten minutes of thought, he got up, nodded at the two MLAs, and went downstairs to his room.
A few MLAs were already sitting in his room when he arrived, and several more gathered in the next few minutes as they came to know that he was holding court. Imperturbable, even smiling slightly to himself, L.N. Agarwal now held forth as he was accustomed to doing. He calmed
35idown his agitated followers, he placed matters in perspective, he mapped out strategy. To one of the MLAs, who had commiserated with his leader because the twin misfortunes of Misri Mandi and Chowk had fallen simultaneously upon him, L.N. Agarwal replied:
'You are a case in point that a good man will not make a good politician. Just think - if you had to do a number of outrageous things, would you want the public to forget them or remember them?'
Clearly the answer was intended to be 'Forget them,' and this was the MLA's response.
'As quickly as possible?' asked L.N. Agarwal.
'As quickly as possible, Minister Sahib.'
'Then the answer,' said L.N. Agarwal, 'if you have a number of outrageous things to do is to do them simultaneously. People will scatter their complaints, not concentrate them. When the dust settles, at least two or three out of five battles will be yours. And the public has a short memory. As for the firing in Chowk, and those dead rioters, it will all be stale news in a week.'
The MLA looked doubtful, but nodded in agreement.
'A lesson here and there,' went on L.N. Agarwal, 'never did anyone any harm. Either you rule, or you don't. The British knew that they had to make an example sometimes - that's why they blew the mutineers from cannons in 1857. Anyway, people are always dying - and I would prefer death by a bullet to death by starvation.'
Needless to say, this was not a choice that faced him. But he was in a philosophical mood.
'Our problems are very simple, you know. In fact, they all boil down to two things : lack of food and lack of morality. And the policies of our rulers in Delhi - what shall I say? - don't help either much.'
'Now that Sardar Patel is dead, no one can control Panditji,' remarked one young but very conservative MLA.
'Even before Patel died who would Nehru listen to?' said L.N. Agarwal dismissively. 'Except, of course, his great Muslim friend - Maulana Azad.'
352-He clutched his arc of grey hair, then turned to his personal assistant. 'Get me the Custodian on the phone.'
'Custodian - of Enemy Property, Sir?' asked the PA.
Very calmly and slowly and looking him full in the face, the Home Minister said to his rather scatterbrained PA: 'There is no war on. Use what intelligence God has given you. I would like to talk to the Custodian of Evacuee Property. I will talk to him in fifteen minutes.'
After a while he continued: 'Look at our situation today. We beg America for food, we have to buy whatever we can get from China and Russia, there's virtual famine in our neighbouring state. Last year landless labourers were selling themselves for five rupees each. And instead of giving the farmers and the traders a free hand so that they can produce more and store things better and distribute them efficiently, Delhi forces us to impose price controls and government godowns and rationing and every populist and unthought-out measure possible. It isn't just their hearts that are soft, it is their brains as well.'
'Panditji means well,' said someone.
'Means well - means well -' sighed L.N. Agarwal. 'He meant well when he gave away Pakistan. He meant well when he gave away half of Kashmir. If it hadn't been for Patel, we wouldn't even have the country that we do. Jawaharlal Nehru has built up his entire career by meaning well. Gandhiji loved him because he meant well. And the poor, stupid people love him because he means well. God save us from people who mean well. And these well-meaning letters he writes every month to the Chief Ministers. Why does he bother to write them? The Chief Ministers are not delighted to read them.' He shook his head, and continued: 'Do you know what they contain? Long homilies about Korea and the dismissal of General Mac Arthur. What is General MacArthur to us? - Yet so noble and sensitive is our Prime Minister that he considers all the ills of the world to be his own. He means well about Nepal and Egypt and God knows what else, and expects us to mean well too. He doesn't have the least idea of administration but he talks about the kind of food committees we
353should set up. Nor does he understand our society and our scriptures, yet he wants to overturn our family life and our family morals through his wonderful Hindu Code Bill '
L.N. Agarwal would have gone on with his own homily for quite a while if his PA had not said, 'Sir, the Custodian is on the line.'
'All right then,' said L.N. Agarwal, with a slight wave of his hand, which the others knew was a signal to withdraw. Til see you all in the canteen.'
Left alone, the Home Minister talked for ten minutes to the Custodian of Evacuee Property. The discussion was precise and cold. For another few minutes the Home Minister sat at his desk, wondering if he had left any aspect of the matter ambiguous or vulnerable. He came to the conclusion that he had not.
He then got up, and walked rather wearily to the Assembly canteen. In the old days his wife used to send him a tiffin-carrier containing his simple food prepared exactly the way he liked it. Now he was at the mercy of indifferent cooks and their institutional cooking. There was a limit even to asceticism.
As he walked along the curved corridor he was reminded of the presence of the central chamber that the corridors circumscribed - the huge, domed chamber whose height and majestic elegance made almost trivial the frenetic and partisan proceedings below. But his insight did not succeed, except momentarily, in detaching his mind from this morning's events and the bitterness that they had aroused in him, nor did it make him regret in the least what he had been planning and preparing a few minutes ago.
5.9
THOUGH it had been less than five minutes since he had] sent off the peon to fetch his Parliamentary Secretary,! Mahesh Kapoor was waiting in the Legal Remembrancer's Office with great impatience. He was alone, as he had sent
354the regular occupants of the office scurrying about to get various papers and law-books.
'Ah, Huzoor has brought his presence to the Secretariat at last!' he said when he saw Abdus Salaam.
Abdus Salaam did a respectful - or was it ironical? adaab, and asked what he could do.
Til come to that in a moment. The question is what you've done already.'
'Already?' Abdus Salaam was nonplussed.
'This morning. On the floor of the House. Making a kabab out of our honourable Home Minister.'
'I only asked -'
'I know what you only asked, Salaam,' said his Minister with a smile. Tm asking you why you asked it.'
'I was wondering why the police -'
'My good fool,' said Mahesh Kapoor fondly, 'don't you realize that Lakshmi Narayan Agarwal thinks I put you up to it?'
'You?'
'Yes, me!' Mahesh Kapoor was in good humour, thinking of this morning's proceedings and his rival's extreme discomfiture. 'It's exactly the kind of thing he would do so he imagines the same of me. Tell me' - he went on 'did he go to the canteen for lunch?'
'Oh, yes.'
'And was the Chief Minister there? What did he have to say?'
'No, Sharma Sahib was not there.'
The image of S.S. Sharma eating lunch seated traditionally on the floor at home, his upper body bare except for his sacred thread, passed before Mahesh Kapoor's eyes.
'No, I suppose not,' he said with some regret. 'So, how did he appear?'
'You mean Agarwal Sahib? Quite well, I think. Quite composed.'
'Uff! You are a useless informant,' said Mahesh Kapoor impatiently. 'Anyway, I've been thinking a little about this. You had better mind what you say or you'll make things difficult for both Agarwal and myself. At least restrain
355yourself until the Zamindari Bill has passed. Everyone needs everyone's cooperation on that.'
'All right, Minister Sahib.'
'Speaking of which, why have these people not returned yet?' asked Mahesh Kapoor, looking around the Legal Remembrancer's Office. 'I sent them out an hour ago.' This was not quite true. 'Everyone is always late and no one values time in this country. That's our main problem Yes, what is it? Come in, come in,' he continued,
hearing a light knock at the door.
It was a peon with his lunch, which he usually ate quite late.
Opening his tiffin-carrier, Mahesh Kapoor spared half a moment's thought for his wife, who, despite her own ailments, took such pains on his behalf. April in Brahmpur was almost unbearable for her because of her allergy to neem blossoms, and the problem had become increasingly . acute over the years. Sometimes, when the neem trees were j in flower, she was reduced to a breathlessness that superfi-1 cially resembled Fran's asthma.
