The Weary Generations Read Free Page A

Approaching the house, they could see the bunting strung overhead, the breeze ruffling it gently, and little multicoloured lanterns twinkling in trees and bushes. The light of the day was dying. The surface of the long drive leading from the gate was covered with freshly crushed, bright red gravel, marked on both sides by neat chalk lines defining the borders of the banks of summer flowers going right up to the wide patio. On the veranda were placed two tables, one bearing white napkin cloths, the other bare. Around the bare table were gathered several young people of both sexes, busily making up loose-knotted napkins but in a way that seemed not a job but an entertaining game to pass the time. Chairs and tables were being laid on the lawn by servants. A girl stepped aggressively from the lawn on to the patio. Going up to the veranda, she spotted the two guests and stopped, looking up as if startled.
    â€˜Hello, Uncle,’ she said. ‘Adaab. Papa is in the drawing room. Please go in. We are,’ she laughed, ‘making napkins.’
    Taking a quick glance at her wrist watch, she went up the four steps and joined the others. The girl had hazel eyes.
    â€˜Look, Azra,’ a girl in red silk dress said, holding out a jumbled-up white cloth. The first girl took the cloth and, exhibiting the same aggression that was in her step, held it up.
    â€˜Wrong. Absolutely wrong. Look, everybody. Pervez,’ she cried, pointing to the tallest boy in the crowd, ‘makes it like this,’ and rolled up the cloth into a misshapen ball.
    Everyone laughed.
    â€˜The maulana ties it like this round his head to lead the namaz,’ a plumpboy said from the other side of the table.
    With her head thrown back, the girl was laughing, causing the back of her neck to roll up in a tight little rope of young, wheaten flesh, her face, flushed with the rush of blood, stretched in mad hilarity, making her finely ribbed throat tremble ever so slightly, her eyes beginning to water thinly, mockingly fixed on her brother, Pervez, the tall boy.
    â€˜I am not a girl,’ the boy said, embarrassed. ‘It’s a girl’s job. Or a bearer’s.’
    In this unfamiliar milieu, Naim’s heart began to beat rapidly. He wanted to go and join this crowd, yet he couldn’t. He followed his uncle, Ayaz Beg, into the house.
    Nawab Ghulam Mohyyeddin was sitting on a tall delicate stool in front of a roll-top bureau, writing in a heavy notebook. He had a fair complexion, gold-tinged hair, a high, straight nose and pale-grey eyes. He extended his hand to Ayaz Beg.
    â€˜Come, come. When did you arrive?’
    â€˜Only an hour back,’ replied Ayaz Beg and shook hands, bowing low. Naim had never seen his uncle greet anyone with such deference. ‘I am sorry, couldn’t attend Roshan Agha’s funeral. Job held me down.’
    â€˜Of course, of course, for a conscientious officer like you.’ The nawab turned to Naim. ‘And the young man?’
    â€˜Nephew,’ Ayaz Beg replied.
    â€˜Oh,’ the nawab said. ‘I see.’ He kept his gaze upon the boy for a few seconds. Naim thought that the older man’s powerful face had imperceptibly tensed. ‘I see,’ he repeated. ‘Resembles his father. You know, we grew up together.’ He paused. ‘Is he back?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜How long was it?’
    â€˜Twelve years.’
    â€˜Oh!’ The nawab got up from his seat and started pacing the room. Looking at Naim, he asked, ‘Is he at school?’
    â€˜He has just done his senior Cambridge,’ Ayaz Beg informed him.
    â€˜Have you seen your brother?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Will you be seeing him?’
    â€˜No,’ answered Ayaz Beg.
    All three sat down on sofas. Ayaz Beg finally broke the brief silence that followed their last exchange. ‘I hope everything is in place for Tajposhi.’
    â€˜Yes, yes. Insha’allah. Plenty of people. You