"Now I can die," announced the former peasant, brandishing a bundle of bank notes in his triumph. "Look how much I've earned. I'm going to find a husband for my daughter."
His entire wealth lay heaped together on a small copper tray: a conch, a little bell, a pitcher full of Ganges water, a pot of ghee, and the panchaprodip, the five-branched candlestick used in the ceremony of the offering of fire. Forty-three-year-old Had Giri, a puny little man with pale skin and an enormous wart on his forehead, was the neighborhood pujari, the Hindu priest. He lived in a humble dwelling near the huts occupied by the Madrasis, the most poverty-stricken inhabitants of the slum. In front of his dwelling stood the small temple dedicated to Sitola, goddess of variola. With her scarlet head and black eyes, her silver diadem and necklace of cobras and lions, she looked even more terrifying than Kali the Terrible, patron goddess of Calcutta. It was primarily, however, for his devotion to another divinity that the Brahmin was renowned among the residents of the slum. Daughter of the elephant-headed god Ganesh, Santoshi Mata was the goddess with the power to grant a husband to every young Indian girl. The cult devoted to her provided the pujari with a not inconsiderable source of revenue. Of all the ceremonies in Hinduism, that of marriage is in fact 472
the most profitable for a Brahmin, so much so that Hari Giri had studied astrology in order to set himself up as a professional matchmaker. Hasari's anxiety could not leave him entirely untouched. One evening he paid the rickshaw puller a visit to ask him the time and date of his daughter's birth. "I shall be back soon with some good news for you," he assured him.
A few days later he did indeed return.
"Your daughter's horoscope and caste are in perfect harmony with those of a boy with whom I am acquainted," he announced triumphantly to Hasari and his wife. "The family concerned are kumhars* They have two potteries in the neighboring slum and are highly respectable people." Then, addressing himself exclusively to Hasari, he added, "The boy's father would like to meet you very soon."
Profoundly moved, Hasari prostrated himself on the ground to wipe the Brahmin's bare feet, then raise his hands to his forehead. No self-respecting pujari would be satisfied with this kind of gratitude, however. Holding out his hand, he claimed an advance on his fee. This visit was to mark the beginning of a tragicomedy with many a twist of plot, of which Kovalski was to become, by force of circumstances, one of the principal protagonists. Although it was customary for the long and detailed negotiations that precede a marriage to be conducted in public in the middle of the courtyard, the parties concerned often prefer a more discreet place when it comes to the discussion of financial matters.
"My room was always at everyone's disposal," the priest was to say. Thus it was there, in front of the Sacred Shroud, that the two parties met. As to the "parties" concerned, that certainly did not mean either young Amrita or her prospective husband, who would not meet until the evening of their nuptials. Rather, it meant the father of the prospective boy, a surly man of medium build with hair matted with mustard oil, Hasari, the Brahmin with the wart on his forehead, and Kovalski. After a long exchange
* Potters by birth.
^ T
of greetings and social niceties, the primary issues were broached.
"My son is an exceptional boy," declared the father unhesitatingly. "And I want his wife to be no less so."
Naturally everyone correctly understood the exact meaning of this line of approach. He was not referring to moral qualities or even to physical ones, but to the price that must be paid for so "exceptional" a son. "This character's after the moon," Hasari remarked to himself. He turned to Big Brother Stephan, seeking reassurance. He had insisted upon Kovalski agreeing to be present at the debate. "In front of the sahib, they won't dare to exaggerate" he told himself. For once, however, the former peasant had made a psychological error. Contrary to Hasari's expectations, the sahib's presence was to become a source of security for the opposite camp: "If the girl's father can't pay, the sahib will just have to pay instead."
"My daughter is just as exceptional as your son," retorted Hasari, not wishing to be outdone.
"If she is such a jewel, you will no doubt have anticipated giving her a generous dowry," said the father of the boy.
"I have anticipated doing my duty," assured Hasari.
"Well, let's see then," said the father, lighting up a bidi.
An Indian girl's dowry is made up of two parts. One part consists of her trousseau and personal jewels that remain in principle her property. The other part is made up of the gifts she will take to her new family. Hasari's reckoning was intended to take in both. The whole list was not very long, but each item represented so many trips through the waters of the monsoon, such deprivation, so many sacrifices, that the rickshaw puller felt each concession he was giving away meant a little of his own flesh and blood. The list included two cotton saris, two bodices, a shawl, various household utensils, and a few imitation jewels and ornaments. As for the presents for the groom's family, they were made up of two dhotis, as many vests, and a punjabi, the long tunic that buttons up to the neck and goes down to the knees. It was true that it was a poor
man's dowry but it represented some two thousand rupees, a fabulous sum for a poverty-stricken rickshaw wallah.
The boy's father's eyebrows wrinkled. After a silence, he inquired, "Is that all?"
Hasari shook his head sadly, but he was far too proud to try and play upon the pity of his interlocutor.
"My daughter's qualities will make up for what is lacking."
"Maybe," growled the boy's father, "but it does seem to me that one or two toe rings would not be entirely superfluous. And also a nose brooch and a gold matthika* As for the gifts for my family..."
The Brahmin interrupted to declare, "Before continuing with your bartering, I would appreciate it if you could come to an agreement on the price of my ser-, vices."
"I had thought two dhotis for you and a sari for your wife," replied Hasari.
"Two dhotis and a sari!" guffawed the pujari, beside himself. "You must be joking!"
Kovalski saw great beads of sweat break out on his friend's forehead. "Dear Lord," he thought, "they're going to fleece him down to the very last hair."
Kalima and some of the other neighbors were glued to the opening to the little room, trying not to miss any of the palavering and keeping the rest of the compound informed.
The discussion went on for a good two hours without achieving anything; they all maintained their positions. Marriage negotiations were traditionally very long-winded affairs.
The second meeting took place three days later in the same place. As was customary, Hasari had prepared small gifts for the father of the boy and for the pujari. Nothing very much: a gamchaf each. Nevertheless those three days of waiting seemed to have sapped the rickshaw puller's strength. He was having more and more difficulty in breathing. His coughing fits, provisionally suppressed by Max's emergency treatment, had started up again.
* An ornament worn on the forehead. f A kind of large handkerchief.
Haunted by the fear of dying before he had fulfilled his duty, he was ready to concede to any demand. He might never be able to implement them. This time it was the pujari who opened fire, but his claims were so excessive that for once the two fathers were in agreement. They rejected them.
"In that case, I shall withdraw," threatened the Brahmin.
"That's too bad. We shall just have to find another pujari," responded Hasari.
The Brahmin burst out laughing.
"The horoscopes are in my possession! No one will ever agree to take my place!"
His reply provoked general hilarity in the compound. Women exchanged comments on the proceedings. "This pujari is a true son of a bitch," announced one of the matrons. "What's more he's sly! I'll bet he's in connivance with the boy's father!" another replied. Inside the room, they had reached an impasse. Suffering from a surge of fever, Hasari had begun to shake. "If you muck up my daughter's marriage, I'l
l skin you alive," he stormed inwardly, his bloodshot eyes fixed upon the Brahmin. The pujari went through the motions of getting up to leave, but Hasari caught hold of his wrist. "Stay!" he begged.
"Only if you pay me a hundred rupees right away."
The two helpless fathers exchanged glances. After a few seconds' hesitation they each foraged in the waistbands of their longhis.
"There you are!" said Hasari tartly, tossing a bundle into the hand of the man with the wart.
The latter instantly became all sweetness and light. The negotiations could recommence. No king's or millionaire's marriage could have been the subject of keener discussion than this proposed union of two ragamuffins in a slum. It took no fewer than eight sessions to settle the question of the dowry. Crises of weeping alternated with threats; ruptures with reconciliation. There was always some new requirement. One day the boy's father claimed on top of everything else, a bicycle; next day he wanted a transistor radio, an ounce of gold, an additional dhoti. Six days
before the wedding, a misunderstanding threatened to end everything. The groom's family swore that they were supposed to receive twelve saris and not six, as Hasari claimed. Having run out of arguments, one of the young man's uncles came rushing to Kovalski.
"Sahib, all you have to do is provide six missing saris. After all, you're rich! They say you're even the richest man in your country!"
This marathon completely exhausted the poor rickshaw puller. One morning when he had just collected his carriage he felt the ground dissolve beneath his feet.
"I felt as if with every step I was sinking into a drainage hole," he was to tell Kovalski. "I saw the cars, trucks, and horses revolving around me as if they were attached to a merry-go-round at a fair. I heard the screech of sirens, then everything went blank, a great dark blank." Hasari let go of his shafts. He had fainted.
When he next opened hs eyes, he recognized the thin face of Musafir, the representative of the owner of his rickshaw, looming over him. Musafir had been doing his rounds, collecting the rent, when he noticed the abandoned rickshaw.
"Hey there, fellow, have you drunk a bit too much bangla?" he asked in a friendly way, patting the puller's cheeks.
Hasari indicated his chest.
"No, I think it's my motor that's giving out."
"Your motor?" inquired the man anxiously, suddenly on the alert. "Hasari, if your motor's really giving out, you're going to have to hand in your machine. You know how adamant the old man is about things like that. He's always saying, 'I want buffalo between my shafts, not baby goats.' "
Hasari nodded. There was neither sadness nor revolt in his expression, only resignation. He knew too well the laws of the city. A man whose motor failed him was a dead man. He had already ceased to exist. He thought of the poor coolie he had transported to the hospital during the first days of his exile. He thought of Ram Chander and of all those whom he had seen die in the arms of their rickshaws, their strength sapped, consumed, annihilated by
the climate, by hunger, and by their superhuman effort. He looked with tenderness upon the two great wheels and the black bodywork of his old cart, the punctured canvas seat, the hoop and material of the little hood, in the shelter of which so many young people had loved each other and so many of the city's inhabitants had braved the excesses of the monsoon. Above all, he looked at those two instruments of torture between which he had suffered so much. How many thousands of miles had his ulcerated feet traversed on the molten asphalt of this mirage city? He did not know. He knew only that every step had been an act of will to induce the chakra of his destiny to complete just one more turn, an instinctive gesture aimed at survival and escape from the curse of his condition. Now, that chakra was going to stop once and for all.
He looked up at the owner's representative astride his bicycle. "Take your rickshaw back," he said. "It will make someone happy."
He got to his feet again and for one last time he pulled rickshaw No. 1999 back to the stand on Park Circus. While he was saying goodbye to his friends, Hasari saw the representative call out to one of the young men waiting on the edge of the pavement. They were all refugees, part of the last exodus that had emptied the Bengal and Bihar countryside, ravaged by a fresh drought. All of them longed for the opportunity to take a turn at harnessing themselves to a rickshaw. Hasari went over to the one the representative had chosen and smiled at him. Then he took the small copper bell from his finger.
"Take this little bell, son," he said, jangling it against a shaft. "It will be your talisman to keep you safe from danger."
Before going home, Hasari made a detour to call on the skeleton salesman and claim the second part of the proceeds from the sale of his bones. The cashier examined the visitor with care and, judging that his state of decline was well under way, he agreed to a further payment.
It took three more days of heated arguing before everyone agreed upon the size of the dowry. As tradition required, this agreement was sealed with a special ceremony in the Pals' compound, with all the other residents as
witnesses. Coconuts, incense, and a whole carpet of banana leaves were laid on the ground to enable the pujari to carry out the various rites and pronounce the mantras for the occasion. Hasari was invited to announce that he was giving his daughter away in marriage and to enumerate the list of goods that would constitute her dowry. Much to Kovalski's fury, this formality immediately provoked a further cascade of incidents. The groom's family demanded to see the goods in question. A real showdown ensued. "I might have been in the middle of the Bara Bazar," Kovalski was to recount. "They demanded proof of the cost of such and such a jewel, they protested that the wedding sari wasn't beautiful enough, they thought the transistor radio was pathetic. Each recrimination took away a little more of the small amount of breath left in Hasari's chest." On the eve of the wedding, a new drama erupted. The groom's father, uncles, and a whole group of friends came bursting in to check the preparations for the celebrations.
"There will be at least a hundred of us," declared the father. "And we want to be sure there'll be enough to eat."
Kovalski saw Hasari start.
"A hundred," he protested. "But we agreed that there wouldn't be more than fifty of you."
There followed an argument, to the amusement of the entire compound. The visitors dissected the menu, demanding that a vegetable was added here, a fruit or a sweetmeat there. With his back to the wall, Hasari tried to front it out.
"All right, if you reduce the number of guests by twenty," he eventually conceded.
"Twenty? Never! By ten at the very most!"
"Fifteen."
"Twelve and not one more."
"All right, twelve," sighed Hasari, to put an end to the matter. But his agony was not yet over.
"What about the musicians?" One of the groom's uncles was concerned. "How many will there be?"
"Six."
"Only six? But that's pathetic! A boy like my nephew warrants at least ten musicians!"
"It's the best orchestra in the slum," protested Hasari. "They've even played at the godfather's house!"
"Best or not, you'll have to add at least two more musicians," retorted the uncle.
It was then that a further demand was made. For some mysterious reason, connected, it seems, with subtle astrological calculations, Indian weddings nearly always take place in the middle of the night. Anouar, the leper, and Meeta had gotten married at midnight. Amrita's horoscope and that of her future husband determined the same hour. So the pujari had decided, after reading the celestial cards.
"Where's the generator?" asked the groom's father. "It's dark at midnight and a wedding without lots of lights is not a proper wedding."
Hasari remained dumbfounded. His own sweat had glued his back to the wall. His mouth opened in response to a desire to vomit and with his breath painful and wheezing, he felt the ground once more dissolve beneath his feet. Faces, walls, sounds all swam together in a haze. Clasping the post of the veranda, he groaned. "I'm not going
to make it. I know I won't make it. They're going to do me out of Amrita's marriage." Yet the groom's father's requirement was justified.
For the millions of slum people condemned because of the lack of electricity to live in perpetual obscurity, there could be no celebration without illuminations. An orgy of light, like the one provided on the evening of Anouar's wedding, was a way of defying misfortune. Hasari shook his head sadly, showing them his empty palms. This man who felt his end so very close at hand had had no reservations.about incurring debts for generations to come in order to execute his final duty. He had taken the two rings and the small pendant that had formed part of his wife's dowry, plus the watch his son Shambu had found among the refuse, to the usurer. He had killed himself working. He had sold his bones. He had exceeded the possible. Yet now he must submit to the supreme humiliation.
"If you persist in your demands," he said, pausing after each word to regain his breath, "there is only one solution: we shall have to cancel the wedding. I have no more money."
So it was that less than fourteen hours before the ceremony, they had reached an impasse of the kind that might mean total breakdown. For the first time Hasari appeared resigned. "The man who had struggled so hard had the look of one who was already elsewhere," the Pole was to say. Bluff or no, the other camp maintained the same attitude. "Surely to God," Kovalski said to himself, "they're not going to let the whole thing cave in over a little matter of lighting." Alarmed, he decided to intervene.
"I know a compound not very far away where they have electricity," he said. "A cable could easily be led off it to here. With four or five lamps, there would be plenty of light."
For the rest of his life Kovalski would carry with him the sight of the gratitude in his friend's face.
The City of Joy Page 46
