by Farahad Zama
Mrs Ali remembered the man with a wide mouth and obsequious manners. “What about him?”
“Well, he was asking sir all sorts of questions about why we were receiving so many letters and so on.”
“I see,” said Mrs Ali. “I shouldn’t have left when I saw the man at the gate. I should know by now that sir is no good at dealing with anything outside his marriage bureau.”
♦
Mrs Ali switched off the emergency lamp to conserve the battery, lit a candle and sat on the verandah. Power cuts were common, especially in summer, but this was different. Somehow, the fact that theirs was the only house without lights made it seem darker and gloomier than when the whole street was without power.
About half an hour later – Mrs Ali couldn’t read the time on the wall clock – her husband walked in.
“Is there a power cut?” he asked, before looking out to the street again. “Hey, all the other houses are lit. What happened? Has a fuse blown or something?”
“Or something,” said Mrs Ali. “How many times have I told you not to go about boasting to strangers? But when do you ever listen to me?”
“What – ”
“Pride comes before a fall, haven’t you read that? This is where your pride has got us. We’ll be ruined and it will be all because of you.”
“Arre, baba, tell me – ”
“Ruined, do you hear? Commercial rates are four or five times higher than domestic rates. Don’t think I don’t know these things.”
“Will you stop wittering on and tell me what is going on?” he said, irritation evident in his voice.
“Wittering on, am I? That’s all my talk is to you…” began Mrs Ali, but then she took a deep breath and explained more calmly what had happened.
“But how did they know – ”
“Did you or did you not tell that meter reader – may all food turn to ashes in his mouth – about the marriage bureau?”
“Yes, but – ”
“But, nothing. Why did you have to tell him all these things? Who was he? Just a random daily-wage worker off the streets. Why did you have to boast to him? Tomorrow morning, I am going with Azhar to Faiz’s house. I will come back late in the evening and by that time I want the power restored.”
“The office – ”
“Forget your precious bureau. If you have to spend the whole day at the electrical engineer’s office, that’s what you will have to do.”
Mr Ali nodded, then glanced at his desk and remembered that he had created several ads on the PC that he had planned to print off after his walk. “The computer! My ads – ”
“You are worried about your computer? What about my fridge? I have milk and curds in there. I made bhindi-gosht, lamb with okra, and bean-fry for you to eat tomorrow when I am away and all the dishes are in the fridge. In this heat, they will be spoiled by morning. Such a waste! Serves you right that you will have to eat some junk in a restaurant instead of nice home-cooked food. If you get a stomach upset, it will teach you a lesson.”
She packed some of the curry in a tiffin box and sent it with Mr Ali to Pari. At least then it wouldn’t be completely wasted.
♦
Early the next morning, Azhar arrived with a taxi to collect Mrs Ali. There was not much traffic in town and they were soon travelling on the newly constructed highway. The driver seemed to regard anyone overtaking him as an insult to his manhood. Their fast progress was interrupted only by a herd of buffaloes, or by local villagers riding their carts and bicycles in the wrong direction down the carriageway to avoid going to the nearest break in the central reservation.
Azhar’s phone rang and, after speaking for a few moments, he handed it to Mrs Ali. It was his granddaughter Faiz, whose house was their destination.
“Naani! I am glad you are coming too. You should have got Rehman-Chaacha to come as well.”
It was odd to hear Rehman being referred to as Uncle, but even though there was only a few years’ difference between them, Faiz had always referred to Rehman by the proper term. As she spoke to Faiz, Mrs Ali couldn’t help smiling. Faiz was a good girl – open and friendly and respectful of her elders.
Azhar’s son Arif lived in Bangalore and worked for an American electronics company that designed computer chips. He had told them that he could not come home for the festival, as he was busy with some clients who were arriving from Germany. He had sent the money to buy the microwave and other gifts for his daughter, Faiz, and her husband’s family. Hindus celebrated many festivals, but Muslims celebrated just two main ones – Eid-ul-Fitr and Eid-ul-Adha. Eid-ul-Fitr, commonly called Ramzaan, was now just over a month away and it would be the first festival for the recently married Faiz in her in-laws’ house. After a long conversation, Mrs Ali handed the phone back to her brother.
Less than twenty years ago, they would have gone through Vizag in minutes and been speeding past green fields dotted with the occasional village. But now the town just seemed to go on and on, never quite ending, a chain of houses and markets that stretched for miles along the road, like a garland of marigolds.
“How many people there are in this world!” said Mrs Ali.
“Yes,” said Azhar. “And then you go somewhere like Telangana, around Hyderabad, and the place is so empty – you can travel for ages without seeing a single soul.”
Mrs Ali thought of all the gifts in the boot of the car. Apart from the microwave, there were saris for the ladies of the household, cloth for shirts and trousers for the men and foodstuffs. There was also a jaanimaz – a prayer mat that had been brought all the way from Mecca by somebody from the mosque who had gone on the pilgrimage the year before, though Mrs Ali had noticed a ‘Made in China’ tag when she had rolled it up after admiring it. In fact, there were so many things in the boot that it had not been possible to close it fully and its half-open door had had to be tied to the bumper by a nylon rope. When the car went over a series of three potholes, shaking its passengers as if it were a camel, Mrs Ali hoped that nothing had fallen out of the boot.
Before settling down in Bangalore, Faiz’s parents had travelled a lot in the early years of their marriage, leaving Faiz behind in Vizag with Azhar and his wife. By the time Faiz was in her teens, Arif’s travels had dwindled and Faiz had gone back to live with her parents. Over the years, Faiz had grown very attached to her grandparents and there had been many tears when the time came to move away, but Faiz had seemed to find her feet well enough and had started going to college in Bangalore.
But maybe not that happily, thought Mrs Ali. One day, while Faiz was in her second year of college, Arif had turned up in Vizag and said that the moment had come to find his daughter a bridegroom. Everybody had been surprised. What was the hurry? It was not as if it had been a generation ago, when a girl had to be married off before she turned twenty or she would be considered an old maid. Moreover, they said that there must be many more suitable matches in Bangalore than in a smaller place like Vizag. Yet others claimed that it showed how grounded Arif was, despite his job as a vice-president in a multinational company and his extensive worldwide travel. Azhar himself had taken that attitude and had been immensely proud that Arif had come back home to find himself a son-in-law.
A groom had come to light fairly quickly – a software engineer with IBM, the grandson of a local car mechanic who also attended the same mosque as Azhar. However, Faiz did not want to get married until she had graduated with a college degree. There had been tears, sulks, threats and ultimatums, but her father was adamant. Finally, she had turned to her grandfather, who had taken her side. Faced with the combined opposition of his daughter and his parents, Arif had backed down on condition that she married whoever he selected once she had graduated.
A year later, the ink on her BA certificate was not quite dry before her name was being written on a marriage certificate. The boy chosen this time was good-looking, but he had a modest job in a village. Many people had expressed their astonishment at such an unsuitable match, but Arif had p
aid no attention whatsoever. Why had he been so keen to get his daughter married off so quickly?
Faiz must have had a boyfriend or, worse, a lover! The thought came to Mrs Ali just as the car stopped.
“Toll,” said the driver and Azhar took out a five-rupee coin.
Mrs Ali looked around with interest. They were finally out of the city, the road cutting through nothing but green rice fields, except for a single garage selling fuel. As the car sped up again, Mrs Ali went back to her thoughts. She didn’t believe that Faiz had a lover. Mrs Ali had known the girl quite well from the time she had lived with Azhar; people changed, of course, especially when children became teenagers, but…No, thought Mrs Ali, Faiz wouldn’t do that. She might have been friendly with a boy but she wouldn’t have taken that additional fatal step. But then, why?
Mrs Ali turned to Azhar. “Why was Arif so eager to get Faiz married off?” she asked.
Azhar blinked in surprise. “I don’t know!” he said. “It was as if a demon was riding on his shoulder. He wouldn’t listen to any argument.” He looked out of the window for a moment and then shrugged. “Anyway, we shouldn’t talk about such matters now.”
Mrs Ali nodded. Any objections to a marriage must be raised before the wedding. Once it had been solemnised, everybody must forever hold their peace. No good could ever come from questioning a match once a couple were married.
The wedding had been a grand affair. Arif had spared no expense on his daughter’s wedding and if Faiz didn’t look ecstatic, she hadn’t appeared unhappy either. The Beach Road marriage hall had been the venue for the oath-exchange or Nikah ceremony. More than twenty thousand rupees had been spent just on the lights and the sound system. Multicoloured fairy lights had been strung across the whole façade of the hall. Cooks and waiters had been hired from a well-known restaurant to serve tea and snacks to guests at any time they wanted over the three days of the ceremonies. A nearby house had been rented for the week and given over to the groom’s side as a base during the ceremonies.
Of course, a bridegroom’s party is never satisfied. Men and women who will happily walk a mile to catch a bus suddenly can’t bear to cross the street to pick up a snack at a wedding if they are on the groom’s side. They had complained that the single bathroom in the house was insufficient and had demanded bigger accommodation. Mrs Ali’s husband had gone with Azhar to see what could be done. On his return, Mr Ali had told her that he had been surprised to find out that half the bridegroom’s party were Mr Ali’s relatives – cousins, nephews; boys he had played with when he was young. It turned out that the bridegroom’s mother was Mr Ali’s second cousin. Mr Ali said he had spent a couple of hours reminiscing about the old days, besides managing to pacify the gathering.
Haji Saab, the then-imam of the mosque, had conducted the marriage service, with Azhar and the bridegroom’s grandfather as witnesses. As soon as the bride, groom and the witnesses had signed the marriage certificate, crystal sugar and almonds still in their shells had been thrown into the crowd, leading to a mad scramble by the children and not a few adults. Songs of romance and devotion were sung and the hall was reconfigured with long trestle tables for lunch. It had taken three sittings to feed everybody – the menu being the traditional lamb biryani, brinjal-and-gourd gravy, kachoombar raita and a choice of jalebi or gulab jamun for dessert.
Nadeem Bhai, Mrs Ali’s older brother, had buttonholed her between food sittings two and three. “The groom is just a clerk who lives in a village. Azhar has lost his senses, spending hundreds of thousands of rupees on this ceremony.”
“Azhar is not spending the money,” said Mrs Ali, defending one brother against another. “Faiz is Arif’s daughter. He is the one who is footing the bill for all of this.”
Nadeem waved his hand dismissively. “Arif is just a foolish boy. Azhar should have more sense. Anyway, why did Azhar even agree to this match? He and Arif should have found an engineer or an executive in Bangalore.”
“It’s too late for those kinds of remarks now. The Nikah is over and you shouldn’t speak like that any more. Have you eaten? How was the food?” Mrs Ali knew that one way to distract any Muslim at a wedding was to talk about the food.
“I ate in the first round. I got a bone in my biryani,” her brother complained.
“I haven’t eaten yet and the third sitting is starting. I’d better go.” When Mrs Ali had extricated herself, Nadeem Bhai went to find somebody else to complain to.
One wedding leads to three as they say, and this was no exception. She had seen a couple of families eyeing prospective matches and sending out cautious feelers. She had even received an indication of interest from one of her husband’s second cousins for a match between the cousin’s daughter and Rehman. Mr Ali had flatly rejected the idea out of hand, surprising his wife with his vehemence. He had muttered something vague about the family not being suitable. There was obviously some history there. Even after so many years of marriage, there were still things she didn’t know about her husband’s life!
Four
Just before nine in the morning, Mr Ali got ready to go to the electricity board office. His wife had put in a plastic bag the documents he needed to take: the meter reading card, the ration card – just in case it was needed as proof of identity, the disconnection notice and the electricity book showing that they were up to date with payments.
“Be careful with the papers!” Mrs Ali had told him…several times.
“Of course I will look after them,” he had finally replied in irritation, on the sixth, or maybe the seventh, time that she had mentioned it. He knew how much work and running around would be necessary to replace these papers if he lost them. Not to mention the fact that he would never hear the end of it from his wife.
“The way you looked after Rehman at the fair?”
“What – ” He shook his head. That had been twenty years ago when Rehman had been a little boy. They had found him fairly quickly, less than a hundred feet from where he had been lost – no, wandered away. “Don’t be silly,” he said. “That was different, entirely different.”
He heard the sniff in his wife’s voice.
He parked his scooter under a gulmohar tree – the black faux-leather seats absorbed too much heat if left out in the sun – and walked over to the office, which turned out to belong to the administrator whereas he needed the engineer. Several minutes later, after asking a few people, he located a small single-storey structure behind the main building. It was almost a cube, with cement walls and a flat, concrete roof. From a rusty water tank above it an ugly, red stain ran down one wall to the ground. A foot-high banyan tree had sprouted in a small crack where the roof and the wall joined. The glass window was small and so grimy nothing could be seen through it.
A painted sign on the door said, “Executive engineer’s office. Open: 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.”
He looked at his watch and smiled. He had timed it perfectly. He walked in to see a peon, the office factotum found in all Indian offices, sitting on a three-legged stool; only a couple of desks had clerks behind them; most were still unmanned. Behind the peon, a wooden partition clearly denoted the engineer’s office.
“Excuse me,” Mr Ali said to the peon. “Our power has been disconnected.”
“Didn’t you pay your bill?” asked the peon.
“We are up to date with our payments. They said something about needing a commercial meter.”
“Oh! Commercial meters. People are running stores, offices and even welding shops on domestic meters. We have had orders from high up and the engineer-saab is very strict about it.”
“But we are not running a shop – welding or otherwise.”
“That’s what they all say,” the peon said. “Take a seat, sir, and I’ll let you know when the engineer can see you.”
Mr Ali perched on a chair with a broken back and looked around the office. The two clerks didn’t seem particularly busy, discussing a new movie that one of them had seen the previous evening. After a while
the peon disappeared, at which point the clerks stopped reviewing the movie and started talking about a cricket match – something about IPL and Twenty-twenty that Mr Ali, who was not interested in cricket, didn’t understand. Over the next hour, more clerks turned up and joined the discussion regarding the cricket match. Mr Ali tried to catch their attention to see whether one of them could help him, but they ignored him as expertly as a waiter in a restaurant ignores diners.
Finally, the peon came back and Mr Ali asked whether the engineer would see him now. “Oh, the engineer isn’t here yet.”
“What?” said Mr Ali and looked at his watch. It was almost half past ten. “The sign says – ”
“The engineer doesn’t come in until eleven.”
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I could have been doing something useful instead of sitting here listening to your men’s cricket commentary.”
“You didn’t ask me. And sometimes the engineer comes early.”
“You mean by half-past ten?” said Mr Ali.
“Even earlier sometimes. Last week on Thursday, the engineer was here just before ten. Some of those clerks hadn’t yet turned up and they were very embarrassed.”
“I can imagine,” said Mr Ali. “How thoughtless of the engineer to turn up unexpectedly early and show up the clerks like that! Were you here?”
“I always come to the office on time,” said the peon. “I live in a small one-room house with a wife and three daughters, and the only peace I get from women is here.”
The conversation lapsed and Mr Ali wondered what he should do. In the end, he decided to stay where he was.
Just before eleven, the sound of a jeep could be heard outside and the peon jumped up. The clerks moved to their individual desks and started untying the red tape that bound files of papers.
A middle-aged, overweight man, with short legs and a big belly, walked in. The peon moved forward and took his briefcase. The engineer glanced at the industrious clerks and went straight into his cabin. The peon followed him with the briefcase, then returned to take him a glass of water.
