Mrs Ali’s Road to Happiness

by Farahad Zama

  Aruna was about to say that she still found it difficult to believe that a father would jeopardise his daughter’s chances of a wedding and then she remembered…

  Before she had worked for the marriage bureau as an assistant to Mr Ali, her father had fallen ill and their savings had been wiped out. His pension had been cut because of an administrative blunder and they were forced to rely on the salary she brought in as a salesgirl in a department store. Shastry-uncle, her mother’s brother, had found several matches for her but her father had refused them, saying that not only could they not afford to pay for a wedding, but they also needed her salary to survive. If she hadn’t met Ram at the marriage bureau, she would probably still be unmarried. If her father, a morally upright man, a Sanskrit scholar who knew the holy books and could quote verbatim from the Vedas, was willing to hinder his daughter’s marriage, then why not a weak man – an alcoholic and a gambler?

  The old man must be right, she thought. The love of money can make people do anything.

  Six

  It was six-thirty in the evening and the sun was about to set. Pari walked into the Alis’ house while Vasu skipped in ahead of her.

  “We have sighted the moon!” he shouted as soon as he saw Mrs Ali.

  “Did you really? How clever of you? I couldn’t see it from here.”

  “We went to the terrace on top of our building.” He pointed north-east. “It was in that direction. I was the first one to see it. Amma couldn’t see the moon until I pointed it out to her.”

  The newborn moon is a thin, silvery crescent that appears in the sky for a very short time and doesn’t rise fully before it sets again. Clouds, haze, bright lights – anything at all can obscure it. Its sighting marks the beginning of a new month in the Muslim calendar and is especially important to the average Muslim twice a year, once, as now, when it signals the beginning of the holy month of Ramzaan. In this month, Muslims fast from the false dawn to sunset, and recite special evening prayers. The end of the holy month, twenty-nine or thirty days later, is marked by another new moon, the signal for people to stop fasting and to start feasting for the biggest festival, Eid-ul-Fitr.

  Pari and Mrs Ali embraced and told each other, “Roza Mubarak – Blessed Fasting!”

  When Mr Ali came in, Pari turned to him. “Ramzaan Mubarak, Chaacha. Are you going to fast too?”

  Mrs Ali rolled her eyes. “Your uncle, fast? You must be joking. I have to prepare breakfast and lunch for him while I am fasting. And he has passed on the same attitude to our son.”

  Pari laughed. “Where is Rehman? I haven’t seen him in ages.”

  “He has gone to a village called Mutyalapadu – something about a water project. He will be back in a few days. You know how Rehman is.”

  Pari nodded. Mr Ali broke in, “There is a saying in English: a rolling stone gathers no moss. I am afraid that applies precisely to our son. He has no stability.”

  Mrs Ali said, “He is an engineer and any time he wants, he can get a job. Don’t always keep criticising him. He is doing good work.”

  Pari raised her hands and laughed. “Don’t start the month of Ramzaan by arguing.” She said to Mr Ali, “Chaachi is right. Don’t worry about Rehman. Not everybody has to have a job and a flat, and worry about gas and electricity bills, you know. Allah has made a vast sky and all sorts of people can take shelter under it.”

  Mrs Ali said, “See, even a young woman has more wisdom than you. Listen to what she is saying.” She turned to Pari. “You tell him, Beti. He is willing to talk philosophy and ethics and all sorts of high ideals with his clients, but when it comes to his own son, he is blind.”

  Mr Ali went back onto the verandah and Mrs Ali made for the kitchen. Pari shrugged and stayed where she was.

  Mr Ali, as Rehman’s father, of course had the right to criticise his son. But Pari didn’t like anybody saying the smallest negative thing about Rehman – not even his own parents. She looked around her for a few minutes before she realised that there were no photos of Rehman anywhere. In fact, except for a photo of the Kaaba in Mecca, there were no pictures on the walls at all – not of Rehman, nor even of Mr and Mrs Ali. Strange that she hadn’t noticed it before.

  Now, she just wanted to plaster the walls with posters of Rehman…It was his eyes, she thought, that are the most attractive part of him – dark, limpid pools that she could drown in. No, she decided, a moment later, his best feature was his slow, easy smile. Then she remembered his lean body that was deceptively muscular and her stomach performed a flip-flop. Warmth spread through her from head to toe and a million tiny drops of moisture appeared on her forehead – like dew on a mango leaf in winter.

  The phone rang, interrupting her daydream. It was Piya, the wife of the dethroned heir to the post of the mosque’s imam, calling to greet Mrs Ali on the start of the month of Ramzaan. The phone then didn’t stop ringing as various friends and relatives called with news of the moon-sighting. Their local mosque and the Pension Line mosque both announced that the fasting would start the next day, but the Chengal Rao Pet mosque in the old town declared that, as far as they were concerned, they had not seen the moon and therefore the fasting would start the day after next.

  Mrs Ali rang Faiz in her village to ask, “Has the moon been sighted there?”

  “No, Maami. The sky was cloudy and we couldn’t see it. The men told our imam that the moon had been sighted in Vizag, but he said that doesn’t count for him, so our fasting will start the day after tomorrow.”

  “Every year, it is the same problem,” said Mrs Ali, laughing. “If there are only two Muslims stuck in a desert, they’ll still argue about when to start fasting.”

  ♦

  The alarm rang at four in the morning, and Mrs Ali got slowly out of bed. After brushing her hair and washing, she took out the dough she had kneaded the previous night and started rolling out the chapattis. Pari walked into the kitchen through the back door.

  “Salaam A’laikum, Chaachi.”

  “Wa’laikum Assalaam. Is Vasu sleeping?”

  “Yes.” Pari and Vasu lived in a second-floor flat in the building next door.

  “Chop the onions for the anda’khaaraz,” said Mrs Ali. Scrambled egg with onions and chillies were delicious, filling and, just as important, quick to make. They didn’t have much time. “That reminds me, something funny happened at Faiz’s house.”

  She recounted what had happened when the eggs had been cooked in the microwave.

  “I hope it taught Azhar a lesson about being a show-off,” Mrs Ali said and laughed.

  “Are they going to use the microwave?”

  “I doubt it. They cleaned up the inside where all the eggs had made a mess – though the mess had penetrated through the mesh on one of the oven walls – and put it for display next to the television. I think it will just be shown off to any visitors who come to their house by warming cups of water.”

  Between the two of them, the chapattis and the eggs were quickly prepared and they sat down to eat for the sahri – the pre-dawn meal that had to finish about one and a half hours before sunrise. After the meal, Mrs Ali took out the small card that Azhar had given her the previous night, showing the start and end times of the fast for each day of the month.

  “Another five minutes to go,” she said. Pari poured them a glass of water each. Mrs Ali closed her eyes and said the neeyat. “In the name of Allah, the merciful, the beneficent, I intend to keep fast this day of Ramzaan.” She picked up her glass and downed the contents. There would be no food nor drink, including water, until sunset. She thought about all those modern women who are always trying to lose weight. They should try the Ramzaan diet, she thought. Not only would they lose weight, but they would also get blessings – a double benefit.

  ♦

  Mrs Ali was lying in bed, relaxing in the cool, dark room with the curtains drawn and the door closed. It was only ten in the morning, but lunch had already been cooked for her husband and she was taking it easy. The first few days
of fasting were the most difficult, until the body got used to it.

  Her husband walked into the room and said, “I am just going to the bank and the electricity man has come to install the new meter.”

  She followed him to the verandah and sat in the wicker chair. Aruna saved her work, switched off the computer, shut the filing cabinet and moved to the end of the sofa closest to Mrs Ali. The meter reader switched off the electricity at the mains, then took out a long red screwdriver and a pair of cutting pliers covered with a rubber sleeve.

  “Your name is Shyam, isn’t it?” said Mrs Ali, after a couple of minutes.

  “Yes, madam.” He bobbed his head and smiled with his really wide mouth.

  “And this is what you do, is it? Go into people’s homes and then report on them to the electricity board so you get the business of reconnecting them?”

  “Me, madam? I – ”

  “If you are going to act in an underhanded way, at least don’t lie about it. We are not fools, you know. You are lucky that it is Ramzaan and I don’t want to speak harshly to anybody while I am fasting. But what you did was very sneaky.”

  Shyam silently cut a metre-long length of electrical cable from a big blue roll.

  “You saw a couple of pensioners in the house and you took advantage of them, didn’t you?”

  “No, madam.” Shyam cut a length from a red-coloured roll of cable to match the blue one. “Power supplied to households is subsidised. The department loses a lot of money when people use electricity for commercial purposes.”

  “So you are just helping the department out of the goodness of your heart? Do I look like a priest with a flower tucked behind my right ear to believe everything I hear?” Her sarcasm was evident.

  Shyam did not reply.

  “How much are you charging us for putting in the meter?”

  “Three thousand rupees, madam.”

  “I am not going to pay more than two thousand rupees.”

  “But Sir agreed – ”

  “You waited until he had spent a day and a half at the engineer’s office and was desperate, didn’t you? Don’t you have a mother and father? Would you treat them as you have treated us? And I talked to the halwai, the sweet shop owner, on the ground floor of that building there,” she pointed across the road, “and he said that he paid only two thousand rupees.”

  “Prices have gone up, madam. I have to pay the linemen, the clerks and the engineers at the department. I also have to pay for all the material myself.”

  “Two thousand rupees.”

  “Madam, you are going back on your agreement. I even got the power restored within one hour. If I walk away from this job, you will not have electricity for days and days.”

  “Elections are coming. People from different parties will be coming here asking for votes. I can talk to them and get you transferred away from this lucrative area to a faraway residential colony where you’ll have none of these opportunities for extra income.”

  “There is no need for such an aggressive attitude, madam. I am doing you a favour by sorting out your illegal connection. But two thousand rupees will put me out of pocket. Two thousand five hundred, madam.”

  Mrs Ali shook her head. “Two thousand.”

  “You are not giving me a choice, madam. I have so many expenses. All right, two thousand two hundred, madam. Final offer.”

  Mrs Ali sat silent for a moment and then nodded. “All right, two thousand two hundred.”

  Shyam went back to his work. Aruna smiled at Mrs Ali, discreetly pressing the tips of her right thumb and forefinger to show that she was impressed. Mrs Ali gave a small nod and looked out at the traffic on the road, satisfied with her morning’s work.

  A few minutes later, Shyam spoke again. “My mother died of a snakebite when I was a small boy. And my father died when I was twelve. My older brother and sister-in-law brought me up. They looked after me like their own son, madam. I never lacked for anything. My older brother told me not to move to a city, madam. He said that people in the city are much more forceful than villagers.”

  “What does your brother do?” asked Mrs Ali, turning her attention back to him.

  “He is a lineman in Kotturu.”

  “So electricity is your dynastic business,” said Mrs Ali.

  “No, madam! Just my brother and me. In a village, the lineman is king. No, he’s more than a king; he’s God, madam – not just one but every god. He is Indra, the king of the gods, whose weapon is lightning, for what is lightning but electricity? He is the Yahweh of the Christians. The lineman says let there be light, and the lights come on. He is Varuna, the water god. The lineman waves his wrench and sweet water flows from pumpsets onto the fields.”

  Shyam turned to look at Mrs Ali and she nodded, mollified. He went back to his work, using pliers to twist the end of a cable round a copper terminal.

  “If my brother has to climb an electricity pole for a repair, the villagers pay him one hundred rupees. If there is a wedding in any house, he sets up a direct connection from the distribution lines, so they can have full lighting for the whole night without it being charged to their meter. The householder pays him two hundred and fifty rupees for this service. We grew up in a palm-thatched hut with a floor lined with cow dung, but now my brother has a pukka cement house on two floors, a television and a stereo, and he runs a motorcycle and has a mobile phone. My brother not only brought me up, but he made my life also, madam. He paid thousands of rupees in bribes to get me a job with the electricity board. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the qualifications to become a lineman like him. So I became a meter reader. My brother and my sister-in-law are my true mother and father and I want to prove to them that their efforts in raising me have not been wasted.”

  Mrs Ali nodded. She appreciated Shyam’s motivation and had no problem with it – so long as her own household was not affected.

  Two buses went past, one behind the other, so overcrowded that passengers were standing at the doors, holding on tightly with just one foot on the stairwell.

  Shyam said, “This road has become very busy, madam. Maybe that’s why they are going to widen it.”

  “Excuse me, what did you say?” said Mrs Ali.

  “I was putting in a new fuse box at the municipal corporator’s house yesterday and they were discussing it there. They are going to widen this road from the highway to the culvert by the Muslim graveyard.”

  “But it is already eighty feet wide,” said Mrs Ali.

  “There was talk of making it one hundred and twenty feet wide, madam.”

  “What?”

  She was shocked. An additional forty feet! If they took it equally from both sides, as was likely, that would be twenty feet from her land. A rock settled in her heart. The guava tree, the hibiscus, the henna, the curry leaf plants, the well that supplied their water; all would be gone. But their front yard was only twelve feet deep, which meant that most of this verandah would be gone too! The thought of workers using iron crowbars to break down the house was horrible. And where would her husband run his marriage bureau?

  “How sure are you about the news?” said Aruna. “Maybe you misunderstood what you heard.”

  “Oh no, madam. I am absolutely certain. They had blueprints and everything.”

  ♦

  Aruna made a quick visit to the temple after she finished work. After praying to the Lord, she came out into the temple yard. If what Shyam, the meter reader, had said was true, the temple would be in trouble too. This yard and part of the platform would be lost, and the whole area so diminished that its capacity would be a fraction of what it was currently. I shouldn’t spread rumours, she thought, looking at the people praying. I’d better keep quiet until the news is official.

  Seeing her friend Gita laying out a grid of dots with rice flour on the swept and washed floor on one side of the yard, she walked up to her. “How come you are drawing muggu here?”

  Gita looked up and smiled at Aruna. “I do this regularly now.”
<
br />   Gita started joining up the dots of flour in intricate patterns.

  As Aruna watched, a flower took shape. “That’s lovely,” she said. “Shall I help you?”

  Like all girls, Aruna knew how to draw muggu and had done so regularly as she grew up.

  “No, Akka! It’ll take me just a few minutes.”

  “How is Srinu? How are you both coping with city life?”

  “Srinu is very happy with the way the business is shaping up. And by helping here, I have become friends with many people as well.”

  A bearded man in saffron clothes walked up to them. Aruna felt uneasy when she recognised him as the temple official who had been told by Vasu that his mother was Muslim, but she greeted him respectfully. He acknowledged her with a dip of his head.

  Gita greeted him by name. “Namaskaaram, Narayana-gaaru.”

  Narayana said to Gita, “Can you come tomorrow as well? I need food prepared for some important visitors to the temple and I was wondering whether you could help.”

  “Of course, sir. I’d be delighted to assist.”

  Narayana turned to Aruna. “Why didn’t you tell me that you are Somayajulu’s daughter when I saw you before?”

  “I didn’t think you would know my father, sir.”

  “I’ve known your father for many years. Tell him that Narayana was asking after him. He doesn’t come to our temple any more. But looking at your clothes and jewellery, I can see that he has married off his daughter into a wealthy house. Why would he want to come to our humble temple?”

  Aruna was embarrassed. “I can assure you, sir, that my father has not changed – ”

  “Your father has changed. Otherwise, he would not have allowed you to work, let alone in a Muslim household.”

  Aruna flushed. “It was our economic circumstances that compelled me to start working,” she said. “There is no sin in that. And my father satisfied himself that Sir and Madam are good people, before letting me go there. That was the important thing for him, not whether they were Hindus or Muslims. And my in-laws think so too, which is why they have allowed me to continue to work there after my marriage.”