Mrs Ali’s Road to Happiness

by Farahad Zama

  Usha nodded. A strand of hair fell over her forehead and Rehman almost reached out and to brush it back, as he had done, several times, while they had been engaged. Her eyes caught his. As if she knew exactly what he was thinking, she flushed and looked away, pointing to the tireless waves pounding the sandy beach. “Do you remember how you once told me that the sea was a lover trying to visit its beloved, the city?”

  Rehman smiled at the thought, although he could no longer recall the name of the medieval Arab poet who had made the comparison. The sea rushed forward to meet its love but fell back when it saw the city’s guards, but it continued to try, again and again, for ever.

  “I remember it every time I come to the beach. It tells me that love is not enough on its own. The sea has been trying to enter the city for aeons.”

  “Well, if the scientists are correct and global warming causes the sea levels to rise, the ocean will eventually overwhelm the city’s defences and force its way in.”

  Usha jumped up from the low wall on which they had been sitting. “What a cheery companion you are!” she said. “Let’s go home.”

  Nine

  The verandah filled up as the men from the mosque crowded in. “And to what do I owe the honour of such a visit?” said Mr Ali.

  Only the imam, Azhar and an elderly gentleman, respected not only for his age but because he was a retired senior state government official, sat on the sofa. The rest remained standing. Mr Ali reclaimed his seat. Vasu came out with a tray of glasses of water, but everybody declined and the tumblers stood abandoned on the coffee table. Everybody was silent until Vasu went back inside. “Is the boy’s mother here?” asked the imam, finally.

  Mr Ali nodded and Pari’s face peeked out from behind the curtain, like a disembodied djinn from a fairy tale. “Salaam A’laikum,” she said.

  A volley of salaams followed from the assembled men. The imam spoke again. “The mosque committee met today to discuss what should be done about your son.”

  Mr Ali frowned. “How can you people discuss my family just like that? Has our reputation sunk so low that any random person in the bazaar can hazard an opinion about us?”

  “This was not the market, but your local mosque. And you too would have been part of the discussion if you had bothered to attend the prayers like a good Muslim. It’s especially inexcusable that an elderly man like you, whose thoughts should be focused on how he is going to meet his maker, doesn’t bother to come to the mosque even during the holy month of Ramadaan.”

  “What is it to anybody whether I come to the mosque or not?”

  “It should be every person’s responsibility to make sure that his neighbour is acting like a good Muslim. But that’s not what we are here to discuss.” The imam turned to Pari. “We have decided that your son should be raised as a Muslim. If you send him to the mosque with one of his uncles or great-uncles, we will give him the shahaada, the oath, so that he can become a true Muslim, and we can start teaching him the Kalma and the Qur’an. And what better month to start it than this holy month?”

  “No,” said Pari.

  The imam looked flustered. “What do you mean, no?” he said.

  “No means that I am not sending him to the mosque.”

  The young imam’s face turned a beetroot red. He had clearly not expected to be turned down so flatly in front of a large audience.

  Azhar spoke up. “Don’t be silly, Pari. Don’t you know who you are talking to? The idea of a Muslim raising a kafir, an infidel, is unthinkable. Apologise to the imam now.”

  “Don’t you all realise who you are talking about?” said Pari. The curtain dropped as she came forward onto the verandah. “Vasu is not a kafir. He is my son and I decide how to bring him up.”

  Mr Ali stood up from his chair and raised his hands in a placatory fashion. “Pari,” he said, “don’t take offence now.” He turned to the men. “Azhar, you are family. Razzaq, we have known each other since before you started your seat-cover business. Pervez…” Mr Ali shook his head. “I see my brothers in front of me – men I have known for years – whose salt I have eaten and who’ve eaten in my house, but I don’t recognise your words. What are these demands that you place upon me? Who among you has a perfect family? Some of you have sons who are going out with girls…”

  Razzaq flushed. His son Sajid was known to be living it up as a university student, even if he regularly attended the mosque. “How – ”

  “I am just talking in general terms. But it is said that when the guard asked who had the pumpkins, the thief checked his shoulders.”

  “Are you calling us – ” said another man loudly.

  Pari said, “Please stop, everybody. Chaacha and Chaachi are giving me great honour, but I am not their daughter. There is no need for them to lose their age-old friends and spoil their reputations as gracious hosts by fighting with their guests.” She turned to Azhar. “Am I not related to you too? Don’t I have my own house? Why should anybody else be affected by my decisions? I will take my son to my flat and you can visit me there and tell me what you think.”

  Mr Ali said, “No, Pari. Every family has some weakness or the other, because families are made up of human beings and humans are imperfect. It is sheer arrogance to point fingers at other people. Anyway, I don’t think what you are doing is wrong; they are only picking on you because, as you are a single woman, they think you are an easy target. I promised your father before he died that I would look after you; don’t make me a liar.”

  “The consequences of your rebellion won’t be good,” said the imam. “Umar bin Khattab, the Prophet’s companion and our second caliph, was very clear – a Muslim’s duty is to preserve the unity of the ummah. Recant before you are thrown out of the community.”

  Vasu pushed through the curtain and hugged Pari. “I am sorry,” he said, tears flowing down his cheeks. “I don’t mind becoming a Muslim, but I don’t want to leave you.”

  Pari immediately engulfed him in her arms. “Oh, baby. Nobody is going to take you away from me. Don’t cry, please.”

  Vasu’s sobs increased even more, prompting Mrs Ali to come out of the house and take Pari and Vasu back inside.

  Mr Ali turned to the men. “It is said that an economist is a man who knows the price of everything, but the value of nothing. Similarly, you call yourselves Muslims and know all the rules, but you have none of the spirit behind our religion. You quote Umar bin Khattab, but what about the Prophet’s own example? He had two grandsons, as you know – Hasan and Hussein. They used to clamber over his shoulders when he prostrated himself in prayer, but when the people round him wanted to chastise the boys, he would stop them. They were children, and he didn’t want to cause them unhappiness. You made a boy cry today in the name of religion. Is that what the Prophet would have wanted? Think about it.”

  The gate to the front yard rattled and Rehman came in. He looked at the assembled men in surprise for a moment, before turning to close the gate.

  “Leave it open, Rehman,” said Mr Ali. “The guests are leaving.”

  ♦

  In the large living room of the big house on Daspalla Hills, Mr Koteshwar Reddy and his granddaughter, Sujatha, were playing chess. They were in mid-game and on equal terms, both having lost two foot-soldiers (or pawns) and a horse (or knight) each. Mr Reddy was playing white, and it was his turn. He frowned at the board, as if willing it to tell him the right move.

  “Come on, Thaatha. It’s too early to think so long.”

  “I have to be careful with you,” he growled. After almost another minute of thought, he moved a piece and said, “Aha! My minister checks you.”

  Chess was invented in India, and Indians have their own, far more logical, names for the pieces. For example, the most powerful members of the opposing armies are the two ministers, not queens. After all, whoever heard of a queen going out to battle while the king cowered in his castle?

  Sujatha’s horse jumped two squares to the right and one forward to land in front of the k
ing to shield him from the enemy minister.

  Mr Reddy glanced at the board and, horror-struck, raised his eyes to Sujatha, who stuck out her tongue and laughed. “Your elephant, or rook as they call it in the books, is mine,” she said.

  Mr Reddy saw that she was right. There was no hope – he would lose either his minister or his elephant. He heard a noise at the door and looked up as his nephew came in.

  “Aye, Bobbili. Come here,” he called out and then turned to Sujatha. “Sorry, baby. We have to abandon the match here.”

  “Cheating, Thaatha. Concede that you’ve lost,” she said.

  He shook his head. “Lost? What a joke! This is just the beginning, but Bobbili is here and that means I have to discuss business with him.”

  “Cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater,” she chanted.

  “I am not a cheater and there’s nothing wrong with a pumpkin, especially if you saute it with red chillies and dhal,” Mr Reddy said hotly. He then inclined his head towards her and said, much more softly, “Whom will I play against when you are married and gone, baby? The others are all nincompoops and it’s no fun checkmating them in ten moves.”

  Checkmate, a nonsense word, is a corruption of shahmat, literally, the king’s death, signifying disaster.

  Sujatha laughed. Mr Reddy gazed on her fondly, thinking that she looked at her youthful best. The man who married her was lucky indeed. She had intelligence, character and wealth in a beautiful package: what more could anybody want? He was quite sure that he was not biased.

  Bobbili came and stood in front of them. Mr Reddy’s smile faded at the sight of his expression. “You look like a man who has bitten a sour gooseberry. What’s the problem?”

  “They…” said Bobbili and tailed off. “They…” he repeated.

  Mr Reddy frowned. “Don’t bleat like a goat.” He twisted and shouted towards the door, “Somebody, get a glass of water.”

  Bobbili sat down on a cushioned pouffe. A maid ran in with water and Mr Reddy told her to give it to Bobbili. “Drink it,” he said, gruffly.

  Bobbili swallowed the cool water in one big gulp, then said, “They called,” getting out twice as many words as before.

  “Who? And what did they say?”

  “The b-boy’s family,” he said.

  Sujatha looked up from the chess pieces that she had been rearranging. “Yes?” she said tonelessly.

  “The boy’s family called. They’ve rejected us. The boy said he was not interested any more and they couldn’t convince him otherwise.” The words tumbled out quickly.

  Sujatha went rigid for a moment and then she screamed, a keening, animal-like noise that went on and on. Bobbili and Mr Reddy, turned to stone by her anguish, could only stare in dismay. Sujatha suddenly stopped wailing and, sweeping the chessboard and its pieces to the ground, she ran out of the room.

  Mr Reddy turned to his nephew. “What demon has wrapped its claws around our house?”

  Bobbili just shook his head, like a confused bullock plagued by flies. His son came running in. “Who was crying, Naanna?”

  “Venkatesh, the people who came to see Sujatha the other day have rejected the match. Go and comfort her.”

  “Yes, Naanna.” The youngster hurried away.

  ♦

  Aruna was typing up the list of Christian brides. Mrs Ali was sitting in the wicker chair, turning the pages of the newspaper listlessly. It had been so hot all day that the road in front of the house had been deserted. It was now five o’clock and the traffic had picked up only in the last hour. Mr Ali came out of the house balancing in his hands three bowls of diced watermelon. Mrs Ali took one and he handed another to Aruna. He then handed out three forks.

  “Take a break,” he said to Aruna.

  The bright-red pieces felt grainy on the tongue, but cool and refreshing in the heat.

  “Pari told me about last night’s visit from the mosque committee,” Aruna said.

  Mrs Ali sighed and tossed the paper onto the coffee table. “It’s a worry,” she replied. “We can’t afford to antagonise family and friends. It’s our mosque after all. At my age, I don’t want to have to leave my house and move somewhere else.”

  “Nonsense,” said Mr Ali. “Why should we have to move? This is just a temporary insanity that’ll blow over, once they have something more substantial to deal with. The imam is young and he is trying to show that he is making a change, that’s all.”

  Mrs Ali said, “It won’t blow over. When even my own brother is against us, what hope do we have of convincing anybody else? Maybe we should ask Pari to send Vasu to the mosque. After all, what harm is there in that? He can also go to the temple. That way, he’ll learn about both religions.”

  “Why should he do that? His parents were Hindus and Pari doesn’t want him to lose touch with his culture. Doesn’t the Qur’an say, ‘Lakum Dinakum, wa liya din’?” Mr Ali saw the puzzled look on Aruna’s face. “Your religion for you and my religion for me – that’s what the Qur’an says. The mosque committee has probably recited that phrase a thousand times in their prayers over the years, but they don’t think about what they are saying.”

  Mrs Ali shook her head. “For a man who never goes to the mosque, you can out-argue any religious scholar. I am not saying that you are wrong. I am just worried. We are ordinary people and we cannot go against powerful forces. You are the one who keeps saying that Muslims consider only their enthusiasm when picking their enemies and not their strength. Isn’t that what you are doing, too?”

  “What would you have me do? Throw Pari to the dogs? I cannot do that.”

  “No, I am not saying that. But I can have a chat with Pari. I’ll tell her that we will support her but at the same time convince her that going head-on against all our family and friends is not wise.”

  Mr Ali turned to his wife. “You will not do that. Swear on my life that you will not have any such talk with Pari.”

  Mrs Ali stared out at the road for a long moment. At last she said, “All right. For all your fights, you and your son are both alike. I promise. I won’t mention any of this to Pari. But let me warn you – losing all our family and friends won’t be easy.”

  “We won’t lose all our friends. They’ll see sense soon.”

  “There are none so blind as those who won’t see,” said Mrs Ali in English.

  Mr Ali raised his eyebrows. “An English proverb! Somebody’s going posh.” It was rare for his wife to use any English words in her conversation.

  The phone rang and Aruna answered it. She exchanged greetings and listened for a moment, before holding out the handset to Mrs Ali. “For you, madam.”

  Mrs Ali took the phone, surprised. Most people called her on her mobile phone because the landline was always busy with the marriage bureau business. “Hello,” she said cautiously.

  “I told Daada that he was being foolish. Family should come before anything else. What can you expect from a bunch of senile men sitting on their own? There is no need to worry at all – ”

  Mrs Ali removed the phone from her ear and looked at it, puzzled. “Excuse me, who are you?”

  “Have you already forgotten me, Naani? It’s Faiz.”

  Azhar’s granddaughter! “Faiz, sorry, I didn’t recognise your voice. Go back to the beginning again. What are you talking about?”

  “I was talking to Daada and he told me how he and members of the congregation came to your house about Pari’s son.”

  “Ah! Now I understand. We were discussing the same thing here. I don’t know what to do, to be honest. We are not at an age where we should be picking fights with the people around us.”

  “Naani!”

  Azhar was Faiz’s paternal grandfather, so she called him Daada. Mrs Ali was naani, or maternal grandmother, because if she was daadi, it would imply that she and Azhar were husband and wife, when in fact they were brother and sister.

  “Naani, are you there?”

  Mrs Ali sighed. Why was she thinking about silly, simple things, such as
whether she was Faiz’s maternal or paternal grandmother, when there were more complicated issues to worry about? “Sorry dear. My mind wandered. One of the hazards of old age, I am afraid.”

  “I called up Daada to tell him to take the microwave away and you could have knocked me down with a feather when he told me what he had done.”

  Mrs Ali remembered the microwave that she and Azhar had delivered to the village and the incident with the eggs exploding inside it. “Why do you want him to take the microwave away? I thought you and your in-laws were quite proud of it.”

  Faiz laughed. “The microwave started stinking – such a horrible smell that you couldn’t stand within six feet of it. In the end, we took it out of the living room and dumped it in the old storeroom, but the smell of the decomposing eggs attracted rats. They ate through a gunny sack and the rice inside it spilled everywhere. My sisters-in-law started teasing me – it’s all very horrible. So I told Daada to take the microwave away and bring us a fridge instead.”

  Mrs Ali laughed. “What a sensible girl you are turning into,” she said. “Dikhawa – showing off – never leads to anything good.”

  Faiz said, “Yes, the fridge will be much more useful, especially in the summer. We can give cold water to any guest who comes to our house.”

  Mrs Ali shook her head and smiled. Oh well, there was some progress…

  “Anyway, as I was saying, Naani, don’t take Daada’s words last night amiss. I’ll talk to him again and convince him that families should always stick together – right or wrong.”

  “Thank you, dear. That’s very nice of you. Let’s hope my silly brother comes to his senses. Give my salaams to your husband and your in-laws.”