Mrs Ali’s Road to Happiness

by Farahad Zama

  Rehman looked away again. He had been terribly hurt at the time. And now? What did he feel? Her touch still made him uncomfortable. He had risked his life, or at least serious injury, just because she had asked him to.

  “Since then no other man has remotely interested me,” said Usha.

  “You should go out more,” said Rehman, finally finding a rejoinder.

  “I could search the length and breadth of India and not find another like you,” she replied.

  “You don’t have to do that,” said Rehman. “Just join my father’s marriage bureau!”

  Usha laughed. “I’ve had it up to here with marriage bureaus,” she said, putting a hand to her neck. “Don’t talk to me about them. That’s all I hear from my parents.”

  “What are you going to do after you finish the article?” asked Rehman.

  “There are always stories,” she said. “If you come across anything interesting, let me know.”

  The breeze on the mountain was strong, blowing a lock of her hair across her cheek. He almost reached out to push it away but turned his face in the opposite direction.

  “Don’t stop yourself, Rehman,” she said softly. “I like it when you do that. It reminds me of the time when we were so close.”

  He looked at her and found himself drowning in the liquid pools of her eyes. The errant hair danced across her fair cheeks. His mouth felt dry. Was he really over her as he regularly told himself? He would have to ask Pari, he thought, and suddenly felt able to move again. He brushed her hair away from her face with a steady hand and stood up.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  ♦

  It was five in the evening and Mrs Ali, as usual, was in the front yard, drawing water from the well and watering the plants. The day had been hot and muggy, and the water soaked rapidly into the cracked red soil. She heard the rattle of the gate and glanced up; her eyes widened with surprise when she saw who it was and she dropped the half-empty mug back into the bucket.

  “Salaam A’laikum, Aapa,” said Azhar. As he was her younger brother, it would have been rude of him to call her by name and she was pleased that, despite what was happening at the mosque, he still called her aapa – elder sister.

  “Wa’laikum Assalaam,” she said, wiping her hands with the edge of her sari.

  “I read about the road widening,” he said. “I can’t believe that all this will disappear.”

  Mrs Ali shrugged. As one of the two or three people who knew her best in the world, he didn’t need to ask her why she was watering a garden that would be tarred over in a few weeks. He stood, looking ill at ease, by the gate until she said, “Come in. Why are you standing there like a stranger?”

  They went through the verandah and into the living room.

  “He has gone for a walk,” she said.

  Azhar nodded, which gave her the feeling that it wasn’t a surprise to him that her husband wasn’t at home, which, of course, didn’t make sense. How could he have known that her husband had left a few minutes ago for a walk with his friends?

  “Do you want tea?” she asked.

  “No, I just drank a cup at home.” After a moment’s silence, he continued, “Have you heard anything more about when the road will be widened?”

  She shook her head. “Some of the neighbours have formed a group to fight against the proposal but nobody’s saying anything.”

  “I am not sure that anything can be done,” he said. “An engineer friend with the municipality was saying that the highway upgrade was financed by the World Bank and it is part of their mandatory standards that all major roads connecting to the highway must be at least a hundred and twenty feet wide. The local engineers don’t have any say in it.”

  “World Bank? That’s just…So some unknown officials make decisions in America and Delhi, and people start tramping up and down my garden and verandah?” said Mrs Ali.

  “That’s how life works, unfortunately,” said Azhar. He stared at the ceiling for a moment and then turned to her. “This whole fight over Pari’s son is so unnecessary. When Bhai-jaan was turned away from the mosque, I felt very bad.”

  “You didn’t stop anybody from doing it, though. How do you think I felt when I heard that my brother and my husband were on the opposite sides of a fight?”

  Azhar leaned towards her. “The new imam is a good man. He just wants to raise the religious consciousness of our congregation. If you think about it, what he is asking for is not that unreasonable. He is just saying that if the boy grows up in our family, then he should raised in our deen, our religion. Pari is being totally emotional in rejecting the imam’s suggestion and Bhai-jaan’s support is making her even more obstinate.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Talk to Bhai-jaan. We all know that, in this house, you always have the last word. Do you remember how he didn’t want to go to the mosque on the day of the imam’s first sermon? But when you said that he had to go, he came with me. Bhai-jaan can bluster all he wants but in the end he’ll bend to your will. Tell him not to support Pari. Tell him that Vasu’s religion should be changed and both of them can then fully join our community.”

  Mrs Ali nodded and asked softly, “Once the boy becomes a Muslim, the name Vasu doesn’t really fit, does it? After all, it’s a Hindu name. Do you think we should change that too?”

  “Yes,” said Azhar. “When he is given the shahada, the oath of religious allegiance, we can select a new Muslim name for him.”

  “What happens if my husband doesn’t listen to me?”

  “He will, Aapa. There is no doubt about it. I would lay a bet that he will bow to your will.”

  Mrs Ali said, “I thought you knew me but you don’t; not at all.” She shook her head and when she spoke again, her voice trembled with fury. “What you are asking me to do is terrible. You are asking me to manipulate my husband to go against his cherished beliefs. This is not about convincing him to see a movie instead of going to the beach for an evening. This is about manoeuvring him so that he rejects his deeply held principles, so that you can become friendlier with the imam. What will happen if I convince him and later he resents me for it? And what will happen if I talk to him and he doesn’t listen to me? Some things in a marriage should not be tested. To do otherwise is a short route to marital unhappiness.”

  “I – ”

  Mrs Ali stood up and pointed to the door. “Out,” she said firmly. “Get out of my house.”

  Azhar looked startled. “You are making a mistake, Aapa,” he said.

  “Don’t call me sister. Just…go!”

  As soon as her brother was out of the door, Mrs Ali collapsed onto the settee, her face crumpled in misery.

  ♦

  The girl was ten years old and the boy eight. School had broken up for summer a week earlier and this was agni karti – the season of fire, the hottest part of the year. That afternoon the children were lying on either side of their grandmother. The old lady waved a palm-leaf fan, moving the scalding air in a desultory fashion.

  “Naani, tell us another story of Amir Hamza.”

  Amir Hamza was the uncle of the Prophet Mohammed, the fiancé of the beauteous Mihr-Negar, and hero of fabulous adventures in which he fought strange animals and wicked warriors, while escaping the clutches of beautiful but scheming women.

  “No,” said the girl. “I don’t want to hear another fighting story about Hamza and Aasmaan Pari.”

  The sky fairy made frequent appearances in the story and the girl was never sure whether the fairy was heroine or villainess.

  “What about an Amar Ayyar story?” said the boy.

  Ayyar was a rogue, a thief, a trickster and the most faithful companion of Amir Hamza. He sometimes rescued his friends from danger using his tricks when Hamza’s more straightforward heroics were no help. Ayyar’s subversive antics were more to the girl’s taste, but she didn’t want to change her mind. “No,” she said.

  “All right,” said their grandmother, laughing. “Let m
e think of something else.”

  The girl snuggled closer to her grandmother’s soft body, with its distinctive smell of ghee and Ponds powder.

  “About four hundred years ago, Chittor in Rajasthan was ruled by Rani Karnawati.”

  “Why was it ruled by a queen?” asked the boy. “What happened to the king?”

  “The king had died and the prince was too young. Now be quiet and listen…At that time Gujarat and a lot of western India was ruled by Bahadur Shah and he attacked Chittor. The rani and her soldiers defended their kingdom bravely, but Bahadur Shah was too powerful. When the queen realised that she couldn’t defend Chittor, she sent a secret message to the Mughal emperor, Humayun, asking for his help. Along with the message, she also included a rakhi.”

  “What’s a rakhi?” asked the boy.

  “It’s a thread that sisters tie on their brothers’ hands, silly,” said the girl. “You don’t know anything.”

  “Why do they tie the thread?” persisted the boy.

  The girl was about to say something, but the grandmother shushed her. “The Hindus in North India have a festival called Raksha Bandhan. On that day, sisters tie a thread on their brothers’ wrists. In return the brothers give their sisters money, and promise to look after them and protect them from any danger.”

  “But wasn’t emperor Humayun a Muslim?” said the boy.

  “Yes, he was. But he took the rakhi that the rani sent very seriously. Saying that he now considered the rani as his sister, he immediately set off for Chittor. But unfortunately, at that time, he was on a campaign in Bengal, on the opposite side of the country, and it took him a while to bring his huge army to Chittor. By the time they arrived there, they found signs of a great battle but no armies. Chittor had already fallen and was now just a smouldering ruin – it had become a ghost town because all the men, women and children were dead.”

  “Had Bahadur Shah killed them all?”

  The grandmother shook her head. The fan in her hand never stopped moving. “No. When the people of Chittor realised that they were about to be defeated, they set up huge pyres and all the women and children, including the queen, jumped into the fire so that they would not be captured and dishonoured. The men then went out of the fort and fought to the death.”

  The children’s eyes were round with concern. “What happened then?”

  “Humayun was devastated to learn that he had not been able to come in time to help his rakhi-sister. Vowing to avenge her, he followed Bahadur Shah back to Gujarat and eventually conquered it.”

  “What happened to Bahadur Shah?”

  “He escaped and struck a deal with the Portuguese, giving them some islands off the coast of India – Goa, Daman, Diu and Bombay – in return for their help in getting back his kingdom.”

  “Did the Portuguese help him?”

  “Of course not. Once they got control of the islands, they killed Bahadur Shah when he was on one of their ships and dumped his body in the Arabian Sea. That’s what happens when you involve foreigners in your battles.”

  The children were silent for a moment. The grandmother’s eyelids drooped but even in her sleep her fan continued its desultory movement. The boy spoke to his sister over the old woman’s sleeping form. “Will you tie a rakhi to me?”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “You don’t have any money and I will protect you, not the other way round.”

  “Shh…” said the grandmother drowsily. The children fell silent and soon a silence enveloped them that was as weighty as the baking air.

  ♦

  A bus went screeching past on the road outside, snapping Mrs Ali out of her reverie. That sultry afternoon had been almost half a century ago, but her brother had learned nothing from the story about not involving outsiders. I still have to protect him, she thought. I am not going to let that imam drive a wedge between me and my brother.

  She sat on the sofa for almost an hour, thinking fiercely. What could she do? The mosque was the men’s arena – women didn’t go there, nor did they participate in any of its activities. Even when food was sent to the mosque for festivals and for breaking the fast during the month of Ramzaan, the men took it with them and brought back the empty dishes. Mrs Ali did not pray regularly, except during Ramzaan, but when she did it was always at home, by herself or with other women. She had heard that, in other countries, women went to the mosque too, where they prayed in a separate women’s section, away from the men, but such a practice was not followed in Vizag. How then could she fight to get her brother back into the family fold?

  “Oh, Amma. I didn’t realise you were sitting there in the dark!”

  Mrs Ali raised her head to see Leela, the servant maid, standing in the kitchen and looking straight through the house to her. Mrs Ali realised that the light levels inside the house had indeed dwindled away to nothing. She stood up, switched on the lights and went into the kitchen.

  “What are you doing here at this hour?” she asked Leela.

  “I brought the ironed clothes back from the washerwoman,” Leela said, pointing to a neat pile of clothes on a stool in the dining room. “I told her I was coming this way anyway, so she gave them to me.”

  “Thank you, Leela,” said Mrs Ali.

  “No problem, Amnia,” Leela said with her usual toothy smile and turned to go.

  She genuinely wants to help, thought Mrs Ali, and called her back. “I have some left-over fish curry from the afternoon. Do you want to take it home?”

  Leela nodded eagerly. Fish, especially the kind of large chanduva or vanjaram that Mrs Ali bought, was far too expensive for the maid. Mrs Ali took out an aluminium pan from the fridge, put it in a thin blue polythene bag and handed it to her.

  “Don’t forget to bring the pan back tomorrow,” she said.

  Mrs Ali had cooked too much because she had been expecting Rehman, Vasu and Pari to come over for the meal, but they had cancelled. I gave the curry to her because Leela was so helpful, she thought, not just because it was left over. Mrs Ali went to the phone to call Piya, the wife of Nasrullah, the old imam’s nephew. A smile flitted over Mrs Ali’s lips as she heard the phone ring at the other end. She realised that she knew exactly how to solve a problem like Azhar.

  ♦

  Mrs Ali pushed forward the platter of samosas and doodh-pedas. “Eat one more samosa to take away the sweetness of the peda,” she said.

  Piya shook her head. “If I do that, you’ll tell me to eat the sweet to counteract the spices in the samosa.”

  Mrs Ali laughed. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “These doodh-pedas are lovely, melting in the mouth, but I can’t.” She pinched the roll of fat round her midriff. “See how overweight I’ve become.”

  “Nonsense. Don’t become one of those modern women who think they have to be skinny to be beautiful. Anyway, how’s your mother?” asked Mrs Ali. The two ladies had known each other for years, but Mrs Ali had known Piya’s mother even longer.

  “How has your husband taken to not becoming the next imam at the mosque?” Mrs Ali asked.

  Piya made a face. “You know how he is – nothing is ever a problem. I was angry but he wouldn’t hear anything against the new imam. I finally told him that according to him everybody in the world was good except for me. Everybody always acts for the best and I am the only one who keeps looking for ulterior motives in people’s actions.”

  Mrs Ali nodded sympathetically. Her husband was exactly the same. How could men be so easygoing? Shouldn’t they be the ones who became angry and lost their tempers? Maybe that was just another myth.

  “Your husband’s uncle was the old imam and all of us wanted your husband to take over. Who selected this stranger?”

  “I don’t know. My husband and his uncle were obviously kept out of the loop. But Azhar-Uncle seems to be close to the mosque committee. Have you asked him?”

  “You must have heard of the trouble with Pari’s son. I am not exactly on the best of terms with my brother at the moment.”r />
  “Tauba, tauba,” said Piya, touching her cheeks with her hands. “What a time! Families growing apart because of the mosque. What kind of Islam is that?”

  Mrs Ali leaned forward. “Trust me, it will get worse if it is not nipped in the bud.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Get your husband to ask for an election at the mosque. Who chose this young man to lead our congregation when he hasn’t even started growing his moustache properly? It’s silly – people of other mosques are laughing at us. Your husband is a local man; he knows us all and can guide us properly. He too knows the Qur’an and, more importantly, he is a good man. Not that I am saying that the new imam is a bad man, but we just don’t know, do we?”

  “There’s never before been an election at our mosque for the post of imam.”

  “How do you know? Haji Saab was the imam for so many years that none of us knows what happened before. If the selection process had been open and transparent, we could accept the result, but that’s not the case here.”

  “I don’t think my husband will agree. He would feel that the unity of the congregation was more important than his becoming the imam.”

  “That just shows how suitable he is to take up the post. I’ve always thought that even in politics, those who stood in elections to get power should be automatically disqualified.”

  Piya laughed. “You are probably right,” she said. “But still – ”

  “You should tell your husband that Vizag is a very relaxed, peaceful town and we’ve never suffered any of the riots or troubles that have afflicted other parts of India. A lot of that is because the Hindus around us are tolerant, but it’s also because we Muslims are easygoing too. We are not headstrong fanatics who insist on excessive shows of piety or vast processions for the festival of Muharram that deliberately take us past Hindu temples. Tolerance is a two-way street and somebody like your husband is the right man to lead our mosque, especially in times like this when everywhere there is news of bigotry and chauvinism. I have my issues with the new imam because of the trouble over Pari but that’s not why I am saying this. The more I think it through, the more I am convinced that we are headed down the wrong path and need to change direction.”