Mrs Ali’s Road to Happiness

by Farahad Zama

  “All right,” he said. “Our party is facing its most dangerous election in years. The days are gone when our party could put up a donkey and people would vote for it just because it belonged to our party.”

  “Like Caligula’s horse,” said Usha.

  “Who?”

  “Caligula – the Roman emperor. He got his horse elected as a senator.”

  “Interesting…”

  It was clear that Mr Rao had never heard of the Roman empire.

  “Anyway, those days are gone. We have to fight on the basis of our policies. Unfortunately, our mayor did not understand that. He is a great man who has done wonders for our city and our party. I have nothing but respect for Mr Ramana, but, in this instance, he is too stuck in his ways. New blood is needed and that’s exactly what we decided in the council meeting.”

  “But why so close to the election? Surely you could have waited just a few weeks more? Won’t it harm your party’s prospects if there is such a show of disunity?”

  Mr Rao shook his head. “On the contrary…The public is not bothered by either unity or disunity, but by policies. After the change in leadership, we are already working to improve the conditions in our town. Starting tomorrow, water will be released for three hours instead of two.”

  “That doesn’t matter to us,” said Mrs Ali, who was watching with the others. “We have our own well, thank God, but Chhote Bhaabhi and the others will be very happy.” She glanced at Rehman. “Don’t say a word,” she said.

  He shrugged and the others laughed. Part of his work involved getting farmers not to dig more borewells, draining the underground water table.

  On the screen, Usha said, “That will be appreciated by many housewives in town. But what about those in slums who don’t have water piped to their homes?”

  “Of course we are concerned about everybody in our city.”

  “Especially if they have votes,” said Rehman, sotto voce.

  “It’s not like you to be cynical, Rehman,” said Pari.

  Rehman grinned at her. “Just being realistic,” he said.

  Mr Rao was still speaking. “To this end, we have approved an additional budget to supply water in tankers to various colonies around the city. For example, in Fakir Tekka, tankers will supply water every day instead of once in every two days.”

  “Isn’t that where Leela lives?” said Pari. “It’ll make a big difference to her.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs Ali. Both households shared the same maid.

  “How is the municipality paying for all these programmes?” asked Usha. “Are you just bribing the voters with borrowed money and will these facilities be withdrawn as soon as the votes have been counted?”

  “This is boring. Can I watch my cartoon now?” said Vasu, who had just come back into the room. Grabbing the remote that was lying next to Mr Ali, he changed the channel.

  “Vasooo!” shouted Pari and lunged at the boy. He tried to hide the remote behind his back, but she managed to retrieve it and told him sternly, “Leave the room now and don’t come back until I call you.”

  He stormed out, stamping his bare feet loudly on the granite floor.

  “If the boy wants to watch TV, let him. It’s all right,” said Mr Ali.

  “No, Chaacha. He has to learn to behave. You can’t be so easygoing.” She changed the channel back to the local one on which Usha had been presenting.

  Mr Rao was still in full flow. “…simple matter of relocating resources to meet the needs of our people…This is what our mayor did not understand. The programmes are all being paid for by cuts in other activities and we hope to keep these programmes going permanently. For example, funds had been earmarked for widening various roads that connect to the highway, but these roads are already at least eighty feet wide. Those funds will instead be used for activities that will directly help our citizens.”

  Mrs Ali leaned forward. Mr Ali, who had been watching the TV lying down on the bed in the living room, sat up. Rehman and Pari exchanged glances.

  “Aren’t those programmes mandated by the central government? Don’t you have to carry them out?” asked Usha.

  “Yes, the instructions did come from Delhi,” said Mr Rao. “So we are not cancelling the projects. We will write to the Centre and ask for more clarification, but before we can do that, many things have to happen. The assistant engineer has to look at the file, the executive engineer has to make his comments, the financial officer has to work out the impact on the budget, the town planning commissioner’s views have to be taken on board. All this will take time. You know how bureaucratic our governments are…” Mr Rao looked straight into the camera. “All our residents who are worried about losing their homes to the road-widening projects can sleep more easily now. While we are in power, we will carry out only those activities that help our people – not those that harm them.”

  “Alhamad’ullilah,” said Mrs Ali, almost breathing the Arabic phrase. Praise be to God. “I know who I am going to vote for in this election.”

  Pari went up to Mrs Ali and hugged her. “Congratulations, Chaachi. That’s brilliant news.”

  Suddenly, tears were flowing down Mrs Ali’s cheeks. The others were too overcome by the sudden reprieve to say anything.

  The phone started ringing. It was Azhar’s daughter, Faiz. The news had reached even her village.

  “They’ve only put it off for now. They haven’t cancelled it,” said Mrs Ali, trying not to get ahead of herself.

  “You know how the government works, Naani. Once they postpone the project, it’ll go into a big pile of files and gather dust.”

  Faiz was merely the first of many to call, congratulating them on deliverance from bad news.

  It was only late that night, as Mrs Ali was falling asleep, that she realised that her brother Azhar hadn’t been one of the callers.

  ♦

  After lunch the next day, Mr Ali went into the backyard and sat on a low wooden stool by the tap. He washed his hands to his elbows, then started washing his face, running his wet fingers all over his skin, including behind his ears. He was about to run his hands over his hair when Mrs Ali walked into the kitchen.

  “Who’s left the door open? A cat could come in and drink the milk,” she said and peeked out into the yard. “Oh, you are there! What are you doing?”

  “I am doing wazu, of course. Can’t you see?”

  “But why?” she asked, frowning.

  “Because I want to visit a female friend. Why does anybody do wazu?”

  “But…” Mrs Ali was flummoxed. This was totally uncharacteristic behaviour from her husband.

  “It’s Friday and I’m going the mosque for the weekly prayers. Now let me get on with the wazu. I am sure that some bearded mullah somewhere in the world has issued a fatwa against a man talking to his wife while getting ready for prayers.”

  Mrs Ali stared at him for a moment and then turned on her heel, saying, “Don’t forget to close the door behind you.”

  Her husband had never gone to the mosque except for festivals and funerals, so this was certainly a turnaround. She was aware that it wasn’t so much piety as pride that was driving him, but did it really matter why a man went to the mosque? Wasn’t it enough that he prayed? After all, if God couldn’t change even the mind of a man who was worshipping, He would be a pretty poor kind of God, wouldn’t He?

  Mr Ali walked back into the house, shaking the water from his hands. Mrs Ali handed him a towel and said, “How’s it going with the removal firm next door? They were late, weren’t they?”

  “Yes, they’d just arrived when I had to leave. They were supposed to send two people but only the driver turned up. Apparently, the other man’s mother-in-law was unwell or something. Anyway, Rehman is helping to move Pari’s boxes downstairs.”

  Mrs Ali wanted to lie down for a little while. After the news last night of the reprieve from the demolition of the house, she had been too keyed up to sleep properly. And this morning, she had, in a frenzy of ener
gy, swept up all the fallen leaves under the guava tree with a coconut-leaf broom, washed the path and, with the help of Leela, cleaned all the crevices and curves of the iron grille of the verandah. That activity had taken a toll on her back and knees. Now she just wanted to flop on the bed and stretch out, but she thought she had better go to Pari’s flat and see what was happening.

  She couldn’t believe that in just a few more hours, Pari and Vasu would leave Vizag for ever. They would come back for the occasional visit, of course, but that was never the same. She would miss Pari – and Vasu. It had been a long time since there had been a child in her home, and Vasu had filled a void in her life that she hadn’t even known was there. And it was good to have Pari around. She loved Rehman dearly, but talking to a man, even one’s own son, was rarely as satisfactory as chatting with another woman. A bit like moonlight, which, however beautiful, was still only a pale reflection of sunlight.

  Nineteen

  The white van was a quarter full. Vasu was sitting on the watchman’s wooden stool in the shade of the building’s portico, while the watchman was standing in the sun, by the van, keeping an eye on the goods inside.

  Mrs Ali nodded to him. “How is it going?” she asked.

  “Namaskaaram, Amma. It’s going a bit slowly, but should be finished in the next hour or so.”

  Mrs Ali walked in through the wide-open gates of the building, patting Vasu on the head on her way past. “Don’t go off anywhere,” she said.

  “I am staying here,” he said. “I have to keep an eye on all the things going into the van.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “You have a very important role as a guard.”

  Her voice caught towards the end of the sentence and she hurried towards the stairs. Stairs troubled her knees, so she took a deep breath before taking the first step. She had gone up only three steps when she saw Rehman and the van driver above her, coming down with a dressing table – the sinews of their arms straining and their faces pinched with effort. She hurried back down, wincing as she reached the bottom.

  Setting down the dressing table on the ground near the foot of the staircase, the men stood up and wiped their foreheads. Rehman smiled at her. “This is the last big item,” he said. “The rest will be down quickly.”

  “Be careful,” she said and went up to the flat. She found Pari standing by the window of the now-empty living room.

  Pari said, “Why did you come up, Chaachi? There is nowhere to sit here. I’ll be down soon anyway.”

  “That’s all right,” said Mrs Ali. “I wanted to see the place for one last time.”

  She looked around the flat – bare of wall and floor. Some indefinable essence of Pari and Vasu had leached away from this space and it already looked alien and soulless. A home, Mrs Ali thought, was just like the human body. A physical shell indubitably belonged to a man or a woman for seventy, eighty years, through childhood and maturity, health and sickness, love and hate, but then, within hours of that person passing away, it became nothing more than decaying flesh that had to be disposed of. A home too was animated by the family who lived in it, their sounds, their memories, their affections and fights and petty jealousies. Without the family, a house is just four walls and a roof.

  Rehman walked in and, after one glance at his damp brow, Pari handed him a small, frilly handkerchief. Rehman used it to pat his forehead dry, then tried to return it, but Pari shook her head. He put it in his pocket. She remembered old tales of chivalry in which knights embarking on some adventure took with them as a token a glove or scarf of the woman they loved. The world has changed since those days – she was the one going off into the world, leaving a token behind with the man she loved.

  “Back to work,” said Rehman, turning to go.

  “Stay,” Pari said. “All the big items have gone down. The man from the moving company can manage the rest.” She turned to Mrs Ali. “Your son is in such a hurry to get rid of me. He booked the removal people and the tickets. Now he wants to make sure I don’t miss the flight.”

  “I don’t – ” began Rehman.

  Pari stopped him by laughing. “Don’t be so serious, Rehman. I was joking.”

  Rehman smiled weakly. “Don’t joke about this,” he said. “I’d much rather you and Vasu didn’t go away.”

  “Me? Or Vasu?” said Pari, looking suddenly intense.

  Mrs Ali stirred. “I’ll go down and keep an eye on Vasu. We don’t want him wandering off at the last minute.”

  Rehman stared in surprise as his mother disappeared down the stairs.

  “Are you wondering why Chaachi left us alone?” said Pari.

  Rehman nodded. A neighbour had accused Pari and Rehman of illicit behaviour. Since then, there had been a tacit understanding among them all to give other people no opportunity to raise a finger against them.

  “The door is wide open, the removal man is coming in and out of the flat and there is no furniture, let alone a bed,” said Pari.

  Rehman stared at Pari’s face, his face flushing, as he took in the full import of Pari’s words.

  “Your mother’s mind is like a computer. She processed all those pieces of information, and the fact that I am leaving town, before she took a single step out of the room.”

  Rehman remained silent.

  “So, tell me – is it Vasu that you don’t want to go away or me?”

  He had never noticed before how gracefully her eyes curved or that their whites were so clear or how vividly they contrasted with her black irises. “What kind of silly question is that?” he said, laughing nervously.

  “Vasu or me?” she said. Her lips seemed to him as soft and rich as a cake in the Hot Breads bakery.

  He glanced away but his gaze was dragged magnetically back to drown in the limpid pools of her eyes. He bit his lip with indecision then, finally, took a deep breath and said, “You.” His voice was husky and all the air seemed to have been sucked out of his lungs, as if he had stepped off a cliff.

  She closed her eyes and when she opened them again, they were glistening with unshed tears. “I love you,” she said. “On my husband’s soul, forgive me for this sin, but I cannot leave town without telling you.”

  Under normal circumstances, Pari would not have declared her feelings so openly, but she was leaving and her heart felt as if it were breaking. Once she was out of the way, how long would it be before Rehman got back with Usha? Would she ever be able to visit Vizag and see the two of them together? Could she bear it?

  He took her hands in his. “If I’d only known…”

  “What would have been different if you had known?” she said, interrupting. “You were in love with Usha, and I am a widow and a single mother, and I dare not disappoint your parents who have been like a steadfast rock in my support.”

  “What have my parents got to do with it?” said Rehman.

  “You are a buddhoo…That’s why I love you. Why would any parents want their only son married to a widow? Especially a son who is as highly qualified as you?”

  He kissed her hands and said, “If we are going to advertise our negative points, then I am an unemployed man who cannot hold down a job for more than a few months. I have a failed engagement behind me and I have no savings or property. I don’t like T-shirts, I don’t like pop music and – ”

  “Stop!” said Pari and laughed. “I love you just the way you are. In thy face I see the map of honour, truth and loyalty.”

  “That sounds like a quote,” he said.

  “It is – Shakespeare, Henry VI.” She stepped closer to him and gave him a peck on the cheek.

  Rehman gripped her arms above the elbow. “I – ”

  A male voice came from the door. “Excuse me, sir, madam. All the boxes are down.”

  Pari grimaced silently and stepped back. “Yes, we are coming,” she said over her shoulder. “Go away.”

  The sound of rubber flip-flops could be heard going down the steps.

  Pari closed her eyes, wanting to say something,
but the spell had been broken. “Too bloody late,” she said in English. Her work in the call centre had taught her slang that she hadn’t picked up from Shakespeare. She moved away and said, “We are both useless fools. What’s the point of declaring our feelings now when we are parting?” She glanced at her watch. “Let’s go. I don’t want to miss the first flight that I’ve ever taken in my life.”

  Rehman nodded glumly. Would it have been better not to declare his love?

  “No,” he said fiercely, as if in answer to his own question. “I am glad that I told you how I feel. And now that I know that you love me too, I am confident that we will not stay apart for ever. In a couple of years, my work with the water committee will end and nobody here will remember all this nonsense about Vasu. Then we can be together again.”

  Pari smiled silently as if agreeing with him. But her experiences of loss and migration over the last few years had given her a maturity that Rehman, for all his intelligence and idealism, did not have. She knew that the most difficult part of moving to another place was the first few months; once those were past, would she want to return to Vizag? She knew that she would never again go back to her father’s village and, compared to what Mumbai had to offer, Vizag was a small place. Would her love for Rehman bring her back, once she had found a career and Vasu had settled into a school and made friends? The thought of leaving Rehman, at the very point in time that they had declared their love for each other, made her want to cry, but she knew, better than most, that tears dried faster than anything – except, perhaps, the springs of gratitude.

  They went down the stairs. At the front door the van driver held out a clipboard. “Sign here, madam,” he said.

  Pari scrawled her signature and the van pulled away. The taxi, a middle-aged Ambassador, drove up and parked where the van had been. Pari bent down and touched Mrs Ali’s feet in respect. Mrs Ali raised her and enfolded her in an embrace. “Call as soon as you land,” she said, her voice hoarse and her eyes wet.