Not All Marriages are Made in Heaven

by Farahad Zama

  A young man who had come with his mother and sister was being exceptionally rude, refusing to look at the photos they tried to show him. As they were leaving after a fruitless half-hour, the young man said loudly for everybody to hear, “I don’t believe in arranged marriages anyway.”

  Mr Ali looked at him and said mildly, “However you find your bride, regrets are inevitable. At least if it is an arranged marriage, you can fault your parents, otherwise you will have only yourself to blame. And, believe me, it is always harder to bear something if you cannot blame somebody else for it.”

  Aruna couldn’t stop smiling and the young man flushed.

  When the next family left, Aruna sighed and stretched. “I thought they would stick to the sofa for ever,” she said.

  Mr Ali smiled at her and said, “You were so patient with the other father. I wanted to tell him that his daughter would not get married to a rich executive from a wealthy family just because that’s what he has planned.”

  Aruna nodded. She knew about events not going to plan, though in her case it was the plans that had been pessimistic and the reality that had exceeded all expectations. Because her family had used up their savings when her father fell ill, her engagement had been broken off and she had been working as a shop girl in a department store – a job she disliked intensely. She had also joined a typing institute, aiming for an office-based job. Madam had seen her passing the house to her lessons each morning and one day had called out to her. To Aruna’s surprise, she was offered a job in the marriage bureau.

  She had grown to love it here – the gentle Mr Ali and his slightly intimidating wife, the many clients and their sometimes peculiar requirements. And, of course, lovely, lovely Ram who had one day walked into the marriage bureau and her life. Her husband and his family were wealthy, so money was not an issue for her any more, but her parents remained poor and her sister was still in college. Many families, especially, rich, landed families like her in-laws, expected the girl to give up her job on getting married, so before she accepted his proposal she had made Ram promise that she could continue working and use her salary to help her family.

  Mrs Ali came out on to the verandah with three glasses of lemonade on a tray. Aruna took a long sip of the cool drink and said, “Thank you, madam. I needed that.”

  Mrs Ali smiled. “I could hear the two of you talking to those new clients. I wonder why it’s so busy today.” She turned to her husband. “Did you put more ads in yesterday’s paper?”

  Mr Ali shook his head. “No more than normal.”

  Aruna said, “It is Punnami, madam. The moon will be full tonight and many people think it is lucky to start new ventures today.”

  Mrs Ali nodded. “Of course,” she said. “I had forgotten about that.”

  Mr Ali read the newspaper, while Aruna put away the files. Soon, the only noise was the traffic on the road outside.

  “How is Vasu doing in school, madam?” Aruna asked, after a while.

  Pari’s son, Vasu, had been tutored by Aruna’s father, a retired teacher, until he had been admitted to school.

  Mrs Ali said, “It’s just been a few days, everything is still new. Pari says that he’s already made a friend, so I think it is going well.”

  “My father is missing him,” Aruna said.

  “Children have a way of doing that. They just enter your life and take over your heart,” said Mrs Ali.

  “Not yet for me, madam,” said Aruna and laughed, embarrassed. “I have to work for at least two more years until Vani’s education is complete.”

  “Yes, how is your sister?” asked Mrs Ali.

  “She is well, madam. I keep telling her to enjoy her college days. They’ll pass quickly and she will never be as carefree as she is now.”

  Mrs Ali had never been to college herself, but she could guess what Aruna meant and she nodded.

  A young man came by some minutes later. “My sister is studying in America and I’ve come on her behalf.”

  They took his details and were surprised to learn that he was a Tamil. “We don’t have any Tamilians on our books,” said Mr Ali. “I don’t think we can help you.”

  “My sister and I were both born and brought up in Vizag, sir,” said the young man.

  “Even if your family had settled here for the last three generations and can speak Telugu perfectly, you will still be regarded as Tamils and it is unlikely that anybody will consider your sister for an arranged marriage,” said Mr Ali.

  Tamils came from the neighbouring state to the south. While there were many similarities, they spoke a different language, a number of their dishes were different and they prayed to some gods that the Telugus considered minor deities.

  “But we are Brahmins, sir.”

  “It makes no difference. This is not about religion – this is about region. You should find a marriage bureau that specialises in your community.”

  “I want to enrol my sister in your marriage bureau. Here is the fee.” He took out a five-hundred-rupee note from his shirt pocket.

  “I am telling you that it will be a waste of money.”

  “I don’t care, sir. Just let my sister become a member.”

  Mr Ali looked at Aruna, at a loss. She shrugged delicately. If somebody wanted to throw their money away, who were they to refuse?

  “All right, young man. But don’t complain to us later that we didn’t warn you.”

  “There is no danger of that, sir.”

  The youth left and Aruna silently filed away his sister’s details.

  “It takes all sorts,” said Mr Ali and Aruna agreed with him. Apart from her salary, she got a commission for every member who joined, so she didn’t mind.

  The gate opened again to admit a grey-haired, elegant, long-nosed lady, her back straight as a bamboo. Mr Ali recognised her without any prompting from Aruna, which was unusual for him.

  “Salaam A’laikum,” he said.

  “Wa ‘Laikum As’salaam,” replied Mrs Bilqis, taking a seat. “I have come to talk about Pari.”

  Mr Ali nodded and went into the house, returning with his wife.

  Mrs Ali said, “Please come inside. Don’t sit on the verandah like an outsider.”

  The three older people went into the house, leaving Aruna to mind the office. Mr Ali switched on the overhead fan.

  “Please take a seat,” said Mrs Ali, indicating a long settee in the living room.

  Looking up, she noticed a cobweb in the corner above the door and cringed inwardly. She had checked the room after their servant maid, Leela, had cleaned the place in the morning. How could she have missed something so evident? It was because Leela was not coming at her usual time, decided Mrs Ali. Everything was delayed and rushed – nothing was done properly any more. The web was almost circular and a small spider sat in the middle of it. The shimmering threads swayed slightly in the breeze from the fan but the web was fairly inconspicuous. To Mrs Ali’s eyes, however, it seemed as obvious as the lighthouse beacon that flashed from the Dolphin’s Nose Peak at night.

  Mrs Bilqis was about to sit down, when Mrs Ali hurriedly pointed to a chair facing the other way and said, “No, no. Not there. Please sit here.”

  “There?” Mr Ali had just sat down in the designated chair.

  Mrs Ali turned to her husband and said, “Let Mrs Bilqis sit there.”

  “It’s all right,” said Mr Ali. “The two of you can sit on the settee.”

  Mrs Ali could see the spider’s web from the corner of her eye. The spider was now moving down one of the threads. Her husband, of course, would be totally oblivious to it.

  “Get up,” she said brusquely to him. “Let our guest sit there.”

  “Why?” he said.

  Aargh! She could scream. Why were men so clueless? Instead, she glared at him. He couldn’t figure out why, but he knew when to listen to her. He and Mrs Bilqis exchanged places.

  “Would you prefer tea or lemonade?”

  “No, no. I am fine. I don’t need anything.�
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  “No, you must – ”

  The ritual of offer and counter-refusal ended, as it must, with Mrs Bilqis accepting a cup of tea. They all sat down and, after a moment or two of small talk, Mrs Bilqis said, “I have come to ask for your help.”

  “We will assist you in any way we can, madam,” said Mr Ali.

  “Pari has refused the match with my son,” said Mrs Bilqis.

  Mrs Ali nodded. “She has told us.”

  “My initial reaction to her rejection was to treat it as an insult and not speak to her again. However, I’ve given the matter some more thought and realised the wisdom of our elders in always using a mediator to follow up these proposals. So, I’ve come to ask you both: will you act as a go-between in this matter?”

  Mr Ali shook his head. “Pari has already refused. What’s the point of a middleman now?”

  Mrs Ali waved a hand at her husband. “Please let the lady speak. I am sure she has something in mind.”

  “Just because Pari is a widow and looks after a child, we keep forgetting that she is still a very young girl. Most women of her age are still in college and thinking about dresses and make-up,” said Mrs Bilqis.

  “Do you want us to talk to Pari and convince her to agree to your proposal?” said Mrs Ali.

  Mrs Bilqis smiled. “They say that a raised eyebrow is enough to convey an entire message to an intelligent person and I think you understand what I mean. Pari is not able to think straight. My son is a handsome, kind man. He has a good job and earns a lot of money. He will keep his wife in great comfort. And our family is second to none. She will have respect in society.”

  “I don’t understand one thing,” said Mr Ali. “As you say, yours is an aristocratic family and your son is in a good position. You can have any woman as your daughter-in-law. Why then are you so insistent on Pari? She is a lovely girl, but she is a widow and she is the mother of an eight-year-old. And she has already refused you. Why don’t you find somebody else?”

  Mrs Ali frowned at her husband. “What are you trying to do?” she said. “Are you trying to drive the lady away?”

  Mrs Bilqis raised her hand. “Bhai-saheb has raised a valid point. There are two reasons why I am persisting with the match. One, I think Pari is the most suitable girl I have seen so far and I don’t want to lose her because of a misunderstanding. Two, I am not in the habit of giving up. I’ve started, so I’ll finish this task, one way or another.”

  “Like Hatim Tai,” said Mr Ali.

  Mrs Bilqis smiled. “Yes, like the legendary Hatim, who completed all those difficult labours for his king without ever admitting defeat.”

  Mrs Ali said, “We can try to change Pari’s mind but I can tell you one thing now: she will not give up her son. There’s no point in even trying to talk to her about it. And we don’t think it is right, either.”

  Mrs Bilqis took a deep breath. “I am not saying that this is ideal. To be frank, I would have preferred it if the boy was not part of the package. However, it is what it is. In fact, if Pari was the kind of person who would give up her just-adopted son because it is in her convenience to do so, then she wouldn’t be the woman for my son.”

  “Are you saying – ” said Mrs Ali.

  “Yes,” interrupted Mrs Bilqis. “Pari can keep her son with her even after marriage.”

  “In that case, I think we can have a chat with Pari and try to talk her round. Did you know that she has lost her job at the call centre?” said Mrs Ali.

  “Oh!” said Mrs Bilqis, a muscle in her face twitching slightly, as if under a sudden strain. “I didn’t know that. How is she managing financially?”

  “She has money that she has inherited from her father and she also gets a widow’s pension, so that’s not an immediate problem,” said Mr Ali. “She is also fortunate that she is the kind of person who doesn’t need much money to be happy.”

  Mrs Bilqis leaned forward, her back still straight. “Even with my limited meetings with her, I can see that she has the right disdain for money, but has she thought about the future? She has a boy to look after. How is she going to cope on her own? If she marries my son, not only will money never be an issue but there will also be a man in the house to take care of her and the little one. Not many men will come forward to marry a widow with a child. If one does agree to marry her, he is likely to be much older, balding and with a paunch, and he will probably have children of his own. Is that the kind of man you want for her?”

  Mrs Ali reached out and patted Mrs Bilqis’s hand. “You’re right. This is a very good match. Her first husband was handsome and a fit athlete, and she will never be satisfied with somebody who is not good-looking. Once she gets over her initial resistance, Pari will be happy with your son. We will do our best to convince her to become your daughter-in-law.”

  Mrs Bilqis got up. “Thank you. Maybe the loss of her job is a sign from above that she shouldn’t remain alone all her life.”

  Mr Ali nodded. “Leave it with us,” he said. “Pari is a well-brought-up girl and I am sure that in the end she will not say no to us.”

  As they all turned to the door, Mr Ali pointed to the corner. “Oh, look,” he said. “That spider has caught a mosquito in its web.”

  “I don’t see anything,” said Mrs Ali, glaring at her husband.

  “There,” said Mr Ali, helpfully pointing, “just above the door, in the corner.”

  ♦

  “Good evening, sir,” said the watchman, lifting his hand in a salute.

  Dilawar handed his car keys to the Gurkha, who was armed with a stick and a whistle. “Evening, Bahadur. The wheels weren’t scrubbed last week.”

  The watchman nodded. “I will make sure they are cleaned, sir. The other gentleman is already here,” the watchman said and followed Dilawar to the lift, leaning past him to press the button for the top floor before stepping back as the door slid shut.

  Dilawar grinned; Shaan had arrived. In the days since they had met at the Gateway of India, Dilawar and Shaan had grown close. Shaan lived in a poky flat somewhere in the outer suburbs, so Dilawar had given him a set of keys to his own flat.

  “What’s the point of spending two hours each day in the rush-hour trains?” he had said.

  The local trains in Mumbai are always crowded, but when they are at peak capacity, morning and evening, normal calculations are abandoned and the railway authorities use a measure called the Super-Dense Crush-Load Factor. Sardines in a can have more wiggle room than a Mumbai commuter on his long journey home.

  Dilawar let himself into the spacious, airy flat that he was so proud of. Pale yellow walls glowed in the light of the setting sun, which was streaming through the west-facing French windows. Beyond them, a balcony overlooked a panoramic view of the city. Dotting the walls were paintings of rural Indian themes, mostly featuring rugged people and inanimate objects like doors and cartwheels in strong russets and reds. Two Mughal miniatures, depicting scenes from a Muslim emperor’s court, took pride of place in the centre of the wall facing the entrance to the living room, highlighted by spot-lamps.

  The aroma of Basmati rice and unfamiliar herbs tickled Dilawar’s nostrils. The kitchen door opened and Shaan came out, wearing an apron and holding a ladle.

  “Freshen up, Dee,” he said. “Dinner will be served soon.”

  Dilawar smiled with pleasure as he went into his bedroom. Even though he had spent the day in an air-conditioned office and travelled to and from the office in an air-conditioned car, the grime and humidity of Mumbai had still managed to find their way on to him. Just like God, a friend had told him once. You can hide, but the Mumbai dirt will find you. He took a quick shower, changed into comfortable cotton evening clothes and joined Shaan in the kitchen. The granite worktop was spotless. A plate held a bunch of chopped coriander, thinly sliced ginger and chillies in neat piles. Green liquid was boiling in a pot on the hob.

  “You have a lovely kitchen here,” said Shaan. “It seemed a shame not to use it.”

  Dilaw
ar had all the latest mod-cons but the only appliance that saw any use was the microwave. He either ate out or called a widow who lived near by and who, for a small fee, delivered one vegetable, one chicken or mutton curry, rice and phulkas, tortilla-like rotis – all freshly made.

  Dilawar took one of the slices of ginger and tested it between his teeth. He frowned and said, “That’s funny. This ginger tastes lemony.”

  Shaan snatched the plate away. “Don’t take anything from here. I need them for the dish. That’s not ginger, by the way, it is galangal.”

  “Galangal? Never heard of that,” said Dilawar. He examined the thin, fibrous slice closely. “Looks just like ginger.”

  “I was in town earlier today, so I went to Crawford Market and got all the ingredients for tonight’s dinner.”

  “It smells delicious,” said Dilawar, indicating the boiling pot with a jerk of his chin. “The building looks impressive from outside, but I’ve never gone in.”

  “Not been to the biggest vegetable and meat market in Mumbai? You are such a philistine, Dee. Did you know that it was the first building in India to be lit by electricity or that Rudyard Kipling’s father designed its stone fountains? Now, out of here – I am almost done. Why don’t you relax in the living room?”

  “OK,” said Dilawar, going to the door. “I’ll crack open a bottle of wine. White or red?”

  “White, definitely. A Riesling, if you have one.”

  “A sweet Mosel?”

  “Perfect!”

  Dilawar unlocked an antique wooden cupboard in the living room. An electric wine cooler was hidden inside, holding several bottles. He took out a chilled bottle and picked up the corkscrew from its usual place next to the cellar.

  “Where – ” he started to say, before noticing that the small table on the balcony had been laid with a tablecloth and two places set. Some covered serving dishes stood on the table already.

  By the time Dilawar poured the wine, Shaan was waiting with a tureen. He went back into the kitchen, switched off all the lights in the flat and returned with a candle in a holder, having doffed his apron. The tropical sun sets quickly; it was dark now. Shaan struck a match and lit the candle.