by Farahad Zama
“Your mother has this notion that just because I have a long nose I must belong to some aristocratic family. But the truth is that I don’t even know who my birth-parents were. When I was a baby they sold me to ammi and abbu.”
“They must have had their reasons. And technically, you weren’t an orphan, because your parents were alive. They might still be alive, you know.”
“As far as I am concerned, they are dead,” she snapped. Taking a deep breath, Pari met his eyes. “Lots of poor people have children. They don’t sell them off.” She fell silent for a moment and then grinned at him. “I don’t know why it bothers me so much. After all, if they hadn’t done that, ammi and abbu wouldn’t have become my parents and I cannot imagine how I would have grown up without them.”
“Matters of the heart don’t have to make sense,” Dilawar said.
“True,” she said. “Anyway, I wanted you to know before you made up your mind.”
“Did you really think it would influence my decision one way or another?” said Dilawar.
Pari bit her lower lip again. She had been sure that it would, but the idea now seemed ridiculous. “There is more. I have a son.”
She took a photograph out of her handbag and showed it to Dilawar. A young boy with dark-chocolate skin and one of his front teeth missing was squinting into the sun and smiling widely.
“He’s cute,” said Dilawar. “But you don’t look old enough to have such a big boy.”
“His name is Vasu. He is an orphan too. I adopted him.”
“I was just kidding. I already know about him.”
“You do? He is the most important thing in my life right now. We come as a package. I will only marry a man who will treat him kindly and look after him like a father should.”
“I respect that,” said Dilawar. “If we get married, he will be our son, totally. You don’t need to have any worries over that.”
“Thank you,” said Pari. “You are a good man.” She smiled at him quickly and looked away.
“Tell me about your husband,” said Dilawar.
“What?” she said quickly.
Dilawar returned her gaze steadily and covered her hand with his. “You loved him. You miss him. Talk to me about him.”
His hand on hers did not feel uncomfortable. It was almost brotherly, somehow. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Nobody has ever asked me that. It is as if they are too scared to jog any memory of him. Even Rehman, normally so unafraid of everything, never mentions him. Do they think that if I don’t talk about him, I won’t think about him?”
Dilawar squeezed her hand gently.
She continued, “I loved my husband. He was everything a wife could ask for – handsome, funny, kind, loving. We were both very young when we got married and setting up house was almost like playing a game. I already had experience of running a kitchen, of course, since my mother had died, but somehow doing it in my own house…it was different. He always said he would take me to visit the Taj Mahal, but we never went.” She shook her head. “Sorry, I don’t want to burden you with my baggage.”
Dilawar withdrew his hand. “Don’t be sorry,” he said. “It is fascinating. So what do you think about moving to Mumbai?”
“To be honest, that is my biggest worry. Vasu has already suffered a lot of change in his short life. I have just got him admitted into a school and he is slowly making friends. If we go to Mumbai, the language will be different, so not only will he have to move schools, he also won’t be able to understand any of the boys or teachers there.”
“You don’t need to know the local language, Marathi, to get by in Mumbai. English and Hindi are sufficient.”
“He knows only Telugu. He has just started learning Hindi and English. I am concerned about that.”
Dilawar said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I have a proposal. My mother here is very lonely. What would you say if I asked you to continue living in Vizag for a year or two after we got married?”
“And look after your father?” she asked, fixing him shrewdly with her eyes.
Dilawar flushed. “Of course not. I was going to tell you about that next, but I can see that ammi-jaan has already spoken to you about my father.”
Pari nodded.
“My mother refuses any help to look after him. She thinks it is her duty. Look, I won’t beat about the bush. I want you to convince my mother to hire servants to nurse my father. Meanwhile, teach Vasu English and Hindi. We can be visiting and getting to know each other. We can then move to Mumbai and live together.”
Pari considered for a moment. “It’s not a bad idea,” she said finally. “I don’t mind helping your mother care for your father. I am sure she will be more open to accepting my assistance rather than that of some servants. It will give me time to get accustomed to being married again and also for Vasu to prepare for a move to the big city.”
Dilawar nodded. “Have you asked Vasu what he thinks about you marrying again?”
She looked at him, startled. “No…” she said slowly. “I didn’t want to say anything until it was all finalised. Do you think he will mind?”
“I am not sure. It is worth preparing the ground before springing it on him, though.”
“You are right,” she said. “I think you’ll make a great father.”
How had they slipped into an agreement that they would get married?
He smiled.
“Do you like cricket?”
The conversation flowed on smoothly without any awkward pauses. After almost an hour, Pari said, “Shall I call Rehman? He must be wearing out the leather of his chappals wandering up and down the Beach Road.”
Dilawar nodded and she took out her mobile phone.
While they were waiting for Rehman to return, she heard for the first time the song playing in the background.
One, two, three, four…
My love will open the door,
Five, six, seven…
And show you heaven.
“What rubbish lyrics!”
Dilawar grinned. “It’s not Shakespeare, that’s for sure.” Pari laughed. Dilawar made her feel so comfortable. All her earlier worries seemed silly now.
Thirteen
Aruna and Ram finally went to bed at the end of their first day alone in the house. “I thought they would never go,” said Ram.
Her in-laws and the servants were supposed to have left early in the morning. In the event, it was well into the afternoon before they departed.
Aruna laughed. “Your mother was shouting instructions to me even after the car turned the corner,” she said. “Close all the windows, lock the doors, leave a light on…”
Aruna had not gone in to work after all and Ram had come home by lunchtime, surprised to find his parents still there.
“Well, let’s have a lie-in tomorrow.”
“Lie-in?”
“Wake up late,” he said. “Say after ten in the morning.”
Aruna looked shocked. “I’ve never done that,” she said. “How can you sleep after the sun comes up?”
“Never woken up late? You, my darling, have missed out on some of life’s greatest pleasures. It’s very easy – you just pull the sheet over your head, hug me tight and keep your eyes closed.”
Aruna laughed. “Sounds very decadent. But I suppose that’s what holidays are for.”
She woke up at six in the morning as usual. The silence in the house was unfamiliar – by this time people would be about and things would be happening. She almost got out of bed before remembering what Ram had told her the previous night. She turned towards him. He had such a boyish look on his face when he slept – despite his stubble.
The buffalo’s moos trickled through her consciousness some time later. She ignored them at first, but the bellows became louder until she couldn’t sleep any more. Ram tried to grab her, but she extricated herself from his embrace, quickly changed into a sari and went outside. A plump buffalo stood at the gate, mooing. Dried bits of straw were sticking to its rough pelt and
its shiny nose was a darker black than the rest of its body.
“Shoo,” said Aruna, waving her hands. “Go away. Don’t stand there. You’ll probably do your business and foul up the street in front of the house.”
The buffalo extended its neck and mooed again.
Aruna looked into its soft eyes and was puzzled. What did the buffalo want? Then she noticed a bundle of straw behind a tree by the gate.
“Ah! Is this what you are looking for?” she said and held it out to the buffalo, which immediately pulled it from her and started chewing on it.
This must be their milk delivery. The buffalo, knowing its rounds, would go from house to house where it was needed, with the milkman following later. Sure enough, a man in a loincloth and a torn vest soon appeared, with a round vessel in one hand and a straw-filled effigy of a calf under his other arm. Walking up to the buffalo, he hit it on its haunches with the bottom of the container.
“You know you are not supposed to stand in front of the gate,” he admonished the animal. Another buffalo that he had milked at the end of the street made its way past them to its next destination. The milkman turned to Aruna and said, “Where is Kaka?”
“He is out,” she replied.
Leaving him at the gate for a moment, she returned with a copper pan, half filled with water. In the meantime, the man had put the stiff-legged imitation calf by the side of the buffalo where it could see it out of the corner of one eye. Aruna handed the pan with the water to the milkman, which he used to wash his vessel and the buffalo’s teats. He gave the pan back to her, showed her that there was no water in his vessel, and squatted by the buffalo’s rear legs, clamping the vessel between his knees. Squeezing and pulling the buffalo’s teats, he expertly directed the stream of milk into the container. Aruna knew that it was actually more difficult than it looked. If he was too gentle, no milk would come and if he was too rough, the buffalo would kick the man and overturn the vessel.
She suddenly remembered and asked, “How much milk do we normally take?”
“Three litres, madam.”
“We don’t need that much today,” she replied. “Half a litre will do. And we don’t need any from tomorrow for four days.”
“Why, madam?” he said, turning his head to look at her while his fingers carried on milking. “Has everybody gone out?”
“Yes,” said Aruna, then bit her tongue. This was exactly what her mother-in-law had warned her not to say. “No…” She gave up.
When she came back into the house with the milk, Ram was already up. “Why did you get up so early?” he said. “I thought we were having a lie-in.”
“Somebody forgot to tell the buffalo and it arrived at its usual time,” she said.
“Let’s go back to bed,” he said.
“I can’t. I have to boil the milk, otherwise it will get spoiled. Since we are up, I might as well make breakfast. Do you want to eat poha?” she asked.
The boiled flattened rice, sauteed with spices, diced potatoes and onions, was an unusual breakfast in south India but Mrs Ali had described it to her the other day and she wanted to try it out.
An hour later, Ram smacked his lips and said, “That was wonderful, darling. Are you trying to make me feel guilty about the holiday?”
“Why do you say that?” said Aruna, frowning.
“This is what they eat in Mumbai for breakfast.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that!”
“Right,” he said. “What shall we do now? Do you fancy a long drive along the Beach Road? We could go to Yarada Park, on the top of the Dolphin’s Nose Peak.”
Before she could reply, the phone rang. It was his boss. An important politician and his entourage had been ambushed by Naxalites – Maoist guerrillas – and the survivors, including the politician, had been brought back to the hospital. Ram was needed immediately for surgery.
The rest of the day passed slowly for Aruna, who had never been by herself in such a big house. She felt like a seed rattling about inside a ridged gourd that has been dried to make a loofah. She made dinner but that didn’t take long for just two people. It was almost six in the evening before she heard the car coming in through the front gate and rushed to the door.
Ram looked tired and she took his briefcase from him. He gave her a lopsided smile.
“Sorry, baby,” he said. “It just took longer than we thought. One of the patients had a blood clot in the brain that needed to be removed.” He flung himself on to a sofa. “I don’t know what the world is coming to. There were big crowds of people chanting slogans in support of the politician and lots of policemen trying to hold them back. It was like a political rally. We tried to tell them that patients need peace and quiet, but who cares what doctors say?
“Let me take a quick bath,” he continued after a moment. “Then we can go out for dinner.”
She shook her head. “I’ve already made dinner. You’ve had a long day. Let’s relax at home, just the two of us.”
He disappeared in the direction of their bedroom and its en suite bathroom. Aruna went into the kitchen to serve their meal. Just as they were sitting down to eat, the bell rang. They looked at each other in surprise. Ram went to the door, coming back with her parents and her sister Vani. Her mother was carrying a big shopping bag with a tiffin carrier in it.
“Vani told me that all the servants had gone, so I got dinner. We can all eat together,” said her mother.
Aruna glared accusingly at Vani. Her sister shrugged, as if to say that it wasn’t her idea. There went their plans for a quiet dinner for two. Oh well, she thought. They were going away to the village soon and they would have a peaceful holiday there…
“Of course, amma,” she said dutifully. Vani and Ram started giggling.
♦
The next day Pari was again helping Mr Ali in the marriage bureau. He had asked her to pick out all the people who had written more than a month ago but had not yet become members. She was slowly gathering the information. The sun was bright outside and, as usual, the fan was going full blast.
The middle-aged man who walked in had a broad face and a bulbous nose. Two pens were clipped inside his shirt pocket. His confident manner suddenly evaporated when he saw her.
“Namaste,” Pari said, courteously.
He acknowledged her greeting with a nod of his head and said, “You are not the girl who was here when I came in last time.”
Pari smiled. “No, sir. Our regular assistant, Aruna, is on leave. I am just filling in temporarily.”
A young woman, about the same age as Pari, appeared behind the man. Mr Ali came out on to the verandah just then and looked at the man quizzically.
“You have been here before,” he said.
The man nodded and gave his membership number to Pari, who pulled the details out and handed them to Mr Ali.
Mr Ali skimmed through them and looked up.
“Now I remember you, Mr Chandra. You must forgive me. My memory isn’t what it used to be and I usually rely on Aruna to tell me who’s who. Have you come to look at some photographs? Isn’t that what you said you would do?”
Mr Chandra nodded. “That’s why I have come with my daughter.”
Mr Ali turned to Pari and said, “Please give them the Baliga Kapu bridegrooms album.”
Mr Chandra’s daughter, Mani, had stopped her studies after year twelve and had never attended college. One of the conditions for joining the marriage bureau was that both bride and groom had to be college graduates, but Mr Ali had made an exception and allowed Mani to join because Mr Chandra had looked desperate.
He regarded them carefully. Mr Chandra was slowly turning the pages of the album. His daughter Mani was looking everywhere except at the photographs. She caught Mr Ali’s eye, flushed and turned away, facing the wall. Mr Ali couldn’t figure out why Mr Chandra had been so keen to join the bureau. Mani was still quite young and there was no heed to start worrying about her marriage for several more years yet.
“What do you think
of him?” said Mr Chandra, showing his daughter a picture.
She twisted her mouth into a disagreeable moue and ignored him.
“Have a look, dear,” said her father.
Mani turned in a sudden fury, grabbed the album from her father and threw it on the ground. Pari stared in horror, first at the fallen book and then at the sullen girl.
“How dare you?” said her father and half raised his hand to strike her, before dropping it. His shoulders drooped and he bent to the floor to pick the book up. His hand touched his daughter’s feet and she automatically jerked her legs away. She pointed her hands down and then touched them to her forehead.
So the girl had not totally lost her manners, thought Pari. She still hasn’t forgotten that an older person touching a younger person’s feet is disrespectful and a sin.
Pari looked more closely at Mani and realised that what she had mistaken for sullenness was actually misery. Pari rushed out from behind the table and sank to her knees in front of the girl. Taking Mani’s hands in her own, she said, “What is the problem, Mani?”
Mani silently shook her head, tears rolling down like big pearls down her cheeks. Pari turned to Mr Chandra in bafflement.
He gave a big sigh and told her, “Sit up, my dear. It’s not good for a lady like you to be on her knees in front of my worthless daughter.” When Pari hesitated, he continued, “Please get up. I will tell you the story of why my Mani is so sad.”
Pari sat on the chair opposite them and Mr Ali took the chair next to her.
“When I was a boy, we were rich and owned many cattle and fertile lands by the River Godavari. But one day, my father came under the influence of an evil temptress in the nearby market town. My mother fought with my father to no avail, then became morose and took to her bed. As the atmosphere at home became darker, I started spending more time with my best friend, Surya. He was the son of a family very similar to ours and the same caste as us. We swam in the river and flew kites; we teased the girls by pulling their pigtails; we played with marbles and climbed trees; we even studied sometimes.”
Mrs Ali came out with a tray of glasses. Mr Chandra thanked her and took a gulp of the cool water.
