by Farahad Zama
“I need to go to the toilet desperately,” said Aruna to Leninkumar. “Where?”
Ramanujam coughed and tried to signal his wife to stop, but she ignored him.
“Please?” she said, with a pleading look on her face.
Relenting, their captor called out and a few young men came into the clearing. “Look after these people,” he told them and nodded to Aruna.
She stood up, her legs trembling from the strain, and almost collapsed. Leninkumar’s hand shot out and Aruna had no choice but to hold on to it. After a moment, she let go of him and was able to walk.
One of the young men said, “It is great to be a boss. While we are stuck with the men, he gets to escort the woman.”
They must have seen Ramanujam’s face, because the same man continued, “You, sit back. Is she your wife? Well, don’t worry about it – our comrade will take good care of your woman.”
There was rude laughter and Aruna flushed. Digging her nails into her palms, she did not turn back. She really had to go to the toilet.
When she came back, several minutes later, the men were being taken one by one for their own ablutions. Again, Aruna was left untied. She was given a sloshing jerry-can and a small tumbler and asked to give everyone a drink. Once they were all watered and Aruna had used the last of the liquid to wash her face, Leninkumar and his men retired into the trees once more, leaving the group on their own.
Aruna sat next to her husband again.
“Why did you bring attention to yourself like that?” he said fiercely.
“What?” said Aruna, surprised by his anger.
“For the toilet,” he said. “One of us would have asked. What was the need for you to do it?”
“Sorry,” she said.
“You are in greater danger than all of us,” Ramanujam said. “You have to be careful.”
Aruna flushed again and looked away. Silence fell over the group. Mr Reddy’s belly rumbled loudly and they all looked at one another. There had been no food all morning. As Dilawar was discovering, hunger pangs feel worse when one doesn’t know when the next meal will come.
As the day passed, they all laboured under the weight of combined boredom and apprehension. Then there were the mosquitoes – it was worse for the men, because their hands were still tied. Aruna helped where she could by brushing the insects away.
“Go on,” said Dilawar to Aruna suddenly. “Slap your husband. God knows when you’ll get an opportunity like this again.”
Ramanujam glared at his fellow captive angrily.
“Ah!” said Dilawar. “You’ve lost your chance now, you silly girl.”
Ramanujam scowled, but Aruna put her hand on his arm. “It’s OK. There was a mosquito on your cheek, but it’s flown away now.” She leaned close to her husband and said quietly, “When the men burst into our room last night, I managed to pick up my mobile phone and bring it with me.”
Everybody in the group heard her whisper. The landlord looked at her suspiciously and said, “Where is it?”
It was a valid question. The men had all been frisked last night but nobody had checked Aruna. Everybody knew that saris didn’t have pockets. Aruna shrugged.
“I’ve got it,” she said.
“Why didn’t you tell us until now?” said the landlord; his voice had risen.
“Shh…” said Rehman. “Be quiet.”
Aruna said very softly, “When I asked to go to the toilet, I managed to send out a quick message.”
Ramanujam still looked worried. “Was there a signal? Did the SMS go out?”
Aruna nodded. “I checked. Luckily there was one bar of signal.”
“Your phone has GPS,” said Ramanujam.
“I know,” said Aruna. “I sent our exact co-ordinates in the message.”
“Wow! You are a star,” said Dilawar. “Chand Bibi, Rani of Jhansi, Joan of Arc, Margaret Thatcher and then you – what a heroine you are.”
Aruna blushed.
“Whom did you send the message to?”
“To the first name in the address book – Ali madam.”
“Ammi?” said Rehman, and Aruna nodded. Rehman wondered – but didn’t say out loud – whether his mother had a clue how to read text messages.
♦
Mrs Ali was sitting on the verandah when Pari arrived. It was just before nine in the morning and the sun was shining down on the front yard.
“Salaam, chaachi,” Pari said. “You seem to be waiting for somebody. Who is it?”
“Is it that obvious?” Mrs Ali replied. “I am waiting for Leela. Ever since that woman, Swaroop, in the next building has taken her on as a maid, my whole morning routine has become a mess. But today is the worst. She’s never been this late before. And today of all days too! I wanted to dry the mangoes for achaar today.”
“Oh, what pickle are you going to make?” Pari asked.
“Aavakaai,” said Mrs Ali. Mango pieces with mustard and red chillies.
“Mmm,” said Pari, then her face fell as she remembered that her husband had loved to eat freshly steamed rice mixed with ghee and the red-hot aavakaai – something she had always stopped him from doing. “Do you think they have ghee and aavakaai in heaven?” she asked.
Mr Ali, who arrived just then, answered before Mrs Ali could speak. “What is the point of heaven if it doesn’t have simple pleasures? It might as well be Dozaqh.”
Hell, indeed, if you cannot enjoy yourself.
Mr Ali continued, “But what makes heaven different from this world is that the things that give us pleasure won’t be bad for us. So, I’ll be able to eat all the halva I want without worrying about diabetes – ”
“And buy handbags without thinking about the cost,” said Pari.
“Or purchase cookpots even though there is no space in the kitchen to store them,” said Mrs Ali.
Pari moved behind the table and switched on the computer. Leela appeared just then, putting a stop to their conversation.
“Why are you so late, Leela?” asked Mrs Ali. “I told you that we have to take down the jars and clean them for the pickle.”
Leela was a tall, gangly woman with a habitually toothy smile, but she wasn’t smiling now.
“What can I do, amma? That second-floor madam’s mother-in-law arrived last night and I don’t know who is worse – her or the mother-in-law. Everything has to be scrubbed twice. No amount of dusting is ever enough. The younger madam tells me to clean the dishes first, but the older one insists that I should sweep her room before doing anything. If I didn’t need the money, I would just leave, but what can I do?”
Mrs Ali was embarrassed. It was unlike Leela to complain about one employer in front of another.
“OK, OK,” she said. “You are here now at least. Let’s get to work.”
Mrs Ali and Leela walked to the back of the house where the kitchen was located. As they passed through the corridor that opened into the bedroom, Mrs Ali’s mobile phone, which was resting in a letter-holder decorated with gold thread, chirped. Mrs Ali stopped and peered at the long cotton sling hanging from the nail, but the phone had gone silent.
“That’s funny,” muttered Mrs Ali.
She reached for the phone but, just then, Leela called out from the kitchen, “Which jar, madam?”
Mrs Ali left the phone to its own devices and joined her maid. The impatient soul who did not even have the manners to let the phone ring long enough would have to wait.
♦
On the verandah, Pari slit open an envelope. “What do I do with this card?” she asked.
Mr Ali looked at the wedding invitation with interest. “This was an unusual case,” he said.
“It must be, if you remember it,” teased Pari.
Mr Ali laughed. “Don’t be cheeky,” he said. “A boy and a girl, both attending the same American university, met through us. It shows you what a small world this is. They would never have got married unless they had come to us. They are both Brahmins, but the girl’s family is not Telugu;
they are Tamils, though they have been settled in Vizag for over thirty years.”
They were natives of the neighbouring state of Tamil Nadu and while there were many similarities between the peoples of the two states, there were also many differences – in language, food and gods.
He opened the turmeric-edged card. Below the standard phrases invoking the blessings of deities, grandparents and elders, the date, time and venue of the wedding were printed. Across the other, plain side, the bride’s father had scrawled in green ink, “Sorry for sending this to you by post, instead of delivering it personally.”
Mr Ali said, “Take out both the bride and groom’s forms and photos and put them in the drawer with the invitation card. Aruna might want to put it up on the wall over there when she comes back.” He pointed to the collage of photos and invitation cards that represented the marriage bureau’s successes.
Pari nodded.
“Palm frooot…Cooool palm frooot…” came the shout from outside.
Seeing an old man going past with a basket on his head, Mr Ali went out to stop him and buy some of the fruit.
Just before eleven, two men, father and son, came into the office. Mr Ali was surprised to see them.
“Hello, Mr Rao,” he said to the older man. “What a coincidence. We’ve just got a card from your viyyankudu. Your son’s father-in-law has sent us an invitation.”
Pari looked at the younger man with interest and compared him to the photo she had seen of him in the album. He was tall and a bit plump. He had obviously put on weight since going to America. He had shaved off his moustache too.
Mr Rao said, “Forget that card that you got in the post. I am inviting you personally. Anyway, it is more fun to attend a wedding as part of the bridegroom’s party. You can throw your weight around.”
Mr Ali laughed. “Please sit down. You do us honour by inviting us. Most people would rather forget about us as soon as the wedding is finalised.”
“How can we forget…”
Mrs Ali came out with chaai for everybody and sat down for the conversation; a card was produced for Aruna; Pari was included in the invitation; the wedding venue was discussed, before Mr Rao finally got up to leave, saying, “We have relatives in the building next to yours. We should be going. After your neighbours, we have another thirty-two cards to deliver.”
Mrs Ali said, “Who in the next building?”
“My daughter’s brother-in-law – his name is Ravi and his wife’s name is Swaroop.” Mr Rao took out a card from his cotton satchel and examined it. “They live on the second floor.”
“I know them,” said Mrs Ali. “Or at least, I know of them. We have the same servant maid. Did you know that the man’s mother is staying with them now?”
Mr Rao said, “I didn’t know that. Thanks for telling me. I had better give her a card too.” He sat down and dug back into his bag. Taking out a blank card, he wrote the old lady’s name on it. “Right,” he said to his son. “Let’s go.”
“I am not coming there with you. That old witch is a menace. She buttonholed me at akka’s wedding and wouldn’t let me go for fifteen minutes.”
“Come on,” said his father. “We’ll be in and out. She might even be sleeping at this hour. Who knows?”
The young man shook his head. “You go. I don’t need to come. They are not that close relatives.”
Mr Rao sighed. “All right, you stay here. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He turned to Mr Ali to ask courteously, “Is that all right with you, sir?”
“No problem at all,” said Mr Ali.
Mr Rao left the verandah and Mrs Ali went back inside.
Mr Ali turned to the young man and said, “Isn’t it funny that you had to travel eight thousand miles to meet somebody who lives not eight hundred yards away from your house?”
The youngster looked shiftily around and then, leaning forward, said softly to Mr Ali, “It is not that much of a coincidence. Do you remember what happened when Sowmya’s brother came to join your marriage bureau?”
Sowmya was this young man’s bride-to-be. Mr Ali thought back.
“Yes,” he said suddenly. “I told her brother that we did not have any Tamil Brahmins on our rolls and it would just be a waste of money. But her brother wouldn’t listen to me. He insisted on becoming a member.”
The young man nodded. “I first noticed Sowmya in the departmental barbecue that was given for all us freshmen. I knew from her surname that she was Tamil, but I was surprised to hear her speak perfect Telugu. We then bumped into each other in the library, in the labs and on the campus. We gradually started talking to each other and I was amazed to find out that this girl whom I had never met before, was not only from Vizag, not only from MVP Colony, but also lived along the same road as us. We had the same taste in music, we both liked Telugu movies starring Venkatesh, we both laughed at Brahmanandam’s jokes. We fell in love but we did not reveal our feelings to each other until my wisdom tooth got infected. I put off going to the dentist because I couldn’t afford it.”
“Oh, I thought that in rich countries people did not have to worry about such things, unlike here.”
The young man looked at Mr Ali and Pari.
“That may be true in some other countries, but not in America. Medical insurance in USA is very expensive and the cover I had as a student was not very good. I would have had to pay a lot myself so I ignored the toothache for some time, hoping it would go away. But the pain just got worse until one day when I was in Sowmya’s room, eating the mixed vegetable avial she had made for dinner, the pain went shooting through my jaw, down here.”
He drew a line with his finger along his neck, shoulder and arm.
“I fainted. Sowmya was frantic and dialled the emergency number. I was in hospital for two weeks and went heavily into debt. I didn’t tell my family because I didn’t want them to worry. Sowmya looked after me – without her, I don’t know what I would have done. She even offered to sell the gold jewellery that her grandmother had insisted that she bring with her to America, but I refused.”
Mr Ali said, “So you and Sowmya met and fell in love at the university. How do Sowmya’s brother and this marriage bureau fit into your story?”
“We fell in love and became inseparable, but Sowmya was very scared of her grandfather. You haven’t met him but I can tell you that he is a tyrant. He rules their entire household with an iron rod. Even Sowmya’s father and uncles shiver when they hear his voice. We could have just ignored our families back home and got married in America, of course. But we didn’t want to do that, if we could avoid it. We confided in Sowmya’s brother and made this plan. He joined your marriage bureau on behalf of Sowmya and I convinced my parents to do the same for me. Step, by step, we manipulated the discussion. It would be good if the partner is also studying for a Master’s degree. Wouldn’t it be great if he is already in the States – they will be able to understand each other. Oh look, this boy is in the same university as my sister. This girl is so perfect; what a pity she is Tamilian. They are Brahmins too, you know. She speaks Telugu fluently…”
The young man gazed back at them, as innocent as a newborn calf asking its mother for milk.
Mr Ali said faintly, “Go on.”
“There is not much else to say. We got there in the end: with patience, I might add, and without confronting people or challenging anybody.”
Mr Ali nodded. “We have a saying in Urdu,” he said. “A needle can sometimes achieve what a sword cannot. You and Sowmya have proved it.”
Later, when they were at lunch, they discussed the tale.
Pari said, “They got what they wanted without breaking their family’s hearts. What’s wrong with that?”
“I am getting old,” said Mr Ali. “I am shocked by the story. I don’t know what to say.”
Mrs Ali said, “Today, they can puff up in delight like puris in hot oil. But what goes around, comes around too. Their children will be ten times more devious than they are and will manipulate them
in such a way that they won’t even know when they have been twisted round like string on a spool.”
Seventeen
“The prime minister has asked the home minister, the health minister and the law minister to convene a commission and achieve a cross-party agreement on how to respond to the Delhi High Court’s ruling on homosexuality. Listeners will remember that…”
One of the guerrillas reached out and switched off the radio. “That’s disgusting behaviour,” he said. “The Chakkas should all be shot, not allowed to practise their deviancy.”
“And that’s your answer to everything, is it?” said Dilawar. “Shoot and kill?”
The kidnapped group had taken shelter from the hot sun under some trees and were resting against a large rock, alongside Leninkumar and a comrade, who had made them promise that they would not try to escape. Their hands had been untied and they had all been given rice and watery dhal to eat.
“If any of you runs away, we will shoot the others. You had better watch one another,” Adi had told them.
The forest was silent, except for a cricket somewhere and the song of some unseen birds. The other guerrillas were hidden from view, possibly enjoying a post-lunch siesta in some rough shelters.
Rehman said, “This doesn’t look like a permanent camp. What are you waiting here for?”
Leninkumar shrugged and said, “If we go any deeper into the forest, we don’t get a mobile phone signal, so Comrade Adi likes to spend time here when possible.”
Everybody’s eyes flicked to Aruna. To distract the guerrilla’s attention, Ramanujam quickly said, “So you guys intend to create a revolution, but you still want to listen to the radio and use the infrastructure created by society.”
