by Farahad Zama
“This is not America, sir. And right now the marriage bureau is closed. I am sorry.”
“Rehmaaan…” came a yell from inside. Mr Ali rudely closed the gate and rushed into the house.
Mrs Ali was sitting on the sofa, holding the phone and hyperventilating. Her brother Azhar and Pari were hovering around her, almost dancing with excitement.
“What happened?” asked Mr Ali.
Pari hugged Mr Ali, much to his discomfort. He was not used to physical displays of affection. She shouted, “He is free! He is free!”
He disengaged himself gently. “Rehman? How? What about Aruna? And Dilawar?”
A shadow passed over Pari’s face. “I don’t know.”
Mr Ali looked at his wife. Without speaking and with tears streaming down her cheeks, she passed him the phone.
“Hello,” he said.
“Abba, it’s Rehman. The Greyhounds stormed the Naxalite camp and rescued me and Dilawar. We will be back in town in a few hours.”
“And Aruna?”
“Oh! She and Ramanujam escaped earlier. In fact, they contacted the commandos and told them where to find us. We are all fine. One commando was shot in the leg, but they say that it is just a flesh wound.”
Mrs Ali grabbed the phone from her husband and started speaking to her son.
“You know something, ammi?” said Rehman. “The leader of the commandos says it was crows that helped his men find us.”
“Crows?”
“Yes. He says that Ramanujam gave them very detailed directions, but because of the thick jungle they would have missed us even if they had gone just a hundred yards past us. But the guerrillas had got hold of a goat last night and roasted it over a fire. In the morning the bones and remaining meat attracted a large number of crows. It was their loud fighting over the scraps that gave the campsite away and also covered the noise of the soldiers while they got into position. I’ll have to go now. I will see you all very soon.”
Mrs Ali put down the phone reluctantly.
“What was that about crows?” said her brother, Azhar.
Mrs Ali told him what Rehman had said.
“Subhan ‘Allah,” said Azhar. Glory be to God. “Last Friday, the imam at the mosque quoted a verse from the Quran in his sermon: There is not an animal that lives on the earth, nor a being that flies on its wings, but forms part of communities like you. Nothing have we omitted from the Book, and they all shall be gathered to their Lord in the end.”
“Truly,” said Mrs Ali. “Everything is from the Lord and everything will go back to Him.” She was silent for a moment. “But still, crows…Couldn’t Allah have chosen a more…suitable bird?”
♦
The car screeched to a halt beside the long row of scooters and motorbikes parked along the yellow temple wall.
“We two, our one,” declared a poster pasted there, but the man, in crisp white clothes, who leaped out of the passenger seat was too old for the family planning message. When he had been younger, the message had been, “We two, our two.”
He ran as fast as he could through the wide wooden door and, pausing only to take off his shoes, climbed the steps where devotees were packed together on the hard, cool granite floor. Aruna’s father looked up and saw the man looking around as if lost. Aruna’s father got up, wincing at the pain in his knees and, for the first time in his life, broke the decorum of a temple.
“Viyyankulu-gaaru, daughter’s father-in-law, why are you here? What happened?”
The old man, Ramanujam’s father, saw him and smiled widely. “Good news, sir. The children are free. They are coming home in a couple of hours.”
The devotees in the temple had stopped chanting, surprised at the sight of the two dignified men shouting across to one another. On hearing the news, they burst into a spontaneous cheer. A path was created for Aruna’s father-in-law as the people sitting on the floor shuffled aside and he made his way forward. Aruna’s father-in-law greeted him with a hug.
“These people have all been praying for our children,” he said.
Ramanujam’s father turned to the crowd. “My friends, our prayers have been answered. I have just spoken to my son and daughter-in-law. Their friends are safe too. They are on their way back now. Thank you. I am sure your prayers kept them safe while the police rescued our children.”
He looked sideways at the idol of Hanuman – with the body of a man, but the face and tail of a monkey. Ramanujam’s father’s eyes widened, as if seeing it for the first time. He made a deep and long obeisance before rising and turning back to the people with tears in his eyes.
“My son tells me that when they couldn’t walk in the forest any longer, an old monkey reminded him that he was a doctor who knew how to make bandages.”
There was a stunned silence for a moment and then the devotees erupted. The girl, Anu, stood up and rang the temple bell loudly.
The priest, DK, raised a conch shell to his lips to produce a loud, primordial “Om…”
“Hanuman ki…” somebody shouted over the noise.
“Jai,” came the victorious affirmation from the crowd.
DK put the conch shell away. “Say it again for Lord Hanuman, devotee of Lord Rama.”
“Hanuman ki jai,” went up the shout. The bell tolled. The honking of the traffic outside added to the celebratory din.
Twenty-one
The tiny room was starting to irritate Pari intensely. It was like living in a hotel – but having to run a kitchen too, in the corner.
Before coming to Vizag, she had lived in a village with her parents. Later, she had lived in a small town with her husband. In both those places, her houses had been big with multiple rooms, a separate kitchen and a backyard with a garden. She had been so looking forward to moving into a two-bedroom flat and still could not believe that, because of the malice of one person, she had been thwarted at the last minute. And not only that, her reputation and that of Rehman had been called into question. It was really good of chaacha and chaachi to ignore the talk and still allow her into their house, even if it meant their son, Rehman, having to leave home and find another place to stay. In the last few days all this had been forgotten in the excitement of everybody returning safe and sound, but there was no doubt that the matter would raise its head again.
Now that Aruna was back, Paris temporary job at the marriage bureau had come to an end too. She really had to find some work soon. Mr and Mrs Ali’s comments that her inherited money would not last for ever were beginning to worry her and she was also getting bored with being idle. Since Vasu had started going to school, time dragged heavily in the confined space, especially because she did not want to spend too much time with the Alis when Rehman was around.
Her mobile phone rang and she fished it out of her handbag. The number was familiar but she couldn’t immediately place it.
“Hello.”
“Pari, it is Mrs Bilqis here. Have you got a moment?”
“Of course, madam. What can I do for you?”
“I have been thinking about your wedding. Now that Dilawar has come back safely, I think we should go ahead with it as soon as possible.”
Pari was surprised. Just a few days ago she had gone to Mrs Bilqis’s house with Mrs Ali, taking food, because of Dilawar’s father’s death.
“Are you sure, madam?” she asked delicately. “Under the circumstances…”
“Oh, Pari,” said Mrs Bilqis. Pari could hear a sigh in the elegant woman’s voice. “Life has to go on. I am sure you know that. But I think it should be a simple ceremony. We’ll just call a few family members and friends and have a small wedding – not more than fifty or sixty people.”
Pari thought back to her first wedding. It had been a grand affair – with almost fifteen hundred guests and the ceremonies had lasted three full days. A whole host of relatives and workers had descended on the house in the village, weeks before the date, organising everything – constructing the marquees from palm-tree trunks and fronds; finding chic
kens and lambs for the meat; sourcing kilograms of ghee, quintals of rice, mountains of onions and myriad spices for the biryani; tracking down chairs, tables, saris and jewellery for the trousseau, and God knows what else. Pari certainly didn’t know because she had been merely the bride, just a spectator, the calm eye in the whirlwind of activity round her, not allowed to help out in anything because she was the bride. She had been shocked by the amount of money that her father had spent, peeling off notes every few minutes from a big roll that never seemed exhausted. “Abbu,” she had asked, “why are you spending so much?”
“My princess deserves the best,” he had replied, before being distracted by the marquee-maker saying they were short of palm leaves. Several more notes had been stripped off the roll.
She certainly did not want a big wedding this time round. As far as she was concerned, the simpler the better. The last time, she had left her parental house with tears in her eyes but a song in her heart. She had been scared, both of leaving her father’s home and of the mysterious wifely duty that she would have to perform for her husband – something that the married women round her would only giggle at and talk about in ways that made no sense. But married life was still an adventure that she looked forward to and her husband had been everything that a bride could dream of.
Marriages are made in heaven, her father had told her on the eve of the wedding. When Allah made a creature, He also made the creature’s mate. Pari, the young Pari, had believed it. After all, her parents had been together, very happily, for a long time. The chances of any of her uncles and aunts ending up with their particular partners seemed pretty low too, but it seemed inconceivable to her that they could have spent their lives with anybody else.
This time round, married life did not hold any secrets, especially that, and there would be no tears in her eyes. Her heart would be a different matter. It belonged to Rehman and that in itself was wrong. He had no place in it. This marriage was the safest way to remain faithful to her dead husband. She would be the ideal wife for Dilawar, she decided. Because she could not give him her heart, she would make sure that he lacked nothing else. You were wrong, abbu, she thought. Not all marriages are made in heaven. Some, probably most, are constructed right here on earth, for any number of reasons.
“Pari, are you there?” came the voice on the telephone.
“Er…Sorry, madam. Of course, a simple ceremony is fine by me. In fact, even fifty guests are too many.”
“Arre beta,” said Mrs Bilqis, using an endearment to address Pari for the first time. “I tried to reduce it but that is the minimum number I have to invite. Otherwise, there will be serious problems for me later on. As it is, many people will have their noses put out of joint that they weren’t invited.”
“All right, madam. I am sure you know best,” said Pari.
“One more thing, Pari,” said Mrs Bilqis.
To Pari’s surprise, the older lady sounded embarrassed. “Yes, madam.”
“Dilawar wants to meet you again before the wedding. Will this evening be fine?”
“We’ve already met…”
“That’s exactly what I said. I tried to talk him out of it, but he is adamant. Just humour him please, for my sake. It is at our place, so Nadira and I will also be there.”
“Of course, madam. That’s not a problem. I’ll have to leave Vasu with chaachi but I am sure that will be fine.”
“Thank you, dear.”
♦
That evening, Pari was shown into the Bilqis house by the maid. The sun had not yet set and it felt good to get out of the heat. She was surprised to find Rehman there.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Good afternoon to you too,” he replied.
Pari blushed. “Sorry,” she said.
Rehman smiled. “Dilawar asked me to come over.”
“Oh, his mother called me.”
The maid brought a glass of water for Rehman and asked Pari what she wanted. The two young people both sat stiffly on sofas opposite each other. Ever since that accusation about improper behaviour, Pari did not know how to act with Rehman. She had become self-conscious about the fact that she was in love with him and had to hide it.
Pari looked around the room curiously. It was elegantly decorated with items that spoke of old wealth. It would certainly be a big change from her cramped room, but that thought only depressed her. She felt none of the nervous butterflies and stomach tightening that she had when anticipating life with her first husband. She wondered whether it was because she had already been through that process once and it held no more mysteries for her. Yet she felt those same butterflies at the thought of spending time with Rehman – which didn’t make sense.
A photograph of Dilawar’s father hung on one wall, showing him when young and fit. He was sitting on a horse, with the sun on his face and smiling broadly. Pari imagined what it must have been like to be cut down in his prime and spend the next two decades in bed. If Mr Ali was right, and she had no reason to doubt it, Pari’s own father had wanted to end his life within months of suffering the stroke that had laid him low. At the time he had already been much older than Dilawar’s father and had lost interest in life after his wife had died. She shuddered. She would prefer to die than be helpless like that, she thought.
Rehman eyed her with concern. “Are you cold?” he asked.
Pari shook her head and made a small sign, pointing to the photograph of Dilawar’s father. He nodded in understanding.
Mrs Bilqis’s friend, Nadira, came in and sat down next to Pari. Dabbing the sweat from her forehead with a tiny handkerchief that looked incongruous in her chubby hands, she said, “I swear that the weather keeps getting hotter every year.”
Dilawar and his mother entered the living room and a volley of salaams followed.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said Mrs Bilqis.
The maid came in with tea and Mrs Bilqis fell silent. Once the maid left, Mrs Bilqis continued, “I don’t want to delay the wedding. I know that we are in a period of mourning but I am sure that Dilawar’s father would have wanted us to carry on as normal.”
Nadira nodded. “Did you know that Dilawar and his father are descended from the Mughal emperors?”
“No,” said Pari, slightly mystified by Nadira’s going off at such a tangent. “But I am not surprised.”
“When Babur finally conquered Delhi and established the Mughal dynasty after a lifetime of wandering stateless, he could have expected to rule for a long time. He was a healthy man with a zest for life, after all. But barely four years after Dilawar’s ancestor had started ruling Delhi, his favourite son and heir, Humayun, fell ill. He got worse by the day and finally the physicians gave up. In desperation, the emperor circled Humayun’s bed three times and prayed to Allah, offering his life in exchange for his son’s. It must have worked, because almost from that day Humayun started improving, while Babur fell ill and took to his bed. Humayun recovered and his father died soon after.”
Rehman nodded. “I remember reading that in our history lessons.”
Nadira continued, “We did not tell Dilawar’s father about your kidnapping, but we couldn’t keep it from him. He saw the news on television and he died, at almost the same time as you were being rescued. I have no doubt in my mind that, just like his ancestor, he offered an exchange that Allah, for reasons of His own, was willing to accept.”
Rehman and Pari nodded, not knowing what to say.
Nadira looked at each of them and said to Dilawar, “We should not waste your father’s sacrifice by delaying this wedding. Our elders have said that we should do today what we would do tomorrow and should do now what we would do today.”
Mrs Bilqis smiled at her friend and turned to Pari. “Obviously we must have a simple ceremony. I was thinking that we should have just a nikah, the wedding itself, and not the valima, the reception. What do you say?”
“That’s fine by me, madam.”
“Right, I have prepared a guest
list. Have a look and tell me whether there is anybody else you would like to invite.”
Pari took the sheet of paper that Mrs Bilqis held out, glanced through the names and handed it to Rehman. Turning to Mrs Bilqis, she said, “We really should discuss this with Rehman’s parents. I will be guided by them in all these matters.”
Mrs Bilqis nodded. “All right, I will do that. I also thought that because it is going to be such a small wedding, we could have the nikah in our house. I know that traditionally the wedding is held in the bride’s house and the reception in the groom’s, but since we are not having the reception, I thought we could bend the custom slightly. What do you say?”
Pari said, “If chaacha and chaachi have no objection, then I don’t have a problem with it either. On the face of it, it seems like a sound idea.”
Turning to Dilawar, she added, “When we met the last time, I said that I would prefer to live in Vizag for a year or two after the wedding, so that Vasu had time to adjust to his new life before making the jump to a big metropolis like Mumbai. I’ve changed my mind. If you want me to come with you to Mumbai as soon as we are married, then that’s what I will do. I am sure that a young boy like Vasu will fit in somehow.”
Rehman looked at Pari in surprise. She hadn’t told him that. He wondered why he felt so unhappy about it. After all, ever since this proposal had been made, it was clear that Pari would leave Vizag and move far away.
Mrs Bilqis said, “I’ve also picked out some dates for the wedding. The earliest one is next Friday, before the Jumma prayers and the final one is three weeks from now.”
“So soon?” said Rehman, before Pari could say anything.
“If we can do it while Dilawar is in town, that’s all the better, isn’t it?”
Rehman nodded. “I suppose so.”
Mrs Bilqis opened the drawer next to her and took out an envelope. “What do you think of this design for the invitation cards?”
Dilawar threw up his hands and said, “Wow, this is really going very fast.”
He stood and paced up and down the room several times, furrowing his brow and rubbing his chin. Everyone in the room wondered what was going on in his mind. As he turned towards them at the far end of the room, his face was right next to his father’s and grandfather’s portraits and Pari realised how closely he resembled them. He had the same features: strong chin, the long, aquiline nose, the fair skin, broad neck and full lips. It seemed that their family bred handsome sons. Only Dilawar’s eyes were different. He had inherited his mother’s elongated eyes and thick lashes, giving his face a softer look than that of his ancestors.
