The Many Conditions of Love

by Farahad Zama

  “That’s not the point…” said Rehman, but let himself be guided out of the room.

  As they went into the kitchen, Rehman heard Azhar say, “I am sorry, aapa. But what can I do? Praying for this day for so long…Sentiment…Bad luck…Afraid…”

  Pari closed the door to the kitchen, shutting out the voice.

  ♦

  Aruna sat in the car with her eyes closed and her head stretched back while the driver accelerated and braked alternately, honking almost continuously in the heavy evening traffic. She wondered what the shouting in Madam’s house earlier had been about. Both Rehman and his mother had sounded upset and it seemed as if the new girl had been trying to pacify them. But they had been talking in Urdu and she still couldn’t follow the language well. From what she could gather, it had been something about an invitation by Madam’s brother. But how can an invitation cause such a ruckus? Aruna shrugged her shoulders. She had her own life to think about.

  She got down from the car, smiling her thanks to Peter, the driver, and went into the house. Her mother-in-law and the obviously pregnant Mani were sitting on the sofa, watching a cookery programme on the television. She greeted them and went to her room to change. There was a neat pile of ironed saris on the edge of the bed and she put them away in her wardrobe. She opened Ramanujam’s wardrobe to make sure that his clothes had been done too. They were and she closed the door, smiling – she was still not totally blase about clothes that somehow ironed themselves while she was out. It was probably the best thing about being rich, she thought. Except…

  The long, hot shower – the second of the day – felt wonderful. Aruna felt a little remorseful that she had spent so much time in the shower. She should have gone into the kitchen to make sure that the dinner was all prepared and ready to be served. She hurriedly put on a comfortable mauve cotton sari, brushed her hair and left the room.

  “Were you feeling dirty after working outside?” asked Mani, smiling sweetly at her from the dining table where she was eating a yellow bundi-laddu.

  Aruna flushed guiltily and went into the kitchen without answering. Shantamma was scooping the mixed vegetable curry from the pan into a serving dish.

  “This is the last one, chinnamma,” she said, pointing to the other serving dishes on the worktop.

  “Let me ask if anybody wants to eat right now. I’ll wait for babu,” Aruna said, referring to her husband, Ramanujam.

  Nobody except Mani wanted to eat so Aruna filled one plate and brought it out for her sister-in-law. Mani’s son, Sanjay, came in and wanted to eat too. Aruna got another plate of food and asked her sister-in-law, “Shall I feed him?”

  Mani nodded, her mouth too full to speak. For once, Sanjay did not kick up any fuss and ate his food quickly before bolting from the room.

  “Don’t just let him go,” said Mani. “He has to drink water.”

  Aruna nodded and followed him with a glass of water. She caught up with him in the corridor and made him drink after a little struggle.

  Mani was on the third course – yoghurt rice with lemon pickle – when Ramanujam came in, had a quick wash and sat down at the dining table. His parents joined them, and Shantamma and Kaka brought out the serving dishes. Aruna stood up, serving them all before sitting down next to her husband.

  Mani said to her brother, “I was so controlled when I was pregnant with Sanjay but now I am a glutton. I feel ravenous all the time. Is that normal?”

  Ramanujam said, “Every pregnancy is different – feeling hungry is quite normal. Maybe the baby will be a strong boy like Bhima from the epics.”

  Ramanujam’s mother said, “I am sure it’s not a boy. Look at how her skin is glowing and her complexion has really opened up. It’s definitely a girl.”

  Mani turned to Ramanujam. “Do you think that’s true or is it just an old midwives’ tale?”

  Ramanujam said, “Where pregnancy is concerned, I wouldn’t argue against old Indian midwives. They have a lot of experience, after all.”

  They all laughed. Shantamma came out of the kitchen. Aruna pointed to her vegetable curry and signalled to Shantamma to check her father-in-law’s plate. The maid nodded and ladled out a large spoonful of the curry for the old man.

  Aruna turned to Ramanujam and asked, “My mother said the same thing when my cousin was pregnant and she was correct. My cousin gave birth to a girl. Do you think it could be true or is it just coincidence?”

  Ramanujam scratched his chin with his left hand and frowned in thought. “It could be true. There must be more oestrogen or at least less testosterone in the body when the foetus is female.” He turned to Aruna and smiled. “It’s possible. By the way, I showed the head of the department the statistics I’ve been collecting about post-operative recovery periods after removing tumours that involve both mass and infiltration effect.”

  Ramanujam had previously explained to her how some tumours caused problems simply because of the pressure they exerted by taking up space in the skull, while other tumours actually interfered with the brain structures, so she nodded in understanding.

  “He was very interested and he thinks I should collect more information and present it as a paper at the Indo-German Neurosurgical conference in AIIMS later this year.”

  “Your alma mater – the All India Institute of Medical Sciences? That’s fantastic,” said Aruna. She looked at her husband proudly.

  “The paper has to be accepted first. I’d better contact my old professor there. He is one of the organisers of the conference.”

  “I’m sure it will be accepted,” said Aruna. “If I can help in any way, just let me know – I can type the paper or something…”

  Husband and wife smiled at each other, oblivious to the rest of the family.

  ♦

  “You look beautiful,” Mrs Ali said, looking at Pari on the following afternoon.

  The young woman had just come over from her room across the road, ready to go for the interview. She was dressed in a dark maroon, almost black, salwar kameez. As usual, she was wearing no jewellery and her neck and ears were bare.

  Pari shrugged. “Thanks, chaachi, but what’s the point? He’s not here to see my beauty.”

  Mrs Ali smiled sadly. To be a widow at such a tender age must be so horrible. “I know, dear. But you can still look beautiful for yourself. Wait a moment; I have just the thing for you.” She went out and came back with a small plastic box. Opening it, she took out a chain with long, curved, interlocking links and matching earrings, made of oxidised silver. “Here, put these on,” she said, handing them over.

  Pari held them in her open palm and a look of wonder came over her. “But these are ammi’s. My mother had them for years. How did you get them?”

  “When she died, I asked your father for a memento and he gave me these. Put them on. I think they’ve now come back to their rightful owner.”

  Pari’s eyes filled and she shook her head. “I can’t…I am not supposed to…”

  Mrs Ali took one of the earrings and moved to Pari’s side. She removed the screw from the top of the earring and brushed the hair behind Pari’s ear.

  “Silly girl,” she said. “People would rather that you quietly crawled into a corner and disappeared. But you’ve already taken the big steps. You’ve moved out of the village and you are looking for a job when you don’t actually need the money. What’s a little silver jewellery? It’s not even gold.”

  Pari hugged Mrs Ali and held her close for a moment. Mrs Ali led her to a sofa and they sat side by side.

  “It’s OK, Pari. Don’t worry about what people say. You are in a very unique situation. A woman is always being defined by her relationships – she is a daughter or a wife or a daughter-in-law. For good or bad, you are free – free to make what you want of life. Trust yourself, trust the values your parents have given you and trust the memory of your husband that you still hold dear, and you won’t go far wrong.”

  Mrs Ali tightened the screw of the earring through Paris ear-lobe a
nd said, “The holes are closing up. Don’t take these off for a few days and they’ll open again.” She looked critically at the young woman. “And stop crying now. You don’t want to go red-eyed for your interview.”

  Pari finished putting on the chain round her neck and Mrs Ali continued, “You’ll fit right in with the girls who work in those offices. They think it is some sort of fashion not to wear gold – as if they were poor girls whose parents can’t afford the yellow metal.” She got up and said, “Let me find out what Rehman is doing. Silly boy – he should have been ready about ten minutes ago.”

  ♦

  “That’s the building,” said Rehman, pointing at the blue-glass-fronted building across the road.

  “That looks so modern – like buildings you see on television in foreign countries,” said Pari. “Do you really think somebody like me can get a job there?”

  Rehman glanced at her and noticed that she looked nervous. She had been so confident until now, but the neat building with the clean lines in the posh Waltair Uplands area on the edge of the university had unnerved her. He looked at his watch.

  “Come on; let’s go for a coffee in Dutt Bungalow. There’s a lovely shop in the basement there and it’s only twenty minutes past two. We’ve got plenty of time.”

  They crossed the road near the roundabout. Pari looked at the multi-storeyed building filled with car showrooms, restaurants and shops. “That’s not a bungalow,” she said.

  Rehman laughed. “When I was a boy, this was a small house with a garden all round it.”

  They walked down the stairs.

  “Coffee, Pastries and Conversation,” said Pari, reading the sign above the café. She looked at him and pursed her lips. “Nice!” she said. “One wouldn’t think it, looking at your jholi, but you know how to treat a girl.”

  “What’s wrong with my bag?” said Rehman, lifting the rough cotton sling bag that was hanging over his shoulder.

  “Nothing,” said Pari solemnly and then spoiled the effect by giggling.

  Rehman shook his head as he pushed the door open. At least she seemed to be forgetting her nervousness. Once they had ordered, Pari said, “Let’s sit outside. It’s still winter.”

  They took a small table outside the shop door and watched the traffic go past on the road high above them. Songs from Hindi films could be heard from speakers in the kebabri round the corner.

  A young couple, probably university students, walked past on the road, talking closely, almost touching, engrossed in each other. Even a lorry honking loudly as it came to the roundabout did not disturb their concentration.

  “Do you think their parents know that their children are in love?” asked Pari.

  Rehman laughed. “I doubt it. They’d probably be shocked.”

  “Young people these days…” said Pari, shaking her head. Her earrings swayed gently with her.

  “My dear naani,” said Rehman, “stop talking like a grandmother. I doubt if you are more than a couple of years older than them.”

  Pari turned towards him and gave him a look. Rehman felt a tingle up his spine; he had the feeling that this was how the Rani of Jhansi must have looked as she strapped her infant son on her back and got on to her horse to lead her soldiers against the British in the Sepoy Mutiny.

  “Age has nothing to do with how many birthdays you’ve had, Rehman,” she said.

  Rehman looked into the deep pools of her brown eyes for a long moment. “You are right,” he said finally.

  Pari nodded seriously and went back to her coffee.

  Rehman chuckled. “Some people are born old, others are old before their time…”

  Pari smiled gently at him and Rehman’s mirth vanished. “Yet others have age thrust upon them.”

  A few minutes passed in silence.

  “Is somebody like me from a small village really eligible to work in a modern place like that?”

  Rehman put down his cup and glanced at her. She seemed nervous again. “Your qualifications are second to none. It doesn’t matter that you come from Kowur and not from Bangalore. You’ve worked hard and got yourself a degree in English and even learned how to speak it properly. What more do you need to work in a call centre?”

  Pari looked away, staring into the distance.

  “The dark silver goes well with your dress,” said Rehman.

  Pari turned quickly towards him. Her right hand went to her neck and she rubbed the chain with her fingers. A blush stole over her cheek and she didn’t say anything.

  “What made you change your mind about wearing jewellery?” he said.

  “Don’t you think widows should wear ornaments?” she asked.

  Rehman stiffened. “I thought you knew me better than that,” he said.

  Pari laughed and touched his hand. “You are so easy to tease.”

  After a moment’s silence, she added, “Chaachi, your mother, gave them to me just before we left. They actually belonged to my mother.”

  They were silent, wrapped in their own thoughts for a while. The song in the background, coming from the kebab shop, changed:

  There is a girl; beauty of the town,

  She smiles and raindrops come tinkling down.

  There is a boy; the city’s most brave,

  He laughs and the monsoon rolls in on a wave.

  Pari stared at her coffee cup and her face took on a pensive cast. “You know, not everything Shakespeare wrote makes sense. I agree with that song more than…Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day, indeed. I wouldn’t want to be likened to a hot, uncomfortable day instead of to a nice gentle shower!”

  Rehman laughed. “England is a cold country,” he said. “A summer’s day is probably quite good over there and girls might want to be thought of like that.”

  “Whatever…There’s another line from A Midsummer Night’s Dream which I disagree with: O hell! To choose love with another’s eye.” She looked up at him and said, “Your cousin was chosen for me by abbu. I didn’t even see him until after our wedding. He was the love of my life – always smiling, tall, handsome, kind. He brought me so much laughter, though in the end he made me cry.”

  Rehman didn’t know what to say and he stayed silent.

  Pari continued, “He used to add dollops of ghee to hot rice – he loved the smell and taste of it. I read in a magazine that eating fatty food can cause heart attacks, so I made him stop. We had so many arguments over it. He said that the food just wasn’t as flavoursome but I didn’t back down. That’s what I regret the most. If only I’d known…”

  They finished their coffees slowly. Finally, Rehman looked at his watch and said, “Let’s go.”

  They climbed back up the stairs on to the road. A deformed man with a twisted spine dragged himself to them on a small-wheeled wooden cart and stretched out a hand, begging. “Amma…Babu…”

  The man’s outstretched hand was swathed in bandages, the fingers gnawed to little stubs by leprosy. Pari took out a one-rupee coin from her purse and put it in his palm. The man transferred the coin to a small aluminium tumbler and saluted her.

  “May God bless you, my lady, and grant you success,” said the crippled man, dragging his cart back into the shade of a low wall.

  They crossed the road and went to the call centre. “I’ll walk down to the university library and work on my plans there,” said Rehman. “Give me a call from your mobile when you come out and I’ll be here in less than ten minutes.”

  Pari nodded and walked towards the entrance. Just as she reached the door, Rehman called out, “Best of luck.”

  Pari turned, waved and went inside.

  Rehman worked for over an hour in the quiet, slightly dusty reference section of the library, drawing up page after page of building plans. He had put his mobile phone on vibrate because he didn’t want it to ring loudly in this sanctuary of books. He took it out to make sure it wasn’t on silent by mistake and he had missed Paris call. Finally, after another ten minutes, he put all his papers back into his cotton ba
g and got up from the comfortable chair.

  The sun was bright when he came out from under the trees that surrounded the library. He walked up the road towards the call centre. His mother had prudishly told him to take an auto-rickshaw rather than his bike. She didn’t think it would look good for Pari to be seen riding pillion behind a young man.

  He sat down on a low wall by the roadside from where he could keep an eye on the call centre and watched youngsters on motorcycles, girls and older men on scooters, noisy three-wheeled auto-rickshaws, cars and buses go past. Fifteen minutes crawled slowly by. He had been growing steadily anxious when his phone vibrated in his shirt pocket. He took it out quickly but it wasn’t Pari. It was his mother.

  “She hasn’t come out yet,” he said, when she asked him what was going on.

  He put the phone away and wondered whether to take out his work. Before he could do so, Pari emerged from the building and he stood up. She walked slowly and elegantly towards him. When she was just a couple of feet away, she threw her arms in the air and whooped.

  “I got it!” she shouted.

  An older man in a khaki shirt and shorts, cycling past on the road was startled by her shout, wobbled alarmingly and fell off.

  “Are you all right?” said Rehman to the man, going forward to help him. The cyclist got up, dusted himself down and glared at them angrily before cycling away. Rehman gazed after him in amazement at his rudeness.

  He shrugged and turned towards Pari. He laughed aloud at the wide smile on her face and said, “I knew you would get the job.”

  They gave one another a high five.

  ♦

  Rehman and Pari got off the auto-rickshaw on her side of the road. “Tell chaachi that I will come round later in the evening,” said Pari.

  Rehman nodded and crossed the road to his own house. At the gate he saw a red car that looked familiar. He stared at it for a moment in puzzlement and then his heart raced in his chest. He pushed open the gate and rushed in. Nobody was on the verandah so he went into the living room.

  “Hello, Rehman,” said Usha, smiling sweetly at him.