The Many Conditions of Love

by Farahad Zama

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Rehman,” said his mother. “Is that the way you talk to a guest? Where are your manners?”

  “Sorry,” said Rehman and gulped. “I was just taken by surprise.”

  Usha said, “I wanted to meet your mother and ask her if she would like to do a follow-up interview.”

  “I see,” said Rehman and looked at his mother.

  She shook her head. “I was telling Usha just before you came in that I didn’t want to go in front of a camera again.”

  “But, madam, you were so good. Your interviews gave me the best ratings I ever had.”

  “The interviews were not popular because of me,” said Rehman’s mother. “It was because at that time I was a mother who was worried about her son. If you put me on camera now, I will be just another old woman and nobody will watch it.” She stood up. “Do you want tea or coffee?”

  “No, thank you, Madam. I am all right,” said Usha.

  “Nonsense,” said Mrs Ali. “Of course you will have a drink in our house. This is the first time you’ve visited us. Tea or coffee?”

  “She usually drinks tea,” said Rehman.

  His mother looked at him with a frown on her face. “How do you know?” she said.

  Usha said, “In the village…”

  Rehman said “In the city…”

  They stopped in confusion and looked at each other. Usha gave a small laugh and Rehman’s face burned.

  “Hmmm,” said Mrs Ali and walked out to the kitchen.

  “Why did you come here?” said Rehman in an urgent whisper, sitting down in a chair opposite Usha and leaning close to her, as soon as his mother was out of earshot.

  Usha shrugged. “I just wanted to see your house and meet your parents.”

  “You shouldn’t – ” he began, but before he could say anything more, his father came in with a thin polythene bag of oranges and chikus. Rehman jerked back and continued in a more normal voice, “…have troubled yourself.”

  Mr Ali did not recognise the guest. He just nodded and walked through towards the kitchen.

  Usha giggled and Rehman frowned.

  “You should have told me you were coming over,” whispered Rehman, again leaning closer to Usha. “Have you told them that we’ve been meeting in the city?”

  Usha frowned. She bent her head, almost touching his. “Don’t you want them to know?”

  He flushed. The conversation was going into dangerous waters. He whispered back, “It’s not like – ”

  They heard steps and sat up straight.

  Rehman said in a louder voice, “…she’s a celebrity. Why do you want to put her on camera?”

  His father walked back through the living room and on to the verandah.

  “Why? I think it’s a great idea if I can convince your mum to talk on camera. I am sure I can come up with a topic where the public wants to listen to an ordinary housewife’s opinion rather than some politician with an axe to grind.” She reached out and touched his knee. “Don’t panic,” she said.

  But Rehman could not relax. He brushed away her hand. “Don’t touch.”

  Rehman wanted to say more but the front of her kameez had fallen forward as she leaned towards him and the sight of her creamy cleavage made his mouth dry and silenced him. He heard steps and leaned back swiftly, then glared at her. His mother came into the room with a tray. Rehman gave her a quick look and turned back to Usha.

  She was sitting up straight in the chair again. Her smile convinced him that she was not unaware of the effect of her display on him. He could have strangled her.

  “Did Pari get the job?” his mother asked him.

  “Yes, ammi. She got it.”

  “Who is Pari?” Usha asked.

  “My nephew’s widow,” Mrs Ali said. “Rehman took her to an interview at the call centre.”

  Usha nodded slowly.

  “She is a remarkable girl,” Mrs Ali continued. “If you look at the way she acts most of the time, you would not think that she had lost her husband. And Rehman’s really helping by being very friendly with her, taking her round the town and everything.”

  Usha raised her elegantly arched eyebrows. Rehman quickly said, “Her nose is too long.”

  “Rehman,” said his mother, using that tone of voice again. “What a silly thing to say. Pari is an attractive girl, and when did you start commenting on a girl’s appearance anyway, like some roadside Romeo?”

  Usha left after half an hour, unable to convince Mrs Ali to appear on television. Mrs Ali was impressed. “What an amazing woman,” she said. “She has a wonderful career and drives her own car.”

  Mr Ali, who had joined them, said, “Modern, though.”

  Rehman said, “What’s wrong with a girl driving a car? Nafisa drives a car too.”

  “Nafisa drives only when her husband is sitting next to her,” said Mrs Ali. “I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it. But that dress! So tight around her body and she wasn’t wearing a dupatta to veil her chest either. And those heels…Clack clack, they went outside. She must need a lot of practice to walk like that. I am sure I would fall down if I tried walking on high heels. They make her look tall but I wonder if they cause any back problems.”

  “They were not particularly high heels, ammi,” said Rehman.

  “I don’t understand what’s got into you today,” said his mother. “You make that silly remark about Pari and now you are so defensive about Usha. Anybody would think there was some chakkar, relationship, between you two.”

  Rehman gave an exaggerated sigh and walked out of the room.

  “Very modern…” he heard his father say behind him.

  Eight

  On Friday, at four in the afternoon, Mr Ali was eating peanuts, steamed in their shells, while sitting on the verandah. Aruna, who had declined the snack, was looking through an album to identify the photograph of a man who had written to tell them that his marriage had been fixed elsewhere.

  “What shall I do with this photo, sir?” she asked, once she had found the picture of a thick-haired man with a bushy moustache, and removed it from its plastic sleeve. The photo was clearly taken in a studio – the painting of the snow-covered mountain range in the background was a dead giveaway.

  “Keep it under the pen box,” said Mr Ali. “If he doesn’t ask for the photo in a couple of months, we’ll get rid of it.”

  Aruna nodded and slid the photograph under the shoebox that held the pens, staplers, clips and other small items. She scrunched up the letter and threw it in the bin.

  The front gate of the house opened and Mr Ali went into the living room, taking the bowl of peanuts with him. The clients came in before Mr Ali, sans food, returned to the office.

  Aruna recognised Mr Hasan from the large map of India spot on his face. She thought of him now as Mr India, the hero from the eponymous Bollywood movie who fought against terrorists and idol-snatchers with the help of an invisibility bracelet invented by his late father.

  “Hello, Mr In – Hasan,” she said, catching herself before she committed a serious faux pas.

  “Good afternoon, beti,” he said heartily. “I hope you don’t mind if I refer to you as a daughter.”

  Aruna shook her head and smiled. He turned and exchanged greetings with Mr Ali.

  His clan – wife, brother, uncle, sister, wife’s uncle and son – took up all the available room. Aruna noticed that the bride, Sania, had not come with them.

  Aruna took out their file and gave it to Mr Ali. He turned to Mr Hasan and said, “The last time you came, you said you liked several matches and were looking for their photographs.”

  “That’s right,” said Mr Hasan. “But unfortunately, we didn’t like any of them.”

  “What?” said Mr Ali. He opened the file and took out a piece of paper. “Sheikh Hussain, software engineer. He earns a very good salary.”

  “I said no to that,” said Khalida, Mr Hasan’s wife. “I’ve heard that computer people go off to fore
ign countries and I don’t want my daughter to leave us and go away to a far-off land.”

  “Fair enough,” said Mr Ali. “What’s wrong with Mohammed Rizwan, sales executive in Nestle?”

  Mr Hasan’s brother spoke up. “What does sales executive mean? He’s probably just going around selling coffee and milk-powder up and down the country. It’ll be no fun for our Sania if her husband is going on tours all the time.”

  Mr Ali shot a glance at Aruna. She shook her head imperceptibly. “What about Mirza Beg, the officer in central government?”

  “We were very interested in that match,” said Mr Hasan. “However, when we checked, I found out that even though he is well educated and has a good job, his father was just a peon in a private office. So I said no.”

  “Surely it is even more to the young man’s credit that he was able to overcome the limitations of his family circumstances and do well in life. I think you should reconsider.”

  “No, no,” said Mr Hasan. “It is very important what kind of background my son-in-law comes from. Who knows what kind of culture a poor family like that has? And my daughter? She will have to be family members with all these people. It is unthinkable.”

  Aruna’s eyes flashed. Even though she was now married into a rich family, she came from a poor one. Her parents and sister still lived in a small, one-room house with few comforts. “Sir,” she said, “You should not automatically assume that just because somebody is poor, they are boorish and uncultured.”

  “Beti, you look as if you are from a wealthy family. You don’t know how poor people live. They might be drunkards or beat their women or – ”

  A hot response came to Aruna’s lips, but before she could say anything, Mr Ali held up a hand. Aruna subsided and dropped her gaze to her feet. She knew she looked sulky but she couldn’t help it. The man’s prejudice was just unbelievable.

  “I think you are wrong, sir,” said Mr Ali. “But I can appreciate your feelings. Let’s move on. What about the assistant professor, Nizam? He lives locally and I’ve met him. He’s a super boy. A total gentleman – and they are Syeds, very cultured.”

  “Sania didn’t like the idea of marrying a professor. She thinks he will be too serious.”

  “What about the others? There were at least six others,” said Mr Ali.

  “None of them was suitable. My brother thought two of them were not very good,” Mr Hasan said. He pointed to the lady sitting opposite and said, “My sister here thought that three of the families were asking for too much dowry. We need to see more matches.”

  Mr Ali thought for a moment, his eyes on the table. He then looked up and said to all of them, “I am glad that Sania is not here because what I am about to say might have hurt her. The way you are going about this whole exercise seems guaranteed to leave your girl unmarried.”

  The entire family stirred like a muster of crows that had seen a seagull come into their feeding grounds.

  Before they could say anything, Mr Ali raised his voice. “I have gained some experience in this matter while running the marriage bureau, so listen to me.”

  He stared at each of them until they lowered their eyes.

  “You were very lucky that you saw so many matches. It is unfortunate but true that, in this country, Muslims generally are not as educated as people of other communities. Most Muslims are self-employed – they run shops or other small businesses. This is not surprising – most Muslims in good positions went over to Pakistan when the country was partitioned. Here you saw so many educated boys in good jobs and not one of them was suitable. Why do you think that is?”

  Nobody said a word.

  Mr Ali continued, “If you saw another hundred matches, I can tell you that none of them will become your son-in-law. That’s because there are too many people involved in the selection. They say that a camel is a horse designed by a committee and that’s how you are trying to find a bridegroom for Sania. One of you doesn’t like a boy’s family, another doesn’t like his job and a third vetoes yet another boy because he might move far away. You cannot do this. Each of you can have an opinion – after all, this is an important matter and you are all interested in Sania’s welfare – but at the end of the day, it has to be one person’s decision. Or, at the most, one person plus Sania.”

  Mr Ali looked at Mr Hasan.

  “Why don’t you decide, sir? You can look for another year and not find a better match. So choose – of all the people you’ve seen in the past few weeks, who do you think is the best?”

  “I don’t know…” demurred Mr Hasan, wilting under Mr Ali’s eyes.

  “Choose,” said Mr Ali remorselessly.

  “Umm…Rizwan, the sales executive in the multinational. He has a good job with excellent prospects. He is a very outgoing chap; easy to talk to and always cheerful. I’ve been to his parents’ house and they are good people – devout but not fanatical. He is also an only son, so Sania won’t have problems with sisters-in-law or other daughters-in-law.”

  “What does your daughter think of him?”

  “She hasn’t met him but she liked the look of him from the photo. I know that she will get along well with him.”

  “All right, then, why not Rizwan? If he and his family are agreeable, why not settle the matter?”

  “But my brother…” said Mr Hasan, pointing to the man sitting in the other chair. “He thinks Rizwan’s job involves too much travel and that he is only a glorified salesman.”

  Mr Ali turned to Aruna and said, “Please take out Rizwan’s file.”

  Aruna found it and handed it to Mr Ali. He opened it and revealed the form that the young man had filled in when he joined. “Rizwan earns thirty-five thousand rupees a month. Do you think he’s just a salesman? And even if he is, how does it matter? We are all salespeople of one sort or another, anyway. If he earns well and can keep Sania in comfort…”

  Mr Ali shrugged.

  “I am not saying that you should make the decision right here and now. It is an important matter and you should give it due thought. But one of you has to stand up and take a decision after listening to all the available information.”

  “How can I be sure that I am making the right choice?” said Mr Hasan.

  “Whatever you do, there are no guarantees in life. What did our Prophet, peace be upon him, tell us to do when faced with a difficult problem?” said Mr Ali.

  They all looked blankly at him.

  “He told us to seek Istikharah – guidance – from Allah. The Prophet said that we should consult our friends and, if there is still no resolution, say a special prayer: Allahumma innee astakheeruka…O Allah! I ask you for guidance through your knowledge…For surely you have power and I have none. You know all and I know not. O Allah! If in your knowledge this matter be good for me, then ordain it for me, and make it easy for me, and bless me therein. But if in your knowledge, this matter be bad for me, then turn it away from me…”

  Mr Ali stood up and went round the table.

  “It is simple, my friend. Think through what you can. Ask your friends and well-wishers for their thoughts; beyond that, put your trust in God. After all, what else can we mere mortals do?”

  Mr Hasan stood up and hugged Mr Ali thrice as if he had just come back from a mosque. “You are a wise man and you have opened my eyes.”

  ♦

  Aruna was clearing up the table that evening, ready to go home, when the gate opened. She looked out, wondering whether it was another client. After the Hasan family had left, five people had come in, four completely new and one existing member wanting to look at a new list. Three of the four had become members, which was something of a record, and Mr Ali had given her a hundred-rupee note as commission for four people, including one person who had become a member in the morning. She didn’t want to deal with any more clients.

  Her face broke into a smile when she recognised the visitor – her younger sister, Vani. She was probably coming straight from college because she was carrying books in the crook
of her right arm.

  “Hello, akka!” she said lightly and sat down on one of the chairs, unselfconsciously extending her legs, clad in a sky-blue, cotton salwar.

  When Mr Ali poked his head out of the door to see who the visitor was, Vani pulled her legs in closer to the chair.

  “Namaste, Uncle,” she said.

  Mr Ali smiled at her and said, “Have you decided to become a member, then?”

  Vani smiled back, “Not yet, Uncle. Not yet.”

  Mr Ali laughed and withdrew, leaving the sisters on the verandah.

  “What have you done to your hair?” asked Aruna.

  “You noticed?” said Vani, pulling it forward over her shoulder. “I got a perm and a cut. It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

  “The wavy hair really suits you, but isn’t a perm supposed to damage hair?” asked Aruna.

  “It should be all right to do it once in a while,” said Vani. “Do you remember Srishti, the girl from two doors down?”

  “Yes, of course I remember her,” said Aruna, puzzled.

  “She is doing a beautician’s course and for practice she had to find five of her own people to be models. She asked me and I agreed. It was free.”

  “Oooh!” said Aruna, wincing. “A trainee beautician? I am not sure that’s such a good idea.”

  Vani waved her hand dismissively. “She was supervised, so it was no problem. Besides, not all of us have Mr Money Bags for a husband.”

  Aruna laughed. “What can I do for you?” she asked.

  “Do?” said Vani. “Can’t I just visit my elder sister at her workplace?”

  Aruna bent her head and looked unblinkingly at Vani. After a moment, her sister laughed.

  “You are right. I’ve come to ask for a hundred rupees.”

  “Why?” asked Aruna.

  “All my classmates are going for a picnic at Yarada Park on Thursday. I want to go too and I need the money for travel and food.”

  “What about your classes?” asked Aruna.

  “It’s Republic Day, in case you had forgotten.”

  “I did forget. I’ll have to tell sir and not come in. Your brother-in-law will have the day off as well.”