by Farahad Zama
‘Looking at your face, I would say you have good news,’ Mr Ali said.
‘That’s right. Bharat got engaged yesterday.’
‘Fantastic. That’s really good news,’ said Mr Ali.
‘Yes, and it is down to you. Fabulous match. They are perfect - wealthy, respectable. They are from Vijayanagaram,’ said Mr Venkat, waving his left hand vaguely to the north.
‘Not far then,’ said Mr Ali. ‘It’s less than fifty miles from here. What did your son think of the bride?’
‘The girl is beautiful. My son immediately liked her, so no problems there.’
‘That’s great news. Thanks for coming and telling me,’ said Mr Ali.
‘Don’t think I am an ungrateful man. I’ve got a gift for you and your family.’
‘There was no need,’ said Mr Ali, as was expected of him.
‘No, no. Allow me,’ he said.
Mr Venkat got up from the sofa and went outside to his parked car. Mr Ali followed him. Mr Venkat said to his driver, ‘Take the bag into the gentleman’s house.’
The driver dragged a heavy jute bag out of the boot of the car. Mr Ali directed him to go by the passage at the side of the house and leave the bag by the back door. The man nodded and heaved the heavy sack on to his back.
Mr Venkat explained, ‘That’s thirty kilos of black gram from our fields. The harvest came in two months ago.’
‘Thank you, that’s really generous of you. The lentils must be worth more than the fees - probably enough to make idlis and dosas for six months!’ said Mr Ali, smiling at the thought of the delicious rice cakes and pancakes to come.
Two months later, it was late March and the weather had turned warm. Even now, in the evening, the temperature was in the mid-thirties and winter was just a memory. Mrs Ali came out of the kitchen after making halva, a sweet dish with semolina, sugar, clarified-butter ghee, cashew nuts and raisins. She was feeling hot and sat in the living room under the ceiling fan. She actually wanted to sit outside on the verandah, but it was busy - several people, clients of the marriage bureau, were there. After cooling down for a few minutes, she picked up the phone to speak to her sister who lived locally.
‘. . . the people are right here,’ Mr Ali was saying to somebody on the phone, on the other extension.
Mrs Ali put the phone down, annoyed.
The marriage bureau was now well established. It had become very popular with the Kapu community. It also had lots of members from other Hindu communities, and Muslims. Mrs Ali, however, was not happy. The verandah at the front of the house was totally taken over by the business. Her husband had started printing his address in his ads and visitors were continually streaming in and out - members, potential members, courier delivery men, advertising agents and many others. If he was not in, she had to answer the door and deal with these people. The phone was also busy almost all the time and she could not call up and have a chat with one of her sisters or brothers. They had also stopped calling her because they said the phone was always engaged.
Her husband had become very busy and neglected all his duties around the house. It had been almost a week since she had told him to fix the loose handle on the pressure cooker and he still hadn’t done it. What would happen if the handle came off while she was taking the pressure cooker off the stove? Also, she didn’t think it was good for a man of her husband’s age to be so busy. He was supposed to be a retired man, taking life easy.
As she was musing on all this, moving from anger to depression and back again, she heard her brother Azhar on the verandah, greeting her husband. He pushed open the door to the living room and came in.
‘Salaam, aapa,’ he said to his older sister.
Mrs Ali stood up from the sofa and greeted him. ‘Sit down, Azhar. I’ll get you tea. I’ve just made halva. Do you want some?’
‘No. I went to the doctor yesterday and he said my sugar level was up again. No sweets for me. In fact, reduce the sugar in the tea as well.’
‘Are you all right? Why did you go to the doctor?’ said Mrs Ali.
‘I am feeling fine. It was just a six-monthly check-up.’
Mrs Ali got tea for Azhar and herself. ‘It’s a good habit you have, going to the doctor regularly. It’s best to find out and nip these problems in the bud.’
They sipped their tea and everything was silent except for the whir of the ceiling fan and the noise of the traffic outside.
Mrs Ali suddenly said, ‘He is always busy. See, even now, he cannot come and sit down with us - clients to look after or something. He is neglecting himself - no time for a siesta in the afternoon or a walk in the evening. I am worried. He is not a young man any more. How long can this go on?’
‘I know,’ said Azhar, ‘I met Sanyasi yesterday and he said that bhai-jaan has stopped coming for walks.’
Sanyasi was another retired man and a common friend of her husband and Azhar.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ sighed Mrs Ali.
Just then, Mr Ali came in, smiling. ‘One more fish has fallen in the net!’ he said, waving five one-hundred-rupee notes.
‘Congrats!’ said Azhar. ‘But, bhai-jaan, seriously, how long can you keep this up? I met Sanyasi yesterday and he says it has been almost two weeks since you went for a walk with your old gang. I cannot phone my sister or you and have a chat any more.’
‘You are right,’ said Mr Ali, pocketing the five hundred rupees. ‘But what can I do? I cannot turn people away, can I?’
Mrs Ali got another cup of tea and gave it to her husband.
‘I have to look after the clients, answer the mail, then compose the advertisements and prepare the lists. There just isn’t enough time in the day,’ said Mr Ali.
‘The problems of success!’ laughed Azhar.
‘Don’t laugh, Azhar. This is serious. Your brother-in-law is driving himself into an early grave, working like this,’ said Mrs Ali, frowning and rubbing her knee over the sari. The arthritis in her knees had started playing up, as it always did when she was under stress.
‘What a problem to suffer, eh?’ said Azhar. ‘Most people invest loads of money into a business only to see it fail. Here, we have the opposite.’
‘It’s a problem, nonetheless,’ said Mrs Ali, cautiously flexing her leg. ‘You need to make more time for yourself and for me somehow. If it means advertising less and seeing fewer clients, then that’s what you have to do.’
‘This business doesn’t work like that,’ said Mr Ali. ‘If I have fewer clients, then the clients I do have won’t find any matches. This is a line where if you are not popular, you might as well not get into it at all.’
‘Then close the marriage bureau. We don’t need the money and I cannot deal with all this hassle,’ said Mrs Ali, feeling mutinous.
Azhar raised his hands in a placatory manner and said, ‘There’s no need to go to such extremes. I have an idea. What you need is an assistant to help you and a business phone so your current one remains free for personal use.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘Advertising is the key to success,’ said Mr Ali. ‘How do you think my marriage bureau has become successful? It’s because I spend a bigger portion of my income on advertising than any of my competitors.’
Mrs Ali did not reply. It had been a couple of days since Azhar’s visit and her husband had just told her that he had sent an ad to the local newspaper.
Assistant wanted for successful marriage bureau. Smart, typist . . .
There were several responses. The first girl who came could not speak a word of English; the second could not work after three in the afternoon when her children came back from school; the third was a young man who was shocked that he would have to work on Sundays; the fourth was smart and suitable but did not want to work in a house. She wanted to work in a ‘proper’ office.
Mr Ali sighed and showed the eighth candidate out, saying, ‘I am sorry. We do not have air conditioning. Yes, it gets hot in summer.’
Mrs Ali laughed and said, ‘
Why don’t you give up? You are just wasting money on these ads. They are useless. I will find an assistant for you.’
‘You?’ said Mr Ali.
‘Why? Don’t you think I can?’ asked Mrs Ali.
‘Let’s see you find somebody. If you get me an assistant, I will take you out for dinner.’
‘You are on!’ replied Mrs Ali. ‘But I am not getting fobbed off by a visit to a cheap snack parlour to eat idli sambhar. You will have to take me to a big hotel and feed me tandoori chicken.’
The next day Leela was late. Normally, she came to work before seven, but today they had finished their breakfast and it was well past eight and she was still nowhere to be seen. It was every housewife’s nightmare: the dishes stacked up; the house un-swept; the whole morning routine upset. Whenever Mrs Ali met her sisters or friends, they always complained about their servants and she had to work hard not to appear smug. Leela was very reliable and on the rare occasion that she couldn’t come in, she normally sent one of her daughters to work in her place.
A nagging uncertainty gnawed at Mrs Ali. Would Leela turn up? Should Mrs Ali wash the dishes herself or should she wait? She decided to sweep the house. The thought of the house not being cleaned while the sun was halfway up from the horizon was unbearable. What if any guests turned up? What would they think of her?
Around eleven, Mrs Ali heard a knock on the back door and unbolted it to find that Leela had arrived.
‘What happened? Why are you late?’ asked Mrs Ali.
There was no answer. Leela just went past Mrs Ali into the kitchen and started taking the dirty dishes out into the back yard to wash. Leela was a tall, thin woman in her early forties but looked ten years older. She had a difficult life with an alcoholic husband and the general rigours of poverty, but she was invariably cheerful, always smiling and ready to chat any time. Today, however, she had a grim look on her face. Mrs Ali decided to leave her alone for some time before trying to get an answer.
Mrs Ali went to work scraping a coconut for the chutney she was making for lunch. When she finished, she washed her hands and took the coconut scraper outside to Leela, who took it silently.
Mrs Ali threw the coconut shells into the waste basket and asked, ‘Did your husband come back home drunk last night and beat you again?’
‘No, amma!’ said Leela, ‘I wish it was that simple. My grandson, Kush, is not well. Yesterday, they took an X-ray of the boy’s head. There is a growth in his brain.’ She started crying.
Mrs Ali was aghast. ‘There, there! Don’t cry. I am sure he will be all right. Nowadays, doctors can cure so many diseases.’
Slowly, Mrs Ali got the story out of her. The three-year-old boy had started complaining of headaches. He also got tired easily and fell asleep frequently. The parents initially ignored his complaints until he had started throwing up. They had taken him to a local doctor who had given the boy a course of penicillin injections. It only made him worse. After a couple of weeks of these symptoms, the doctor had given up and asked them to take the boy to the city. In the city, an X-ray had been taken and showed a growth, but the doctors wanted to take a CT scan to be sure.
‘The scanner was so frightening - like a big mouth swallowing the little child. My poor grandson, he was so brave,’ Leela said, her eyes watering again.
‘Have you got the results from the scan?’ asked Mrs Ali.
‘Yes, amma. The growth is definitely there and they said they have to operate to take it out. The doctor was very good. He explained everything patiently and said that the sooner we have the operation, the better.’
‘How much did the scan cost?’ asked Mrs Ali.
‘Five thousand rupees, amma,’ said Leela. ‘My daughter says that all their savings are now gone. The operation will cost more money and I don’t know where we’ll get it from.’
The next morning, Mrs Ali, as usual, went outside at six to collect the milk. It was an old habit from years ago when the milkman actually milked the cow in front of the house and she had to stand there watching him to make sure he did not dilute the milk from a secret water bottle. The cows were long gone and she now got a half-litre sachet of milk from the dairy, but she still stood at the gate to collect it. Mrs Ali also liked to stand by the gate while the day was still cool and watch the people who walked by her house - they all seemed to be in much less hurry at this time of day. As she grew older, she found that she was becoming more and more partial to peace and quiet. Most of the people on the road at this time were either thin pensioners or fat middle-aged people out for a walk.
It is interesting, she thought, that you do not see any fat pensioners. Are they too poor to get fat or do fat people die before they become pensioners?
She saw a young mother carrying a small child in her arms and her thoughts went to Leela’s grandson. She hoped he would be all right. The milkman came a bit early and gave her the milk, but Mrs Ali did not go inside. She stayed outside, waiting. She had noticed a young woman in her early twenties who walked past the house every day, returning an hour later with rolled-up sheets of paper in her hand.
A few minutes later, the woman was walking past and Mrs Ali called out to her, ‘Hello! Do you have a moment?’
The girl looked around, appearing surprised at being addressed by a stranger.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Mrs Ali.
‘Aruna,’ the girl replied.
‘Are you going to the typing institute?’ asked Mrs Ali.
‘Yes!’ said Aruna, surprised. ‘How did you know?’
‘I have seen you returning with rolled-up paper in your hand and I knew you must be learning to type. What’s your speed?’ Mrs Ali asked. She had learnt typing as a teenager herself, but it was many years since she had sat in front of a typewriter.
‘Fifty words per minute,’ replied Aruna.
‘That’s good.’
‘Thanks.’ She smiled shyly. ‘I have passed my lower and I am practising for my higher exam.’
‘Would you like a job?’ asked Mrs Ali.
‘What job?’ asked Aruna, looking suspicious.
She has every reason to be, thought Mrs Ali. It is not every day that jobs are offered to people walking along the road.
‘We have a marriage bureau,’ replied Mrs Ali pointing to the board. ‘We need an assistant. I think it would suit a girl like you who lives locally.’
‘Oh!’
Mrs Ali could see that the girl was tempted but not convinced. She said, ‘Why don’t you go for your typing lessons and then come back later when the office is open? You can see for yourself then and decide.’
Aruna nodded and went on her way. Mrs Ali happily went inside. She knew the young woman would be back. Aruna always wore a simple cotton salwar kameez, trousers and a long shirt that reached down to the knees with slits by the sides. Her dress looked handmade. She did not wear expensive ready-made clothes. She always wore tiny earrings and the same thin gold chain round her neck. Her family was obviously not well off and she seemed like a modest, sensible girl - just the kind Mrs Ali liked. She didn’t think much of brash modern girls who wore T-shirts and jeans and spoke good English.
It was half past nine in the morning and it was hot but not yet scorching. Traffic on the road outside was still heavy and the road was noisy. The postman had just gone and Mr Ali was busy working through the day’s mail. There was a gentle cough and Mr Ali looked up in surprise to see a young woman by the door - he hadn’t heard the gate open.
‘Namaste,’ she said with folded hands.
‘Namaste,’ he replied, distracted.
‘May I speak to madam?’ the woman asked.
‘Madam?’ he said, puzzled. His mind was still on the letter he was reading and he couldn’t figure out who she was talking about.
Luckily, his wife came out just then. She smiled at the girl and said, ‘Hi, Aruna! Thank you for coming. This is my husband, Mr Ali. He runs the marriage bureau.’ Mrs Ali turned to him and said, ‘I’ve asked Aruna to come over and ha
ve a look to see if she wants to work as an assistant here.’
‘I see,’ said Mr Ali, folding the letter and putting it to one side.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Ali, ‘Aruna is a very good typist. She has passed her lower typing exam and is preparing for her higher exam. She lives locally as well.’
Mr Ali pointed to the sofa and said, ‘Please sit down, Aruna.’ After she sat down, he asked her, ‘Do you want a glass of water?’
Aruna nodded and Mrs Ali went inside to get it. This was traditional Indian courtesy - Muslim or Hindu. Feuds lasting generations had broken out when this simple courtesy was not observed. The Prophet Mohammed was reported to have seen a prostitute giving water to a stray puppy and said that the woman was sure to go to heaven. A traditional pooja - prayer - among Hindus involves inviting God into your house as a guest, and one of the first steps in the worship is to offer the Lord a drink. Mrs Ali came back with a glass of cool water from the fridge and gave it to Aruna.
Mr Ali asked her, ‘Are you working now?’
‘Yes, sir. I am a shop assistant in Modern Bazaar,’ she replied, naming a new department store (the first multistorey shop in the whole town). ‘I just started there three weeks ago.’
‘Why do you want to leave such a big shop and work here?’ asked Mr Ali.
‘Oh! I was not planning to move, sir, but madam saw me outside and asked me to come in.’
Mrs Ali nodded. ‘That’s right,’ she said and turned to Aruna. ‘What hours do you work?’
‘Really long hours!’ the girl said, her hands tight in her lap. ‘The shop opens at eleven and we have to be there half an hour before that. It closes at ten in the night and we leave fifteen minutes later. It’s very difficult to find a bus at that time of night and I get home after eleven.’
Mrs Ali was shocked. ‘Aren’t you scared - a young girl like you travelling that late at night?’
‘I used to be scared,’ said Aruna, shrugging her shoulders. ‘I don’t mind now.’
