The Marriage Bureau for Rich People

by Farahad Zama

  When Mr Ali came home, a family of three were looking at photograph albums on the verandah. The man and his wife were in their fifties and their daughter was in her early twenties. The man was short and podgy with a thin, greying moustache. He had very little hair on his head, but what little hair there was, was well oiled and neatly combed. His wife was wearing a bright yellow chiffon sari with green dots. The girl was wearing jeans and a knee-length cotton kameez. Aruna introduced them to Mr Ali.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Raju, sir, and Soni. They became members about a month ago.’

  Mr Ali remembered and nodded to them. ‘Yes, yes. I sent you details of the chief engineer’s son last week. You are also an engineer, aren’t you? I thought it would be a good match.’

  Mr Raju said, ‘That’s correct, Mr Ali. We even spoke on the phone, if you remember. After you sent me the details, I found out that my cousin’s brother-in-law knows the bridegroom. They both went to the same college.’

  ‘Even better,’ said Mr Ali. ‘If you know them personally, there’s nothing like that. You can find out what kind of people they are.’

  ‘I know, Mr Ali. They seem to be quite good people in all respects, but the match is for their eldest son. They have four other sons and one daughter.’

  ‘How does that matter?’ asked Mr Ali. ‘Nowadays, people don’t live in joint families, do they?’

  Mr Raju said, ‘I asked my cousin to speak to his brother-in-law about that. The family definitely want their daughter-in-law to stay with them.’

  ‘That will just be in the beginning. After a year or two, I am sure they will separate. After all, the groom is professionally educated, isn’t he?’

  Mr Raju said, ‘Probably, sir. But we cannot take the risk. Soni is our only child and she will find it difficult to adjust to such a big household. We were hoping that you might have some other match.’

  Mr Ali stopped trying to convince them. He could see their minds were made up. They knew their daughter best, after all. He thought for a moment and said, ‘That is the best match among Rajus that I have at the moment. I’ve already sent you all the lists I had until last week.’ He thought again and said, ‘I might have something for you . . .’

  He asked Aruna for the new forms folder - a hardboard pad with a strong clip on the top. It held all the forms that had come in in the last few days and had not yet been collated onto lists. He flipped through the forms until he came to the one he was looking for. ‘Here it is. This only came in three days ago. Chartered accountant, only one brother. Oh! He is too old for your daughter. He is thirty-four and your daughter is only twenty . . .’ he tailed off, looking at Soni quizzically.

  She replied, ‘Twenty-two.’

  Mr Ali smiled at her and said, ‘Too much age gap.’

  Mr Raju nodded, but stretched out his hand to Mr Ali to look at the details. Mr Ali handed the file over, open at the form he was reading. The three of them read through the form and handed the pad back to Mr Ali.

  Mr Raju said, ‘Looks like a good match, but you are right - the age gap is too big. Also, he is only five feet, four inches. Soni is quite tall.’

  Mr Raju’s comment about his daughter’s height reminded Mr Ali of an old client. He asked Aruna to take out the first correspondence file. Mr Ali opened it and went through the file until he found the section he was looking for.

  ‘Here it is! Bodhi Raju - lawyer, twenty-seven. He is a six-footer and wants a tall wife. He was one of my first members. I don’t know if he is still looking for a wife or if something has been fixed.’

  ‘How come he was not on the list you sent us?’ asked Mr Raju.

  ‘He didn’t want me to put him on,’ sighed Mr Ali, remembering. ‘He was one of my very first clients and it was a blow when such an eligible bachelor told me to keep his details out of our lists. I didn’t have that many members then, you see. I told him that he would get a lot more responses if people saw his details on the list, but he was adamant. So what could I do?’

  Mr Raju and his family nodded in understanding.

  Mr Ali said, ‘Let me call him. I have his cell number here.’

  He copied the number on to a piece of paper and handed Bodhi Raju’s form to the three people on the sofa. They read through it quickly and looked up at Mr Ali. It was obvious they liked what they read.

  The phone rang and rang until Mr Ali was about to hang up, thinking, last ring.

  Just then, somebody answered the phone, ‘Hello.’

  It was a woman’s voice and Mr Ali’s heart sank. He must have got married, after all.

  ‘Is Mr Bodhi Raju there?’ he asked.

  ‘The lawyer is busy with a client. Who should I say is calling?’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Mr Ali, a bit rudely.

  Luckily for him, the woman did not take offence. ‘I am the receptionist in his office. Hang on a moment, the client’s just come out. Let me give the phone to the boss.’

  ‘Hello, who is speaking?’ said a man’s voice.

  ‘Bodhi Raju?’ said Mr Ali.

  ‘Yes, who is this?’ asked the voice.

  ‘It is Ali from the marriage bureau. How are you doing?’

  ‘Just a second,’ the man said and Mr Ali heard a door close and suddenly it was much quieter on the phone.

  ‘Mr Ali, please go on. How can I help you? I hope you don’t need my professional help.’ He laughed.

  ‘No, thank you. I called to ask if you are still looking for a bride.’

  ‘Yes, sir. No luck so far.’

  ‘Good,’ said Mr Ali unselfconsciously. He gave a thumbs-up sign to the Rajus and said on the phone, ‘I have a very good match right in front of me. Very respectable family and well off. The girl is tall and good-looking too.’

  Soni blushed and looked at her feet.

  ‘Why don’t you give me your parents’ details and the bride’s family will get in touch with them,’ said Mr Ali.

  ‘My mother is dead, but my father lives with me at the same address I gave you. You can speak to him on the residence phone. I remember writing the number on the form when I filled in.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mr Ali. Just as he was hanging up, he remembered one more question: ‘How many brothers and sisters do you have?’

  ‘Two brothers and one sister.’

  ‘Do they all live with you?’

  ‘No, my elder brother and my sister live with me, but my younger brother has gone to America to do his masters.’

  With mutual thanks they hung up the phone and Mr Ali turned to the anxious Raju family.

  ‘He is not yet married,’ said Mr Ali giving the good news first. ‘However, he does have two brothers and a sister. One of them has gone to America, so only the three of them live together with their father.’

  ‘Oh, it is still a big family and they all live together, too,’ said Mr Raju. Their faces fell.

  Mr Ali nodded and suddenly remembered. ‘Ha, ha!’ he said. ‘There is one important detail I forgot to mention. His mother is no more. She has gone to heaven.’

  He pointed a finger up towards the sky.

  Mr Raju was still frowning, but his wife brightened up.

  ‘You mean . . .’ she began.

  ‘That’s right,’ interrupted Mr Ali, ‘your daughter won’t have a mother-in-law. You know what they say: a woman without a mother-in-law is a very fortunate daughter-in-law.’

  Mr Raju was still not sure.

  Mr Ali said, ‘You must think like a chess player. Just as a rook might be worth two bishops or a queen worth two rooks, how much trouble is a mother-in-law? Will she be less trouble than two brothers and a sister? I don’t think so. Especially when you consider that one brother is abroad and the sister will get married and leave the house at some point.’

  Mr Raju shook his head, still not convinced.

  Mrs Raju turned to her husband. ‘The gentleman is right. You don’t know these things. I think it is a wonderful match.’

  Mr Raju had to give in. They took the details, th
anked him profusely for his help and left, promising to be in touch once they had spoken to the lawyer’s family.

  Mrs Ali came out, bringing three bowls of chilled, diced papaya, and sat down with them. Mr Ali savoured the cool fruit; basking in the glow of a job well done.

  As Mr and Mrs Ali were turning in for the night, the doorbell rang. They looked at the clock. It was just past nine.

  Mrs Ali said, ‘Who can it be at this time? If they are members, tell them we are closed.’

  Mr Ali picked up the keys from a hook just inside the living-room door and went onto the verandah. It was dark outside and he switched on the light in the yard. He was surprised to see his son Rehman standing outside, with his trademark cotton bag slung over his shoulder, looking grim.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Mr Ali asked anxiously.

  Rehman nodded. ‘Yes, abba. Everything is all right,’ he said.

  Mr Ali unlocked the verandah gate and they went into the house. Rehman was a couple of inches taller than Mr Ali, but not quite six feet. He was wearing a long shirt made of khadi, rough homespun cotton cloth, and some nondescript trousers. The last time Mr Ali had seen his son, he did not have the short, thin, slightly unkempt beard.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ asked Mrs Ali.

  ‘No,’ replied Rehman, ‘but it’s all right, I am not hungry.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Ali. ‘It’s past nine. How can you not be hungry? Come into the dining room. I have some rice and rasam. Let me make an omelette.’

  Rehman washed his hands and sat down at the dining table. Mr Ali pulled out a chair and sat next to him. He looked at his son as his wife bustled about, quickly creating a simple dinner from the leftovers.

  ‘When did you start growing a beard?’ asked Mr Ali.

  Rehman looked up in surprise, rubbing his hand over his chin. ‘I was going from village to village the last few weeks and forgot to pack my razor,’ he said.

  Before Mr Ali could ask him what he was doing ‘going from village to village’, Mrs Ali came in with the hastily prepared dinner.

  ‘I am so pleased you are here. You should have called us and let me know you were coming. I would have prepared a proper meal for you,’ she said.

  ‘Ammi, leave it. This food is great. I don’t need anything else.’

  ‘How can I leave it? Between you and your father, you don’t give me a chance to feed you. You look so gaunt. At least, if you were married I wouldn’t worry so much. There’d be somebody to look after you.’

  ‘Not that again, ammi.’

  They all fell silent as Rehman wolfed the food down. Mr Ali wondered when Rehman had last eaten. Finally, he finished eating and got up to wash his hands. Mrs Ali cleared away the dishes. Rehman sat down at the table again and Mrs Ali came back into the dining room.

  ‘Why did you come here at this late hour?’ asked Mr Ali.

  ‘My friends and I are going to Royyapalem tonight,’ Rehman said.

  Mr Ali frowned. ‘I’ve heard that name . . . I remember, isn’t that the village where the Korean company is setting up a special economic zone? That’s great news - are you going to be designing any buildings there?’

  ‘That’s the place, abba,’ said Rehman. ‘But I am not going there to work. The villagers’ lands are being taken away from them. My friends and I are going to protest.’

  Mr Ali shook his head in disappointment. He said, ‘Silly me! Here I was, thinking that you were going to be working for a multinational. How long will you design latrines for villagers and houses for poor people? There’s no money in working for people who cannot pay for your services. It’s time you started working on big projects. With your qualifications, you can walk into any job you want.’

  ‘Abba, I am already working on projects that I want to do, and I earn enough to get by. And it gives me time to do the things I really believe in, like protesting against people who want to take over farmers’ lands.’

  ‘What’s the point of protesting? How will it help?’ asked Mr Ali. ‘That’s a big company. All the political parties are in favour of the zone. What can ordinary people like us achieve by trying to stand up to them?’

  ‘We will protest. We’ll try and get media attention. People have to know that an injustice is being committed by the government and the multinational company,’ Rehman said.

  ‘Will it be dangerous?’ asked Mrs Ali, her face tense.

  ‘No. It shouldn’t be. We are not breaking the law. We will protest peacefully,’ said Rehman.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Rehman. Of course it will be dangerous. The police will be there in strength. The company will have its own guards,’ said Mr Ali. ‘Didn’t you see on TV how badly the police beat those workers who were protesting near Delhi? It will be like that.’

  ‘The policemen who did that got punished,’ said Rehman.

  ‘Foolish boy! Who cares if the police got punished? It didn’t undo the workers’ injuries, did it? You people are going to get crushed,’ Mr Ali said, banging his fist on the table.

  The sudden noise in the night made them all jump.

  Mr Ali lowered his voice, ‘Anyway, industries have to be set up somewhere. Our population is growing day by day and we cannot support everybody on the land. I think the government is doing the right thing. The zone will create lots of jobs. Besides, the farmers are being compensated. It’s not as if their land is being stolen from them.’

  ‘Abba, how can you be so naive? The compensation given to the villagers will be a small fraction of the true cost of the land. The villagers are farmers. What are they going to do with the money? They cannot just go somewhere else and buy land. The whole community will be destroyed. The government could have created the zone on poramboke, empty government land. Why do they have to take over prime agricultural farms?’ said Rehman.

  ‘I still don’t see what you and your friends are going to accomplish against the government machinery,’ said Mr Ali.

  ‘If Gandhi had thought like that, he would never have started the freedom movement against the British,’ said Rehman.

  ‘Oh! So now you are comparing yourself to Gandhi. Who next? Jesus Christ?’ snapped Mr Ali.

  Rehman raised his voice too, ‘How can you just sit there and watch injustice being committed? Whether we achieve anything or not, at least we can try.’

  ‘You got such good marks in school. You are an engineer from a top college. Take up a steady job. You will have a standing in society - people will look up to you. Now look at yourself: almost thirty years old and you wear rough clothes and carry a tattered bag. You don’t even know where your next meal is going to come from. It is not too late even now. Give up all this nonsense and get yourself a good job with a big company. You can still turn your life around,’ said Mr Ali, shaking his head in frustration, not understanding why his son was so thick and couldn’t see something that was so crystal clear.

  ‘Abba, you may not like it, but what I’m doing is important. If you don’t agree, then I’m sorry. I can’t do anything about it,’ said Rehman, lowering his voice.

  ‘You are not sorry. You are just a stubborn fool,’ said Mr Ali.

  Mrs Ali said, ‘Stop it both of you. Can’t you both sit in a room together for half an hour without fighting?’

  They were all silent for a moment after that. Then, Mr Ali said, ‘The commercial tax officer called again last week. He is still willing to give his daughter to you. He says he will set you up in any business you want. I don’t know why, but he is really keen to have you for a son-in-law.’

  Mrs Ali added, ‘Yes, son. His daughter is very pretty. Think about the match. How long can you go on like this? It’s time you settled down with a wife and thought about your future.’

  ‘Ammi, she is the most flighty and useless girl I’ve ever met. Do you remember, we bumped into them at Lori’s wedding? I was bored stiff in minutes. She had no knowledge of the world other than fashion and clothes. And as for the father, we all know how he made his money. He is one of t
he most corrupt officials in his department,’ Rehman said. ‘Anyway, that is all for later. I just came round to tell you that I’m going to Royyapalem tonight. The protest might be over in days, or it might go on for weeks.’

  ‘Don’t go, Rehman. It sounds dangerous,’ said Mrs Ali, looking miserable.

  ‘Ammi, I have to go. Please don’t stop me,’ he said, holding her hands in his own.

  Mrs Ali suddenly started crying. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she took one hand out of Rehman’s and tried to dab the tears away with the end of her sari.

  Mr Ali lost his temper and shouted, ‘Now look what you’ve done. You’ve made your mother cry, you heartless brute. Go! Go and don’t come back to this house again.’

  Rehman got up and hugged his mother. She held him tightly for some time and then let him go. Rehman looked his father in the eye for a moment, nodded and left. Mr Ali followed him to the verandah and locked up the house, his anger turning to sorrow as he watched his son walk away into the darkness.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next afternoon the temperature reached forty degrees. Mrs Ali sprinkled some water on the granite floor of the bedroom to cool it and lay down on the bed. She had her eyes closed but could not sleep during the daytime, especially when it was this hot and her mind was in such turmoil. Mr Ali was fast asleep on the other side of the bed. She lay listening to the rumble of traffic and the occasional honking above the drone of the whirling ceiling fan, thinking about Rehman. He had doted on his father as a child. When did boys grow up and start defying their fathers? Certainly not when their mothers were looking, she thought.

  She heard the rattle of the back door twice before she recognised the sound. She got up and opened the strong door made of mango wood. Light streamed in from outside and Mrs Ali stepped back to let Leela in.

  ‘What’s happened? Why didn’t you come in the morning?’ Mrs Ali asked.

  ‘We went to the doctor. He explained what the operation will involve,’ Leela replied.

  ‘What will they do?’ asked Mrs Ali.

  ‘Kush’s head will be shaved and his skull cut open to make a hole at the back. They’ll remove the growth through the hole,’ Leela said, her eyes watering.