by Farahad Zama
He sobbed even more piteously. Aruna just held her father tight. She didn’t know what else to do.
‘Your son is causing a lot of trouble for the police department,’ said the inspector.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mr Ali. He was deeply embarrassed that Rehman had been arrested and thrown in a police lock-up; on the other hand, he was relieved that his son was not in hospital, seriously injured.
‘That’s all right. It’s better than going after rowdy-sheeters or pickpockets. A better class of prisoner, you know,’ said the inspector and laughed.
It was evening and Mr and Mrs Ali and Azhar were in an interview room at the police station with the inspector and a constable. Mrs Ali was holding a tiffin carrier with home-cooked food in it. Rehman had not yet been brought in.
Azhar said, ‘Can we give him food? Mothers . . .’
The inspector smiled and said, ‘I don’t see a problem. He is only in lock-up at the moment. He and his friends have not yet been charged. You can feed him if you want.’
He turned to the constable and said, ‘Get plates and allow these people to serve food to their son later.’
The police constable nodded. ‘Yes, sir. No problem, sir.’
A heavily scratched table took up most of the available space in the small room. There were several chairs round the table.
Rehman came in. He looked tired. His beard looked even more straggly and unkempt than before. There was a large contusion on his forehead and there were several purple bruises on his arms. He was heavily tanned and his eyes looked huge and startlingly white against his face.
Mrs Ali gave a cry and rushed towards Rehman. He winced when she put her arms round him but he didn’t say anything. She didn’t let go of her son for several minutes. Finally, she stood a bit away from him and Rehman greeted his father and uncle. They all sat down; Mrs Ali sat next to her son and held his hand.
Azhar said, ‘What have you done? You are hurt so badly. You are causing so much distress to your mum and dad. Why did you get involved in this protest?’
Rehman said to his uncle, ‘Maama, if everybody thought like that, nothing would ever change. Didn’t somebody say that for evil to happen, it is only necessary for good people to do nothing? ’
Mr Ali said, ‘But this is not evil you are protesting against, is it? The government wants to create industries and provide employment to our youth. You are stopping the economic progress of our country.’
Rehman said, ‘You are right, abba. It is not evil, but it is still injustice. Poor farmers’ lands are being taken away from them.’
Mr Ali said, ‘They are being compensated.’
Mrs Ali said, ‘Stop it, all of you. Don’t start discussing your politics again.’
Azhar said, ‘That’s right. We won’t have more than half an hour or so. Let’s talk about what we can do. How many people were arrested along with you?’
‘About thirty of us.’
‘I can ask my friend if he can somehow lose your papers and let you go. There is political pressure in a case like this, but I am sure they won’t miss one person out of thirty,’ said Azhar.
‘No, maama. That’s ridiculous. How can you ask a police officer to break the law like that?’ said Rehman, looking shocked.
Azhar said, ‘Don’t be naive, boy. He won’t do it for just anybody. But he and I go back a long way. He might do it for me. There’s no harm in asking.’
Rehman shook his head. ‘No way. I am not going to be a party to anything so disgusting. Anyway, I cannot leave my friends like that and go off by myself. This is a great opportunity to highlight the case to the media even more. If I do what you are suggesting, then everything we’ve done over the last week becomes meaningless. It will also be a betrayal of the villagers who’ve reposed their trust in us.’
Azhar said, ‘What about your parents? What about their distress? ’
Mr Ali broke in, ‘Azhar, stop it. You are not going to convince him. What does our anxiety or shame mean to him? When I was growing up, it was considered a black mark against the whole community if the police even entered the village. Now, my own son has been arrested and our feelings are nothing to him.’
Rehman said, ‘I don’t see anything to be ashamed about. I’ve not been caught stealing or lying.’
Mr Ali raised his hands. ‘He is in a police lock-up and he doesn’t see any shame.’
Rehman turned to Mrs Ali. ‘Ammi, what do you say? You are silent.’
Mrs Ali started weeping. She said, ‘What can I say, son? As always, I am caught between you and your father. I don’t know who to listen to or what is right or wrong any more. All I can see is that you’ve been beaten badly.’
Rehman held her hands in his and let her weep.
CHAPTER TEN
The next day everybody was quiet in Mr Ali’s house. He knew why he and his wife were depressed, but he was surprised to see that Aruna was not her usual self either. Mr Ali eventually gave up trying to make conversation with Aruna. He went to the post office with the letters.
At the post office, Mr Ali went past the queues at the counters and walked straight in as usual. He gave the letters to the clerk who was busy defacing the stamps on the envelopes with a big round stamp. Naidu, the postmaster, was busy on the phone, but he signalled to Mr Ali to sit down in the chair opposite.
Mr Ali sat down and waited for Naidu to get off the phone. The summer was past its peak but it was still pretty hot. It was also more humid, presaging the arrival of the monsoon. He heard the chatter of the sorting clerks and people wanting to buy stamps. He heard a young man asking a clerk how to fill in a form to send money to his parents in the village. The fan whirred away noisily above his head and the clerk stamped the envelopes with a metronomic thud, thud, thud . . .
Mr Ali closed his eyes, shutting his mind to all the noises. He tried not to think about his son, hurt, in the police lock-up. Instead, he wondered why Aruna was so quiet today. He hoped it wasn’t anything he had said or done. His wife was always telling him not to make jokes about religion or caste but he couldn’t help himself. Aruna had really settled in well and now he could not imagine running the marriage bureau without her.
‘Sir, how are you? What can I do for you?’ asked a voice and Mr Ali opened his eyes; he had fallen asleep. Naidu had got off the phone.
‘Naidu, how are you?’
‘I am fine, sir, with your blessings. I am sorry to keep you waiting. That was the postmaster-general’s secretariat on the phone and I couldn’t hang up on them.’
‘No problem, Naidu. I am looking for more postcards. Do you have any?’
Naidu said, ‘I am really sorry, sir. We only have a few at the moment. I will place an order for them and I will send word through the postman when I get them.’
‘That’s OK. I don’t need them for a few days yet,’ replied Mr Ali.
He stayed in the post office for a bit longer, talking about the weather and the news.
Naidu asked, ‘Do you remember Gopal, the postman?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Ali. ‘He’s stopped coming to our house for the last couple of weeks. The new postman is not half as friendly. What happened to Gopal?’ said Mr Ali.
‘Do you remember he has a daughter?’
‘Of course! When she got married I joked with him that he did not need my services any more.’
‘His son-in-law died,’ said Naidu.
‘What? It’s been just a couple of months or so since his daughter got married, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. Barely two months. She is Gopal’s only daughter.’
‘Poor girl . . . poor man, such a tragedy,’ said Mr Ali, shocked at the news.
They were both silent for a while and then Mr Ali asked, ‘How old was the son-in-law?’
‘Twenty-nine.’
Mr Ali shook his head. ‘How did he die?’
‘Accident. He was riding his motorcycle along the road past the cemetery one night. There were road works and the workers had
left a drum of tar in the middle of the road. The drum was covered with tar and black and he didn’t see it. He went smack bang into it. The doctor said he must have died instantaneously,’ said Naidu.
‘What a shame. One silly mistake by one person and such a tragedy is felt by a completely different person. I always thought that road was dangerous. But, even if it was black, how did he miss the drum?’
‘There was a power cut and all the street lights were off that night. And you know something? It gets worse.’
‘How can it be worse?’ asked Mr Ali.
‘Gopal spent a lot of money on the wedding. He gave a big dowry as well because his son-in-law had a good job. He is still paying off the debts he incurred for the wedding. His son-in-law had an insurance policy for fifteen lakhs. Unfortunately, he had taken it out before he got married, naming his parents as beneficiaries and never changed it after the wedding. The insurance company is paying out the money to his parents. They have driven the poor girl out of the house without a single paisa to her name,’ said Naidu.
‘What?’ said Mr Ali. ‘How can they do that? Can’t she go to court?’
‘Gopal has consulted a lawyer but the lawyer thinks the case will take a long time to settle. He has told them to try and settle it out of court but the in-laws are just refusing to talk to Gopal. They are claiming that their son died because of his daughter’s ill-luck.’
‘How ridiculous . . . what a shame,’ said Mr Ali.
They sat silent for some time, each occupied with his own thoughts. Mr Ali took his leave and left, subdued.
When he arrived home, Mr Ali saw Aruna dealing with a customer. She was saying, ‘We have members in America, sir. I am sure we can help.’
The customer paid his fees and left soon after.
After the customer left, Aruna turned to Mr Ali and said, ‘I can’t believe these people, sir. That man who just left is fixated on getting a son-in-law in America and sending his daughter away. He is a well-off man and, looking at the photograph, his daughter is good-looking. He could easily find a son-in-law locally - his daughter will be close by, instead of across the seven seas. Why do people have such specific requirements? Why don’t they compromise? ’
He said, ‘I don’t know why people don’t compromise. But, let me tell you a story. Did you know we used to have a cat?’
‘A cat? No, I didn’t know that.’
‘Oh, yes! This was several years ago . . . A white fluffy cat with a lovely tail. It had one blue and one green eye. You don’t get cats like that here.’
Mrs Ali came out and noticing there were no clients, sat down with them. ‘Do you remember our cat?’ asked Mr Ali.
‘Of course,’ replied Mrs Ali. ‘She was so lovely. She never stole any milk or fish at all; just waited patiently until I poured milk into a saucer or gave her a fish head. In fact, she used to drive away other cats from our kitchen.’
‘If it’s not a breed that lives here, how did you get it?’ asked Aruna.
Mr Ali said, ‘One day I went to the market to buy some vegetables. As I was coming out, I saw this cat at bay against a wall being barked at by three dogs. They looked ready to tear her to pieces, so I threw a stone at them. The dogs ran off with their tails between their legs and I went up to the cat. Surprisingly, it didn’t have any fear of human beings. The poor mite let me pick it up without any fuss. It was little more than a kitten and quite unlike any stray that I had ever seen. I brought it home with me.’
‘I remember when it came home. I don’t like animals and we’d never had a pet before. But she looked so pretty that I couldn’t help falling in love with her immediately. I gave her a saucer of milk and she just lapped it up,’ said Mrs Ali.
‘That’s right. Everybody fell in love with her as soon as they saw her. We just adopted her and she started living with us. After a couple of years, I started thinking about a mate for her. I searched high and low for another cat like that but there wasn’t one to be found. I had been looking for a few months without any success when, suddenly, she disappeared. Rehman was inconsolable. Both of us were quite upset. We thought that maybe she had died in an accident. We still missed her, but after a couple of months we had given up looking for her and suddenly, she turned up again. She was heavily pregnant and went straight into a cupboard,’ said Mr Ali.
He continued, ‘The next day she gave birth to three kittens - mongrels. They were not white like their mother. They had dirty brown marks all over their bodies. But our cat loved them to bits. She groomed them, fed them, taught them all tricks like climbing trees and catching mice.’
‘What did you do with the kittens?’ asked Aruna.
‘Once they had grown up a bit and could look after themselves, I took them to the fish market and left them there,’ said Mr Ali. ‘I was looking for the perfect mate for our cat. But all she was interested in was a healthy male. She didn’t mind that her kittens were mongrels. She loved them. That’s the mistake people make - always searching for the perfect match, when they would be just as happy if they settled for somebody reasonably good.’
‘What stories you tell,’ said Mrs Ali, laughing for the first time since the day before. ‘How can you compare human beings and animals? It doesn’t make sense.’
Mr Ali shook his head and said, ‘It is true, though. Many men think their daughters will only be happy if their son-in-law is a rich officer or a software engineer in California. That’s not necessarily true. You need a man with good character who will respect his wife. If you have that, any woman will be happy even if money is tight. If a husband comes home drunk or chases after other females, it doesn’t matter if they live in a big house with lots of servants, she will still be miserable.’
Mrs Ali said, ‘What you are saying is true, but what if a woman could get a rich husband who didn’t have any bad habits and respected her?’
Mr Ali smiled. ‘Then they would live happily ever after.’
Aruna said sadly, ‘And such stories usually begin, once upon a time.’
Some days later, Aruna and Mr Ali were busy talking to a client. The client was not sure that the fee was worth paying, and they were trying to convince him to join. Aruna gave the client a specimen list of suitable grooms and the man started looking through it. The specimen list had all the details of the members, but only incomplete addresses and phone numbers.
While the client was busy going through the list, Irshad came in. Mr Ali turned to him and smiled in welcome.
‘Hello, Irshad. What brings you back?’ he asked.
‘Good news, sir,’ exclaimed Irshad. He rummaged through his bag and took out two white envelopes. He gave one each to Mr Ali and Aruna. The four corners of the envelopes were coloured yellow with turmeric and the words ‘Wedding Invitation’ were written in flowery, cursive letters across the top.
They opened their envelopes and took out the invitation cards. The invitation was from Irshad’s mother. At the top of the card there was a picture of a crescent moon with a star above it. Under the moon and star, the words ‘In the name of Allah, most merciful, most beneficent’ were written in small letters. The invitation itself read:
Mrs Ameena Khatoun, wife of late Janab Mohammed Ilyas, retired tehsildar, village officer, requests your gracious presence for the auspicious occasion of the wedding of her son Mohammed Irshad with Aisha, daughter of Janab Syed Jalaluddin, shopkeeper.
The invitation gave the address of the marriage venue and the time - ten in the morning on a Sunday in a month’s time at the bride’s house in Kottavalasa. Mr Ali came out from behind his desk smiling.
Irshad extended his arm to shake hands with Mr Ali. Mr Ali brushed it aside and hugged him. ‘Congratulations. May you have a happy married life,’ said Mr Ali.
‘I owe it all to you, sir. If you had not taken a personal interest, it would not have happened,’ said Irshad, obviously emotional.
‘Did you go to Kottavalasa to meet the bride and her parents?’ asked Mr Ali.
‘Yes, sir.
My mum and I went with the imam, the priest, at our local mosque. The whole match got settled in that one visit.’
Aruna asked, ‘Did you talk to Aisha?’
Irshad blushed. He said, ‘For a few minutes, miss. She is quite a clever girl. She has written stories and published recipes in a weekly magazine.’
Aruna asked, looking very innocent, ‘Is she good-looking?’
He blushed even more. ‘Yes, miss. She is very pretty.’
Aruna continued, ‘What was she wearing?’
Irshad’s body twisted in embarrassment. He hummed and hawed for a bit and then said, ‘A sari.’
‘Obviously she would be wearing a sari at a formal occasion like that, but what colour was it?’ asked Aruna.
He thought for a moment, then said, ‘Orange, I think.’
‘Aren’t you sure?’ asked Aruna.
‘Not really. All I noticed were her eyes. She had large doe-like eyes, they shone like marbles . . . and I noticed that she was wearing fragrant jasmine flowers in her hair.’
Aruna said, ‘If you want a happy married life, you should notice what your wife is wearing and you should compliment her if you think it suits her.’
Mr Ali smiled. ‘If you want an even happier married life, you should compliment your wife even when you think that what she is wearing doesn’t suit her.’
Everybody, including the client, laughed - Irshad, nervously. Mr Ali turned to Aruna and said, ‘Stop it, girl. You are embarrassing the poor man.’
He turned to Irshad and said, ‘Congrats again, Irshad, and thanks for coming and giving us the invitations. Most people would rather forget that their match was organised through a marriage bureau.’
‘How can I forget, sir? It is all due to you. You must definitely come to the wedding. In fact, you won’t be just another guest; you will be a wedding elder. I will send a taxi for all of you to come to the wedding and bring you back again.’
Mr Ali said, ‘OK. How can we refuse such an invitation? Mrs Ali and I will both come.’
