by Farahad Zama
Irshad turned to Aruna and asked, ‘What about you, miss?’
Aruna shook her head. ‘I am sorry. It is too far out of town. I won’t be able to come.’
‘I understand. We may have a valima in town when we get back. You should come for that, at least.’
Aruna looked blank. Mr Ali explained, ‘We Muslims call the reception after the wedding a valima. It is organised by the groom’s side.’
Aruna nodded in understanding. ‘I might come for that. If you don’t hold a reception, you must bring Aisha here so I can meet her,’ she said.
‘Of course . . .’
Irshad took his leave and left.
The client had finished looking at his list a long time ago and had been following their conversation with interest. Once Irshad left, he said, ‘I will become a member. Here are the fees.’
Mr Ali pocketed the fee. ‘You won’t regret it,’ he said.
As Aruna was packing up for the morning and leaving for lunch, Mr Ali gave her the commission from the new member’s fee. He said, ‘I didn’t think he would join. He wasn’t convinced that we could help his daughter. He must have changed his mind after seeing Irshad.’
Aruna put the money away and said, ‘I am sure that helped, sir. Maybe we should hire an actor and whenever there is a potential client who needs convincing, I can call him secretly and he can come in just like Irshad and tell us that we’ve done a great service and found a bride for him. Sir, he could say, you are truly great. I had despaired of ever finding a good match but you people solved my problems in a jiffy. Here is ten thousand rupees as a token of my gratitude. You would refuse the money and he would reply - you must keep it. You deserve every paisa. I cannot tell you how grateful I am.’
Mr Ali laughed and said, ‘Aruna, you are wicked. Go home for lunch.’
Aruna was at home, eating her lunch, sitting cross-legged on the floor in the kitchen. She chewed without interest, barely tasting the rice with sambhar and sautéed ridged gourd. Her sister Vani was at college. Her father was lying down on the bed in the other room with the ancient ceiling fan whirring noisily over his head. Aruna’s mother was sitting in front of her on a four-inch-high wooden stool, silently swinging the palm-leaf fan, so they both got a bit of a breeze.
For a brief time in Mr Ali’s house, she had forgotten the troubles in her life; but now they all came tumbling back on her. Shastry-uncle had come more than once and tried to talk her father round regarding her marriage, but he was adamant. He said he couldn’t afford to get Aruna married and that was that. The last time he had been quite rude to Shastry-uncle and told him not to come to their house again if that was all he could talk about.
Her mother had then picked a fight with him that had still not died down and the whole household walked cautiously round each other. The tension in the household was palpable. They didn’t eat their meals together any more; Aruna’s father ate on his own in the living room and her mother ate with Aruna in the kitchen. Vani had started coming home late from college and when her father asked her why she was late, Vani gave monosyllabic answers.
Aruna’s mother broke the silence. ‘We need to buy oil. I don’t want to ask your dad for money. You know how he is nowadays.’
Aruna nodded. ‘No problem, amma. I’ll drop into the shop on my way back this evening and order some. I got my salary last week.’
Aruna’s mother sighed and looked unhappy. Aruna knew that if she had been a son, her mother wouldn’t have minded asking her for money - in fact, she would have demanded it as of right. But Aruna was aware that her mother, a traditional Indian woman, felt that taking money from a daughter was just not right.
On Monday, Mr Ali was sitting down at the table in his office, working. Mrs Ali was going to see her old widowed neighbour, Lakshmi. Another ex-neighbour, Anjali, had told her that Lakshmi had been kicked out by her son and was now living with her sister. Mrs Ali wanted to try and reconcile Lakshmi and her son. Mr Ali would come down later and pick her up.
‘I’ve kept lunch for you on the table. After you’ve eaten, don’t leave your plate there. Put it in the kitchen sink and run some water over it,’ said Mrs Ali.
Mr Ali nodded his head.
‘And don’t forget to cover the dishes after you’ve served yourself. Flies will sit on the food otherwise,’ she said.
Mr Ali nodded his head.
‘I’ve latched the kitchen door from outside. Leela said she will come late today. She will get into the kitchen from outside and do her work. Keep an eye out and make sure that the kitchen door is closed after she leaves. Otherwise, the cats will come in and drink all the milk.’
Mr Ali nodded his head.
‘And don’t leave the house and come down in a couple of hours and then hurry me back. I don’t like that,’ she said.
Mr Ali sighed and nodded his head. ‘OK . . . you’d better go, otherwise it will be time for me to pick you up even before you leave.’
Mrs Ali finally departed and Mr Ali went back to his work.
He went through the lists and marked out those that were becoming short. Aruna would type out the details of the latest members to make up new lists. One of the ads had been printed incorrectly the previous day in the Indian Express. He called up the classified advertisement department and got them to agree to repeat the ad next Sunday free of charge. He went through the stationery cupboard to figure out if he needed to buy more supplies.
He was making a note to himself to buy envelopes and staples when a young woman in her early twenties walked in. She was tall, slim, slightly dark and was wearing an elegant chiffon sari. She did not have a mangalsootram and did not appear to be married.
The woman brought her hands together and Mr Ali did the same.
‘Namaste. Is this the marriage bureau?’ she asked in a soft voice.
‘Yes, miss. Please take a seat. How can I help you? I am Mr Ali.’
The woman sat down and stared at the floor, awkwardly twisting the end of her sari in her hand. Mr Ali waited for a bit and when the woman did not proceed, he said, ‘It is OK, my dear. Don’t be embarrassed. Who is the match for?’
‘Myself,’ she said.
Mr Ali took out an application form and gave it to her. He said, ‘Why don’t you fill this up? We will talk after that.’
The woman smiled at him and got busy filling in the form.
Mr Ali went back to his work.
A few minutes later, she looked up and said, ‘Sir . . .’
Mr Ali looked up from his work, took the form from her and went through it.
Her name was Sridevi; she was from the Kamma community - a dominant caste of farmers and landowners who now also owned aqua farms and software companies. She was twenty-three years old, a commerce graduate running a florist shop. According to the form, she didn’t have any family money behind her, but was earning a good income.
‘There aren’t many florists in town. Where is your shop?’ Mr Ali asked.
Sridevi named a five-star hotel. ‘It is in the lobby,’ she said.
‘Is it your own or do you just manage it?’ asked Mr Ali.
‘It is my own,’ said Sridevi.
‘The rent there must be quite expensive.’
‘No. They didn’t have a florist, so I talked to the manager and convinced him to let me have a small place in the lobby for a percentage of the receipts. It has done really well and they’ve given me a bigger unit,’ explained Sridevi.
Mr Ali nodded. It couldn’t have been as easy as Sridevi said. She must be a formidable woman to achieve her success without family backing. Mr Ali continued reading through the form. At the end, he found out why she had come on her own and had been so uncomfortable - she was a divorcee.
‘How long were you married?’ asked Mr Ali.
‘Fifteen months.’
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘We had fights all the time - he was completely under his parents’ control. They didn’t want their daughter-in-law to work. I couldn
’t just stay at home all day, but he wouldn’t let me work. His family wanted us to have children as soon as possible and that’s what he pushed for as well. It just became intolerable. After a few months, they even dragged me to visit a gynaecologist, thinking that there must be some problem with me if I was not getting pregnant. I refused to talk to them after that and matters got worse,’ said Sridevi. She looked at him boldly, as if daring him to criticise her.
Mr Ali said, ‘I am not judging you, Sridevi. You must have had your reasons. Didn’t you tell your family what was going on?’
Sridevi didn’t say anything for a moment. She took a deep breath and said, ‘I told them but they said I was wrong to go against my in-laws’ wishes. My father even said that it was a mistake to have educated me. He said it had given me ideas. After I got divorced, he refuses to talk to me.’
‘That’s tough. What about your mother?’ asked Mr Ali.
‘She comes secretly once in a while to meet me. She keeps asking me to go back to my husband, but I don’t want to go through that again. I want to start afresh with somebody who accepts what I am.’
‘I must tell you right now, Sridevi, you are a young girl with no kids, but most guys who are willing to marry a widow or a divorcee will be much older and probably have kids as well,’ said Mr Ali.
‘I know that, sir. I am not in a hurry. I can wait until the right match comes along.’
‘Let’s go through our lists,’ said Mr Ali, turning to the cupboard that held the files.
He took out a list of Kamma grooms. It had only two men who were willing to consider second marriages - one was in his late forties and the other was fifty.
Mr Ali said, ‘I will advertise your details in a couple of newspapers and let’s see if something turns up.’
Sridevi said, ‘No, sir. For all that this is supposed to be a city, Vizag is just an overgrown town and people in our community will guess it is about me if you advertise. Tongues will start wagging and I’d rather avoid that. As I said, I am not in a hurry and I can wait.’
‘Are you sure? There is no guarantee we will find anybody suitable,’ said Mr Ali.
‘There are no guarantees in this life, sir. That’s one thing I’ve learnt in the last couple of years,’ said Sridevi, standing up to go.
‘Have you talked to anybody else about this? If not your family, then your friends?’ asked Mr Ali.
Sridevi shook her head. ‘Not really. It is very difficult. People don’t understand. It was very difficult even to find a place to live because nobody wanted to rent their house to a divorced woman. Luckily, I found a good lawyer and she made sure I got a flat as part of the divorce settlement. It is very strange - as a florist I go to so many parties and functions, decorating the halls and stages. But I cannot go to any functions in my own house. My cousin got married last month and I didn’t get an invitation. It is almost as if I am a widow - even worse; in fact, I’ve become invisible.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A few days later, Mr Ali was at his desk working with Aruna. It was mid-morning and suddenly the light changed. The harsh, bright light mellowed and took on a more brownish hue. Mr Ali looked up and said, ‘I think it is going to rain.’
He got up from the table and went to the door. He could smell the earth and knew the rain wasn’t far away. Behind him, he heard Aruna shout, ‘Madam, it is going to rain.’
As the first drops fell, he was shoved aside as Mrs Ali ran past him, almost athletically, to a cotton sheet on which tamarind was drying outside. Aruna came out as well and helped Mrs Ali collect the four corners of the sheet together and move it indoors.
Mrs Ali said, ‘You shouldn’t have just stood there looking at the rain. If Aruna hadn’t told me, the tamarind would have got wet and spoilt.’
Mr Ali, who had not actually noticed the tamarind, even though it had been right in front of him, did not say anything. Aruna and Mrs Ali went inside. He was more interested in the rain. It was not the proper monsoon season yet. This must be a pre-monsoon shower. He looked on as the fat raindrops fell on the dry earth. Azhar came running out of the rain, opened the outside gate and rushed to stand by Mr Ali.
‘Why did you come in the rain?’ asked Mr Ali.
‘I didn’t know it was going to rain, did I? It was perfectly sunny when I left the house,’ said Azhar.
Mr Ali said, ‘Do you remember the old verse:
‘When the bronze-winged jacana shrieks,
When the black cobra climbs trees,
When the red ant carries white eggs,
Then the rain cascades.’
‘You have a good memory,’ Azhar said. ‘I haven’t heard that for years. My grandmother used to sing it when I was a boy. Mind you, if I saw a cobra climbing a tree, rain wouldn’t be the first thing on my mind.’
Mr Ali laughed.
‘I wonder if the monsoons will be good this year?’ said Mr Ali.
‘I hope so,’ said Azhar. ‘That’s what the meteorologists are predicting, so let’s see.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Ali reflectively, ‘so much of India relies on the monsoons. Not just farmers, but birds, animals and trees too.’
They were both silent, looking at the way the parched earth was soaking up the water and releasing its pent-up heat.
‘You didn’t tell me why you came here, anyway,’ said Mr Ali.
‘It is the first of the month, isn’t it? I am not like my brother-in-law who earns so much money from the marriage bureau that he doesn’t know what date it is. I am going to collect my pension,’ Azhar said.
Mr Ali laughed and then became serious. ‘Any news of Rehman?’ he asked.
‘My inspector friend said they will be charged soon, in another day or so,’ said Azhar.
‘What charge?’ asked Mr Ali.
‘He thinks it will be breaking the peace,’ said Azhar.
‘That doesn’t sound too bad,’ said Mr Ali.
Azhar looked carefully around and lowered his voice. ‘Don’t tell aapa, but my friend says that the police in Royyapalem have been asked to find some evidence - any evidence - so they can be charged with something more serious, like criminal damage,’ he said.
‘I was afraid of something like that. Do you really think they’ll make up something just to get them?’ he asked.
‘Didn’t you read the papers today? The boys have kicked off something big. The protest has been picked up by the media and the whole village is up in arms. The government has declared section one hundred and forty-four in that whole area.’
‘Section one forty-four? That means a curfew, doesn’t it?’ asked Mr Ali.
‘Not quite,’ said Azhar. ‘At this stage, they’ve just banned any gatherings of more than five people. But I think it has gone past that. I think the whole project is in trouble.’
The rain stopped and Azhar said he had to go.
‘At least come into the house and have tea,’ Mr Ali said.
Azhar said, ‘No, I’d better go. If it gets any later, the queues will build up at the bank. By the way, what are you doing this evening? A few of us are going to the beach. Do you want to come too?’
‘In this rain?’ asked Mr Ali.
‘This is just a squall. It has already stopped. By evening, it will be pretty hot again,’ said Azhar.
‘Who is coming?’ asked Mr Ali.
‘About ten or fifteen people - Sanyasi will be there,’ said Azhar, naming a common friend.
Mr Ali thought for a moment and then said, ‘It’s been a while since I’ve gone out with you guys. I’ll go.’
That evening, Aruna was looking after the office on her own. Mr Ali had gone to the beach and Mrs Ali was busy inside the house making dinner. A young man walked in and Aruna looked up from her typing.
He said, ‘Hello, Aruna.’
Aruna saw the handsome doctor who had become a member a few weeks ago. ‘Hello, Mr Ramanujam,’ she said. She was surprised that he had remembered her name.
‘Is Mr Ali here?’ he asked.
>
‘No. He had to go out,’ said Aruna.
‘Oh! Apparently, my sister called him yesterday and he asked her to come today because there was a new list. My sister could-n’t come, so she asked me to collect it.’
‘Yes, something came up just this morning and he must have forgotten that he asked your sister to come in. Anyway, I can help you,’ said Aruna.
‘Thank you,’ he said with a smile.
‘I remember; you are Brahmins, aren’t you?’ she said. Aruna knew Ramanujam was a Brahmin, but she asked anyway.
‘That’s correct,’ he said.
Aruna stood up and went to the cupboard that held the lists. She took out the correct list and handed it to Ramanujam.
As he took the list from her, Aruna noticed that he was wearing a gold watch that looked very expensive. His nails were neatly trimmed and he had long, tapering fingers. She was suddenly conscious that her dress was old and faded.
Ramanujam looked through the list.
‘Do you want me to put it in an envelope?’ asked Aruna.
‘No need,’ he said, smiling at her.
‘Does your sister live locally?’ asked Aruna.
‘Yes. She is married to an industrialist in town,’ Ramanujam said. He laughed. ‘I don’t know exactly what he does, but the steel plant is one of his big customers.’
Aruna nodded. They were obviously a rich family and his words just confirmed it.
‘What about you?’ asked Ramanujam. ‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’
‘I have a younger sister. She is still in college,’ said Aruna.
‘And you? What did you study?’ he asked.
‘I have a BA degree in Telugu and social science.’
‘Oh! A scholar,’ said Ramanujam.
Aruna shrugged. ‘I actually wanted to study for a masters degree, but I had to leave my studies,’ she said. As soon as the words left her mouth, she cringed internally. She wondered why she had said that.
‘Why did you have to leave your studies?’ asked Ramanujam.
‘We couldn’t afford it any more. Also, my wedding was almost fixed and I didn’t want to start something when I wasn’t sure I would be able to continue it.’
