The Marriage Bureau for Rich People

by Farahad Zama

‘It is true, though. You ask almost any illiterate villager in India and he will tell you that God is one and religions are man made. So why do all these so-called educated people with degrees create troubles in the name of religion?’ said Mr Ali.

  ‘You cannot talk like that. People take these things seriously. I’m telling you again, somebody will beat you up one day,’ said Mrs Ali.

  Aruna nodded in agreement. ‘Madam is right, sir. You have to be careful about these things.’

  They went back to work. Mrs Ali sat with them reading the Telugu newspaper. After a little while she stood up and said, ‘Aruna, tomorrow we will be busy. We have to go to court. You will have to look after the office yourself.’

  ‘That’s all right, madam, but why do you have to go to court?’ said Aruna.

  Mrs Ali sighed and said, ‘It’s a long story. Maybe sir can tell you.’

  She went inside the house.

  ‘Akka, I got first class!’ shouted Vani as soon as Aruna entered the house that evening after leaving the office.

  Aruna broke into a smile, gave her a high-five and hugged her. Their mother was smiling proudly and so was their father. The whole family felt close and Aruna’s heart almost broke when she realised how long it had been since they had all been happy together.

  Somebody knocked on the door and her father opened it. They all looked out and Aruna said, ‘It’s the shop boy. I ordered rice on the way home.’

  She went to the door and made sure the rice was the same variety that she had ordered. She gave the boy a small tip and sent him away.

  Her mother asked, ‘Have you paid for the rice?’

  Aruna said, ‘Yes, amma. I paid for it at the time of ordering.’

  They all sat down on a mat in the living room for dinner. Their mother served steamed rice and thin tamarind rasam with fried aubergines and cauliflower in a masala sauce. They finished their meal with rice in buttermilk. From her bag Vani took out a packet of khova made with pure ghee from the Sivarama sweet shop. She gave each of them a small square of the milk-based sweet, decorated with extremely thin silver foil. The khova melted in their mouths.

  ‘Sivarama sweets, eh! How much did that cost?’ asked Mr Somayajulu.

  ‘I didn’t buy it, naanna. One of the boys in the class passed and he gave everybody a packet as a gift,’ replied Vani.

  ‘You must go to a temple and give your thanks to God,’ said their mother to Vani.

  ‘Both of you should go to Simhachalam temple,’ suggested their father. ‘Aruna, you haven’t been there since you started your job, either.’

  Aruna nodded, but Vani protested, ‘Naanna, that’s far away. It will take almost the whole day.’

  Simhachalam temple was on a hill, quite a few miles out of town.

  ‘Do it on Monday,’ proposed their mother, because it was Aruna’s day off.

  ‘Yes, this Monday is a good day to visit the temple. It is a full-moon day,’ said their father.

  ‘Take a picnic,’ said their mother.

  ‘Done,’ agreed Vani.

  ‘You changed your mind quickly when Mother suggested a picnic,’ said Aruna, laughing.

  Vani pouted; then laughed as well.

  After dinner, Aruna’s father switched on their old black and white television to watch the Telugu news. The TV showed the King of Bhutan laying a wreath at Rajghat, Mahatma Gandhi’s memorial in Delhi, then the king meeting the prime minister and other officials. The next item on the news was about the Reserve Bank’s decision to keep interest rates unchanged. After that, the newsreader said, ‘At Royyapalem, police opened fire after protestors ignored section one forty-four and gathered for a public meeting. Two people are reported killed and eight injured; three of them seriously. The state home minister appealed for calm . . .’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ said Aruna, shocked.

  ‘What happened?’ asked her mother. All three of them were looking at Aruna.

  ‘Sir and madam’s son was one of the protestors,’ she said.

  ‘Do you want to find out if he is hurt?’ asked her mother.

  ‘No, he wasn’t at the village today. He was one of the first protestors. He and his friends were struck with lathis and brought back to the city under arrest. He is due to appear in court tomorrow. ’

  ‘What a trial for such nice people,’ said her father. ‘Children just go gallivanting without realising how it affects their parents.’

  The next day, Mr and Mrs Ali and Azhar were at the district court by ten. The court was a hundred-year-old stone building, built during the British times. It had the typical colonial look of buildings its age, with wide verandahs on all sides and faded-green louvred doors and windows. It was surrounded by a large open area, dotted with gulmohar and laburnum trees. Under the shade of each tree was a lawyer in white clothes and a black coat, surrounded by litigants and their families.

  Rehman and his friends were being defended by two hot-shot lawyers who had flown in specially from Hyderabad, the state capital. Mr Ali had expected to pay a share of the costs, but Azhar told him that a lot of money had been collected to pay for the defence. There were police everywhere carrying lathis, iron-banded bamboo canes. There was even a TV camera crew by the entrance to the court.

  ‘You don’t see so many police at the court normally,’ said Azhar.

  ‘It must be because of the firing yesterday at Royyapalem. I am sure that the TV camera is also here because of that,’ said Mr Ali. He turned to Mrs Ali and said, ‘Looks as if our son is famous.’

  ‘Don’t joke, please. What kind of future will he have if he is convicted and branded a criminal? I am sick with tension that our son could be jailed and you pick this time to exercise your humour,’ snapped Mrs Ali.

  Mr Ali met Azhar’s eyes. Azhar made a small signal with his hand, asking him to be silent. Mr Ali looked away, turning his attention to the advocates and their clients. Rehman’s lawyers were standing under the next tree. Mr Ali walked over and the younger lawyer, who carried a briefcase, stopped him. Mr Ali introduced himself and asked the senior lawyer what he thought was going to happen. Before he got a reply, a mobile phone rang. The younger lawyer took it out of his pocket, answered it and handed it to his colleague.

  The senior lawyer turned away to speak on the phone. When Mr Ali asked the younger man what he thought, he just pointed to the senior lawyer and said, ‘Sir is very good. Don’t worry. But he is very busy right now and cannot talk. He left an important case at a critical point in Hyderabad.’

  Mr Ali rejoined his wife and Azhar with a sinking feeling about the whole situation. He wondered if it would have been better to hire a good local solicitor rather than this distracted advocate and his bag-carrier.

  Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity at the entrance to the court and the police started looking more alert. A police van drove through the gates and into the yard. They all moved towards the door to the courtroom, but were stopped several yards away by the police. The van was driven round to the rear entrance. They all waited in the sun, wondering what was happening. Rehman’s lawyers went through the police cordon into the courtroom. About ten minutes later, a court attendant in a long white coat with a red sash over his shoulder and round his waist came out.

  ‘The judge has declared that the proceedings will be held in camera,’ he announced and went back inside, closing the doors to the courtroom behind him.

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Mrs Ali.

  ‘It means we cannot go in,’ said Mr Ali.

  ‘How can they do that?’

  ‘The judge can do whatever he wants,’ said Mr Ali.

  ‘It must be because of all the publicity this case has received,’ said Azhar.

  They stood in the hot sun for a while, before finding the shade of a nearby tree. They stood for a long time, getting more and more uncomfortable. A small boy came round carrying bottles of cool water and made brisk sales until a police constable chased him away. Mrs Ali chewed her nails. None of them spoke very much.
r />   Finally, at about half past noon, the doors of the courtroom opened. Rehman’s lawyer and his sidekick came out and briskly walked away. Mr Ali and a couple of others tried to waylay them, but they were unsuccessful. Behind the lawyers, Rehman and his friends came out of the courtroom, smiling widely, their arms raised, pumping the air. Mr Ali and the others left the lawyers and went to greet the young men.

  Mrs Ali hugged Rehman. Mr Ali and Azhar hung round awkwardly patting him. His bruises were almost faded and the angry welt on his forehead had subsided somewhat.

  ‘What happened?’ Mrs Ali asked.

  ‘We’ve been acquitted. The judge agreed with our lawyer that the arresting officer had made a mistake by not serving us with a notice.’

  ‘So you’ve been let off on a technicality,’ said Mr Ali.

  ‘What do we care why?’ said Mrs Ali. ‘He’s been released, that’s the important thing.’

  ‘The lawyer has earned his fee then,’ said Azhar.

  They started moving towards the gate. Two of Rehman’s friends came and shook his hand. One of his friends had to use his left hand because his right arm was in a white plaster cast. He gave a whoop and the three friends ended up in a big embrace.

  Rehman asked, ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘Most of them have gone,’ said the young man with his arm in the cast.

  Rehman nodded. ‘What about you two? Are you still willing?’

  ‘We are with you,’ said one friend and the other nodded. ‘Some of the others said they’ll come back later.’

  Mr Ali realised with a jolt that Rehman was actually the leader of the group, not just a participant. They crossed the gates of the court compound and came up to where the TV crew was standing. A journalist waylaid them. Mr Ali was not surprised that she addressed his son and seemed to know him by name. She was an attractive woman in her twenties and was carrying a microphone. She smiled at Rehman and asked him to stand on one side so the two of them were the only ones in the frame.

  ‘Mr Rehman, what do you say about your release?’ asked the young lady.

  Rehman said, ‘I’ve always had belief in our justice system. We were part of a legitimate protest to protect the rights of the villagers of Royyapalem.’

  ‘What are your plans now?’ asked the journalist.

  ‘My friends and I are going straight back to Royyapalem.’

  His friends nodded.

  ‘No!’ cried Mrs Ali.

  The TV camera swung towards Mrs Ali. The journalist left Rehman and strode over to her.

  ‘Who are you, madam?’ she asked.

  ‘I am Rehman’s mother,’ said Mrs Ali.

  ‘Do you agree with your son’s decision to go back to Royyapalem and rejoin the protest?’ asked the journalist.

  ‘Of course I don’t agree. How can I, as a mother, be happy about my son going back to the place where he was beaten and arrested? Especially after the firing and deaths yesterday,’ said Mrs Ali.

  ‘What would you advise your son?’ asked the journalist.

  ‘I advise him to listen to his parents and stay here. He has done his bit. Let others now carry on the fight,’ said Mrs Ali, in tears.

  Rehman came over and hugged his mother.

  ‘What do you say to your mother?’ the interviewer asked Rehman.

  ‘My mother is understandably emotional,’ said Rehman, ‘but sometimes we have to look beyond our own house and family. I don’t expect our parents to be happy with our decision to go back to Royyapalem. But my friends and I are doing this for our country. We all want our country to develop, but not by trampling over its weakest citizens. There is no point in getting rich if we lose our soul along the way.’

  At dinner that day, Aruna’s mother asked her, ‘How was your day today? You look tired.’

  ‘Yes, amma. Sir and madam were out the whole morning. Even after they came back, they were so upset that I had to look after the office myself,’ said Aruna.

  ‘Poor people,’ said her mother. ‘Children can cause such trouble when they don’t listen to parents. Thank God you two are so well behaved.’

  ‘Can we still go on the picnic to Simhachalam on Monday?’ asked her sister Vani.

  ‘You are going to visit the temple, Vani, not go on a picnic,’ said her father, severely.

  ‘Same difference, dad. Just chill out,’ she said.

  They all finished their meal and Aruna’s father switched on their television. After the usual political news, the newsreader said, ‘And now let’s go to Vizag to see a mother’s anguish.’

  The camera cut to the court and Mrs Ali’s weeping face came on the screen.

  ‘That’s madam,’ said Aruna, aghast.

  They all watched avidly as the young journalist on the screen talked to Mrs Ali. The fact that Rehman and his friends were released was mentioned only in passing. Mrs Ali’s emotions were given much greater prominence.

  Aruna’s father switched off the television after the weather forecast. They were all silent for a few moments. Then her father said, ‘How shameful it must be for the parents to witness their son’s arrest. And what a brute he is . . . even his mother’s tears are not able to dissolve his will.’

  Vani said, ‘But what Mr Rehman said is true, naanna. Sometimes you have to think beyond your own family. Everybody says that our freedom fighters were great people. Do you think their parents were happy that their children were fighting against the British instead of becoming lawyers or clerks in government service?’

  Aruna’s father said, ‘Don’t argue. You are young and don’t understand these things.’

  Vani made a face but before she could reply, Aruna said, ‘Vani is correct, naanna. But madam is not wrong to cry and tell her son not to go. Her son is also right to say that we should sometimes look beyond our own needs and help others. It’s a sad business all round.’

  Vani said, ‘Tomorrow, I’ll ask my fellow students what we are doing to support the farmers at Royyapalem.’

  Aruna’s father said, ‘Now don’t you go getting involved in dangerous activities. We are poor people and cannot afford to get into trouble.’

  ‘The farmers are poor too, naanna,’ said Vani. ‘But no worries. I am not planning to go to Royyapalem myself. Don’t you always quote what Lord Krishna told the warrior Arjuna on the eve of the great battle in the Gita? We all live in a society and if we don’t help others in their time of need, then we are not contributing to the community and are no better than exploiters and thieves.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  On Sunday, Mr Ali started working again. He was finally able to put thoughts of his son behind him. Mrs Ali was still in bed, unable to face the world.

  Mr Ali started preparing advertisements. Normally, this was a task that he relished, but today, his creative juices weren’t flowing well and he found himself staring at a blank piece of paper for a long time. Aruna went through the enrolment forms to type out details of newly joined members into a list. This task had been neglected all week. Ten quiet minutes later, she waved an enrolment form at Mr Ali and said, ‘This lady, Sridevi. She joined on Monday when I was not here.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Mr Ali, looking up.

  ‘Did you show her the details of Venu, the computer service engineer?’ asked Aruna.

  ‘Who?’ asked Mr Ali, puzzled.

  ‘Do you remember the computer service engineer - the divorcee from the small town? He had an unmarried sister, too,’ answered Aruna.

  Mr Ali thought for a moment before he remembered. ‘No, I didn’t show that match to Sridevi. She only wanted to see matches from her own community and his name wasn’t on that list.’

  ‘But they are from the same caste, sir,’ said Aruna, going to the cupboard and taking out the list.

  ‘How do you remember that? You have an extraordinary memory,’ said Mr Ali, impressed.

  Aruna blushed. ‘Not really, sir. I came across his details the other day when we were going through the lists to identify non-members. ’
r />   Aruna found the list and gave it to Mr Ali. He read through the details and said, ‘No wonder I missed it. These details are in the “Caste: no bar” list. But you are right; they are from the same caste. Give me Sridevi’s form.’ He stretched out his hand and took it from Aruna.

  He picked up the phone and dialled the number on the form.

  ‘Hello! Sridevi here. How can I help you?’ answered a feminine voice.

  ‘This is Mr Ali from the marriage bureau.’

  ‘Hello, sir. I thought I saw you on TV the other day. Was it really you and your wife?’ asked Sridevi.

  Mr Ali sighed. By now the news of his son’s public defiance must be known all over town. ‘Yes, that was me and my wife.’

  ‘Your son is a very brave man, sir,’ she said. ‘I really felt for your wife too.’

  Mr Ali grunted, not sure whether he was pleased or not at her praise. ‘Are you still looking for a match?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir, I am still looking,’ she said.

  ‘His name is Venu - just twenty-six, so quite close to your age. He is a computer service engineer in the city itself. He doesn’t mind matches from any caste, but he is also a Kamma - your community,’ said Mr Ali.

  ‘That sounds good, sir. I cannot come today, but I’ll pop in tomorrow around ten,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t need to come in. I can post the details to you. I have your address and as you are within the city, you’ll get the letter in a couple of days,’ said Mr Ali.

  ‘Would you do that? Thanks very much, sir. My babayi, younger uncle, is coming to visit me tomorrow and it would have been a bit inconvenient for me to come in, so it will help if you just posted me the details,’ Sridevi said.

  ‘Your paternal uncle? That’s good news, isn’t it? You told me that your family was boycotting you,’ Mr Ali said.

  ‘The rest of my family is still boycotting me. My babayi has just come back from the Gulf and he called me up yesterday and said he wants to meet me. I am making lunch for him.’

  ‘That’s great. Hopefully, he can bring the other members of the family round,’ said Mr Ali.