by Farahad Zama
‘Every obstacle has a solution. Don’t worry,’ said Ramanujam, laughing.
They walked over to the tap and washed their mangoes. Red dust splattered on their clothes even though they were careful to stand away from the water. Ramanujam went to an old mango tree with a large hollow. He took a stick and pulled a plastic packet from inside the hollow. He opened it and said, ‘Voilà! A knife for madam.’
Aruna took the knife and expertly cut the mango into strips, leaving the large, hard seed in the middle with a thin covering of yellow flesh. The rich fragrance of the mango made her mouth water.
They wandered round the plot, eating the mango that Aruna had cut. They plucked some more ripe mangoes that were within their reach. Vani turned her dupatta into a sack to hold them. In one corner of the plot there was a stand of cashew-nut trees. They were smaller than the mango trees but the leaves were bigger. Ramanujam had a look and asked, ‘Have you eaten a cashew mango?’
Aruna looked at the green fruit which had a brown nut stuck to its bottom. It looked odd - somehow upside down. The girls shook their heads. Aruna replied, ‘No, I’ve never eaten the cashew fruit. We haven’t eaten that many cashew nuts either. They are quite expensive.’
Ramanujam nodded and said, ‘It’s a pity they are not ripe yet. Another month and we would have been able to eat the fruit and roast the nuts.’
They made their way back to the picnic and sat down. Aruna cut one more mango and they ate it. Ramanujam stretched out on the sheet and put his hand under his head, like a pillow. They fell silent, listening to bird-song and the hum of bees. ‘This is so peaceful,’ he said after a while. ‘I don’t know what it is, but villages just sound different from towns. It must be the lack of people or something.’
The girls just nodded. They were all feeling lazy in the warm weather after the sugar rush the mangoes had given them. Aruna sat next to Vani with her back to a tree and watched a troop of big black ants scurrying around, looking for food. In the distance a cricket could be heard but she couldn’t make out where it was. Its chirping seemed to be coming from all round. Slowly, the peaceful atmosphere seeped into Aruna and the morning’s troubles seemed far away. She gazed at Ramanujam’s lean, long frame stretched out in front of her for some time. He turned his face and their eyes met. A slow smile stole on to his face; she blushed in embarrassment and looked away.
After some time, Basava came down the road carrying a cloth bag. Seeing him, Ramanujam and the girls got up. Aruna took the bag from him with a smile and Ramanujam took out ten rupees from his wallet and gave it to Basava.
‘There is no need for the money, sir,’ he said pocketing the note, and left.
There was a tiffin carrier, three stainless-steel plates, glasses and some serving spoons in the bag. Aruna took them all out. Vani laid the plates and glasses in front of them. Aruna opened the carrier. It had three containers stacked one on top of the other. Aruna separated them and put them next to each other. The top, smallest, container had a potato and cauliflower fry, the middle one had lentil sambhar and the bottom container was packed with steamed rice. They were all piping hot. Vani took out the food they had packed and lay it out in the middle.
‘This is fantastic, isn’t it?’ said Ramanujam, looking at the spread. ‘Now I wish I hadn’t eaten the second mango.’
But they were still hungry and silence fell as they started eating.
After a while, Ramanujam asked Vani, ‘So you got first class?’
Vani had her mouth full and just nodded.
‘Which college do you attend?’ he asked.
‘Gayatri,’ she answered.
They all started talking about their colleges. The girls were fascinated by Ramanujam’s descriptions of hostel life and of life in Delhi. Neither of them had ever lived away from their family or left the state. They discussed the relative value of ‘science’ versus ‘arts’ education. Ramanujam, like most science graduates in India, had a low opinion of an arts degree. The girls disagreed. They said that an education was not just about getting a job. Ramanujam said he preferred Hindi movies to Telugu movies; the girls called him a snob.
They soon finished lunch. ‘Ahh!’ groaned Ramanujam, rubbing his stomach. ‘I can’t eat another morsel.’
Aruna agreed.
Ramanujam stretched out again on the mat.
‘Have you actually succeeded in finding any matches for your clients?’ asked Ramanujam, staring up at the sky.
Vani had taken the plates and cutlery to the standpipe to wash them.
‘Absolutely. I know of a few definite cases, though I am sure there are a lot more. People come to us saying that one of their friends was successful because of us, but the actual people hardly ever come and tell us. It’s as if they are ashamed of having used our services, once the wedding is fixed. Not always, of course. A salesman recently found his bride through us and he invited us to his wedding this coming Sunday,’ said Aruna.
‘Are you going?’ asked Ramanujam.
‘No,’ replied Aruna. ‘I would have liked to go; I’ve never been to a Muslim wedding before. But it’s out of town, so I said I couldn’t. Also, Sunday is our busiest day and I need to look after the office because sir and madam are going.’ After a pause, she continued, ‘What about you? Will you tell us if you find a match through us and invite me to your wedding?’
‘Definitely,’ said Ramanujam. ‘I will invite you to my wedding. ’
‘I don’t believe you,’ laughed Aruna. ‘How is the search going, anyway?’ Aruna asked, after a pause.
‘So, so. Lot of leads, but nothing definite.’
Vani came back with the clean dishes and sat down next to Aruna. She said, ‘I think we have to finish embroidering that blue sari soon.’
Aruna frowned at her sister.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Around nine in the morning on Sunday, Mr and Mrs Ali arrived at the small town where Irshad’s wedding was going to take place and were taken to a house crowded with people. They were expected, and a teenage boy with a straggly moustache took them inside, telling them that Irshad was getting ready.
Irshad came out of his room and greeted them both warmly. ‘We are running a bit late but we should be able to leave in the next hour or so.’
One of Irshad’s friends said, ‘You’ll be waiting on her for the rest of your days. I’m sure the bride can wait for you this one day.’
Everybody laughed. Irshad’s mother hugged Mrs Ali and took her to another room where the ladies were gathered. Mr Ali went with the men into the bridegroom’s room.
Irshad told Mr Ali that the bride’s house was two blocks away. This house had been rented for the week by her parents and given to the groom’s family to use as a base for the wedding. A couple of young boys came in and announced, ‘The band is here.’
There was a lot of confusion as the one bathroom in the house was overwhelmed by guests. Some people got angry and muttered mutinously that the bride’s family was being close-fisted and inconveniencing them by cramming them all into a too-small house. Children dodged in and out among the adults playing hide and seek or tag. A bevy of teenage girls, all dressed and made-up, were standing around giggling, ostentatiously ignoring a group of boys who were trying to catch their eyes.
Mr and Mrs Ali came out and stood in the road. The house was stifling with so many people in it and it was better to stand outside. Slowly, the confusion resolved itself and more and more people made their way outside. Mr Ali pointed out a white mare on the other side of the road to Mrs Ali. A once rich, faded blanket covered its back under the saddle. A studded leather flap covered the front of the mare’s face. Its groom was holding the bridle tight, so it wouldn’t fidget.
Mrs Ali said, ‘It’s been such a long time since I’ve been to a wedding where the bridegroom used a mare. It is so much more romantic than a car.’
A man came down the road riding a Bajaj scooter. He looked at the crowd in their wedding finery and at the horse and slowed down. He tried t
o weave his way slowly through the people, but an old man in a dark sherwani and a maroon fez stopped him and said, ‘Can’t you see the road is full of people. Find another way.’ The man on the scooter looked about him and must have seen it was a lost cause because he turned around. Just as the people standing on the road were getting restive in the hot sun, a little boy came running out and shouted, ‘The bridegroom is coming out!’
Irshad came out of the house slowly. He walked haltingly, guided by a young man. His face couldn’t be seen because it was hidden behind a thick veil of white jasmine flowers hanging from his turban. He was brought in front of the horse and just stood there. Mr Ali realised after a few moments that Irshad had probably never ridden a horse before and so did not know how to mount one. The fact that he could only see his feet behind the heavy veil probably did not help either. The mare suddenly turned back and tugged at Irshad’s veil. Before Irshad could react, half a string of flowers were in the horse’s mouth and the other half trailed on the ground. The groom pulled sharply on the reins and tried to pull the flowers out of the mare’s mouth but the animal just put its head down and snorted loudly. Irshad hastily stepped back and stumbled against a stone on the road. He clutched at the horse’s mane and the animal moved skittishly forwards and back, stepping on one of Irshad’s fancy shoes.
‘Ow!’ he cried, hopping on one foot. A black mark disfigured the shoe.
The stable man hit the horse on its neck to stop it moving but this made the horse even more unsettled. One of the guests who seemed to know a bit about horses stepped forward to help. It was several minutes before the beast calmed down.
Finally, Irshad partially lifted his veil, looked dubiously at the stirrup and was guided on to the mare by the guest. Slowly, the mare was led out and all the people fell behind the bridegroom. The baraat, the wedding procession, was on its way!
The band struck up a popular tune from a Hindi film:
Colour your hands with mehndi,
And keep the palanquin ready.
Your love is on his way,
To take you away,
My fair lady.
The bridegroom was followed by the men and women of his party in their finest clothes and the garishly dressed band playing music. The procession wound its way slowly, taking the long way round to reach the bride’s house. Along the route, people looked out of their shops and houses at the loud baraat going slowly past. A few beggars and a couple of intelligent stray dogs that could predict a feast attached themselves to the back of the procession.
Finally, they reached their destination. As Mr Ali turned into the street, he could hear the shout: ‘The baraat is here. The bridegroom has come!’
The road was covered with a thick tarpaulin, a stage had been erected at the far end and rows of chairs placed in front of it. The horse baulked at the edge of the tarpaulin and stopped suddenly with its head down. Irshad tottered precariously in the saddle and clutched the reins tight - his knuckles white. The stable man quietened the horse. He had to tell Irshad three times to loosen his hold on the reins before Irshad let go. There was more confusion because Irshad did not know how to get down from the mare. He finally managed it with his dignity more or less intact. The bride’s family welcomed Irshad.
When they reached the marquee that had been erected across the road in front of the bride’s house, a lot of the bride’s relatives and friends were waiting for them. Jehangir, Aisha’s brother, greeted Mr Ali with a hug. A pretty ten-year-old girl took Irshad’s hand and said, ‘This way, elder brother.’
She led him through the rows of chairs to the stage. Young girls and boys from Aisha’s family sprinkled rose-perfumed water from silver sprinklers over the bridegroom and his party. Irshad took off his shoes and turned to the little boy who had announced that Irshad was coming out of the house and said, ‘Remember, what I said. I will give you a chocolate later.’
The boy nodded and sat by the shoes. Irshad climbed on to the stage and sat down cross-legged. Mr Ali was one of the two official witnesses to the wedding and he joined the bridegroom. The groom’s party followed behind them and occupied the seats in front of the stage. The bride’s party then filled the gaps until all the chairs were full and other people were left standing.
A dignified-looking old man with a neatly trimmed white beard came on to the stage and sat down next to Irshad. He introduced himself to Mr Ali and Irshad. The man was the imam of the local mosque and had known the bride’s family for years.
‘I was the imam at the wedding of the bride’s parents too,’ he said, smiling.
The other official witness was Aisha’s oldest uncle. Mr Ali took out a lace skullcap from his pocket and put it on. So did Aisha’s uncle. A roughly dressed young man, obviously the sound man, came crawling over the stage and gave the imam a microphone and went crawling back. The imam tapped on the microphone and the loud noise from the speakers silenced the crowd. The sound of a little boy crying and his mother remonstrating him became audible in the sudden silence. Everybody turned towards the sound and the boy and his mother went quiet.
The imam waited a few more seconds and said into the microphone, ‘Assalamu ’Alaikum - peace be upon you.’
The crowd muttered, ‘Wa ’Alaikum As Salãm - and on you too, be peace.’
The traditional greetings exchanged, the imam said, ‘Bismillah - in the name of Allah, the most beneficent, the most merciful, we are gathered here in this assembly of Muslims and non-Muslims to celebrate the marriage of Mohammed Irshad, son of the late Mohammed Ilyas of Vizag, and Aisha, unmarried daughter of Syed Jalaluddin of this town. Marriage is a most sacred relation. The bride and groom accept each other as husband and wife of their own free will, without coercion. Remember the verse in the Quran: your wives are a garment to you as you are a garment for them. The garment is worn next to our bodies; so should a husband and wife be. Just as a garment hides our nakedness and defects, so should the husband and wife keep each other’s secrets from the rest of the world. Just as clothes provide comfort in inclement weather, a wife and husband should comfort each other against the trials of the world. Just as clothes add beauty and grace to our looks, so does a wife to her husband and a husband to his wife.’
The imam looked around at the crowd and then turned to Irshad. He said, ‘Many men oppress their wives, but remember this is not Islamic. The Quran says that if you have certain rights over your wife, your wife too has certain rights over you in all fairness. Remember that Islam allows a woman to keep her own money and conduct her own business. Who does not know the example of the first and most beloved wife of our Prophet, Khadijah, who had her own business and even hired Mohammed, peace be upon him, as her agent to trade on her behalf? Fear God in your treatment of your wife for you have taken her on the security of God. Your wife is your noble helper, not your slave.’
The imam continued, ‘Of course, it is not all one way. Wives too have responsibilities to their husbands. A woman should protect her honour and her husband’s property. A virtuous wife is indeed a man’s best treasure. In’shallah, God willing, this union will produce children; it is the woman’s responsibility to raise them to be good people and good Muslims.’
The imam opened the marriage register and got up. Mr Ali and Aisha’s uncle got up as well and followed him into the house where Aisha and the other ladies were listening to the imam’s words from a speaker. Aisha was sitting on a bed, wearing a red sari with a golden border. A bright red veil covered her head and shoulders. Her hands were coloured with intricate henna patterns. She was surrounded by her mother and various female friends and cousins.
The imam asked Mr Ali and Aisha’s uncle to stand next to him. In front of the official witnesses, he asked her loudly, ‘Do you, Aisha, accept of your own free will, Mohammed Irshad as your husband, with dower ten thousand rupees payable to you on your demand?’
‘Yes,’ replied Aisha softly, from under her red veil.
The question was repeated twice more and was answered each t
ime. The imam gave the register to Aisha and asked her to sign it. The three men left the room and went outside to where the bridegroom was sitting.
The imam asked Irshad, ‘Do you, Mohammed Irshad accept, of your own free will, Aisha as your wife with dower ten thousand rupees payable to her on demand, which dower shall be her own personal property to spend or dispose of as she sees fit?’
‘Yes,’ replied Irshad.
The question was repeated twice more and answered each time. The imam gave the register to Irshad and asked him to sign it. The two witnesses and finally the imam then added their signatures.
The imam closed the register and said, ‘I declare you, Mohammed Irshad and Aisha as married in the presence of this assembly as witnesses to your marriage. God bless you and grant you a long and happy married life. Let us say a prayer to Allah for He has given us this boon of marriage to support us, to comfort us and to make us whole.’
The imam was the first to congratulate Irshad. Mr Ali was next. Aisha’s father, uncles and brother all shook hands with Irshad and hugged him three times, once on the right shoulder, then on the left shoulder and finally on the right shoulder again.
All the people got off the stage. Everybody wore their shoes except Irshad whose shoes were nowhere to be found. ‘Where are my shoes?’ he asked.
Everyone looked back at him blankly.
‘Where is Pervez?’ he asked.
They saw the young boy sitting a little distance away in a chair, eating ice cream in a cone. Irshad had arranged for the young boy to look after his shoes, but it looked as if he had been outsmarted.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘who has taken my shoes?’
‘Your shoes, uncle?’ asked the ten-year-old girl who had led him on to the stage, looking innocent.
He had gone from elder brother to uncle during the ceremony. Mr Ali smiled. The girl was definitely not as innocent as she looked.
