One

The noise level in the café dropped noticeably when the glamorous young woman stepped in. The clientele was exclusively male and mostly rustic. Villagers with dhotis round their waists and white shawls over their bare shoulders were talking loudly at the tightly packed, chipped-Formica tables. The conversations were all about grain prices, crop yields and prospects of rain for the next season. A few salesmen in shirts and trousers, carrying fake leather valises, were sprinkled among the farmers, touting fertilisers, tractors and the benefits of various seed varieties – genetically modified and not. A couple of harried waiters rushed around with plates of steaming idlis and small, half-filled glasses of tea.

The young woman was wearing an elegant, maroon, machine-silk sari that hugged her figure. Her glossy dark mane of hair fell in waves and set off the oval shape of her fair face. Dark sunglasses were pushed up and covered the edge of her hair rather than her eyes. The heels of her shoes went click-clack on the hard cement floor as she ignored everybody and walked to the back of the café, towards an empty table being cleared by a thin boy in a tattered shirt who looked about twelve. He swept the dirty plates and crockery into a red plastic bowl on his hip and wiped the table with a dirty rag. When he finished cleaning the table, the young woman moved past him and said, “Excuse me.”

The boy was so surprised by the fragrant, well-mannered lady that he gawped silently at her and dropped his rag on the floor. Blushing deeply, he dived to the floor, picked up the dishcloth and ran to another corner of the room.

A young man, sitting at the next table and looking at her with rather more surprise than the others in the café, turned towards her and said, “We should stop bumping into each other like this, Usha.”

She looked startled at being addressed by name in this place and looked at him sharply for a moment before breaking into a smile. “Rehman,” she said. “How come you are here?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I was in a neighbouring village for the last few days and I am returning home now.”

“Oh! Am I missing a scoop?” she said and left her table and walked over to his. “Is the government planning to take over the farmers’ lands there?”

“Always the journalist,” said Rehman and Usha laughed. “No,” he continued. “That was a different time and a different place. A friend of mine is from the village and I occasionally visit his family.”

Usha was a TV reporter who a few months ago had covered a campaign run by Rehman to prevent a special economic zone being set up on fertile agricultural land that had been compulsorily purchased from farmers who had owned it for generations.

A waiter came over and asked Usha whether she wanted anything. She looked lost and Rehman said to the waiter, “Mineral water.”

“Normal or cooling?”

“Cooling,” said Rehman and the waiter walked away. Rehman turned to Usha and said, “What about you? Why are you here?”

“The car had a puncture and the driver decided to get the tyre repaired while we were in town rather than risk going on through the middle of nowhere without a spare. I walked down the street and came in here to get out of the sun.”

The waiter returned with a bottle of water, its outer surface damp in the moist air. He showed them that the seal on the bottle was unbroken and twisted the cap open. He left them with two empty glasses. Rehman stopped Usha when she started pouring water into the glasses. “You’d better drink straight from the bottle. I wouldn’t trust the cleanliness here,” he said, running a finger around the inside of the glass and showing her the resulting greasy smear.

Her face scrunched tight and her shoulders stiffened in a small shudder. “What about you?” she asked.

“I’ll stick to tea,” he said.

Usha smiled at him and took a sip of water; her eyes closed and head raised as the bottle tilted forward. Rehman glanced at her delicate throat for a long moment and looked away before she opened her eyes. He suddenly felt scruffy. His two-week-old beard was at an awkward stage. His usual khadi shirt had been torn at the side and roughly patched by his friend’s father. His leather chappals – open-toed slippers – looked the worse for wear after braving the mud of paddy fields for the last ten days.

“How are you getting back to Vizag?” asked Usha.

“By bus,” said Rehman. He looked at his watch. “The next one is in less than half an hour. I’d better not miss it because there are no more after that until this evening.”

An old man walked into the café with a small boy, and Rehman raised his right hand and waved to them. Usha twisted half round to look. The old man had white whiskers and a beard. His face was dark and the skin stretched over his bones. His open mouth showed gaps in his teeth. The boy was about eight years old and smiling. He skipped ahead of his grandfather and came to their table.

“Rehman Uncle! Look!” he said, his eyes shining, and showed Rehman a book. “I’ve got my own maths textbook.”

Rehman ruffled his hair and said, “Fantastic. Now there’s no excuse not to come first in the class.”

“I’m already first in my class. In fact, my teacher has asked me to sit with the older boys.”

“I know. I was just joking,” said Rehman.

“Who is this lady?” asked the boy.

“This is a friend of mine. Her name is Usha Aunty.”

The boy grinned at her. There was a wide gap where two of his upper front teeth had fallen out.

“What’s your name?” she asked him.

“Vasu,” said the boy.

Rehman and Usha stood up as the old man reached their table. Rehman pulled a chair over from another table. After they all sat down, Rehman asked the old man, “How did it go?”

The old man pulled out a bundle of money and showed it to them. “Very well, thanks to you.”

“Be careful, sir! Don’t wave the money about,” said Rehman, looking around the busy café.

“You are right. There are wicked people in this world who will steal a farmer’s harvest money without feeling a moment’s remorse,” the old man said and put the money away. He turned to Usha. “This money is not all mine to keep. The previous two harvests were not very good, so most of it will go to repay the loans I took.”

Usha nodded. The waiter came and took their order – tea for the old man and milk for his grandson. Vasu said to his grandfather, “Thaatha, this lady is Rehman Uncle’s Usha Aunty.”

Rehman gave an uncomfortable laugh and said, “She is not my aunty – just a friend.”

Usha’s cheeks went red. Vasu’s grandfather turned to her and said, “Namaste.”

Usha joined her hands and inclined her head to him.

He saw her mobile phone on the table and said, “I never thought these modern things would be useful to a small farmer like me but Rehman’s proved me wrong.”

“Oh!” she said. “How did he do that?”

“This morning, we were not sure whether to come to this mandi or go to another market twenty miles away So, Rehman called up the grain merchants on his phone and found out that the price here was better. Because I use a bullock cart, once I decide which market to take my harvest to, I cannot change my mind.”

“Rehman Uncle climbed the tree in front of our house to make the call,” said Vasu.

“Really?” asked Usha, looking at him.

Rehman shrugged. “There was no signal on the ground near the house,” he said.

“He almost fell down,” said Vasu. “His shirt tore and thaatha had to stitch it, because that was the only clean shirt he had.”

“Shhh!” said Rehman and laughed. For some reason, he felt embarrassed.

“It’s time we went. I have to take the cart back to its owner before the evening,” said Vasu’s grandfather.

They all stood up. The old man turned to Rehman and said, “May God keep you well always.”

“With your blessings, Mr Naidu,” said Rehman.

“Thanks for all the help in bringing in the harvest. I don’t think even my own son would have done as much,” the old man said, tears brimming in his eyes. He took the boy’s hand and left.

Rehman looked at his watch. “Almost time for my bus. I’d better make my way too.”

“I’ll go and see the car as well. It should be fixed by now.”

Rehman picked up his bulging cotton bag and a heavy gunny sack. They walked over to the front of the café where the owner, a podgy man with a round, shiny face, was sitting behind a table. A frayed ten-year-old calendar with the picture of Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, was hanging behind his head. There were five other people in front of them waiting to pay their bills. The queue moved slowly. Rehman looked at his watch and frowned.

“What is it?” said Usha.

“My bus…it’s almost time. My mother won’t be happy if I don’t get home for dinner.”

Usha nodded. She had met Rehman’s mother a couple of times and knew that she was not a woman to be crossed lightly. They reached the head of the queue in a few minutes and Rehman smiled at Usha.

“Thank God,” he said.

The owner rang a little bell and their gaunt waiter came rushing over. “One plate idli, two teas, one milk, one mineral water,” he said.

The owner totalled up their bill and said, “Ten rupees for food and tea, twelve for the water; total twenty-two, sir.”

Usha tried to take money out from her purse but Rehman waved her down and paid the bill with a twenty-rupee note and a five-rupee coin. The owner returned three rupees and Rehman turned back to give the money to the waiter as a tip but the waiter had already gone back into the café. Rehman shrugged – he didn’t have time to hang around. It was silly that he had waited with nothing to do for such a long time and now he was rushed in the last few minutes.

As he turned towards the front of the café, a glint of steel caught his eye from among the assembled customers.

“Rehman, hurry,” said Usha from near the entrance. “I can see a bus coming.”

But Rehman’s attention could not be diverted from the scene unfolding in front of him. He’d noticed what no one else in the café seemed to have seen: a young man in shirt and trousers had cut open the side of a farmer’s rough cotton kurta and was extracting a fat, rolled-up bundle of cash from the pocket of the loose shirt.

“Hey!” shouted Rehman, flinging up his hand and pointing towards the youth.

Everybody froze for a moment and then the farmer who was being pickpocketed reacted. “How dare you – ” he said and grabbed at the thief.

But all he clutched was empty air because the young man moved faster and started running. He pushed a chair at Rehman, sped towards the exit and blundered straight into a bewildered Usha, almost knocking her down. The small delay this caused was enough for Rehman to jump forward and seize the man’s shirt just outside the café. A second later the farmer and his friends surrounded Rehman and the pickpocket. The men made the thief turn out his pockets and found two bundles of money. The farmers started shouting and landing blows on the robber. A rage bubbled up inside Rehman, in a way that it hadn’t for years. The anger worried him but he suppressed it with an effort and shouted, “Stop, stop!” He pushed the men away from the snivelling youth. “Don’t beat him. Take him to the police.”

“What will the police do? Garland him with flowers?” said the farmer whose shirt had been cut.

“We cannot take the law into our own hands.”

“Rehman,” said Usha from outside the group of men. “Your bus has come, you have to leave now.”

Rehman turned to the farmer. “You caught him because of me and got your money back. Don’t beat him up, please. Take him to the thana, the police station. I have to leave now or I’ll miss my bus, otherwise I’d come with you.”

Most of the men were still shouting angrily and still trying to hit the man who was now cowering in front of Rehman, trying to keep as much distance from the others as possible.

The farmer nodded. “I am in your debt – you’ve saved me today from horrible trouble.” He lifted the bundle of notes that he was clutching in his right hand and said, “This is not just money. This is the loan that I repay and keep my standing in the community; this is each seed and grain of fertiliser to plant the next crop and remain a farmer and this is every necessity that I provide my family until I harvest that next crop. Because of that debt, I’ll do as you say.”

Rehman nodded and the men dragged the pickpocket away. Not all of them resisted giving the young man a smack or a kick every so often. Rehman turned to Usha and they hurried in the opposite direction on the dusty road. The bus was waiting at the stop. It was already full and a mob of people were at its two doors, getting in, women in the front and men at the back. A few boys were doing a brisk business selling tea through the windows to already-seated passengers. Rehman pursed his lips in a silent whistle as he looked at the scene.

“There’s no way you’ll get on that bus, especially with that sack,” said Usha.

Rehman nodded his head slowly. He looked at his watch and said, “Well, another four hours to go. I’d better call ammi and tell her that I won’t be home for dinner.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Usha. “I’m going back to town too and I can drop you off.”

“Are you sure?” asked Rehman. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

Usha laughed and said, “You are so formal. Let’s go and find out whether the puncture has been repaired. Do you want me to carry your bag?”

Rehman looked down at the cotton bag holding his soiled clothes and shook his head.

They walked down the road through the busy street, past the cart selling flip-flops, the cart selling coloured ice-water and the shop displaying bright children’s clothes and lurid-pink plastic toys. Rehman thought they must make an odd pair – the groomed, perfumed, rich young girl in the classy sari and the rough-looking man with an unkempt beard, carrying a sack of brinjals and red spinach from Mr Naidu’s farm on his shoulder, like a coolie. They passed the wide front of a cinema showing posters of a heavy-set man with bloodshot eyes and arrived at a gold-coloured car by the side of the road with one of its wheels on a jack.

“Isn’t it ready yet?” said Usha to the short, dark man in his forties standing by the car.

“Sorry, madam,” said the driver. “Almost done. It will be another five minutes.”

“Make it quick,” said Usha. She pointed to the sack that Rehman was carrying and said, “Put it in the boot.”

“Right, madam,” the driver said and walked round to the back of the car and opened the boot. He turned to Rehman. “Be careful. Don’t let the sack touch the edge here,” he said, pointing to the sill.

Rehman put the sack into the car. As he turned away, Usha said, “Why don’t you put your bag away too?”

Rehman nodded and said, “Good idea.”

He swung the bag in and the driver looked at them open-mouthed. “But…madam – ” he said.

Usha looked at him severely and said, “Yes, Narsi? Do you have a problem?”

The driver gulped and closed his mouth. He shook his head and said, “No, madam. What problem can I have?”

“Good!” said Usha and turned away. Rehman followed her. “Narsi probably thought you were a porter carrying that sack for me,” she said, smiling at him.

Rehman looked down at himself and shrugged. “Not surprising, given the way I look. Weren’t you a bit severe with him?”

“He’s a slime ball. He beats his wife,” she said. “And I’m sure he’s going to carry tales about you to my father.”

“If it’s going to be any trouble…” began Rehman.

“No, no! I don’t mind.” She pointed to a man sitting cross-legged by the roadside on a small mat. He had a tiny wooden cage next to him. “Look, a parrot astrologer. Let’s get our fortunes read.”

Rehman shook his head. “You can’t believe in that, surely?”

Usha smiled and said, “Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. But it’ll be a time-pass and we’d be helping keep alive a traditional occupation.”

Rehman met her eyes and smiled, shaking his head. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”

Rehman and Usha sank down to their knees on the mat in front of the astrologer. The man twirled his long moustache and dragged a small stick across the bars of the parrot cages, making a staccato noise. He said, “Welcome! Are you having family problems, financial or health issues? Is your son not studying well? Is your daughter not getting married? Let my birds read your fortune. Forewarned is forearmed.”

Rehman smiled and asked, “How long have you been giving that speech?”

Usha frowned at him, but the astrologer did not take offence. “My family has been in this profession for generations, sir! My grandfather and his grandfather before him have all been astrologers.”

Rehman nodded his head, impressed.

Usha asked, “How much?”

The man said, “That depends on the birds, madam.”

He lifted the rectangular wooden cage and put it down a couple of feet in front of Usha. Inside were two green parrots, cracking and eating sunflower seeds. He raised the bars in front of the cage like a portcullis. The birds looked at Usha but did not come out of the cage. Usha put a one-rupee coin on the ground in front of them. The parrots pecked at the coin and went back to their seeds. The astrologer continued twirling his moustache. Rehman laughed. Usha stuck out her tongue at him and placed another coin on the ground. The parrots continued eating.

Usha turned to Rehman and said, “Don’t!”

“I didn’t say anything,” said Rehman. He covered his mouth with a hand and guffawed. Usha looked at him severely.

“Sorry,” said Rehman, biting a knuckle to stop laughing.

Usha took a deep breath and shook her head, but couldn’t help smiling. She opened her purse and took out a five-rupee coin, placing it on the ground with the other money. One of the parrots left its seeds and walked out of the cage with an awkward gait. The astrologer pocketed the coins and put a deck of cards, face down, on the ground. The parrot picked the top card with its beak and laid it aside. Usha looked at Rehman. He raised his eyebrows and nodded to her.

The parrot continued rejecting the cards. When the pile was about half reduced, it walked over to its master with the next card. The astrologer took the card and gave the parrot a peanut shell. The parrot cracked it open with its red curving beak, quickly ate the two nuts and went back inside the cage.

The man closed the portcullis, twirled his moustache and said, “Let’s see what the bird has picked for you.”

He turned the card and his face blanched. “Oh dear!”

Usha’s hands tightened into fists. “What?” she said in a low voice.

The astrologer showed them the card’s face. It had a picture of two intertwined snakes.

“Snake lovers. This is a really bad sign,” the man said.

“Why?” asked Rehman.

“Did you walk in any fields or past trees recently?” the astrologer said to Usha.

“Yes, there is a neem tree behind my grandmother’s house and I’ve been going for walks there almost every day for the last couple of weeks.”

“Hmm…” said the astrologer. “It cannot be the neem tree because generally nothing bad happens there. Are you sure you haven’t been anywhere else?”

“Yes!” said Usha. “I remember now. The day after I arrived in my grandmother’s house, I went with some of the village girls to the communal well. On the way, there is a sprawling banyan tree with many of its branches supported by aerial roots and we stopped in its shade.”

“Just as I thought,” said the man. “You must have disturbed a pair of cobras making love under the banyan tree. The queen cobra has cast a curse on you. You will encounter serious trouble in your own love life.”

“But I am not married,” said Usha.

“In that case, the curse will create obstacles and stop you from getting married,” said the man.

“How long will it stop me?”

“A cobra’s vengeance lasts twelve years,” said the man.

“What can be done?” asked Usha.

“I can offer prayers and food to Naga Devudu – the god of snakes. I cannot break the spell completely but I can mitigate its effects. It will cost a hundred rupees.”

“This is ridiculous!” said Rehman loudly, standing up. Usha looked at him. Rehman continued, “He is treating you like an illiterate villager, a gullible fool from whom he can extract money. Let’s go.”

The astrologer remained impassive. Usha looked from one man to the other, biting her lower lip. She opened her purse and took out a fifty-rupee note. “Do what you can with this,” she said, getting up and joining Rehman.

They didn’t say a word to each other as they went back to the car.

“We are ready to go, madam,” said the driver.

Usha silently nodded and got into the back. Rehman went round the car to the other door. The driver slowly looked him up and down twice before getting in behind the wheel.

They were both silent for a few minutes as the car left the town and sped up. Then, Rehman said, “I am sorry I shouted earlier at the astrologer’s.”

“No, don’t apologise. I admit that I was scared for a moment, even though I know I shouldn’t have been. I couldn’t help it,” said Usha.

She turned to Rehman. Her palm was raised, facing him, and her middle and index fingers were crossed. “Friends?” she asked.

This was a childhood gesture – if Rehman separated her fingers, it meant he didn’t want to be her friend. He looked at her earnest face for a moment, then raised his palm and touched the tip of her index finger with his own crossed fingers.

He smiled and said, “Friends.”

Some instinct made him turn his head to the front of the car. He found the driver’s eyes looking at him intently in the rear-view mirror.

♦

“Enough, ammi,” said Rehman, pushing his chair back and getting up from the dining table.

“What enough?” said his mother. “You look so thin. You obviously didn’t eat anything in the village. What can you eat in a household without women anyway?”

“Ammi, I am full. Mince, liver, brinjal and peas, radish samb-har, soya beans, curds,” said Rehman, rubbing his stomach. “And, oh, rice and sweet as well.”

Mrs Ali looked at him doubtfully for a moment and then said, “All right. Don’t sit down straight after dinner like your father. Walk around for a few minutes. I’ll clear up the table here.”

Rehman had arrived just over an hour ago. A hot bath, a shave, fresh clothes and his mother’s cooking made him feel like a new man. He walked into the living room and saw his father watching the news on TV.

His father turned to him and said, “So was it a good harvest this year?”

“Yes, abba,” said Rehman. “Mr Naidu said it was one of the best yields in years. Not just the rice but even the vegetable patch produced a good crop.”

On the television, the newsreader said, “And now for the weather. The temperature in the four metros…”

They both turned to the screen and watched the weather forecast. His mother came in, wiping her hands on the edge of her sari.

“Sit down, Rehman,” she said. “Why are you standing there?”

“But – ” began Rehman and stopped. He shrugged his shoulders and sat next to his mother on the settee.

She said, “You need to get married, Rehman. I’ve been very patient with you but there are limits.”

“Not again, ammi,” said Rehman, groaning.

“It’s shameful. Your father is running a successful marriage bureau and our own son is unmarried. Do you know Chote Bhabhi asked me that very question when we went to their house last week? It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her to find a groom for her own daughter before she started talking about other people’s children, but I refrained,” said Mrs Ali. She had never got along well with Chote Bhabhi, Mr Ali’s younger brother’s wife.

Rehman laughed. “So I have to get married because Chachi, my aunt, made some silly remark?”

“It’s not a laughing matter, Rehman,” said his mother severely. “It’s not just her. The whole town is talking. You should get married soon.”

Rehman stayed silent.

After a few moments, she turned to his father. “Why don’t you say something? Don’t you want to see your son get married? Or are you only worried about your clients’ weddings?”

“What’s the point of me saying anything? When did he listen to me?” said his father. “The English have a saying – you can take a horse to water but you cannot make it drink.”

Mrs Ali turned to Rehman and said, “If you don’t trust our choice, tell us who you like and we’ll go and finalise the match. Is there somebody that’s caught your eye?”

Rehman, of course, had never brought any girl home. His parents would find it really rude and the very idea of it was quite unthinkable. He supposed he could just about mention the name of a girl and let them take it up family-to-family. He shook his head and said “Just let it go, ammi. It’ll happen when it happens. There’s nobody in my mind.”

He closed his eyes to forestall any more argument and was startled when the image of Usha’s face looking upwards, eyes closed, her long, fair neck exposed to him as she drank water from a bottle, appeared vividly in front of him.