Two

Aruna padded on bare feet into the en-suite bathroom for a shower. It was a little past six in the morning and she had already been up for about fifteen minutes. She tucked her hair inside a cap and turned on the tap. Warm water gushed out and she tested the water with an outstretched arm to make sure it was the right temperature before moving into the stream.

Just a few months ago, she had been a poor woman living with her parents and sister in a one-room house with a cramped bathroom. In her parents’ house, having a bath meant filling a bucket with cold water and pouring it over herself with a broken-handled mug. She wondered why they had never replaced it – mugs did not cost much, did they? If she wanted a warm bath, she would have had to heat up some water in a vessel and mix it with cold water in the bucket. Except on really severe mornings in midwinter, her mother would not allow water to be heated. Fuel was expensive.

“The water is boiling,” her mother would shout, before it had got little more than lukewarm.

Aruna sighed in pleasure, stretching like a cat under the cascade of hot water as the bathroom fogged up with steam. I could stay here for ever, she thought; but after several minutes she reluctantly got out of the shower, wrapped a towel round herself and walked into the bedroom. Her husband was still sleeping. She opened the wardrobe and looked at the row of silk saris hanging from the long rail, with plastic covers over the tops to keep the dust away. Her entire clothes collection had once fitted into half a shelf of the green metallic cupboard at her parents’ house but now she had more saris than she could wear in an entire month. She ignored the expensive hanging saris and took out a simple rose-pink cotton one from a neatly folded pile on the shelf.

Once dressed, Aruna made to leave the room. Just before she opened the door, she took a sideways look at her husband. He had turned and was now lying on his back. He looked so innocent, but she blushed as she thought, He is not a small boy! She walked over, tousled his hair and kissed the fingers that had touched him. She was so happy. Did anybody deserve to be so happy?

Her mother had always told her, “Don’t laugh too much, for then you’ll cry.” Aruna was sure her mother was wrong this time.

She left the room, closing the door behind her, and went to the small alcove in the living room that served as a shrine in the house. There was a two-foot-tall brass idol of Venkateswara, Lord of the Seven Hills, and a small silver idol of the elephant-headed Ganesha with a big paunch, sitting beside his mount, a rat. There was a round plate in front of the idols on which stood a lit oil lamp, a small bronze bell, copper coins and a covered, decorated silver pot. An old photograph of her husband’s grandfather, surrounded by a garland made of dried, plaited lotus leaves, hung to one side of the alcove. She picked up the bell and rang it for a long minute, saying her morning prayers. After the prayers, she put the bell back in its place, opened the silver pot and dipped the middle finger of her right hand into the sindoor inside. She applied the red powder to her forehead in a round dot and picked up the plate.

Her father-in-law stood up from the sofa as she walked in. He was about to go for a walk and had been waiting for her.

“Namaste,” she said, holding the plate in front of her.

Her father-in-law dipped his open palms towards the fire in the lamp until they were a few inches away, then touched his eyes and forehead with his fingers.

“May you for ever remain a married woman,” he blessed her, in Sanskrit, before adding, “Ramanujam’s mother is in Mani’s room.”

She nodded and went there to find her mother-in-law stripping the bed. She stopped her work, dipped her hands towards the fire and touched her eyes. She blessed Aruna and turned back to the bed.

Aruna said, “Amma, why are you doing it? If you just wait a few moments, I will come and help you.”

“No, that’s all right. I know you are busy.”

“At least wait for Shantamma,” Aruna said. Shantamma was the widowed Brahmin woman who ran the kitchen with her never-married brother. At this time in the morning Shantamma was usually busy with breakfast but she would be free for other tasks in an hour or so.

“No, I can’t wait. I want to get the room all ready for my daughter. You remember that we are going to her house later today, don’t you?” her mother-in-law said to Aruna.

“Yes, amma. I’ve already told sir that I’m not working this afternoon.”

“It’ll be good for Mani to come here. She’s been having bad morning sickness all the way.”

“Yes,” said Aruna. “And it will be good to have her boy here as well. I love children.”

Her mother-in-law smiled at her. “Yes, dear,” she said. “Don’t let me keep you waiting. Go on, take a cup of tea for your husband.”

Aruna smiled and left the room. She put the plate back in the shrine and went into the kitchen. Shantamnia was standing at the hob, mixing something with a spatula. Her brother, Kaka, was sitting on the floor and grating a coconut that had been split into two.

“What’s for breakfast?” asked Aruna.

“Upma, chinnamma,” the cook said. All the workers in the house called Aruna chinnamma – younger madam.

“Mmm,” said Aruna. She loved the savoury steamed semolina with onions, chillies and ginger. Unlike at her parents’ house, Shantamnia sprinkled fried cashew nuts over the upma to make it taste even better. A cup of tea was waiting for her on the granite worktop. Shantamnia must have prepared it as soon as she heard the prayer bell. Aruna picked up the tea and left the kitchen.

She walked into her bedroom and closed the door behind her. She put the tea on the bedside cabinet and sat next to her husband’s sleeping body.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” she said, placing her hand on his cheek.

He pulled the sheet over his head and snuggled against her, refusing to get up. Aruna moved her hand to his shoulder and gave him a shake. He started to get up and just as Aruna relaxed, he put his hands round her waist and pulled her down over him.

“Eek!” she screamed.

“Shhh,” he said. “There are other people in the house.”

After the initial fright, Aruna stopped fighting back and yielded her body against his. After a few minutes, she pushed back and said, “It’s time to get up. I have to help your mother get the house ready for your sister before I leave for the office.”

He rubbed his rough chin against her soft skin for a little bit longer as she squirmed against him and then let her go. He sat up in bed and Aruna handed him the cup of tea. He started sipping it. Aruna straightened her sari and patted her hair back into place. “I don’t know how you can do that. Drink tea as soon as you get up before you’ve even brushed your teeth,” she said.

He looked up at her and said, “Try it sometime, dear. Kaka used to get me the morning tea before we got married. I am sure he will bring two cups every morning if we asked him.”

Aruna thought about one of the servants walking in when she was in bed with her husband and blushed. “No, thank you,” she said. “Anyway, I am sure it is not healthy to drink tea as soon as you wake up.”

“Who’s the doctor in the house?” he asked. “You or me?”

Aruna laughed and touched her husband on his cheek. “OK, I am going now. Shantamma’s almost finished making breakfast, so come over soon, before it gets cold.”

♦

Just before nine in the morning, Mr Ali came on to the verandah of his house, which served as the office of the marriage bureau that he ran. He opened the wooden wardrobe that was his filing cabinet and took out the previous day’s letters. He sat down behind the table and started opening the few that had not yet been dealt with. One contained a filled-in application form and a cheque for five hundred rupees.

He wrote the name of the client in small letters in a corner on the back of the cheque. Last month one of his cheques had been returned by the bank unpaid. He had lost the money because he couldn’t figure out whose cheque it was, which had annoyed him a great deal. The door opened just as he finished dealing with all the letters and his assistant walked in.

“Namaste, sir,” said Aruna, bowing her head slightly.

Mr Ali smiled at her and said, “Good morning, Aruna.”

Once she sat down in her chair, he said, “I couldn’t find the letter from the Christian Madiga from Chennai. He called me very early this morning saying that he hadn’t got a reply yet.”

“I dealt with that a couple of days ago, sir. I sent him a new list and I filed it away. Shall I take it out?”

“No, that’s fine. If you say you’ve dealt with it, then there is nothing else to do. He’ll probably get your letter in the next day or so. I have to go to the bank today to deposit a cheque and withdraw some money for the ads. When do I have to pay your salary?” he asked.

“Not yet, sir,” she laughed. “There’s still another week to go.”

Mr Ali knew he was absent-minded, so he had told her to remind him a day or two before her salary was due, so he could make arrangements to pay her.

“Don’t feel awkward about reminding me,” he had told her. “I won’t take it amiss. In fact, I’ll be embarrassed if I don’t pay you on time.”

Gopal, the postman, came in for the morning delivery. He had been serving Mr Ali’s house for years. He looked thinner than ever and he no longer smiled. Mr Ali took the letters from him and said, “Gopal, what is this? You have to look after yourself. You are becoming weaker by the day.”

“What is the point any more, sir? I don’t know why God has still left me in this world.”

Mr Ali stood up and went closer to the postman. “No, Gopal. You shouldn’t talk like that. Your family depend on you more than ever. You can’t let them down like this.”

“Whatever, sir,” said Gopal, lifting the heavy bag of letters on his shoulder.

“Wait a moment. I have something for you,” Mr Ali said and went into the house. He came back with an apple and gave it to the postman.

“Go on; eat this while you go on your rounds.”

“No, no, sir. I am not hungry.”

“Nonsense,” said Mr Ali. “Take the first bite here in front of me.”

He stood there until Gopal had no choice but to take a chunk of fruit in his mouth. “Thank you, sir,” said Gopal. “It has been years since I’ve eaten an apple.”

Mr Ali nodded. Apples grew only in north India near the Himalayas and they were expensive. When Gopal left, Mr Ali sat back in his chair.

“Poor man,” said Aruna. “It was good of you to give him the fruit, sir.”

“Yes, poor man,” said Mr Ali, sighing. “He has not been himself since his daughter was widowed so soon after marriage. I’ve never understood why Hindu society treats widows so badly. The poor woman cannot even remarry to escape her fate,” said Mr Ali.

Aruna said, “I know, sir, but what can anyone do? That’s just the way it has been for thousands of years. And things have improved a lot since I was a little girl.”

Mr Ali nodded. “You are right,” he said. “Widows aren’t forced to shave their heads any more and not all of them wear only white now.”

An hour passed. Mr Ali collected the letters he needed to post and the little bag that contained his passbook, chequebook and other bank papers, and stood up to go.

“Sir, do you remember that I’m not coming in this afternoon?” said Aruna.

Mr Ali nodded and said, “Yes, I remember. I’ll see you tomorrow, though, won’t I?”

“Yes, sir,” said Aruna. She still had some hours to go in the office before she left, but she wanted to remind her boss about her afternoon off while she remembered.

After Mr Ali left, Aruna moved to the chair behind the table. She opened the cover of the typewriter and took out an old toothbrush from the drawer. Its bristles were half worn out and black with ink. She rubbed the arc of letters vigorously with the brush, dislodging tiny bits of paper that were stuck in the curves of the letters. One minute piece wouldn’t come off the centre of the letter ‘O’ and she blew a puff of air hard on to it. The paper flew straight into her eye, stinging terribly.

“Oww!” she cried, closing her eye and resisting the temptation to rub it. She blinked several times until her tears washed out the foreign object, as her husband might say. She dabbed the edge of her eye with a handkerchief and looked at the typewriter.

“Time to fix you,” she muttered to herself.

She fed a sheet of paper round the roller and started typing a list of Karanam caste brides. She soon got into a rhythm and the typewriter keys rattled away. She finished just before eleven and was relaxing her fingers when Mrs Ali walked into the verandah from the house, carrying a glass of cool water for her.

“Thank you,” said Aruna, taking a sip.

Mrs Ali sat down in the chair near the door and said, “Are you getting your sister-in-law home today?”

“That’s right, madam,” said Aruna. “She’s just entered the seventh month of her confinement.”

“This will be her second child, won’t it? I’m sure I saw a small boy with her at your wedding.”

“Yes, madam. Her son has just touched four. Sanjay is his name and he is naughty but very cute,” said Aruna. She finished drinking the water and set the glass aside.

“My niece is just a month or so behind your sister-in-law. In a few weeks, I will be going with my brother Azhar and his wife to get their daughter home. It’s her first child so Azhar and his wife are very nervous.”

A skinny, tall man walked out of the house and sat down next to Mrs Ali. It was Rehman. Mrs Ali tousled her son’s hair and said, “Why don’t you get your hair cut? You look like a hippie.”

Aruna looked covertly at mother and son. They had clashed so publicly on television when Rehman had ignored his mother’s plea not to go back to a protest in which he had been injured and arrested. As she watched him turn to his mother and grin at her while she stroked his hair, it was clear that they loved each other very much.

“Today is Tuesday, ammi,” said Rehman. “Barber shops will be closed.”

“You always have some excuse or another.”

Rehman stood up and left. Mrs Ali followed him soon after and Aruna returned to her work, answering the morning’s post.

An hour later, Mr Ali and another man walked in together. The man was middle-aged and well dressed. The centre of his head was taken up by a bald patch, which he tried, unsuccessfully, to cover with long hair combed over from the side.

Mr Ali said to the gentleman, “Please tell us how we can help you.”

“My name is Srinivasa Reddy. I am looking for a bridegroom for my daughter. I have a son who is studying in America at Princeton…”

“Good university,” said Mr Ali.

“Oh, yes!” said Mr Reddy. “Einstein was there, you know.”

Aruna and Mr Ali nodded, impressed.

“As I was saying, my son is in America. My daughter Sudha went to college locally and graduated last year.”

“What did Sudha study?” asked Aruna.

“BA in Telugu and psychology,” said Mr Reddy. “She’s just turned twenty-two. Sudha passed with a first-class degree, which is very good because she has also been running the household for the last three years since my wife died.”

Aruna got out an application form and gave it to Mr Ali. He took out a pen from his pocket and began filling in the form. He wrote the name of the bride and her father, then started asking questions.

“What caste are you?”

“Ontari Kapu. Our ancestors were soldiers who served on special missions, which is how our community got its name.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Mr Ali, nodding slowly. Ontari Kapu literally meant lone protector. “Do you want your daughter to marry within your caste?”

“Definitely.”

The questions went on – date of birth, bride’s share in family wealth, father’s occupation, star sign according to Hindu charts, height and complexion.

Finally, Mr Ali said, “We charge five hundred rupees. For this, we give you a full list with details of all bridegrooms from your caste. We will also advertise on your behalf in newspapers and forward all responses to you. You can write or call us every six weeks or so for a new list of any members who’ve joined in the meantime. Do you want to use our services?”

Mr Reddy thought for a moment and then handed over a five-hundred-rupee note. Mr Ali pocketed the money and gave the form to Aruna. She took out the list of Kapu grooms from the cabinet, folded it and put it into an envelope. She handed the envelope to Mr Reddy and said, “Please bring a photo of Sudha when you come next time. We will keep it in our files and you’ll get more responses that way.”

Mr Reddy said, “Will you give the photo out to people?”

Mr Ali replied, “No, sir. We don’t let anybody take photos out, especially those of girls. They can see the photos only when they come here in person. Any time you want the photo back, just ask us and we’ll return it.”

Mr Reddy took his leave.

♦

Later that day, Rehman helped his mother clear up the table after lunch. His father went for a siesta, and he and Mrs Ali sat down on the sofa in the living room.

“When did you say you were starting your new project?” asked his mother.

“Not for a couple of weeks, at least. There’s some delay in the municipal office – they aren’t clearing any papers at the moment. Apparently, the commissioner’s office was censured by the court for signing off planning permissions too easily so orders have been passed to scrutinise every application much more closely before clearing it.”

“The staff will probably just use it as an excuse to demand more bribes,” she said.

Rehman laughed. The planning department was well known for its corruption. They both sat in companionable silence for several minutes and then Rehman lay down with his head in his mother’s lap.

“Do you remember how I used to look for nits in your hair when you were a boy?” she asked, with her hand on his head.

“Yes,” he said. “You used to be so rough with that fine-toothed comb.”

“It’s a waste of time if you don’t do it thoroughly and leave some behind,” she said. She was silent for a moment and then continued, “I still have that comb, but people don’t seem to have nits so much any more.”

“One sign of progress, I suppose,” said Rehman.

“Or a sign that we don’t have any school-going children in our house,” said his mother. He ignored the pointed hint.

Rehman never slept in the afternoon, unlike his father, but now his eyelids drooped. The fan whirred slowly and the sounds of traffic outside were muted. A song from an old Telugu movie played in the background from a flat in the building next door. It had been a long time since he had spent so much time with his parents after leaving home for college. Even the arguments with his father had reduced in intensity and frequency.

His mind drifted to Usha. What was she doing? Interviewing some politician for television? I should call her, he thought. He had already met her thrice in the last week. They usually met for an hour or two by the beach or in one of the cafes in town. He found that he was thinking more and more of her. It was very disconcerting to him because girls had never affected him that much before. Well, apart from just that once. The memory was so deeply suppressed that this was the first time in years that he had allowed it to come to the surface without pushing it away immediately.

Lalitha. La-li-tha. He rolled the syllables around in his mind. He had fallen in love with her the moment he saw her that morning on his first day in college. He was eighteen, as was almost everybody in the class. She had been walking with another girl and had laughed aloud at something. He was amazed at his good fortune when he found out that she was in the same department as him. She sat in the front row of the class and he spent so many hours staring at the back of her head. He knew every hairclip that she owned; the dark mole between her shoulder blades that was covered by some of her blouses but not by others, which were cut slightly lower. Every Friday, she probably went to the temple because she always had a dab of sacred ash smeared on her neck and jasmine flowers in her hair.

He had been young and gauche around girls. He certainly did not have the courage to speak to her of his own accord. Almost two years passed in this calf-love. One day, a month or so before their second-year exams, he had been sitting on the stone steps near the library with his best friend and constant companion, Ramu, when she walked over to them.

“Hi,” she said. “I am Lalitha.”

“I – I know,” he stammered. It must have been a Friday because he still remembered the fragrance of jasmine flowers in her hair.

“I am told that you have the best survey notes. Can I borrow them for a few days?”

“Of c-course. But how do you know about my notes?”

She shrugged. Her slender shoulders were only partly covered by the edge of her sari and the sleeves of her blouse ended high on her arms. He treasured that meeting and the one where she returned the notes. After that she smiled at him when they saw each other and he blushed each time. He never mentioned his infatuation to anybody, not even Ramu, for fear of being teased.

Once the exams were done, the college broke up and Ramu went back to his village. Over the holidays, Rehman spent a lot of time thinking about Lalitha. He decided that when he met up with her again after the break, he would try to make friends with her.

The college reopened and Rehman managed to speak to Lalitha a few times. But he still found it difficult to talk to girls and even harder to speak to her. A month later he had a big surprise. He was tightening the screw on a small concrete cube during a Strength of Materials lab when his best friend Ramu told him that he had fallen in love with a girl. Rehman’s hands dropped off the handle and he gaped at his friend.

“Who is it? Anybody I know?”

“You’ll find out after class. She is coming over to the canteen to meet us.”

As soon as the lab was over, the two of them hurried over to the canteen and found an empty table in a corner. Rehman had his back to the entrance and he couldn’t see who was coming in. But he could read the look on Ramus face and knew the girl had arrived. He refrained from twisting round. A girl came over to them and said, “Hi.”

Rehman looked up and it was as if a lightning bolt had struck him. “But…but that’s…”

Ramu slid across the bench to the far side and the girl sat down delicately next to him. “Yes,” said Ramu. “Lalitha and I are in love.”

The girl blushed at the bold declaration but held her gaze. Rehman looked away and felt as if his heart was squeezed in a vice. He now knew how the concrete blocks felt in their Strength of Materials labs as they were crushed. He could not speak for a long time but luckily the love-struck couple did not notice. They were too immersed in their own conversation.

After some time, Ramu said loudly, “Rehman…”

Rehman looked up, startled, and found a waiter standing next to the table, waiting to take his order. The smell of food in the canteen suddenly sickened Rehman. His heart thundered in his chest. He wanted to smash his friend’s silly, simpering face with his fists. His hands curled and he stood up blindly. He leaned forward, almost reaching across the table.

“Are you all right?” Lalitha’s voice broke through the mist in his brain.

He jerked back and stood up straight, his fingers uncurling. “I am not feeling well. I have to go,” he said.

Ramu and Lalitha looked at him with concern. “What happened?” asked his friend.

“Nothing. Must be the sun. I have been standing outside too long.”

“But it’s been cloudy today,” said Ramu.

“And we had a double period of maths indoors,” said Lalitha.

“I have to go. You stay,” he said and blundered his way out of the canteen. He didn’t attend classes for the next three days.

On the fourth day, Rehman joined Ramu as his partner in the lab. “Where were you? I came to your room so many times but it was locked. What happened?”

Rehman shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I am feeling better now.”

Thinking back, Rehman felt proud of his younger self. Lalitha spent a lot of time with Ramu and consequently with Rehman too, but he had never, after that day, revealed his feelings. His episodic temper had disappeared too – sublimated in his unrequited love. When Ramu and Lalitha had their inevitable, very occasional, lovers’ tiffs, they both came to Rehman and he always played honest broker, doing his best to get them together again as quickly as possible.

Rehman changed in other ways as well. He became much more confident about talking to girls, joking and being friendly with them. And, as is often the way of the world, now that he didn’t care much for the girls round him, they showed more interest in him. Lalitha and Ramu got married soon after college but it didn’t last long. They died one after the other, but not before they had a son, Vasu, who was now living with his grandfather. Now, thought Rehman, was not the time to think about that tragedy.

He turned his mind to Usha again. How silly she had been to take the parrot astrologer’s words so seriously. The man probably said the same thing to anybody who looked as if they had money.

A bus went past on the road outside, honking loudly, and Rehman was jolted out of his reverie. It will be good to catch up with Usha. Where should he take her? An idea came to him for just the place – the university canteen. They served good samosas and there was a continuous supply of tea.

Did he love her? She was certainly in his thoughts far more than any woman since Lalitha. More importantly, did she love him? He wasn’t sure, but she always answered his calls and agreed to meet him. That must mean something. I am not making the same mistake again, thought Rehman. I am not waiting two years before speaking out this time. Usha was a great catch – her parents were probably already looking for a bridegroom for her. He drifted off for a while longer until his mobile phone rang and he rose slowly to pick it up. He didn’t recognise the number of the caller.

“Hello,” he said.

“Rehman, it’s Naidu. How are you?”

“Naidu gaaru, Mr Naidu. Is everything all right on the farm? I have just been thinking about Vasu’s parents.”

“There is not much work on the farm, now that you’ve helped me bring in the harvest. Actually I’m calling about Vasu.”

“What about your grandson?” asked Rehman. He sat back on the sofa, next to his mother.

“Vasu’s school has holidays next week and he wants to go over to the city. I have to be here because the red spinach still needs watering. I was wondering if you can show Vasu the sights of Vizag.”

“Of course he can come here,” said Rehman. His mother tapped him on the hand and looked at him quizzically.

“Just a moment, Uncle,” said Rehman and covered the mouthpiece. He asked his mother, “Can the boy, Vasu, stay with us next week?”

She nodded and he went back on the phone. “How is he going to come over, Uncle?”

“One of the guys in the village is going back to the city. I will send Vasu with him. Can you pick him up from that man’s house?”

“Sure, where does he live?”

“Marripalem, let me tell you the address,” said Mr Naidu.

Rehman hurriedly found a pencil and paper and wrote down the details.

“And one more thing, Rehman. I’ve decided to sign the contract with Modern Agro.”

“Are you sure, Uncle?”

“Yes, I’ve thought about it. My ancestors and I have been growing the same rice crop on the same land for ever and all we’ve ever had is a basic living. If my son was still living…” said Mr Naidu and stopped. After a moment, he continued in a hoarse voice, “If your friend was alive, things would have been different.”

“What exactly is the deal with the company?”

“I have to grow cotton for them. They will provide the seeds and fertiliser, and the herbicide to control weeds. They will also send experts, professors from universities, to advise farmers like me when to water the fields, how much fertiliser and herbicide to apply.”

“I see,” said Rehman. “Why do you need the contract with the company? Why don’t you just grow the cotton yourself?”

“Two things – firstly, they guarantee to purchase the crop from me so I don’t have to worry about finding a buyer, and secondly, they explained to me that the seeds the company gives us are different. The man said something about their jeans being changed. I didn’t understand exactly – I thought jeans were trousers that men like you wore, but what does an illiterate farmer like me know, eh?”

“Genetically modified, Uncle,” said Rehman.

“Yes, that’s what the man said. Cotton is a good cash crop but a pest called the bollworm is almost definite to attack it. Apparently, the plants that grow from these seeds are resistant to this pest, so the yield is better and we don’t have to use pesticides.”

“Hmm,” said Rehman.

“Also, the company will come to the village and take the cotton from me. That’ll save me having to hire a cart like we did last week and transport it to the market.”

Rehman scratched his head, thinking. It sounded good, but he couldn’t help wondering whether there was a catch somewhere. “Are you sure, Uncle? I don’t know…”

“We have to move with the times, Rehman. I am an old man with a young grandson. If it was just me, I could have continued the way we’ve been farming all these years and live from harvest to harvest. But I won’t be here for ever and I have to save enough money before my strength goes, so Vasu can go to college and get a job in the city like his father.”