Five

Mrs Ali walked slowly down the village path towards the tomb of the Sufi saint. Sharif kept pace with her, while Azhar and Faiz were a few paces ahead of them.

“I have heard that the urs – the anniversary – of the saint is celebrated quite grandly,” said Mrs Ali.

Sharif nodded. “Yes, Maami. Both Hindus and Muslims come from all over the district to attend it. We have an all-night festival with qawwalis and big feasts.” Qawwalis are Muslim devotional songs sung at the tombs of Sufi saints.

“I’d love to see a qawwali performance. It has been a long time since I’ve attended one.”

“You’ve just missed this year’s urs. It comes early in this month of Shaabaan. But you should definitely come next year, and bring Maama too. Last year we commissioned two different qawwals – one man and one woman – and it worked really well as they each tried to outdo the other. The singing went on well past midnight.”

“It will be good for your maama to lift his head out of the marriage bureau. Insha’Allah, we’ll come next year.”

Unusually, Faiz called her naani – or grandmother, while Faiz’s husband, Sharif, called her maami – or aunt, because they were related from both sides. Faiz, of course, was her brother’s granddaughter while Sharif was the son of her husband’s cousin. As they walked through the village, Mrs Ali thought back to her English lessons. English was such a strange language – expressive in so many ways, but so bland in others. It used the same word for maternal and paternal grandmother. And the word uncle was worse – it was used when referring to a maama, a mother’s brother; a chaacha, a father’s brother; or a phuppa, a father’s sister’s husband. And yet they had two words where one would do – gate and door, for example – as if the subtle difference between them was more important than the major distinctions in the family.

Mrs Ali’s ruminations stopped when they reached the sundrenched dargah with its whitewashed walls and onion dome, in the midst of a green lawn dotted with gravestones. A thin, old man was cutting the grass with a sickle and putting the clippings into a bamboo basket that he dragged behind him. Two ravens flew past with raucous caws. From the distance, beyond the dargah’s compound, could be heard a cow’s long moo.

Sharif and Azhar put on white lace skullcaps. Faiz and Mrs Ali draped the ends of their saris over their heads. All of them took off their footwear and walked gingerly over the hot flagstones to the marble floor that was cool under the dome.

Word had been sent ahead that they were coming and a priest was waiting for them. Mrs Ali gave the imam a bunch of bananas, a packet of incense sticks and some jasmine flowers. The priest lit the incense sticks from an oil lamp and stuck them in one of the bananas to hold them upright. The perfumed smoke rose and filled the corridor in which they sat. In front of them, a tiled room with a low door held the saint’s grave, covered by green cloth. The priest led the four of them in saying the dua, the prayers, and finished by touching their heads with a peacock-feather fan. Half the bananas were returned to them and they all stood up.

All of them, including the priest, left the tomb. Sharif asked him, “When do you think the month of Ramzaan will start, sir?” Turning to Mrs Ali and Azhar, he added, “This gentleman is also the imam of the village mosque.”

“When Allah wills that we see the crescent moon, then the holy month begins,” said the imam.

“Nowadays, they announce on television when they’ve sighted the moon in Delhi or Mecca, don’t they?” said Faiz.

“I don’t believe in all this new technology,” the imam said. “God gave us eyes to see and a simple rule to follow. Sight the moon and start the fast. Sight the moon again to determine the end of the month and the end of the fast. Why do we need to complicate things?”

A phone rang and Azhar fumbled through his pockets, but it wasn’t his phone. The imam took out a mobile phone from the pocket of his kurta and answered. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve finished here. Ask Abdul to stay there, don’t let him go. I am coming.”

He took his leave. Faiz looked speculatively at the imam’s receding back. “Doesn’t believe in new technology!” she said. Azhar frowned at his granddaughter, but the others laughed.

“Let’s sit here for a moment,” said Mrs Ali to Sharif, indicating a cement platform around the trunk of a huge banyan tree. The platform was cracked but clean, except for a few twigs, and was shaded by the tree’s overhanging aerial roots.

Sharif nodded and sat down beside her. Mrs Ali, who had sent Faiz and Azhar back home straight from the dargah, was enjoying the cool breeze in the shade of the tree, listening to the silence that only a village offers.

She said, “Sharif, are you happy with Faiz?”

“Of course I am happy,” he said quickly. Too quickly.

Mrs Ali didn’t say anything. After several seconds, Sharif cracked and said, “But I get the feeling that Faiz is not entirely happy.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know, Maami. She gets moody and won’t talk to me for days. She doesn’t get involved in all the tasks around the house with my mother, my sister and my sisters-in-law. I think that if she has a child, it will help, but she says she is not yet ready to become a mother. I just don’t know what to do.”

“Have you talked to anybody about it?”

“No. I don’t want to talk to Ammi and Abba because they will blame Faiz and I don’t want them to do that. If I say anything to anyone else in the family, word will get back to my parents, so I haven’t done that either.”

“Faiz is a lucky girl,” murmured Mrs Ali.

“What – ”

“Nothing.” Mrs Ali shook her head.

“I treat her well – no different from the way my father treats my mother or my brothers treat their wives. I don’t know why she becomes so glum.”

“Everybody is different,” said Mrs Ali. “Your mother and your sisters-in-law aren’t educated beyond high school. They grew up in big families. Faiz lived with her grandparents and then as a single child in Bangalore. She is a college graduate.”

“I know that, Maami. She is really intelligent and I like that about her.”

“You’ve been married for, what? Six months?”

“Eight months, actually,” said Sharif.

“In those eight months, where have you taken her?”

“Taken her?”

“Yes, you know, movies, holidays, trips…”

Sharif’s face reddened. “Nowhere, really. I don’t like movies and you have to go to the market town six miles away for the cinema. Wait, we came to the qawwali at the saint’s anniversary and we went to the village fair by the river a couple of months ago.”

“Was it just the two of you who went to the fair?”

“Yes…no…At the last minute, my mother asked me to take my sister as well, so the three of us went.”

“Let me get this right. In eight months, you and Faiz have not gone out anywhere on your own.”

“Father says that one should not spoil women. Otherwise they will climb on your shoulders and dominate you.”

Mrs Ali smiled at Sharif. “That’s a really old-fashioned way of thinking. I don’t want to criticise your father, but the world has changed. Once upon a time, the roles were clear. Women didn’t care about what was going on outside as long as their menfolk brought home the money to run the household. Now women, especially educated women like Faiz, want to be partners with their husbands – to share in their men’s triumphs and their troubles. I think that is better. In the long run, it will lead to greater happiness for the couple.”

“Yes, but – ”

“No buts, Sharif. You care for Faiz, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“The very fact that you have kept all this bottled up inside you, and not spoken of it to anybody for fear that they might think ill of Faiz, shows that you love her. But it is not enough to feel the emotion. You have to show it too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tomorrow, when you come home, don’t bring eggs for your mother. Get some flowers for Faiz.”

“But…but…my brothers will make fun of me.”

“But your sisters-in-law won’t. And they will keep your brothers under control. Or you could start with a more discreet gift. But bring her something. If you do that, I can bet that your sisters-in-law will force your brothers to change too. Take your wife out. You may not like going to movies, but Faiz does.”

“But what about my sister?”

“I am not asking you to be totally selfish. If you go out sometimes on your own, Faiz will not mind if your sister accompanies you at other times. Faiz is a very good girl. Just like you, she too has not uttered a single word of complaint to her father or grandfather. Since marriage, your own life has carried on as normal, but think about her. She has moved from a big city to a small village and is living in a big family with people she doesn’t know. She likes books and loves magazines. Where are they in your house?”

Sharif stayed silent for a long time, staring into the blue, cloudless sky.

“Let us go,” said Mrs Ali, touching him lightly on the arm. “You and Faiz are now married. For good or ill, you have to stick together and make a life out of what God has given you. This time when you are newly married is very special, Sharif. It is a time when you have to bond together and create memories. Think of it as a bank account into which you are depositing not money, but emotions. There will be times in the future when you will need to withdraw from this account to see you through. But to do that, make sure it is well funded now.”

As they walked back towards Sharif’s home to eat chicken curry, Mrs Ali wondered whether her talk would do any good. It’s difficult to change people, she thought, and words are like ripples in water that agitate the surface for a bit and then disappear without a trace.

♦

The following afternoon, Mr Ali woke up, feeling irritated because his nap had been disturbed. This was very unusual because he could usually fall asleep anywhere, at any time.

He had spent another morning at the electricity office. The peon in the engineer’s office, taking pity on him, had escorted him on a round of the clerks, but they had each just passed him on to the next like a parcel at a children’s party game. He was finally told to wait for the engineer.

“How long will that take?”

“No idea, sir. Elections are coming, so the engineer is very busy answering the politicians’ questions. It might take some time.”

Meanwhile, Mr Ali’s business was suffering. Worse still, the knowledge hung over him that his wife would be back later that day and would be unhappy at having to run a household without electricity.

He lay in bed, glaring grumpily at the fan, but it stayed stubbornly motionless. When a faint sound came from the front of the house, he realised that it wasn’t the lack of breeze that had woken him up, but the rattle of the gate. He wondered why his wife was not answering it, before remembering that she was still in the village, thank God. Bleary-eyed, he stumbled to the verandah to find a dark man with a wide mouth, grinning at him. He looked vaguely familiar.

“Yes?” he said, then added, “Madam is not here if you are selling something.”

“I am Shyam, sir. The electricity meter reader. May I come in?”

“Electricity, pah! Don’t talk to me about it,” said Mr Ali but he went back into the house, got a key and unlocked the gate.

“The peon in the engineer’s office told me that you had gone round there to get the power connected.”

“Yes. Fat lot of good it did me.”

“I am appalled, sir, that a senior citizen like you had to run around to the engineer’s office. The electricity department staff show no consideration for age or status. They know that they have the citizens over a barrel and they take full advantage of it, secure in their permanent jobs.”

“Hm…”

“Yes, sir. Otherwise, a respected man like you would not be ignored while you sat outside the engineer’s office for a whole day. Such a situation is just wrong morally. That’s why I came straight here as soon as I heard, sir.”

“My business is sinking into the Bay of Bengal and my wife will be back in the evening, asking how she is supposed to manage without the fridge or the grinder. We need the power back.”

“See, you admit that you are running a business here. You need to go on the commercial meter, sir. If you agree, I can arrange to have the power restored today and I will sort out the paperwork to change your tariff. For a small fee, of course.”

Mr Ali was about to agree when he remembered what his wife had said.

“We cannot run the whole household at commercial rates. It will bankrupt us. Our business is entirely run from this verandah.”

Shyam looked around speculatively, nodding to himself. “You are right,” he said finally. “It will cost a bit more. Three thousand rupees. We’ll put a new meter in for this verandah and set that to commercial rates. The rest of the house can remain on the old meter at domestic rates. I will do all the work, including the meter installation and getting it signed off by the electricity department afterwards.”

“And I won’t have to go to the electricity office again?”

“Oh no, sir! You just sit in that chair and I will sort everything out for you.”

“But I need the power now. I can’t wait for the new meter.”

Shyam nodded. “If you give me two hundred and fifty rupees, sir, I can organise that.”

Mr Ali almost went for his wallet before a lifetime’s experience asserted itself. “Get the power restored first,” he said.

Shyam shrugged. His fish was on the hook; it might wriggle, but it was not going anywhere. “All right, I’ll be back in an hour with the lineman.”

♦

By evening, Mr Ali was looking on proudly as Aruna typed into the computer the details of the people who had joined the bureau in the last couple of days. The fan was whirling round at full speed and the tube light cast a comforting white glow. A car stopped outside and Mrs Ali got out. The taxi sped away before he could go into the yard.

“You’ve managed to get the power back!” said Mrs Ali.

Mr Ali waved his hand dismissively. “Of course,” he said. “Not an issue at all. How was everybody in the village?”

“Everybody’s fine. They all asked after you and said that you have to come over for the saint’s urs next year.” She walked onto the verandah. “Hello, Aruna. How are you?”

Aruna smiled and bobbed her head. “Namaste, madam.”

By the time Mrs Ali came back onto the verandah, Aruna had finished typing and was going through their filing cupboard to weed out old lists. Soon after, she heard the sound of the outside gate opening. When no one came in for almost a minute after that, she peered out into the yard. Through the thin curtains, she saw a tall, old man walking painfully slowly, holding a walking stick in his left hand. He was being supported on the other side by a younger man. An expensive car stood at the roadside.

The two men finally came in and sank onto the wooden settee. The older man was probably in his seventies. But for his injured hip, Aruna would have said that he looked well for his age and quite fit. The younger man was in his late forties or early fifties and appeared to be some sort of retainer.

“Would you like water?” asked Mr Ali.

“No, I am all right. It’s just that this broken hip of mine hasn’t healed properly and is a nuisance to walk on.”

“How can we help you?”

The older man was obviously old-fashioned and didn’t like to introduce himself. He nodded to the younger man, who started speaking for him.

“My uncle is Mr Koteshwar Reddy and, like his name, he is a millionaire.”

Koti, or crore, was the word for ten million. Mr Ali had once read that no other ancient civilisation had words for such large numbers. Maybe it was not a coincidence that the zero and the decimal number system had been invented in India. Indians, even today, had a surprising facility for figures.

The man continued to speak. “Uncle was the regional director in MMTC, the Minerals and Mines Trading Corporation, but of course he is retired now. He has several houses in town. Do you know the Sukumar theatre?”

Aruna and Mr Ali nodded. It was one of the oldest cinemas in town, once grand but quite run-down now, like an elderly dowager’s mansion. It occupied a prime spot of real estate that would be worth a substantial amount if redeveloped.

“The cinema belongs to us. Besides that, there are ancestral lands in three different districts. Uncle has one son, Sukumar.”

The old man waved his hand dismissively. The younger man inclined his head in slight acknowledgement and carried on. “We have come here for Uncle’s granddaughter – Sujatha.” He went through the bag he was holding and handed a photograph to Mr Ali. “She is a graduate from St Joseph’s College with a first-class degree. As you can see, she is pretty.”

Mr Ali nodded and handed the photo to Aruna. The girl in the picture was fair, with clear eyes, a lovely smile and even features, and wore her hair in a stylish fringe.

“Not only is Sujatha pretty, but she is a very natural, nice girl.” He glanced at the older man and added, “The money and her grandfather’s love have not spoiled her.”

“I see,” said Mr Ali. He took out an application form and handed it along with a pen to the younger man. “Why don’t you fill this out for us? It tells us the kind of details we need to know.”

Name, caste, date of birth, star (for horoscope), height, complexion, number of brothers and sisters, education, job (if any), salary, father’s job, parents’ wealth, dowry…

“What is your name?” Mr Ali asked the younger man.

“My name is Bobbili, sir. I am Uncle’s sister’s son. I’ve been with him since I was a little boy.”

Mr Koteshwar stirred. “Bobbili is my right-hand man. He is more like my son than my own son. I don’t know what I’d do without him.” He turned to Bobbili. “While we are here, why don’t we make Venkatesh a member too?”

Bobbili squirmed. “This is a marriage bureau for rich people,” he said. “Not for the likes of me and my son.”

A cloud passed over Mr Koteshwar’s face. He turned to Mr Ali and explained, “My sister was very unlucky. She became a widow soon after Bobbili was born and she was kicked out by her husband’s family without a single paisa to her name. She lived with me until she died a few years ago.”

Mr Ali took the filled-in form and went through it. There were no surprises really. The girl was twenty-four years old and the only unexpected thing was that an attractive, rich girl like her from a good caste needed to come to a marriage bureau in the first place.

“Excuse me for asking,” said Mr Ali, “but why are you here? I would have thought there would be a queue of suitors wanting to marry Sujatha. The only reason I am asking is because that’s what the families of prospective matches will ask me and it is best if I have an answer for them. On the face of it, you should be beating off suitors from your door, not going out to look for them.”

“That is the mystery, sir,” said Bobbili. “We’ve had several enquiries, but nothing seems to come of them.”

Mr Koteshwar shook his head. “What is the point of sugar-coating the truth, Bobbili? Let us tell it like it is.” He turned to Mr Ali and Aruna. “I named my son Sukumar – or good son. And the gods played a joke on me. He is a drunkard, a gambler, always dreaming about the next big scheme to earn money. I think he is driving potential matches away.”

Bobbili squirmed and looked pained. “You shouldn’t say – ”

Mr Koteshwar made a chopping movement with his hand, silencing his nephew. “Who feels the shame of a useless son more than I? But hiding the truth is not going to change it. The people who come to see my granddaughter will find out about my son sooner or later. They might as well know up front.”

Aruna spoke for the first time. “But sir, do you think that her own father would put obstacles in the way of Sujatha getting married? Maybe you are mistaken.”

Mr Koteshwar smiled gently at her. “You are a young girl and I don’t think you’ve seen as much of the world as I have. You don’t know the depths to which people will degrade themselves for money. Because of my son’s character, I’ve made a trust and transferred all my money and property into it. After me, the trust and all its wealth will go to Sujatha. If my son wants any money, he will have to go to his daughter and beg from her like a dog for its scraps.” The old man’s face had taken on a stern and forbidding look.

Aruna was about to say that she still found it difficult to believe that a father would jeopardise his daughter’s chances of a wedding and then she remembered…

Before she had worked for the marriage bureau as an assistant to Mr Ali, her father had fallen ill and their savings had been wiped out. His pension had been cut because of an administrative blunder and they were forced to rely on the salary she brought in as a salesgirl in a department store. Shastry-uncle, her mother’s brother, had found several matches for her but her father had refused them, saying that not only could they not afford to pay for a wedding, but they also needed her salary to survive. If she hadn’t met Ram at the marriage bureau, she would probably still be unmarried. If her father, a morally upright man, a Sanskrit scholar who knew the holy books and could quote verbatim from the Vedas, was willing to hinder his daughter’s marriage, then why not a weak man – an alcoholic and a gambler?

The old man must be right, she thought. The love of money can make people do anything.