THREE
“Advertising is the key to success,” said Mr.Ali. “How do you think my marriage bureau has become successful? It’s because I spend a bigger portion of my revenues on advertising than any of my competitors.”
Mrs. Ali did not reply. It had been a couple of days since Azhar’s visit, and her husband had just told her that he had sent an ad to the local newspaper.
Assistant wanted for successful marriage bureau. Smart, typist ...
There were several responses. The first girl who came could not speak a word of English; the second could not work after three in the afternoon, when her children came back from school. The third was a young man who was shocked that he would have to work on Sundays; the fourth was smart and suitable but did not want to work in a house. She wanted to work in a “proper” office.
Mr. Ali sighed and showed the eighth candidate out, saying, “I am sorry. We do not have air-conditioning.Yes, it gets hot in summer.”
Mrs. Ali laughed and said, “Why don’t you give up? You are just wasting money on these ads. They are useless. I will find an assistant for you.”
“You?” said Mr. Ali.
“Why? Don’t you think I can?” asked Mrs. Ali.
“Let’s see you find somebody. If you get me an assistant, I will take you out for dinner.”
“You are on!” replied Mrs. Ali.“But I am not getting fobbed off by a visit to a cheap snack parlor to eat idli sambhar.You will have to take me to a big hotel and feed me tandoori chicken.”
The next day, Leela was late. Normally, she came to work before seven, but today they had finished their breakfast and it was well past eight and she was still nowhere to be seen. It was every housewife’s nightmare—the dishes stacked up; the house unswept; the whole morning routine upset. Whenever Mrs. Ali met her sisters or friends, they always complained about their servants and she had to work hard not to appear smug. Leela was very reliable, and on the rare occasion that she couldn’t come in, she normally sent one of her daughters to work in her place.
A nagging uncertainty gnawed at Mrs. Ali. Would Leela turn up? Should Mrs. Ali wash the dishes herself or should she wait? She decided to sweep the house. The thought of the house not being cleaned while the sun was halfway up from the horizon was unbearable. What if any guests turned up? What would they think of her?
Around eleven, Mrs. Ali heard a knock on the back door and unbolted it to find that Leela had arrived.
“What happened? Why are you late?” asked Mrs. Ali.
There was no answer. Leela just went past Mrs. Ali into the kitchen and started taking the dirty dishes out into the backyard to wash. Leela was a tall, thin woman in her early forties but looked ten years older. She had a difficult life with an alcoholic husband and the general rigors of poverty, but she was invariably cheerful, always smiling and ready to chat any time. Today, however, she had a grim look on her face. Mrs. Ali decided to leave her alone for some time before trying to get an answer.
Mrs. Ali went to work scraping a coconut for the chutney she was making for lunch. When she finished, she washed her hands and took the coconut scraper outside to Leela, who took it silently.
Mrs. Ali threw the coconut shells into the wastebasket and asked, “Did your husband come back home drunk last night and beat you again?”
“No, amma!” said Leela. “I wish it was that simple. My grandson Kush is not well.Yesterday, they took an X-ray of the boy’s head. There is a growth in his brain.” She started crying.
Mrs. Ali was aghast. “There, there! Don’t cry. I am sure he will be all right. Nowadays, doctors can cure so many diseases.”
Slowly, Mrs. Ali got the story out of her. The three-year-old boy had started complaining of headaches. He also got tired easily and fell asleep frequently. The parents initially ignored his complaints until he started throwing up. They had taken him to a local doctor, who had given the boy a course of penicillin injections. It only made him worse. After a couple of weeks of worsening symptoms, the doctor had given up and asked them to take the boy to the city. In the city, an X-ray had been taken and showed a growth, but the doctors wanted to take a CT scan to be sure.
“The scanner was so frightening—like a big mouth swallowing the little child. My poor grandson, he was so brave,” Leela said, her eyes watering again.
“Have you got the results from the scan?” asked Mrs. Ali.
“Yes, amma. The growth is definitely there and they said they have to operate to take it out. The doctor was very good. He explained everything patiently and said that the sooner we have the operation, the better.”
“How much did the scan cost?” asked Mrs. Ali.
“Five thousand rupees, amma,” said Leela. “My daughter says that all their savings are now gone.The operation will cost more money and I don’t know where we’ll get it from.”
The next morning, Mrs. Ali, as usual, went outside at six to collect the milk. It was an old habit from years ago when the milkman actually milked the cow in front of the house and she had to stand there watching him to make sure that he did not dilute the milk from a secret water bottle. The cows were long gone and she now got a half-liter of milk from the dairy, but she still stood at the gate to collect it. Mrs. Ali also liked to stand by the gate while the day was still cool and watch the people who walked by her house—they all seemed to be in much less hurry at this time of day. As she grew older, she found that she was becoming more and more partial to peace and quiet. Most of the people on the road at this time were either thin pensioners or fat middle-aged people out for a walk.
It is interesting, she thought, that you do not see any fat pensioners. Are they too poor to get fat or do fat people die before they become pensioners?
She saw a young mother carrying a small child in her arms, and her thoughts went to Leela’s grandson. She hoped he would be all right. The milkman came a bit early and gave her the milk, but Mrs. Ali did not go inside. She stayed outside, waiting. She had noticed a young woman in her early twenties who walked past the house every day, returning an hour later with rolled-up sheets of paper in her hand.
A few minutes later, the woman was walking past, and Mrs. Ali called out to her, “Hello! Do you have a moment?”
The girl looked around, appearing surprised at being addressed by a stranger.
“What’s your name?” asked Mrs. Ali.
“Aruna,” the girl replied.
“Are you going to the typing institute?” asked Mrs. Ali.
“Yes!” said Aruna, surprised. “How did you know?”
“I have seen you returning with rolled-up papers in your hand and I knew you must be learning to type.What’s your speed?” Mrs. Ali asked. She had learned typing as a teenager herself, but it was many years since she had sat in front of a typewriter.
“Fifty words per minute,” replied Aruna.
“That’s good.”
“Thanks.” She smiled shyly. “I have passed my Lower and I am practicing for my Higher exam.”
“Would you like a job?” asked Mrs. Ali.
“What job?” asked Aruna, looking suspicious.
She has every reason to be, thought Mrs. Ali. It is not every day that jobs are offered to people walking along the road.
“We have a marriage bureau,” replied Mrs. Ali, pointing to the sign. “We need an assistant. I think it would suit a girl like you who lives locally.”
“Oh!”
Mrs. Ali could see that the girl was tempted but not convinced. She said, “Why don’t you go for your typing lessons and then come back later when the office is open?You can see for yourself then and decide.”
Aruna nodded and went on her way. Mrs. Ali happily went inside. She knew the young woman would be back. Aruna always wore a simple cotton salwar kameez, trousers and a long shirt that reached down to the knees with slits at the sides. Her dress looked handmade. She did not wear expensive ready-made clothes. She always wore tiny earrings and the same thin gold chain around her neck. Her family was obviously not well off and she seemed like a modest, sensible girl—just the kind Mrs. Ali liked. She didn’t think much of brash “modern” girls who wore T-shirts and jeans and spoke good English.
It was half past nine in the morning and it was hot but not yet scorching. Traffic on the road outside was still heavy and the road was noisy. The postman had just gone and Mr. Ali was busy working through the day’s mail.There was a gentle cough and Mr.Ali looked up in surprise to see a young woman by the door—he hadn’t heard the gate open.
“Namaste,” she said, with folded hands.
“Namaste,” he replied, distracted.
“May I speak to madam?” the woman asked.
“Madam?” he said, puzzled. His mind was still on the letter he was reading, and he couldn’t figure out who she was talking about.
Luckily, his wife came out just then. She smiled at the girl and said, “Hi, Aruna! Thank you for coming.This is my husband, Mr. Ali. He runs the marriage bureau.”
Mrs. Ali turned to him and said, “I’ve asked Aruna to come over and have a look to see if she wants to work as an assistant here.”
“I see,” said Mr. Ali, folding the letter and putting it to one side.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Ali. “Aruna is a very good typist. She has passed her Lower typing exam and is preparing for her Higher exam. She lives locally as well.”
Mr. Ali pointed to the sofa and said, “Please sit down, Aruna.”
After she sat down, he asked her, “Do you want a glass of water?”
Aruna nodded and Mrs.Ali went inside to get it.This was traditional Indian courtesy—Muslim or Hindu. Feuds lasting generations had broken out when this simple courtesy was not observed.The Prophet Mohammed was reported to have seen a prostitute giving water to a stray puppy and to have said that the woman was sure to go to heaven. A traditional pooja, or prayer, among Hindus involves inviting God into your house as a guest, and one of the first steps in the worship is to offer the Lord a drink. Mrs. Ali came back with a glass of cool water from the fridge and gave it to Aruna.
Mr. Ali asked her, “Are you working now?”
“Yes, sir. I am a shop assistant in Modern Bazar,” she replied, naming a new department store (the first multistory shop in the whole town). “I just started there three weeks ago.”
“Why do you want to leave such a big shop and work here?” asked Mr. Ali.
“Oh! I was not planning to move, sir, but madam saw me outside and asked me to come in.”
Mrs. Ali nodded. “That’s right,” she said, and turned to Aruna. “What hours do you work?”
“Really long hours!” the girl said, her hands tight in her lap. “The shop opens at eleven and we have to be there half an hour before that. It closes at ten in the night and we leave fifteen minutes later. It’s very difficult to find a bus at that time of night and I get home after eleven.”
Mrs. Ali was shocked. “Aren’t you scared—a young girl like you traveling that late at night?”
“I used to be scared,” said Aruna, shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t mind now.”
“What do your parents say?” asked Mrs. Ali, leaning forward.
“They don’t like it, but what can we do? We are poor and need the money to survive. Until recently, I was doing my M.A., but our family finances have suffered lately and I had to leave my education and take up a job.”
They were all silent for a moment, then Mr. Ali said, “We start at nine, close for lunch sometime between twelve-thirty and one, and open again at three in the afternoon. We stay open till seven. Sunday is our busiest day, so you have to come in for work on that day. You can take Monday off instead.”
“Those times are very good compared to what I am doing. I don’t mind coming in on Sunday, either. I work every other Sunday in Modern Bazar anyway. What is the pay?” asked Aruna.
“What do you get paid in Modern Bazar?” he asked.
“They pay me fifteen hundred rupees a month,” replied Aruna.
“We can only pay you one thousand here,” said Mr. Ali.
Aruna’s face fell. “I like the hours, but I cannot afford such a big drop in salary.”
Mr. Ali nodded and said, “I wouldn’t expect you to.The salary is one thousand, but in addition, for every member who joins while you are in the office with me, you get twenty-five rupees bonus, and for every member who joins when you are on your own in the office, you will get fifty rupees as bonus.”
Aruna looked skeptical.
Mr. Ali raised a finger and said, “At least one member joins each day, and sometimes two or three. You will definitely earn more here than you are earning in Modern Bazar.”
Aruna was silent for a moment.Then she looked at Mr. and Mrs. Ali and said, “Thanks for the offer. I will need to think about this.”
“Don’t leave it too long. Another girl is coming for an interview this evening,” said Mrs. Ali.
Mr. Ali watched Aruna close the gate and leave. He turned to his wife and asked, “Have you asked another girl to come in the evening?”
Mrs. Ali laughed and said, “You are such a buddhoo! Of course nobody else is coming for an interview. But the girl doesn’t need to know that, does she?”
Mr. Ali was silent. He had often wondered how his wife would have fared had she run her own business. He was sure she would have been very successful.
Mrs. Ali said, “Why did you offer to pay the bonus? You might end up paying lots of money to her.”
Mr. Ali smiled. “I want to pay lots of money. The more I pay, it means I am earning even more. . . .”
He could see the doubt on his wife’s face.
“Do you remember when we were building this house, I went to the quarry to select the best granite stones for the floor?” he said, pointing his finger down toward the polished ground.
“Yes . . .” said Mrs. Ali, looking puzzled, no doubt wondering what granite tiles and quarries had to do with marriage bureaus and assistants.
“Quarries are difficult places to work and I was expecting a hard taskmaster driving the poor workers. Instead, I found a gentle-looking man with round glasses sitting in an office while the workers toiled away in the hot sun. I was surprised and I asked him how he got his people to work like that, and he told me that he paid his workers piece rate—the stonecutters, the saw operators, the haulers—each worker got a certain amount for every sheet. He said they managed themselves and if somebody was being lazy, they sorted it out themselves because it affected all of them. I don’t want to be sitting here all the time looking over the girl’s shoulder. I want her to work by herself.”
Mrs. Ali nodded and said, “Imagine if the government had paid you by the number of files you cleared while you were in service. How much more efficient would you have been?”
Mr. Ali laughed and said, “I don’t know about that, but I can tell you that Muthuvel, Rao, and Sanyasi wouldn’t have come in at ten, gone to the canteen for a long tea break at eleven, lunch at one, an hourlong afternoon tea, and samosas at three before leaving the office at five sharp.”
Fifteen minutes later, a potential client came in and Mrs. Ali went back inside the house. The man’s name was Joseph. His grandparents were lower-caste Hindus who had converted to Christianity. He was looking for a groom for his daughter—caste or religion no bar.
In Mr. Ali’s experience, it was actually more difficult to find a partner for somebody who said “caste or religion no bar.” It was ironic, but true, thought Mr. Ali, that the more specific the requirement—a Turpu Kapu from Krishna District who owned at least twenty acres of land, for example—the easier it was to find a match. Also, Christians who were from higher castes looked down on the lower castes, calling them converted Christians.
“The fee is five hundred rupees, sir,” said Mr. Ali, finally.
“Do I have to pay it up front?” asked Joseph. “Once I give you the money, what incentive do you have for finding my daughter a match?”
“We have helped many people. Look at our files. Why won’t we help you?” said Mr. Ali.
“I’ve got a different idea. I won’t pay anything now, but if my daughter’s marriage is fixed, I will give you two thousand rupees. What do you say? Fair’s fair,” said Joseph, cracking his knuckles.
Mr. Ali stood up and said, “That’s exactly the reason why marriage brokers are not held in much regard. As you know, they don’t charge money up front, and ask you for payment when the marriage is fixed, either a fixed fee or as a percentage of the dowry. Then they push unsuitable matches just to get their fee and you cannot respect or trust them. That’s not how we work. It takes money to advertise, print the lists, for postage and other things. Whether your daughter finds a match depends on a lot of things—including God’s will, but my expenses still have to be paid. Please think about it and get back to me.”
He showed Joseph out.
A few minutes later the gate opened again and Mr. Ali looked out through the thin curtains into the bright sunlight. Aruna and an older man were in the yard. The older man looked around the garden and said something to Aruna, and she smiled and nodded. Mr. Ali came out from behind his desk and called out to his wife.
Aruna introduced her father, Mr. Somayajulu, to both of them.
“Namaste,” said Mr. Ali to Mr. Somayajulu. “Please sit down.Would you like some water?”
“No, please don’t trouble yourself,” said Aruna and her father together.
The sun was high, and it was very hot outside now. Aruna’s father wiped his brow and tonsured head with a white cotton shawl that was over his left shoulder. Mr. Somayajulu looked like a typical elderly Brahmin. He was wearing a Gandhi-like dhoti loincloth and a long shirt. His head was shaven except for a small tuft at the back.Three lines of white ash were smeared across his forehead.
Mrs. Ali went inside the house.
“Your house is very cool,” said Mr. Somayajulu.
“Yes, we are lucky,” replied Mr. Ali.
Mr. Somayajulu said, “It is not luck. You have left the area in front of your house unbuilt and planted those trees.That’s why your house is cool. In the past, all houses used to have trees around them, and they kept the houses comfortable. Nowadays, people bribe building inspectors and use up all the available land, with no place for trees or plants. No wonder it is getting hotter every year.You have done a very good thing, leaving some land aside.”
Mrs. Ali came back with two glasses of lime juice for Aruna and her father.
Aruna said, “I would like to try the job for a week. If it works out, I will stay on permanently. Is that okay?”
Mr. Ali thought for a moment and looked at his wife. She nodded in agreement, and he turned to Aruna. “That’s fine by us.”
Mr. Somayajulu said, “I came to see where Aruna will be working.You obviously look like good people, and it is all right here.You cannot just let a young daughter go into anybody’s house on her own, can you?”
Aruna looked embarrassed at her father’s words, but Mrs. Ali nodded and said, “You are absolutely right. One cannot be too careful nowadays.”
Aruna smiled and said, “I will take my father back now and go to Modern Bazar to take one week’s leave. I will then come back to start work.”
Aruna’s father said, “Don’t start the job today. It is amaavasya, the day with no moon. It is bad luck to venture anything new. Start tomorrow.”
Aruna looked at Mr. Ali doubtfully. He waved his hand dismissively, and said, “That’s no problem—tomorrow’s fine. I was wondering why no new clients except that Christian called today.”