FOUR
The next day, precisely at nine, Aruna walked in. She was wearing a simple, well-worn cotton sari. Her long hair was oiled and braided into a plait reaching to the small of her back. She had a bow of fragrant white jasmine buds tucked in her hair, a small bindi on her forehead, and a faint mark of white sacred ash on her neck. She had obviously gone to the temple before starting her new job. Mr. Ali pointed out an old wooden chair with a cushion, and two battens screwed loosely into its armrests. Once Aruna was sitting down in it, he showed her how to use the two battens to extend the armrests in front of her. Mr. Ali then placed a hardboard plank on the extended armrests. His assistant now had a ready-made table for working.
“You only need to use this chair when we are both here. Otherwise, just sit behind the table,” he said.
Aruna nodded.
Mr. Ali opened his “filing cabinet”—the wooden wardrobe—and asked her to come over. He explained how the files were organized by caste, and how there were different files for brides and bridegrooms. There were quite a few photographs in the files as well. There were other files, one per active member, holding their correspondence.
The postman walked in just then—dark, tall, and lean. His bald head shone. He had been delivering letters for Mr. Ali since they had moved into the house. He lowered the heavy bag of letters from his shoulders and took out about ten letters from the bag and handed them over to Mr. Ali.
“Thank you, Gopal,” said Mr. Ali. “I need some postcards. Can I come in today?”
“I don’t know, sir. Let me find out and I’ll tell you when I come in for the afternoon round,” said Gopal.
Mr. Ali nodded and asked, “Do you want water?”
“No, I am all right, sir. Have you got a secretary?” Gopal said, looking at Aruna.
“Aruna is the assistant, just started today,” said Mr.Ali.
She smiled at Gopal.
“How’s your daughter?” asked Mr. Ali. “You won’t need our services now.”
“She’s doing well. We got a postcard from her just yesterday. She’s happy at her in-laws’. And what jokes you crack, sir. How can a poor man like me afford your services?” the postman said, laughing.
His white teeth gleamed in his dark face, showing his happiness—his daughter had been recently married. Mr. Ali knew that he just got by on his small salary. Gopal lifted the bag of letters onto his shoulder, nodded good-bye, and left.
“He is a good man, always cheerful, even though he has aged parents and a disabled brother to look after on his postman’s salary,” said Mr. Ali to Aruna. He tore open the first envelope, extracted the single sheet of paper, and said, “Every letter must be answered the day it arrives. That is the most important work we have to do.”
He read the letter aloud: “I have seen your advertisement for Muslim engineer . . . fair . . . two older brothers . . .”
He gave the paper to Aruna and took out a slim file that listed all the ads that he had placed in both English and Telugu newspapers.
He said, “You need to figure out which advertisement the letter is referring to. I always put a code in my ad. See the address in this girl’s letter? It says ‘ME26’ after our name. Look in this file, we advertised this last Sunday.”
Aruna looked through the files and found one advertising a Muslim marine engineer, twenty-six, respectable family, seeks fair bride . . .
“We need to do two things with this letter,” said Mr. Ali. “First, reply to them acknowledging receipt and inviting them to join our club. And second, put it in the client’s file so that we can send them all off after a few days.”
Aruna nodded, frowning with concentration.
“How do I reply, sir?” she asked.
Mr. Ali opened a drawer on the side of his table and took out a bunch of postcards.They had already been neatly handwritten. He took out one and showed Aruna where the letter began “Dear—” and the rest of the line was blank. “You have to fill in the person’s name here,” he said. “Then turn it over and write their address. Put the card in this basket.” He pointed to a blue plastic-wire basket.
Aruna followed his instructions.
“You do the next one,” Mr. Ali said.
Aruna opened the letter and scanned it. “Sir, this one does not have a code.”
“This is where we have to use our intelligence. Is it somebody looking for a boy or a girl?” Mr. Ali asked.
“They are looking for a girl, sir.”
Mr. Ali asked, “Which caste?”
“Brahmins,” she said.
“I know the one. Look through the files, there is only one ad last week for a Brahmin.”
Aruna found the advertisement, reread the letter, and nodded. “Yes, sir. That’s the one.”
“Good, you know what to do,” said Mr. Ali.
Mr. Ali and Aruna processed the next couple of letters in silence before he left the table and walked into the house to see what his wife was doing.
That afternoon at about half past three, Mr. Ali went to the post office on his scooter. The post office was not far—just two blocks away, around a corner. Mr. Ali parked the scooter on its kickstand, took out the postcards, and went past the line of people waiting at the counters and into the office.
A few months ago, Mr. Ali and his brother-in-law Azhar had been in line outside the post office for stamps when one of the postmen came out and told them that the postmaster was asking them to come in. Slightly mystified, they both went inside. As soon as the postmaster and Azhar saw each other, they greeted each other like long-lost relatives. They finally turned to a bemused Mr. Ali and explained. Naidu had joined the postal service as a young man. His first posting was in the port town of Machilipatnam, and the postmaster there was Azhar’s father, who had treated all the postmen and clerks in his post office like an extended family, inviting them for dinners and advising them when they got into trouble. Naidu had risen slowly through the ranks until finally he became a postmaster himself but, he said, he had never forgotten the old man’s kindness to a callow youth away from his family for the first time. Since then, Mr. Ali never had to stand in line outside again for stamps or postcards. He didn’t even have to use the letter box to post letters.
Inside the post office, at the back, there was a clerk with a big sack of letters, who was defacing the stamps on each envelope with a heavy round wooden block.The clerk was a seasoned hand at this task and the thud ... thud of the stamp was quite fast. Mr. Ali went to the clerk and asked, “Have all the collections come in?”
The clerk nodded and took Mr. Ali’s letters with his left hand while his right hand kept stamping the envelopes on the table. Mr. Ali’s postcards were all defaced and pushed into another sack that was already half full.
Mr. Ali went to the postmaster’s desk. It was a small post office, and the postmaster sat in one corner at a slightly bigger table than the other people in the office. The postmaster greeted Mr. Ali politely and asked him to sit down. Mr. Ali said, “Naidu, how are you? I need some more postcards.”
Naidu replied, “Yes, I know. Gopal told me. There is a big shortage of postcards at the moment. But I rang the head post office and managed to get a few cards for you.”
He turned and asked a clerk to get them out of a cupboard. While waiting for the cards to be brought out, he asked, “How is madam?”
“She is fine. Have you heard about the raid on the post office in the Agency village?” Mr. Ali said.
“Shocking, sir! Shocking! How can they raid a post office? Is nothing sacred anymore? I am telling you, sir, the world is not what it used to be.”
Mr. Ali nodded. He knew that in Naidu’s opinion, the whole country was held together by mail. Naidu had once told him that the British were justified in taking the Koh-i-Noor diamond for their queen’s crown jewels because they had set up the postal department in India.
Mr. Ali paid for the postcards and made his way outside. The harsh sun made him blink as he emerged from the dark interior of the post office. As he made his way to his scooter, he saw a man selling papayas on a cart across the road. He went over and asked the fruit seller, “How much?”
“Fifteen rupees for a papaya, sir.”
The papaya plant in his garden only gave small green fruit with lots of black pearl-like seeds. This new variety of papayas that had just started coming in the market in the last couple of years was different. They were big, and when cut, the flesh was deep orange; there were almost no seeds. They were also much sweeter than the traditional variety. Mr. Ali had heard someone mention that these papayas were hybrids from Thailand, but he didn’t know if that was true.
“I don’t need a full fruit. How much for half?” asked Mr. Ali.
The man replied, “Eight rupees. Fresh, sir.”
Mr. Ali said, “Five rupees.”
“You are joking, sir. Just cut today on the slopes of Simhachalam. Came straight from the sacred town,” said the vendor. “Eight rupees is a very reasonable price. All right, seven rupees.”
The temple town of Simhachalam is home to a famous Hindu temple and Mr. Ali wondered if the man would have tried quite the same sales pitch if he had known that his customer was a Muslim.
“Six,” said Mr. Ali.
The fruit seller pleaded, “How can I feed my children if you drive such a hard bargain? Six-fifty, last offer.”
“Six,” said Mr. Ali, unyielding.
“All right, sir.”
The fruit seller started packing one of the already-cut papayas in an old newspaper. Mr. Ali made him cut a fresh papaya, overriding the man’s objections, and went back to his scooter.
When Mr. Ali came home, a family of three were looking at the albums in the verandah. The man and his wife were in their fifties and their daughter was in her early twenties.The man was short and pudgy with a thin, graying mustache. He had very little hair on his head, but what little hair there was, was well oiled and neatly combed. His wife was wearing a bright yellow chiffon sari with green dots. The girl was wearing jeans and a knee-length cotton kameez. Aruna introduced them to Mr. Ali.
“Mr. and Mrs. Raju, sir, and Soni. They became members about a month ago.”
Mr. Ali remembered, and nodded to them. “Yes, yes. I sent you details of the chief engineer’s son last week.You are also an engineer, aren’t you? I thought it will be a good match.”
Mr. Raju said, “That’s correct, Mr. Ali. We even spoke on the phone, if you remember. After you sent me the details, I found out that my cousin’s brother-in-law knows the bridegroom. They both went to the same college.”
“Even better,” said Mr. Ali. “If you know them personally, there’s nothing like that.You can find out what kind of people they are.”
“I know, Mr. Ali. They seem to be quite good people in all respects, but the match is for their eldest son.They have four other sons and one daughter.”
“How does that matter?” asked Mr. Ali. “Nowadays, people don’t live in joint families, do they?”
Mr. Raju said, “I asked my cousin to speak to his brother-in-law about that. The family definitely wants their daughter-in-law to stay with them.”
“That will just be in the beginning. After a year or two, I am sure they will separate. After all, the groom is professionally educated, isn’t he?” said Mr. Ali.
Mr. Raju said, “Probably, sir. But we cannot take the risk. Soni is our only child and she will find it difficult to adjust to such a big household. We were hoping that you might have some other match.”
Mr. Ali stopped trying to convince them. He knew their minds were made up.They knew their daughter best, after all. He thought for a moment and said, “That is the best match among Rajus that I have at the moment. I’ve already sent you all the lists I had until last week.”
He paused and continued, “I might have something for you. . . .”
He asked Aruna for the new forms folder—a hardboard pad with a strong clip on the top. It held all the forms that had come in the last few days and had not yet been collated into lists. He flipped through the forms until he came to the one he was looking for. “Here it is; this only came in three days ago. Chartered accountant, only one brother. Oh! He is too old for your daughter. He is thirty-four and your daughter is only twenty . . .” He tailed off, looking at Soni quizzically.
She replied, “Twenty-two.”
Mr. Ali smiled at her and said, “Too much age gap.”
Mr. Raju nodded, but stretched out his hand to Mr. Ali to look at the details. Mr. Ali handed the file over, open at the form he was reading. The three of them read through the form and handed the pad back to Mr. Ali.
Mr. Raju said, “Looks like a good match, but you are right—the age gap is too big. Also, he is only five feet, four inches. Soni is quite tall.”
Mr. Raju’s comment about his daughter’s height reminded Mr. Ali of an old client. He asked Aruna to take out the first correspondence file. Mr. Ali opened it and went through the file until he found the section he was looking for.
“Here it is! Bodhi Raju—lawyer, twenty-seven. He is a six-footer and he wants a tall wife. He was one of my first members, and I don’t know if he is still looking for a wife or if something has been fixed.”
“How come he was not in the list you sent us?” asked Mr. Raju.
“He didn’t want me to,” sighed Mr. Ali, remembering. “He was one of my very first clients and it was a blow when such an eligible bachelor told me to keep his details out of our lists. I didn’t have that many members then, you see. I told him that he would get a lot more responses if people saw his details in the list but he was adamant. So what could I do?”
Mr. Raju and his family nodded in understanding. Mr. Ali said, “Let me call him. I have his cell number here.”
He copied the number onto a piece of paper and handed Bodhi Raju’s form to the three people on the sofa. They read through it quickly and looked up at Mr. Ali. It was obvious they liked what they read.
The phone rang and rang until Mr. Ali was about to hang up, thinking, Last ring.
Just then, somebody answered the phone. “Hello.”
It was a woman’s voice and Mr. Ali’s heart sank. He must have gotten married, after all.
“Is Mr. Bodhi Raju there?” he asked.
“The lawyer is busy with a client. Whom should I say is calling?”
“Who are you?” asked Mr. Ali, a bit rudely.
Luckily for him, the woman did not take offense. “I am the receptionist in his office. Hang on a moment, the client’s just come out. Let me give the phone to the boss.”
“Hello, who is speaking?” said a man’s voice.
“Bodhi Raju?” said Mr. Ali.
“Yes, who is this?” asked the voice.
“It is Ali from the marriage bureau. How are you doing?”
“Hang on a moment, just a second,” the man said, and Mr. Ali heard a door close. Suddenly it was much quieter on the phone.
“Mr. Ali, please go on. How can I help you? I hope you don’t need my professional help.” He laughed.
“No, thank you. I called to ask if you are still looking for a bride.”
“Yes, sir. No luck so far.”
“Good,” said Mr. Ali unself-consciously. He gave a thumbs-up sign to the Rajus and said on the phone, “I have a very good match right in front of me. Very respectable family and well off. The girl is tall and good-looking too.”
Soni blushed and looked at her feet.
“Why don’t you give me your parents’ details, and the bride’s family will get in touch with them,” said Mr. Ali.
“My mother is dead, but my father lives with me at the same address I gave you.You can speak to him on the residence phone. I remember writing the number in the form when I filled it.”
“Thanks,” said Mr. Ali. Just as he was hanging up, he remembered one more question. “How many brothers and sisters do you have?”
“Two brothers and one sister.”
“Do they all live with you?”
“No, my elder brother and my sister live with me, but my younger brother has gone to America to do his Master’s.”
With mutual thanks, they hung up the phone and Mr. Ali turned to the anxious Raju family.
“He is not yet married,” said Mr. Ali, giving the good news first. “However, he does have two brothers and a sister. One of them has gone to America, so only the three of them live together with their father.”
“Oh, it is still a big family and they all live together, too,” said Mr. Raju. Their faces fell.
Mr. Ali nodded and suddenly remembered. “Ha, ha!” he said. “There is one important detail I forgot to mention. His mother is no more. She has gone to heaven.” He pointed a finger up toward the sky.
Mr. Raju was still frowning but his wife brightened up.
“You mean . . . ,” she began.
“That’s right,” interrupted Mr. Ali. “Your daughter won’t have a mother-in-law. You know what they say: A woman without a mother-in-law is a very fortunate daughter-in-law.”
Mr. Raju was still not sure.
Mr. Ali said, “You must think like a chess player. Just as a rook might be worth two bishops, or a queen worth two rooks, how much trouble is a mother-in-law? Will she be less trouble than two brothers and a sister? I don’t think so. Especially when you consider that one brother is abroad and the sister will get married and leave the house at some point.”
Mr. Raju shook his head, still not convinced.
Mrs. Raju turned on her husband. “The gentleman is right. You don’t know these things. I think it is a wonderful match.”
Mr. Raju had to give in. They took the details, thanked him profusely for his help and left, promising to be in touch once they had spoken to the lawyer’s family.
Mrs. Ali came out, bringing three bowls of chilled diced papaya, and sat down with Aruna and Mr. Ali. Mr. Ali savored the cool fruit, basking in the glow of a job well done.
As Mr. and Mrs. Ali were turning in for the night, the doorbell rang. They both looked at the clock. It was just past nine.
Mrs. Ali said, “Who can it be at this time? If they are members, tell them we are closed.”
Mr. Ali picked up the keys from a hook just inside the living room door and went into the verandah. It was dark outside and he switched on the light in the yard. He was surprised to see his son, Rehman, standing outside with the trademark cotton bag slung over his shoulder, looking grim.
“Is everything all right?” Mr. Ali asked anxiously.
Rehman nodded. “Yes, abba. Everything is all right,” he said.
Mr. Ali unlocked the verandah gate and they went into the house. Rehman was a couple of inches taller than Mr. Ali, but not quite six feet. He was wearing a long shirt made of khadi—rough homespun cotton cloth—and some nondescript trousers. The last time Mr. Ali had seen his son, he did not have the short, thin, slightly unkempt beard.
“Have you eaten?” asked Mrs. Ali.
“No,” replied Rehman, “but, it’s all right. I am not hungry.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Ali. “It’s past nine. How can you not be hungry? Come into the dining room. I have some rice and rasam. Let me make an omelette.”
Rehman washed his hands and sat down at the dining table. Mr. Ali pulled out a chair and sat next to him. He looked at his son as his wife bustled about, quickly creating a simple dinner from the leftovers.
“When did you start growing a beard?” asked Mr. Ali.
Rehman looked up in surprise, rubbing his hand over his chin. “I was going from village to village the last few weeks and forgot to pack my razor,” he said.
Before Mr. Ali could ask him what he was doing “going from village to village,” Mrs. Ali came in with the hastily prepared dinner.
“I am so pleased you are here.You should have called us and let me know you were coming. I would have prepared a proper meal for you,” she said.
“Ammi, leave it. This food is great. I don’t need anything else.”
“How can I leave it? Between you and your father, you don’t give me a chance to feed you.You look so gaunt. At least if you were married I wouldn’t worry so much. There’ll be somebody to look after you.”
“Not that again, ammi.”
They all fell silent as Rehman wolfed the food down. Mr. Ali wondered when Rehman had last eaten. Finally, Rehman finished eating and got up to wash his hands. Mrs. Ali cleared up the dishes. Rehman sat down at the table again and Mrs. Ali came back into the dining room.
“Why did you come here at this late hour?” asked Mr. Ali.
“My friends and I are going to Royyapalem tonight,” Rehman said.
Mr. Ali frowned. “I’ve heard that name . . . I remember. Isn’t that the village where the Korean company is setting up a Special Economic Zone? That’s great news—are you going to be designing any buildings there?”
“That’s the place, abba,” said Rehman. “But I am not going there to work. The villagers’ lands are being taken away from them. My friends and I are going to protest.”
Mr. Ali shook his head in disappointment. He said, “Silly me! Here I was, thinking that you were going to be working for a multinational. How long will you design latrines for villagers and houses for poor people? There’s no money in working for people who cannot pay for your services. It’s time you started working on big projects.With your qualifications, you can walk into any job you want.”
“Abba, I am already working on projects that I want to do and I earn enough to get by. And it gives me time to do the things I really believe in, like protesting against people who want to take over farmers’ lands.”
“What’s the point of protesting? How will it help?” asked Mr. Ali. “That’s a big company. All the political parties are in favor of the zone. What can ordinary people like us achieve by trying to stand up to them?”
“We will protest. We’ll try and get media attention. People have to know that an injustice is being committed by the government and the multinational company,” Rehman said.
“Will it be dangerous?” asked Mrs. Ali, her face tense.
“No. It shouldn’t be. We are not breaking the law. We will protest peacefully,” said Rehman.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Rehman. Of course it will be dangerous. The police will be there in strength.The company will have its own guards,” said Mr. Ali. “Didn’t you see on TV how badly the police beat those workers who were protesting near Delhi? It will be like that.”
“The policemen who did that got punished,” said Rehman.
“Foolish boy! Who cares if the police got punished? It didn’t undo the workers’ injuries, did it? You people are going to get crushed,” Mr. Ali said, banging his fist on the table.
The sudden noise in the night made them all jump.
Mr. Ali lowered his voice. “Anyway, industries have to be set up somewhere. Our population is growing day by day and we cannot support everybody on the land. I think the government is doing the right thing. The zone will create lots of jobs. Besides, the farmers are being compensated. It’s not as if their land is being stolen from them.”
“Abba, how can you be so naive?The compensation given to the villagers will be a small fraction of the true cost of the land. The villagers are farmers. What are they going to do with the money? They cannot just go somewhere else and buy land. The whole community will be destroyed. The government could have created the zone on poram boke, empty government land. Why do they have to take over prime agricultural farms?” said Rehman.
“I still don’t see what you and your friends are going to accomplish against the government machinery,” said Mr. Ali.
“If Gandhi had thought like that, he would never have started the freedom movement against the British,” said Rehman.
“Oh! So now you are comparing yourself to Gandhi. Who next? Jesus Christ?” snapped Mr. Ali.
Rehman raised his voice too. “How can you just sit there and watch injustice being committed? Whether we achieve anything or not, at least we can try.”
“You got such good marks in school. You are an engineer from a top college. Take up a steady job.You will have a standing in society—people will look up to you. Now look at yourself. Almost thirty years old and you wear rough clothes, carry a tattered bag. You don’t even know where your next meal is going to come from. It is not too late even now. Give up all this nonsense and get yourself a good job with a big company.You can still turn your life around,” said Mr. Ali, shaking his head in frustration, not understanding why his son was so thick and couldn’t see something that was so crystal-clear.
“Abba, you may not like it, but what I’m doing is important. If you don’t agree, then I’m sorry. I can’t do anything about it,” said Rehman, lowering his voice.
“You are not sorry.You are just a stubborn fool,” said Mr. Ali.
Mrs. Ali said, “Stop it both of you. Can’t you both sit in a room together for half an hour without fighting?”
They were all silent for a moment after that. Then, Mr. Ali said, “The commercial tax officer called again last week. He is still willing to give his daughter to you. He says he will set you up in any business you want. I don’t know why, but he is really keen to have you for a son-in-law.”
Mrs. Ali added, “Yes, son. His daughter is very pretty. Think about the match. How long can you go on like this? It’s time you settled down with a wife and thought about your future.”
“Ammi, she is the most flighty and useless girl I’ve ever met. Do you remember, we bumped into them at Lori’s wedding? I was bored stiff in minutes. She had no knowledge of the world other than fashion and clothes. And as for her father, we all know how he made his money. He is one of the most corrupt officials in his department,” Rehman said. “Anyway, that is all for later. I just came around to tell you that I’m going to Royyapalem tonight.The protest might be over in days or it might go on for weeks.”
“Don’t go, Rehman. It sounds dangerous,” said Mrs. Ali, looking miserable.
“Ammi, I have to go. Please don’t stop me,” he said, holding her hands in his own.
Mrs. Ali suddenly started crying. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she took one hand out of Rehman’s and tried to dab the tears away with the end of her sari.
Mr. Ali lost his temper and shouted, “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve made your mother cry, you heartless brute. Go! Go and don’t come back to this house again.”
Rehman got up and hugged his mother. She held him tightly for some time and then let him go. Rehman looked Mr. Ali in the eye for a moment, nodded, and left. Mr. Ali followed him to the verandah and locked up the house, his anger turning to sorrow as he watched his son walk away into the darkness.
