TWENTY
“ I will not marry Aruna. I don’t want to get married at all,” said Ramanujam.
“Please don’t say that, sir. My daughter will be ruined if she is jilted at the altar. We won’t be able to show our faces in society if you reject her now,” pleaded Aruna’s father.
“I don’t think married life is for me. I’m thinking of resigning my job and going off to Kashi to live my life as an ascetic on the banks of the Ganges.There are too many problems and compromises in married life,” said Ramanujam.
“Don’t think like that,” said Shastry-uncle. “If you think marriage brings problems, it also brings great pleasures. Don’t reject them without even experiencing them first. My niece will keep house, look after you and your parents in both good health and ill. Why do you want to give all this up and live a cold life as a monk?”
Ramanujam was dressed in a white dhoti—a long piece of cloth tied around the waist, covering his lower body. His chest was bare except for a starched silk shawl over one shoulder, and a white thread looped over the other shoulder and across his chest, waist, and back. He was carrying an old-fashioned black umbrella and a bronze mug with a handle. His feet were shod in wooden sandals and he looked like a monk about to renounce the world. Stopping him were Aruna’s father and uncle, acting in lieu of her nonexistent brothers. At a slight distance surrounding them were several guests—all grinning.
Mr. Ali had heard about this custom among Brahmins but had never seen it before. Just before the wedding, a Brahmin bridegroom dresses up as a monk and pretends to renounce all worldly pleasures and live a simple life. It is the job of the bride’s brothers and other male relatives to persuade the bridegroom to go through with the wedding.
It was early morning on the day of the wedding, just past seven, and they were on top of the mountain in Annavaram. Behind them, the white tower of the temple, covered in statuary, could be seen. They could see miles of forest stretching out over the hillside. The sun was just out and the light early-morning mist had not yet evaporated.
Aruna’s family had all come over to her paternal uncle’s house three days ago, and she had been made a bride—her body anointed with oil and turmeric; her hands and feet covered with henna patterns. Ramanujam’s father had organized the use of a state government guesthouse in the temple town through his contacts, and they had arrived the day before. Mr. Ali and his wife had come along with Ramanujam’s family, even though they were guests from the bride’s side and were staying separately in a hotel.
Ramanujam was eventually prevailed upon to get married, and the parties returned to their respective houses.
Two mature banana plants, each bearing a big bunch of green bananas, had been cut down and tied at the entrance to the wedding hall. Mango leaves were strung between the two banana plants, forming a green doorway, the light green of the long fanlike banana leaves contrasting with the darker green of the smaller mango leaves. Aruna and her close relatives walked into the wedding hall, where a priest was waiting for them. Aruna was wearing a nine-yard red silk sari with a gold border and all the traditional gold jewelry of a bride—earrings, chain, torques around her upper arms, a chain down the central parting of her hair, several bangles on each wrist, and silver anklets with bells that tinkled as she walked. Her hair was braided in a long tail. In the center of the hall, a square raised platform had been arranged with smaller banana plants on the four corners and decorated with more mango leaves. At the center of the altar was a brick hearth. The marriage hall was still empty, and workers were arranging chairs for the guests around the altar. Aruna had come to pray to the goddess Gauri for a successful wedding and a happy marriage afterward. The goddess herself had undertaken severe penances to get the husband of her choice.
Once the bridal prayers were complete, Aruna and her family left the wedding hall. The wedding proper could now begin.
Mr. and Mrs. Ali joined Aruna’s family and arrived in the hall.
They heard someone behind them say in a voice that carried, “Doctors, not multinationals.”
Mr. Ali noticed that his wife blushed, but stood straighter, looking straight ahead. A small smile played on her face. People milled around until they heard music. Some of the older people sat down, but most of the others assembled by the gate, waiting for the bridegroom’s party. The band soon appeared, wearing bright clothes and turbans, some drummers, some blowing into polished steel trumpets, others into flutes. In the front was a bandmaster, wearing the tallest turban of them all, and waving a baton, directing the popular South Indian film song the musicians were playing. Behind the band was a car decorated so heavily with flowers that Mr. Ali was sure that the driver could barely see out of the windshield. In the car sat the bridegroom and possibly his mother and sister. All the others in his party walked behind the crawling car.
Mr. Ali stood with his wife on one side among the crowd as Ramanujam got out of the car. One of Aruna’s aunts broke a coconut in front of him. She then took a hundred-rupee note and waved it around in front of Ramanujam three times and cracked her knuckles loudly on the sides of her head. She gave the hundred-rupee note to a beggar hovering on the edge of the crowd. The evil eye having been thus distracted, Ramanujam was welcomed into the hall along with his family.
All the guests settled down; it was a small wedding and there were only a couple of hundred people in the hall. Mr. and Mrs.Ali found seats in the front row on the side of the altar. Ramanujam and his parents sat cross-legged on one side of the platform, facing west. One of Aruna’s paternal uncle’s friends and a Brahmin brought by Ramanujam’s family officiated as the priests at the wedding. As soon as the bridegroom and the guests settled down, harried along by the priests who were worried that the auspicious time would pass, a small idol of the elephant-headed god Ganesha was brought in. Ganesha is the god of beginnings and no Hindu ceremony begins without a prayer to him. Ramanujam followed the priests in praying to Ganesha for the successful conduct of the wedding and the removal of any obstacles to a happy married life. Once the prayer was complete, Vani and one of her cousins came onto the platform and held a long sari between them, dividing the platform in two and preventing Ramanujam from seeing the other side. Vani stood with her back to Mr. and Mrs. Ali, and they were lucky enough to see both sides of the altar.
Mrs. Ali pointed to a door on the side of the hall and Mr. Ali craned his neck to look. Shastry, the bride’s maternal uncle, carried her into the marriage hall and onto the platform in a bamboo basket. Aruna’s cousins helped him by holding the basket. Aruna had her head down, but she occasionally looked up at the guests. Her eyes met Mr. Ali’s and she grinned at him, enjoying the occasion and the ride in the basket on her uncle’s and cousins’ shoulders. Mr. Ali smiled back at her, thinking that the ceremony they were watching had probably not changed much in a thousand years.
She was placed in front of Ramanujam, on the other side of the sari-curtain. Her parents sat next to her, and Shastry went and stood next to Vani.
“You’d better not put on any weight,” he said, puffing heavily. “I’ll be even older at your wedding and I might collapse carrying you.”
“I might have a registered wedding, so you won’t have this trouble,” she replied.
“Silence, silly girl. Don’t utter foolish words on this auspicious occasion. Who knows what gods are listening in to grant your wishes?” her uncle said angrily.
Mr. Ali overheard the exchange and smiled. He had met Vani yesterday evening and he liked her sparkiness. Aruna had the same wit, but she was much more restrained, while Vani was uninhibited.
The priests started chanting Sanskrit verses from the Vedas. They called on seven generations of ancestors of the bride and groom to bless the union and grant the couple wisdom to deal with the inevitable problems that arise in married life. As the auspicious moment arrived, musicians in the hall started beating drums and playing the South Indian flute.The drums reached a crescendo and, at a signal from one of the priests, Vani’s cousin let go of her end of the sari and Vani whipped it away, leaving the bride and groom face-to-face. Ramanujam glanced at Aruna boldly, who blushed and dropped her eyes shyly to the ground. A priest knelt in front of them with a bowl holding a paste of cumin seeds and jaggery. Aruna and Ramanujam both took a handful of the paste and applied it on each other’s heads.
“Yuck,” whispered Mrs. Ali to Mr. Ali. “Their hair is messed up.”
“Rustic woman,” laughed Mr. Ali softly. “The mixture of the bitter cumin seeds and sweet jaggery represents the bittersweet joys and troubles of marriage.”
“Maybe,” said Mrs. Ali. “But it still messes up their hair.”
One of the priests lit a fire in the brick hearth with sandalwood kindling and ghee.
“Look,” said Mrs. Ali, pointing at Ramanujam’s sister, who was sitting behind Ramanujam. Her face looked like thunder.
“She looks like she has just popped a peanut into her mouth and it has turned out to be bitter!” Mr. Ali laughed.
“I hope she doesn’t cause trouble for Aruna,” said Mrs. Ali.
The kindling caught fire and the priests nursed it into a blaze. The drums and flute reached another crescendo, and as the priests called on the blessings of the gods, Ramanujam stood up and, bending down toward Aruna, tied a thread with a gold disk hanging from it like a pendant around Aruna’s neck with three knots. Aruna’s family’s priest handed him another thread with an identical gold disk, and Ramanujam tied it around Aruna’s neck like a chain as well.
Mr. Ali, who had never seen a Hindu wedding at such close quarters before, turned to Mrs. Ali. He said, “I thought a mangalsootram was one chain with two pendants?”
Mrs. Ali said, “Leela told me about this. Apparently, one of those threads with the gold coin is given by Ramanujam’s family and the other by Aruna’s family. Sixteen days after today, the two gold disks will be united on one thread and form the mangalsootram that Aruna will wear as long as she is a married woman.”
Aruna and Ramanujam stood up and the priest gave them a garland each. Aruna placed her garland around Ramanujam’s neck and Ramanujam placed his around Aruna’s neck. Mrs. Ali took out some yellow-colored rice that was tied in a handkerchief.
“Where did you get it?” asked Mr. Ali.
“One of Aruna’s aunts gave it to me,” said Mrs. Ali.
They joined the other guests in throwing the confetti over the couple.
The drums and flutes stopped. In the sudden silence, the priest tied the ends of Ramanujam’s dhoti and Aruna’s sari together, and they went around the fire with Ramanujam leading. On round one, Ramanujam asked the God of Fire to witness the wedding and for food to sustain them; on round two, he asked for physical strength so their life and marriage would be successful; on the third, he asked the God of Fire to help them honor their vows to each other and to society; on round four, for a sensual and comfortable life with his wife; on round five, he prayed that he would own lots of cattle, the sign of a rich man; on round six, he prayed for good rains and a long life that they might see many seasons. On the seventh and final round, Ramanujam prayed that he and his wife would always fulfill their religious duties.
Thus with three knots and seven steps, Aruna and Ramanujam were married in front of their families with the God of Fire as holy witness. They were now man and wife. Guests came up to them and gifted the newlyweds with clothes or money or jewelry. Mr. and Mrs. Ali gave Aruna a parrot-green silk sari and Ramanujam a creamy-white silk dhoti. They also gave the couple a half-foot-high elephant made of sandalwood.
Aruna left the hall with her husband.The guests got up and the hall was prepared for lunch.
Mr. Ali started talking to Ramanujam’s brother-in-law.
“Where do you live?” asked Mr. Ali.
“Lawson’s Bay Colony,” Ramanujam’s brother-in-law replied.
Before Mr. Ali could ask him another question, Ramanujam’s sister glared at her husband and he left hurriedly.
Mrs. Ali joined Mr. Ali. Mr. Ali said, “Oh, dear! Somebody’s in trouble.”
Mrs. Ali laughed. “You are such a wicked man.You knew it would get him into hot water with his wife if he was seen talking to you,” she said.
Mr. Ali said, “I was only trying to butter him up so that he will be friendly with Aruna.”
Mrs. Ali rolled her eyes.
“Right,” she said, clearly not believing him.
Because Annavaram was quite far from the city and Ramanujam’s parents wanted to get back before it was too late, the bidaai, or “good-bye,” when the bride leaves home to go to her husband’s house, was held soon after a vegetarian lunch. Mr. Ali had asked if he and his wife could leave with them on their bus. They stood outside the marriage hall with Ramanujam and his family, waiting for Aruna to join them.
Several minutes later, just when Ramanujam’s father was looking at his watch and muttering about not wanting to go on the mountain roads after dark, Aruna came out. She was wearing a rich red silk sari, woven with gold thread—presented, as tradition demanded, by the bridegroom’s family. A golden braid ran along the parting in her hair, with a pendant on her forehead. Earrings, nose-ring, upper-arm torques, a dozen bangles, necklace, long chain, the two halves of her mangalsootram, a wide gold cummerbund, silver anklets, and toe-rings weighed her down. Her mother and sister walked with her, and her father and Shastry-uncle walked behind as she slowly came toward them.
In the background, somebody switched on a tape recorder, and an old haunting tune drifted out:
Go, my daughter, to your new house, with these blessings from your father:
May you never remember me, lest your happiness falter.
I raised you like a delicate flower, a fragrant blossom of our garden,
May every season from now on be a new spring,
May you never remember me, lest your happiness falter,
Go, my daughter, to your new house, with these blessings from your father.
When she reached Ramanujam, Aruna stopped and first hugged her mother, then turned to her sister. Vani suddenly seemed to realize the enormity of what was happening, and her smile disappeared. The two sisters hugged tightly and cried. Their father put his arms around them awkwardly, and after a long minute, they separated. Aruna took a step forward and looked back, like a deer caught in a tiger’s stare. One of her aunts joined her, so she would not feel lonely when settling into her new house, and helped her get into the waiting bus.
The reception, held three days later, was grand; more than fifteen hundred people were invited, and almost all turned up.The hotel joined all three of their halls and opened the French windows to the garden to accommodate everybody. Aruna wore an orange sari and more jewelry than she had ever owned in her life. Ramanujam was wearing a long maroon Nehru jacket with a turban on his head. They both looked resplendent as they stood on the stage at one end of the hall, receiving an endless stream of guests, saying a few polite words to each. The gifts piled up in a corner of the stage.
The wall behind them was decorated with white, red, and orange flowers all the way to the ceiling, dwarfing the people standing in front of it. Exquisite bouquets of roses, specially flown in from Bangalore, were standing in baskets on the table in front of the bride and groom.
Food stations had been set out in several places around the hall, so people didn’t have to stand in line too long. Waiters circulated in the hall carrying trays of soft drinks, juices, and water. Mr. and Mrs. Ali walked around the hall. They met several people they knew; some people said that the bride and groom looked made for each other. Most ladies were envious, and a few made catty remarks about a bride from a poor family making such a good match. Nobody, observed Mr. Ali, remarked that Ramanujam had been lucky; though if he had not married Aruna, he would have been married off to some rich man’s spoiled daughter who would not have been half as nice to him as Aruna would be.
“Let’s go into the garden for a bit,” Mr. Ali told his wife. “I want some fresh air.”
Mrs. Ali nodded and they made their way through the people toward the French windows. Just as they were about to go outside, Mr. Ali noticed Sridevi and stopped.
He introduced her to Mrs. Ali. “This is Sridevi, the florist in this place. She decorated the whole hall with the flowers.”
Noticing that she was wearing the mangalsootram and red sindoor on her forehead, he said to Sridevi, “I see that you are back with your husband again.”
“Yes,” she replied. “We got married at the registrar’s office a couple of weeks ago.”
“How are things going this time round?” he asked.
“These are early days, but it is going very well. Thank you,” she replied. “Now that we’ve moved out of his parents’ house and money is not an issue, we don’t have any fights.”
“That’s good. Keep it up,” said Mr. Ali.
“I intend to. I haven’t forgotten what you told me. I am not actually a guest here. I was closing the shop and just came around to make sure that all the decorations are still looking good,” she replied.
“The flower arrangements are fantastic,” said Mrs. Ali.
“Thanks. I got this commission thanks to uncle,” she said, nodding toward Mr. Ali.
“I know. But you’ve done a really good job, and I heard that you gave them a big discount,” said Mrs. Ali.
“I am basically charging my cost price, because it is your assistant’s reception and uncle told me that she was the one who helped find the other match for me. But you know what? I heard so many people talking about the flowers that I think I will get a lot of business out of this,” she said happily.
“God makes sure that whatever good we do doesn’t go unrewarded,” said Mrs. Ali.
They said good-bye to Sridevi and moved on into the garden.
Mr. and Mrs. Ali walked around the lawn among the people. The turnout was truly amazing. They saw many important people of the town among the guests.They overheard somebody saying that even the district collector and the deputy inspector general of the police were among the guests. Suddenly, they heard a voice say, “Saibamma! How are you doing?”
They turned around and saw Anjali—the washerwoman who had been their neighbor long before and still refused to call Mrs. Ali by name, always referring to her as “Muslim lady.”
Mrs. Ali exclaimed, “Hello, Anjali! How are you doing? Which side invited you?” Even though Mr. Ali was too well mannered to show it, he was surprised to see Anjali there. It is not common for a low-caste woman to be invited to a Brahmin wedding.
“My younger son works in the same hospital as the bridegroom, and that’s how we got invited. My husband didn’t want to come, but I wouldn’t miss it for the world. After all, it is not often that we are invited to such grand parties. Hello, babu-garu,” she said, turning to Mr. Ali.
Mr. Ali smiled at her in greeting.
Anjali turned to Mrs. Ali and said, “I heard that Lakshmi’s son has taken her back. I also heard that you had something to do with it. Is that true?”
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Ali. “You know that she went to live with her sister after she and her daughter-in-law fell out with each other and her son asked her to leave the house?”
Anjali said, “That’s right. I was the one who told you that.”
Mrs. Ali nodded and continued, “I decided that the situation had gone on long enough, and went and had a chat with the son and daughter-in-law. I told them that whatever fights they had, a family had to stay together. I told the son that his mother was widowed and that it was his duty to look after her. It took a while, but I convinced them. I then took Lakshmi’s son with me and we went to her sister’s house. Before her son invited her back, I asked her why she was living with her sister instead of her son. I pointed out to her that she had brought this on herself with her attitude. She had to get along with her daughter-in-law. She might think her son was not being well taken care of or that her daughter-in-law was lazy; it didn’t matter. She had to let go. The relationship between her son and daughter-in-law would be different from the relationship she had with her husband. The people are different; the times are different. Only when she agreed to change her attitude, did I let her son invite her back. It’s been over a month now and things seem to be all right.”
Anjali said, “That’s fantastic, saibamma.You’ve done very well.”
Cheered by the conversation, Mr. and Mrs. Ali went back into the reception hall and mingled with the guests for a while before lining up for dinner. “This is a Brahmin wedding, there won’t be any meat here,” Mrs. Ali said to her husband.
“You are wrong,” said Mr. Ali. “Look over there. That’s a nonveg etarian food station.”
Mrs. Ali laughed. “I guess the rich do things differently,” she said.
While they lined up for dinner, a tall, straight-backed man behind them said, “Hello, sir, madam. Aren’t you the parents of Rehman Ali?”
They turned back. The man shook Mr. Ali’s hand, and then said, “Namaste,” to Mrs. Ali with folded hands.
Mr. and Mrs. Ali looked puzzled. The man said, “You don’t know me. I am the superintendent of police for Vizag rural district. I had to arrest your son at Royyapalem.”
Mr. Ali said, “Sorry he gave you such trouble.”
“We are just doing our job. No problem at all. Anyway, you should be proud of your son. How many people go to any effort to fight for other people’s rights?” he said.
Mrs. Ali’s face broke into a smile. “Thank you,” she said.
Once they finished their dinner, they went onto the stage where Ramanujam and Aruna were sitting down. Aruna tried to stand up when she saw them, but they asked her to continue sitting.
“How are you?” asked Mrs. Ali.
Aruna smiled. “Life is good, madam. Do you know what happened just now? We were both standing, receiving all the people, and he noticed that I was flagging—my smile was strained and I was shifting my weight from one leg to another. He immediately told his father that he was getting tired and would like a break. Isn’t that kind?”
Mrs. Ali cracked her knuckles on the sides of her head. “May the evil eye never fall on you,” she said.
Mr. Ali said, “We are just here to say good-bye. Enjoy yourself today. When are you leaving for your honeymoon?”
“Tomorrow,” said Aruna, her cheeks reddening.
“Great. Have you got warm clothes? Kulu Manali, up in the Hima layas, will be cold,” said Mrs. Ali.
“We are not going to Kulu Manali.We’ve decided to go to a mango orchard just outside Simhachalam,” said Aruna.
“What? Kulu Manali is beautiful. And you told me you’ve never been there before,” said Mrs. Ali.
“It was Aruna’s idea,” said Ramanujam, joining the conversation. He lowered his voice and told them confidentially, “It’s actually worked very well. When Aruna said that she didn’t want to go for an expensive honeymoon, it finally convinced my parents that Aruna is no gold digger. My father now thinks that Aruna is the best daughter-in-law he could have gotten and even my mum is practically civil to her now.”
“No-o . . .” said Aruna, scandalized. “How can you talk like that? Your mum is such a kind woman.”
“Darling,” her husband drawled, “I know her better than you.”
The affection between them was clear to everybody. Mr. Ali knew from long experience that this romantic love would not last more than a couple of years and they would have to forge a different kind to last them a lifetime, but it was still heartwarming to see.
“We’ll see you after a couple of weeks,” they said to Aruna.
Ramanujam’s father came up to them. “Let me see you out,” he said.
At the door, Ramanujam’s father said to Mr. Ali, “You were right, you know. I don’t need more money, I need a good daughter-in-law. It may be a cliché to say this, but thanks to you, I haven’t lost a son. I’ve gained a wonderful daughter.”
Mr. and Mrs. Ali left the reception hall and went out of the hotel. Mrs. Ali pointed to the sea nearby and said, “Let’s go to the beach. It’s been a long time since we’ve come here.”
They walked down to the beach, where the surf was crashing noisily on the sand. The sun had set but it was still quite bright because it was a full moon. Most people had already left, and the vendors were packing up.
As they walked toward the water, Mr. Ali said, “You’ve been writing a lot recently. Aren’t the English lessons all finished now?”
“The lessons have finished,” said Mrs. Ali. “However, the lecturer who wrote those lessons in the paper said that the lessons were just the beginning, and that we should read an English newspaper or magazine regularly and write an essay on some topic or other every week to improve our skills.”
“Hmmm . . .” he said, impressed, but not really surprised by his wife’s discipline.
Mr. Ali sat down on the sand, several feet above the level reached by the highest waves. Mrs. Ali left her shoes with him and went closer to the water, lifting her sari to just above her ankles.
“Don’t forget you are wearing an expensive sari,” he called out.
She nodded but continued forward.
Mr. Ali started thinking about his marriage bureau. It had been successful beyond his wildest dreams—not just financially, but also socially. India was changing and his success was one sign of it. A fly on the wall of his office might think that Indians were obsessed with caste and that nothing had changed in a hundred years. That’s not true, thought Mr. Ali. Marriage was one institution where caste was still important, but in other matters it was losing its hold. People of different castes went to the same schools and offices; they mingled and became friends with each other. Just a few years ago, people of lower castes, or Muslims for that matter, would not have been invited to weddings of upper-caste people. Today, it went unremarked. India was changing and Mr. Ali just hoped he would be around for a while to see the changes. But he groaned at the prospect of the next few weeks without Aruna—it was going to be hard work in her absence.
A particularly big wave rose high above the surface of the water and Mrs. Ali rapidly walked backward, giggling half in fear. The wave crashed back and water rushed rapidly up the beach. Mrs. Ali shrieked, raising her sari almost to midcalf to prevent it from getting wet. Mrs. Ali came back to sit next to Mr. Ali. Together they watched the silver tops of the waves shimmering in the moonlight. In the distance, the silhouettes of a long line of ships could be seen as they waited on the horizon to get into port. A broad beam of light swept across the sea from the lighthouse on the peak of Dolphin’s Nose.
Mr. Ali turned to his wife and said, “Call Rehman for lunch tomorrow. It’s been a long time since I’ve argued with my son.”
Mrs. Ali looked at him in disbelief for a second. Then tears slowly rolled down Mrs. Ali’s cheeks and her face glowed brighter than the surf in the moonlight.