by Bajwa, Rupa
It was. When Ramchand took the invitation card in his hands, he was very impressed. It wasn’t just expensive-looking, it was beautiful. The card was made of thick, firm silver paper and had a large, flamboyant ‘Om’ embossed on the front in a brilliant blue. Inside the letters were printed in English, cordially inviting everyone to grace the auspicious occasion with their benign presence. Ramchand ran his fingers over the letters, happily noting that he could read almost all the English words on it. He noted the date, time and venue.
Hari was very excited, ‘All the top people of Amritsar are going to be there. Will you go, Bauji?’ he asked Mahajan.
Mahajan shook his head sadly, ‘I won’t be able to. My nephew is getting married on the same day. Must be an auspicious day, there are weddings in many families on that day. I won’t be able to go to the Kapoor House. You know, my nephew’s father, my brother, is dead, so I have to be there.’
Everyone nodded with a look of understanding sympathy.
Hari cleverly put in, ‘You are like a saint, Bauji. Always duty before pleasure.’
Mahajan looked pleased and went downstairs, while Hari nudged Gokul slyly and everyone laughed.
*
On the day of Rina Kapoor’s wedding, Ramchand thought about it all morning. Mahajan had taken the day off for his nephew’s wedding. ‘Must be stuffing his fat face with pakoras and samosas and sweets, while we work on an empty stomach in this tomb-like shop,’ said Hari. Since he had been eating alu tikkis all day from a paper bag and hadn’t done any work, determined to make the best of Mahajan’s absence, no one paid him any attention. However, Gokul did tell him that it was important to respect both your instrument of work, if you were a craftsman, and your place of work. He said it could be very inauspicious for Hari to call the shop where he earned his living a tomb. At this Hari muttered rude things under his breath against the shop and against Mahajan and against ‘that bloodsucker Bhimsen Seth’, and then went out to buy warm groundnuts. Gokul began to say all sorts of uncomplimentary things about Hari, more out of habit than any real rancour.
Ramchand was still wondering about the wedding at the Kapoor House. He hardly heard what Gokul was saying.
In the evening Ramchand had a stroke of good luck. Gokul had been complaining of a headache all day and by evening he said he was feeling a little feverish. When Ramchand was wrapping up some saris that an irate customer had pulled out while looking for a sari with a thin border, Gokul asked him, ‘Ramchand, will you do something for me?’
‘What, Gokul Bhaiya?’ Ramchand asked him, concerned, noticing the pinched, drawn look on Gokul’s face.
‘Do you think you can take my bicycle home with you today? And bring it back tomorrow? Because my head is almost bursting. I think I might have a fever coming on. Though the headache might be entirely because of that idiot Hari and his monkey chatter.’
Ramchand smiled. He knew that, despite his sharp tongue, Gokul had a soft spot for the cheeky Hari.
Gokul rubbed his temples with both his forefingers and said, ‘I think I’d better take a rickshaw and go home. Is that all right with you?’
‘I will take the bicycle, Gokul Bhaiya. You don’t have to worry about anything,’ Hari offered, with the air of one making a sacrifice for a friend.
‘Certainly not, Hari,’ said Gokul. ‘I want my bicycle in one piece tomorrow. Will you take it, Ramchand?’
Ramchand agreed readily. Soon after, Gokul departed gloomily in a jolting rickshaw, groaning and complaining. Hari wandered off, looking disappointed. He had been hoping he could borrow the bicycle and ride to a kulfi stall a couple of miles away that sold creamy, cold kulfi with almonds and pistachios embedded in it, served with soft, white falooda.
It was when Ramchand was done for the day, had gone out of the shop and touched the gleaming handle of Gokul’s bicycle that he knew he just had to go and take a peek at the Kapoor House. Just a little peek! The temptation was too great to resist.
He rode Gokul’s bicycle all the way to the Kapoor House in Green Avenue. The sun had set. The bazaar was closing. Shop owners were downing their iron shutters and making for their homes. Ramchand was enchanted by the evening. The sky was not completely dark yet. A faint, smoky golden haze left over from the day still hung in it. Streetlights were on; vegetable and fruit vendors had hung oil lanterns over their little carts and stalls. Piles of red tomatoes, purple brinjals and green capsicum shone in the light from the lanterns. Excitable housewives and middle-aged men were haggling at each of these stalls, knowing that it was easiest to get good bargains at this time of the day.
Ramchand rode on, a quiet excitement and a sense of well-being flooding through his heart.
*
He reached Green Avenue and turned into the lane where the Kapoor House was situated. And he was mesmerized by what he saw. At the entrance of this lane, a gateway made of flowers had been erected. Marigold, roses, jasmine flowers and green leaves were entwined in invisible threads to completely cover an iron frame that made the gateway.
The overpowering smell, however, was that of the marigolds, and it brought back a whiff of a memory. For a moment, Ramchand was transported to his barely remembered childhood, to the memories of a smiling face with a big red bindi and a leaf-shaped nose-pin, the smell of marigold petals in his hands and the sound of big brass bells ringing on happy Monday mornings.
He stood there dreamily for a while, his mind uplifted into a euphoric daze and then he cycled on. Every wall, every tree, every bush in the neighbourhood had been decorated with fairy lights. They twinkled and glimmered at Ramchand. For a moment, he felt that this was real, and the stuffy, dirty, inner city was just something his own diseased mind had conjured up. When the gentle breeze shook the leaves on the trees, all the tiny lights trembled slightly.
Even the road had been cleaned. Ramchand peacefully rode right up to the house.
The house itself was lit up brilliantly. All the entrances were draped with strings of flowers. In the park opposite the house, huge red and white canopies fluttered grandly in the slight breeze. Beautifully dressed people wandered around, flitting between the house and the tents. Even though it was early, long, sleek cars had already begun to line the road.
Ramchand stopped and got off the bicycle. He wheeled it along slowly, enraptured by all he saw. Suddenly, somebody stopped him.
‘Hey, who are you?’
Ramchand was suddenly brought down to earth.
It was a security guard.
Ramchand looked at him with resentment. He knew he wouldn’t have been stopped if he had been well dressed and prosperous looking. Then he saw that the security guard had some sort of a weapon tucked in his belt, and Ramchand began to stutter. ‘I – actually –’
Big drops of perspiration immediately appeared on his forehead.
The guard was waiting. Another guard came up and stood beside them.
Ramchand tried again, desperately looking around for something to say. Then he finally said, ‘You see… Rina Memsahib –’
The guard who had appeared later quickly said to the other, ‘Better take him to Rina Memsahib and ask her. She might get angry otherwise.’
Without a word, Ramchand was steered towards the gate of the house by the hefty security guards. He started to sweat profusely. What would happen now?
*
Rina stood in front of the long mirror, feeling satisfied. She had been very apprehensive about what the Amritsar beauticians could do with her on her wedding day. Finally, her anxiety had driven her to fly in a beautician from Delhi. The beautician was a thin woman with cropped hair, and ran a beauty salon affiliated to a five-star hotel in Delhi. She was addressed as Dolly. Dolly had worked on Rina’s clothes, hair and face for the past five hours and had now gone to take a ten-minute rest, before coming to work on Tina.
‘Thank God!’ said Rina, addressing her sister, who was sitting on the bed behind her, in a pale green lehnga that was far more expensive than it looked. ‘I was so afr
aid that these people here in Amritsar would ruin my looks. Imagine my wedding pictures, showing my cheeks red with rouge, three necklaces hanging around my neck, shiny scarlet lipstick and garish eye shadow.’
Tina nodded. ‘Yeah, they are such fools. No standard.’
Rina was, indeed, looking different from most brides. The lehnga she wore wasn’t from Sevak Sari House. It was designed especially for her by a famous fashion designer based in Bombay. In designing the rich maroon lehnga, the designer had delicately incorporated silk, net, brocade and real gold thread to produce a magnificent outfit.
Instead of the usual numerous strings of gold, she wore a single handcrafted gold necklace, exquisitely made and beautifully embellished with rubies and diamonds. Matching earrings flashed at her ears, and a matching tikka hung from her centre hair parting, lighting up her forehead. Expensive kaleere hung from the chooda that was made of real ivory. Two days ago, a Rajasthani mehndi-wala had made a lovely henna design on her hands, reaching almost to her elbows. She had also covered Rina’s delicate feet and ankles with the same design. The exquisite henna patterns were made of flowers, peacocks, leaves, palanquins and other motifs that the Rajasthani woman had learnt from her own grandmother.
Today, the mehndi shone brilliantly.
Dolly had applied matte make-up to Rina’s face. Her eyes were expertly highlighted. Her hair was slicked back into an elegant knot behind her neck, just the right shape for a pallu to be draped over.
Yes, Rina felt satisfied.
She had prepared for her wedding day in her own way, ignoring most of the instructions her mother and other female relatives had given her.
There was a knock at the door. Tina went to the door and opened it. The maid stood outside, dressed in a bright fluorescent pink sari with a gajra of jasmine flowers in her hair. ‘There is someone downstairs who says Rina Memsahib invited him. The guards want to confirm it with memsahib.’
‘Tell them to wait in the hall. I am coming downstairs,’ said Rina, her attention on the mirror again.
This was very irregular, and the maid knew it. But she did not dare to say a word, for Rina Memsahib had quite a temper. When she was angry, she could say cold, hard words dripping with sarcasm and didn’t mind who she insulted in the presence of others.
Usually, brides sat coyly in a room, surrounded by giggling girls and having their pallu and jewellery adjusted and readjusted by matronly women, who did this along with a stream of advice for a young bride.
But none of this for Rina Kapoor! She prided herself on being a modern, enlightened young woman. She had insisted on being alone, with only her sister and the flown-in Dolly for company. She also had asked all the domestic help and the security guards to come to her if in doubt, instead of bothering her mother, who was busy receiving the wives of VIPs. The maid nodded and left.
After a few minutes, when Rina had finished adjusting her jewellery and her pallu till she was completely satisfied, she swept down the stairs and went to the hall, where Ramchand stood trembling flanked by the security guards and the maid. His ears were red and he felt immensely humiliated. The maid chewed her nails and stared at him with open curiosity. A heady smell of jasmine flowers pervaded the huge hall.
‘Yes?’ Rina Kapoor asked, knowing well that she looked striking.
One of the guards spoke, his hand still tightly gripping Ramchand’s elbow. ‘Memsahib, he was downstairs. He says you invited him.’
‘I am your sari-wala,’ Ramchand quickly blurted out in fear. Rina looked puzzled for a moment, failing to recognize him, but finally an amused smile began to play on her lips.
‘And I invited you, did I?’ Rina asked, still smiling. Ramchand did not reply. He did not like the way she was smiling. But then she surprised him by turning to the guards suddenly and saying, ‘Yes, I did invite him.’
At this, the two guards left Ramchand standing there and quietly slunk away. Rina looked at Ramchand. He stared back at the gorgeously decked-up bride, completely dazzled. She gave a quiet laugh, turned and went back upstairs, the hem of her lehnga sweeping the marble staircase regally.
*
And so it came about that Ramchand ended up enjoying Rina Kapoor’s wedding thoroughly. He didn’t speak to a single person. He just wandered around taking in everything, sipping a glass of a cool green drink he didn’t know the name of. He nibbled at paneer pakoras that hired waiters in smart black and white uniforms were carrying around on trays. He also had many delicate looking things that he didn’t know the names of, delicious little things that you picked up with a toothpick stuck in them. Finally, when the baraat came, he stood at the back of the welcoming crowd, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the groom on the horse. At the head of the wedding procession there were wildly dancing relatives, then came the groom on his horse, with a little decorated silk umbrella over his head.
For a long time, the dancing and the welcoming continued, gifts were exchanged and Ramchand watched tirelessly.
Then the baraat was welcomed into the red and white shamianas for dinner. Ramchand heard someone say that the mahurat for the actual wedding ceremony was for very late at night, and only close friends and family would stay on for it. Ramchand thought that he’d better eat now, with the baraat and then leave soon. It would take him a good half an hour to cycle back.
So he entered the fluttering red and white shamianas too. More delights were in store for him. Guests were being welcomed with a sprinkling of rose water. The tents had been used to create a large hall. Chandeliers sparkled at you when you looked up. Ramchand couldn’t get over it. Chandeliers in a tent! Flowers had been strung around everywhere. Rina had refused the usual red throne-like chairs on which a couple sat before and after the actual wedding ceremony. Instead, an old-fashioned swing as big as a small bed, covered with red silk, stood in the place of honour. A makeshift water fountain completed the decor. The guests were offered delicacies on silver platters.
The dinner was even grander. Wine and meat were not served, for the Kapoors were strict vegetarians and teetotallers. The food, served in intricately carved metal dishes, was lined up on long tables covered with crisp white tablecloths. The dishes had little fires burning under them, fires just small enough to keep them warm. Ramchand was mystified. How did they do that? The china plates that the guests were given were warm and clean and dry, accompanied by pretty white paper napkins with floral blue borders. Ramchand wondered what one did with these beautiful pieces of folded paper. He decided to wait and see what the other guests did. He was so intimidated by the spread before him that he couldn’t taste everything. He helped himself liberally to fragrant pulao and a few other things that he couldn’t identify.
Ramchand was surprised to see so many people he knew. Or rather, so many women who bought saris from Sevak Sari House. There was Mrs Gupta, in that beautiful emerald green sari she had bought a few months back, with her new glimmering daughter-in-law in tow, who was covered in jewellery. Mrs Gupta was introducing her to everybody. The daughter-in-law was greeting everybody warmly. There was a fixed smile on her face. And there was Mrs Sandhu, though she was wearing a shimmering pink salwaar kameez. Well, but she was a sardaarni, so that was natural. She was talking volubly to another woman who looked like a sardaarni too. The two passed Ramchand on their way to the table to refill the table, and Ramchand overheard Mrs Sandhu say in an anxious voice, ‘And, you know, there is so much syllabus, such fat books, and Manu is getting dark circles under his eyes. He works so hard. I hope he gets through. His life will be made. Just if he gets through these exams, he can live comfortably for the rest of his life…’ Her voice trailed off as the two women passed out of Ramchand’s hearing. Mrs Sachdeva was there in a plain beige silk sari that he still remembered her buying. Oh, that awful episode! She was wearing glasses and was talking learnedly to a tall, bald man who somehow did not look as if he belonged to Amritsar. Maybe he was a visiting professor. And there was Mrs Bhandari with her handsome husband, in that peacock blue-g
reen brocade that she had bargained for till even thick-headed Mahajan’s head had begun to ache. Ramchand stared at everyone. He was a little surprised to see all these women and their saris here. Somehow, to him, it was astonishing that the women and the saris existed beyond the shop, beyond his sphere. The shop, his whole existence, where things began and ended for him, was only the starting point for these people. While he just sat displaying saris to customers, they bought them, wore them and did things wearing them.
He looked around. Hari had been right. The cream of Amritsar was present here. Ramchand suddenly became aware of his scruffy shoes, his smelly feet, his silly striped shirt and his uncombed hair. He began to eat more hurriedly. He knew that it was unlikely that any of these people would remember him, but just in case somebody did, and mentioned it to Mahajan… He shuddered to think what would happen.
At the end of the dinner, he was shocked to see people wipe their dirty hands on the beautiful paper napkins, and then, regardless of the blue floral border, crumple them up and throw them away. Really, these people had no sense. Maybe this was the done thing, but couldn’t they see how thin and fragile the paper was, how intricately made the little flowers were, how soft the napkin was to touch. He slipped his own napkin into his pocket.
Finally, the forty desserts were served. A hush fell over the gathering when dinner was cleared away and the forty desserts were set out on the tables, in big dishes. Ramchand tasted three, and then, feeling full, excited and a little confused, cycled back home.
*
Three days after Rina Kapoor’s wedding, Ramchand had a surprise. It was a quiet morning and he was sitting in the shop talking to Hari. Hari had watched Gadar for the second time, and he was telling Ramchand the whole story, scene by scene. Ramchand was completely absorbed.
In the middle of this, Rina Kapoor came into the shop, alone.
Ramchand was astounded. Brides never ventured out alone for months after their wedding! They had to be present at post-wedding ceremonies, there were invitations to lunches and dinners, special pujas had to be performed. He had heard of how things worked in families. But this was surprising. And she was wearing a plain yellow salwaar kameez instead of bridal finery. She wasn’t decked with jewellery either. She was just wearing diamonds, not the multiple strings of gold that newly wed brides wore. He usually disliked all that glitter, though he thought that Sudha had looked beautiful even when she was a newly wed woman indiscriminately covered with all the jewellery she owned. But then, Sudha was different.