by Farahad Zama
“Not again,” he groaned.
Out of the corner of his eye, on the TV screen, he saw a ball catch the top edge of the bat. The ball skied upwards, like a bullet ricocheting, and two Indian fielders ran forwards, adjusting their position below it with minute crablike steps, their hands cupped in front of their chests, like devotees expecting a gift from heaven. Dilawar held his breath. Was this the breakthrough that the Indians had been toiling for all day? Just as the ball came into view at the top of the screen, the two fielders collided and looked momentarily startled. Dilawar leaned forward, watching intently, in an agony of tension. The ball hurtled towards the waiting men and…
…the image on the television seemed to be sucked into a black hole, reducing to a bright spot in the centre of the screen that then winked out. Dilawar stared at the TV for half a second longer, his mouth open.
“I don’t believe it,” he said fiercely, throwing the cushion back on the floor. The electricity supply in Mumbai was very reliable and he had forgotten how frequently they had power-cuts in Vizag. Had the ball been caught or not?
“What has the poor cushion done to be treated so badly?” said his mother.
He turned to her and saw that she was holding the remote control of the TV in her hand. Suddenly, he realised that the fan was still running. “What…Why did you switch it off?” he said.
“Forget the silly game,” she said. “They’ll show it again. Listen to what we are saying.”
“Show it again? That was a live broadcast.” He stared at his mother for a moment, then sat back. “All right,” he said sulkily. “What do you want?”
His mother put the remote away. “Marriage,” she said.
“No, ammi-jaan. Not the same old broken record again.”
“You are the one going round and round in a loop, repeating yourself. I have found a girl who we think is perfect for you. We want you to marry her.”
“But I don’t want to marry a girl,” he said.
“Who will you marry if not a girl? A mare?”
Dilawar clamped his mouth shut. That was the second time he had made a mistake since returning home. His mother was an intelligent woman – he would have to be more careful.
Nadira Aunty said to Mrs Bilqis, “Didn’t you say that you needed to buy some toiletries? Why don’t you go to the shops? I want to talk to your son.”
“But – ” began his mother.
“Alone,” said Nadira Aunty.
A look passed between the two women that Dilawar couldn’t decipher, but his mother walked over to Nadira Aunty, hugged her and left the room. Nadira Aunty turned to him and said, “Come and sit here. I am too old to shout across the room.” She patted the place next to her on the sofa.
He joined her and said, “You are not old, aunty. You look as if you are twenty-five. Why don’t you leave your husband and we’ll elope to Mumbai?”
“You are such a flatterer,” she said, patting his cheek, but looking pleased nonetheless. She sounded breathless as she said, “You are so handsome that I would do it but I am afraid that my husband would track us down and shoot us.”
“I don’t care,” said Dilawar. He declaimed dramatically, “For one second with you, I’ll suffer the agonies of infinity.”
“Wah, wah!” Nadira Aunty said. “Now I want you to say the same thing to this girl.” She was holding a photograph of a young woman, her face turned three-quarters of the way towards the camera, laughing.
She could be considered pretty, he supposed. “Who is she?” he asked aloud.
“Your would-be. This is the girl your mother has found for you. This photo has not been touched up in some studio. She really is that beautiful, if not more.”
Dilawar shook his head. “I am talking about marrying you and you are promoting a rival,” he said.
Nadira Aunty said, “Don’t joke, Dilawar. Is there a girl in Mumbai that you want to marry? If there is, tell us and your mother will happily – ”
“There is no one,” said Dilawar shortly. Shaan’s image came briefly to his mind, but he pushed it aside. “There is no girl.”
“Do you know why I asked your mother to leave?”
“So we could make arrangements for running away?” he said.
“Chup,” she said, frowning. “Don’t talk nonsense. You don’t want to marry any girl, do you? Ever.”
Dilawar was taken by surprise. The smiling aunt that he had always joked with had disappeared and in her place was a formidable Amazon.
“You were always my favourite, since you were a boy who used to steal my make-up. I like you much more than your brother, who has no sense of humour.”
Dilawar said, “You are my favourite too.”
“The question now is, what are we going to do with you?”
Dilawar shrugged. “Leave me alone. Maybe it is not in my destiny to get married.”
“Look at me,” she said.
His eyes met hers. He noticed how her skin, glowing in its youth, was now parchment-thin. She was still handsome, and her grey hair had been dyed with henna for so long that her orange hair no longer provoked comment.
She locked her eyes on his and said, “Do you have someone in Mumbai?”
“I…”
His gaze faltered. She calmly put a finger under his chin and adjusted it until their eyes met again. It dawned on him with a sudden conviction that she knew. Yet, there was no anger or disgust in her expression. Instead, he sensed a vast well of sympathy. The issue of his sexuality suddenly seemed selfish and he was ashamed of himself. What was that quote that his high-school English teacher loved so much? “No man is an island, entire of itself. Each is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.” John Donne. His actions had consequences, he realised.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
She tapped on the photograph. “The girl’s name is Pari. Your mother has been chasing her for weeks, months, and Pari has been dragging her feet. First she said maybe; then she said no. Then she said…Anyway, I was outraged. How dare this slip of a girl demur at marrying my friend’s son? I wanted your mother to ignore this girl and look for somebody else. Do you know what I am saying?”
Dilawar nodded.
“Then I realised why your mother was being so single-minded. She has found absolutely the best possible match for you.”
“It’s impossible,” said Dilawar. “I am not marrying her and ruining a young woman’s life.”
“That’s because you are a good boy,” she said, approvingly. After a short silence, she continued, “Did you know that Pari is a widow?”
“What?” said Dilawar. “She looks so happy. Are you sure?”
“How selfish you men are…Does a woman forsake the right to even a moment’s happiness once she loses her husband?”
Dilawar reddened. “No, that’s not what I meant,” he protested. “I – ”
Nadira Aunty raised her hand. “Pari is a delightful girl, full of life. But I had a long chat with her and, underneath those smiles, she is very lonely. Did you know that she’s not only a widow but also an orphan? Her mother died when she was young and her father died a little while ago. He suffered a massive stroke and was bedridden for a year. She looked after him all on her own.”
“You mean like mother…” said Dilawar, glancing towards his father’s bedroom.
“Nobody can compare to your mother. She’s been caring for your father for over twenty years. But Pari is definitely made in the same mould as Bilqis. You know how widows are treated in traditional towns like this – she is looked down upon in small things, not invited to weddings or engagements and other female-only ceremonies. If she marries a second time, she will be spared all these problems. She can play a full part in life once more.”
“So why doesn’t she get married again? It’s not as if Muslim women are not allowed to remarry.”
“You have been away for too long,” said Nadira Aunty. “Have you forgotten how things work here? She doesn’t have parents. Her uncle
and aunt are helping her, but it’s not the same, is it? Also, because she was feeling lonely, she adopted a poor village orphan. Now, you tell me, who is going to agree to take on an eight-year-old boy?”
Dilawar nodded slowly.
Nadira Aunty took his hands in hers and leaned forward. “Pari is a poor, oppressed village girl who lives in a single room with no modern comforts. She has to come down two floors every morning for her drinking and bathing water, carrying the heavy buckets upstairs. She has just lost her job and is looking after an adopted son on a widow’s pension and the savings her father left her. You will be doing a good deed by marrying her.”
“But – ”
“It is not all one way, Dilawar, you need to get married too. All this fun you are having is fine now because you are young. Society will look on you differently as you go into your thirties and forties without a partner, even in Mumbai.”
Dilawar thought of Shaan and the wedding ceremony that his friend had attended in London. What wouldn’t he have given for their relationship to be formalised like those women in England? But that was not possible. He just wasn’t brave enough to face down the entire world. No wonder Shaan had left him when he was such a spineless jellyfish.
Suddenly, the image of Manek, the ageing queen, came to Dilawar’s mind. He saw himself like that, his looks crumpled past their best, still going to the Gateway of India to meet men, and the thought terrified him.
He looked at Nadira Aunty.
She said, “Pari is ideal for you. All she wants from the marriage is security. She doesn’t want more children – she already has a son. Marry her and you can continue your life as you want. She will give you respectability, she will give you a ready-made son; she will look after you in good health and ill. You will give her back the status of being a married woman and her son a far better future than she can on her own. You will take her away from a daily round of drudgery and into a comfortable, modern life. God knows that it is not ideal, but you have the basis for an arrangement here. It will also make your mother happy and stop some of the comments that people make to her.”
“I am not sure – ” began Dilawar.
“Your mother never complains but think about the kind of life she has had for the last twenty years.”
“Yes…” said Dilawar hesitantly. He wasn’t sure where the conversation was going now.
“Do you think she would appreciate any help in looking after your father?”
“I’ve told her so many times to hire a nurse, but she won’t listen to me,” said Dilawar.
Nadira Aunty sighed. “Your mother is old-fashioned that way. For her, duty is the biggest virtue in life. After a brief outburst right at the beginning, she has never once uttered a word against your father or the work that has been forced upon her, not even to me. But if you married Pari, she could help your mother.”
“What?” said Dilawar. “How? Won’t she be in Mumbai with me if we get married?”
“Eventually yes. But think about it. I’ve talked to Pari and the biggest objection she has to this wedding is uprooting her boy away from everything he knows and taking him away to Mumbai. She’s probably scared herself, though she won’t admit it. She is still in love with her husband and I am sure that she feels guilty about marrying another man. Why don’t you leave her here after marrying her?”
“I don’t understand,” said Dilawar. “What’s the point of that?”
“You will take her out of that cramped room and bring her here. Lovely as it is, God knows that this house needs the patter of a child’s feet to brighten it up. Pari will lose the mark of being a widow. Her boy will get a father. You can continue your life in Mumbai as normal for now. Your mother will get a companion and helpmate. After all, Pari has experience in looking after a bedridden man. Over time, she can convince your mother to hire nurses and in a couple of years, as and when you both feel ready, you can move her to Mumbai.” Nadira Aunty’s eyes were shining. “I think it’s the perfect solution.”
“Did ammi-jaan say this to you?” Dilawar asked. Nadira Aunty looked askance at him and Dilawar mumbled, “Sorry, of course not.”
“I thought of it just now as I was talking to you. Am I a genius or what?”
“Or what,” said Dilawar, smiling.
Nadira Aunty let go of his hands forcefully in mock anger. “Pari wants to meet you and talk to you about her son. She is scared that if she marries you, she will have to give up her boy. Allay her fears. You can also take the opportunity to study her. Look beneath her façade of bright chat and smiles and see whether I am speaking the truth or not. One always dreams of a marriage filled with romance and adoration, but in both yours and Pari’s cases, that is just not possible and this is the best that can be done. But there are many kinds of love, Dilawar. Once you decorate a house together, host parties, deal with boring guests, stay up late, worry about a sick child and share the joy of a son getting into a good school, it is impossible not to feel something for each other. This love will bring happiness and solace and that’s not to be sniffed at.” Nadira Aunty got up. “I will tell your mother that you have agreed to meet Pari.”
Dilawar pondered for a moment, wondering when he had indeed agreed to this. “I didn’t say…” he said, looking up, but his mother’s friend had already turned away.
“What did I do to deserve an aunt like you?”
Nadira turned back and smiled at him. “You are a kind man and a good son and that is what matters most, not anything else. To me, anyway.”
After she left, he sat staring at the blank TV for several minutes, his mind numb. Finally he picked up the remote. There was a soap on the screen, showing the usual mother-in-law, daughter-in-law tussles. The day’s cricket was over and he still didn’t know whether the batsman had been caught out or not. He sighed and slid forward, leaning his head against the back of the sofa, looking straight up at the ceiling. Shaan…That was the one thought reverberating round and round his brain. Why did I have to lose you?
He thought about the wedding that his friend had attended in London. It was beautiful, but even there Lisa’s parents had not accepted their daughter’s wedding to another woman. Over here, it was simply impossible. John Donne came to his mind again: “No man is an island.” He could not just ignore his family and act as if his deeds in Mumbai would have no repercussions in Vizag. His mother deserved some happiness, surely, after more than twenty years living like a widow – worse than a widow, if the truth be told, because his father had not actually died. And if he could bring some cheer into her life, he should, shouldn’t he?
And what was the point of thinking about Shaan? He had been dumped for being a coward. He would just have to get over it.
What had Nadira Aunty said? Pari was still grieving for her husband and was not looking for love. He thought about the orphan boy, Pari’s son, whom he had never met. He could make sure the boy got a good education. He could play cricket with him, teach him to bat and bowl, take him to matches in Mumbai and see the world’s best players in action. He had thought that he would never have children and did not realise until now what a pang that had always been. A slow smile crept over his face, like a thief stealing into a shadow. He felt a thrill at the thought of raising a son and being the best father that any man could possibly be.
Twelve
By ten in the morning, the sun was sharp and the heat lay like a blanket over the verandah. The ceiling fan and the smaller table fan were both running at full speed, but Pari still felt hot. Until now, she hadn’t fully appreciated how good the working conditions in the call centre had been. But there was no point thinking about that. Aruna had gone on holiday, and Pari was helping out in the marriage bureau.
The gate opened, admitting a family – a couple in their late forties and their daughter. They came on to the verandah and introduced themselves. After a fumble, Pari looked up their details on the computer. They were Vaidiki Brahmins, the priestly caste – the same as Aruna, though she had married into a N
iyogi, or a more secular Brahmin family – and were already members, having joined by post.
“We want to see more information about these people,” said the father, handing Mr Ali some names and addresses of existing members.
Mr Ali pulled out the requested forms and photographs and handed them over. The family started poring over them. Gopal, the postman, brought the day’s mail. Mr Ali showed Pari how to sort the letters into different categories – requests for new lists, application forms with fees, and requests for information about some bride or groom they had advertised for. Mrs Ali carried out to them a tray with glasses of cold water. Pari jumped up and served everybody.
The father and daughter thanked her and took deep gulps. The mother smiled nervously at Pari and just held the glass. Pari wondered whether it was because she was a widow that the woman hesitated to drink water taken from her hand. Then she realised that she was being paranoid. The family were Brahmins and it was natural that the lady should hesitate about drinking water in a Muslim household. In fact, the woman might not drink water in any non-Brahmin house, even if it was Hindu.
Stillness, broken only by the sound of quiet conversation between the couple and their daughter, descended on the verandah-turned-office and several minutes passed.
“No, naanna. Not that one,” said the girl, her voice suddenly raised.
Pari glanced up from the table at the family. It was obvious that the discussion had been ongoing for a while. The father seemed upset, the girl adamant and the mother torn, looking first one way and then the other. Realising that they now had an audience, the mother touched her husband’s sleeve. He looked at her with irritation, as if he was about to snap at her, before seeing her pointing finger.
“How things have changed, sir,” he said to Mr Ali. “If my father ever said jump, I would only ask how high on the way up. Nowadays even girls have such strong opinions. It makes me wonder what they go to college for. Do you think the professors lay out lectures on how to be obstinate and be rude to parents?”