Not All Marriages are Made in Heaven

by Farahad Zama

  ♦

  Pari and Vasu were the first people to arrive. Rehman came out, lifted Vasu up in the air and put him down again.

  “Oof,” he said. “You are becoming too heavy for this game. Your mummy has been feeding you well, I think.”

  “Rehman Uncle, why was the ancient Egyptian boy confused?”

  Rehman looked at Pari, who rolled her eyes. He turned back to Vasu and said, “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Because his daddy was a mummy.”

  Rehman laughed. Pari said, “That’s what he learned in school today.”

  “It’s good to see that your school fees are going towards something useful,” said Rehman.

  Vasu went inside, leaving Pari and Rehman alone in the front yard.

  “I’ve heard from Shaan. He and Dilawar are getting back together again, though Dilawar doesn’t know it yet. Shaan is planning to tell him after the Mumbai Gay Pride march tomorrow,” he said quietly.

  “What?” said Pari. “You are truly a man who gives grave news coolly and without emotion. How do you even know Shaan?”

  “I came across him when I was contacting various NGOs about the contract farming business.”

  “Wow!” said Pari. “What do you think Dilawar will say?”

  “I am sure he’ll start crying,” said Rehman and laughed.

  “You and your stereotypes,” she said, shaking her head. “By the way, Dilawar called me the other day.”

  “Oh!” said Rehman. He couldn’t help feeling surprised and just a bit put out. “What did he want?”

  “He invited me and Vasu to Mumbai. What do you think? Should we go?”

  “Do you want to go?”

  “I think it will be good for Vasu to see more of the world and get to know Dilawar better as well.”

  “What’s the point of Vasu and Dilawar getting close? Dilawar lives far away and we are all here to look after Vasu, aren’t we?”

  Pari looked at Rehman oddly. “Are you jealous of Dilawar wanting to be involved in Vasu’s life?”

  Rehman shrugged. “Of course I’m not jealous. Why would I be?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t you know that it is impossible for anybody to have too much love? Yes, Vasu has me and you and chaachi and chaacha. That does not mean he cannot also have the affection and support of Dilawar. Love is not like water to a plant that too much of it rots the roots.”

  “Was that Shakespeare?” he asked.

  “No, you idiot,” she said. “That was me.”

  They both grinned happily. Mrs Ali called from the house and they went inside, smiling.

  ♦

  Ramanujam and Aruna joined the gathering soon after.

  “Both of you are looking very smart,” said Mrs Ali, when she saw them. Ramanujam was wearing a formal shirt and trousers, while Aruna had put on a dark-mauve silk sari with a pale-lavender border. Apart from the obligatory mangalasu-tram, her jewellery included a gold necklace studded with rubies and ear studs with a central diamond surrounded by nine rubies.

  “Thank you, madam,” said Aruna. The light caught the diamond on one of her ears.

  “I haven’t seen this set before on you,” said Mrs Ali, leaning forward for a closer look. “Are they new?”

  “Yes,” said Aruna. She glanced at her husband. “He bought them for me after we got back to town.”

  Pari came closer as well and the two ladies examined Aruna’s jewellery with many exclamations of delight.

  Vasu said, “This is boring. When are we eating?”

  Pari turned to him with a frown. “Shh…” she said. “Don’t be rude.”

  Rehman said to Vasu, “You’ll never get a wife if you talk like that. Come on, let’s go into the front yard and stop you from getting into any more trouble.”

  “Yuck,” said Vasu. “I will never want a wife.” But he followed Rehman out of the room.

  Ramanujam joined them a few minutes later. “Were you bored too?” asked Vasu.

  “No,” said Ramanujam, laughing. “I just have something to say to your uncle.” He turned to Rehman. “The operation was successful. We removed the bandages today and he is fully recovered. The biggest problem has been keeping expectations realistic.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Rehman.

  Ramanujam said, “He and his mother were expecting that as soon as he came out of the operating theatre, he would be able to talk perfectly. But I still have to concentrate to understand him.”

  “Ahh!” said Rehman.

  “Exactly. I had to explain to them that talking is a skill just like herding goats and it does not come automatically. I told them that it would take months of practice before he could have a conversation with total strangers.”

  “Who are you talking about?” asked Vasu.

  “When we were rescued from the Naxalites, most of them were killed or captured by the Greyhounds. But their leader and a few other men escaped. A goatherd from a nearby village saw the men in the forest and led the police to them. We made sure that the good man got a reward and uncle here got his doctor colleagues to operate on him and fix him up.”

  “What was wrong with him?”

  “He had a cleft palate. The front of his upper lip and jaw were missing and – ”

  “I know what a cleft palate is,” said Vasu, interrupting. “I have seen people like that. But why did he help the police? My grandfather told me that villagers should never get involved in these matters. He said that if we helped one side, the other side would get to know about it and take revenge.”

  “The Naxalites stole one of his goats. So he was very angry with them and that’s why he helped the police.”

  Vasu nodded. He could understand that. He went over to the nearby guava tree. “See how I can jump up and catch that branch,” he said.

  “We all want to be noticed,” said Ramanujam, looking at the boy speculatively. “I didn’t realise until today just how big a boon it is to be anonymous.”

  Rehman raised his eyebrows quizzically.

  “After the bandages were removed, we had to cross the corridor from the nurses’ station to the ENT surgeon’s office. When we reached the doctor’s office, the patient turned to me, smiling.”

  “‘Did you see what happened in the corridor?’ he asked, his eyes shining.

  “I was puzzled. ‘Nothing happened,’ I said.

  “‘Exactly. We went through that crowd and nobody even gave me a second look. I didn’t have to avert my face or look at the disgust and pity in people’s eyes.’”

  Vasu went back into the house. Ramanujam said to Rehman, “It is really lucky that the insurgents stole the goat, you know.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t think Aruna or, for that matter, I, would have felt totally safe as long as Adi was alive. It became personal with him, not just political. After we operated on the shepherd he cried and begged my forgiveness. Apparently, after we were kidnapped, he had come across our trail but had misled the police because he was angry with them for beating him. He had hoped that we would be killed.”

  Rehman appeared shocked.

  “He told me that he loved each and every animal of his herd – they were his friends apparently, and he had names for all of them. That’s why when the guerrillas stole Spinach Lover and killed it, he turned against them and led the police to Adi.”

  “So much power, so many followers and so many guns – all undone by Spinach Lover…” said Rehman, musingly. “Who can tell what trivial incidents lead to what terrible consequences?”

  Ramanujam looked sharply at Rehman, thinking that he had sounded rather like Mr Ali, but he said nothing.

  ♦

  “All vegetarian food tonight,” said Mr Ali, appraising the cabbage and coconut fry with a jaundiced eye. “Now that’s a dish that would be improved immeasurably with the addition of a little mince.”

  “Stop it,” said Mrs Ali. “Aruna and Ramanujam don’t want to hear about that.”

  A generation or two earlie
r, no Brahmin would have eaten in a Muslim house or, indeed, any house in which meat was cooked, on pain of losing their caste. Even today it was not common for such invitations to be either issued or accepted.

  The dining table was pulled forward from the wall and all six chairs set around it. Even so, Vasu had to sit on a stool in one corner. On the menu were steamed rice, brinjal and lentil sambhar, cabbage and coconut fry, ridged-gourd curry, sauteed spinach with red chillies, ridged gourd-skin chutney and aavakaai, the red-hot mango and mustard pickle, as well as home-made yoghurt and ghee. A steel plate held a salad of sliced onions, carrots and limes.

  “Very nice, madam,” said Aruna.

  “You people are the masters of vegetarian cooking,” said Mrs Ali. “We can only try.”

  Aruna said to the whole table, “I got a letter today from Srinu and Gita.”

  “Who?” asked Pari.

  “The couple who were with us in the camp and helped us escape.”

  “What do they say?” asked Rehman.

  “They are doing well and are moving to Vizag soon.”

  “Permanently moving?”

  Aruna nodded. “Yes, permanently.”

  “Weren’t they going to set up a biscuit factory in their village?”

  “Yes, that was Srinu’s plan, but now they don’t want to stay in the village any more. They are just too scared.”

  “That’s the problem the Naxalites don’t understand,” said Rehman. “If entrepreneurs like Srinu and Gita don’t create industries in villages, how can the villagers’ lot ever improve? The Naxalites may have started off fighting for the poor, but now they themselves are one of the factors holding back progress.”

  “I’ve written to Gita to tell her that whatever assistance they need to help them settle down in the town, we would provide,” said Aruna.

  After some time, Mrs Ali said, “Ramanujam, you seem to love the spinach. Aruna, please serve him some more.”

  “It’s very nice, aunty. Spinach Lover lives again!” said Ramanujam.

  Rehman grinned but the others looked puzzled, so Ramanujam explained to them. “Let’s drink a toast,” he said and everybody raised their glasses of water. “To Spinach Lover. May his legs forever take him to fields of green leafy vegetables!”

  Mrs Ali took a sip of water and said, “Did you read the paper today? They have given an award to the police inspector whose team killed the monster who kidnapped you. The police are hailing the killing as a major achievement and have even put up the inspector for promotion.”

  “No, I didn’t read the paper,” said Ramanujam. “I was busy this morning.” None of the others had seen the article either.

  Mrs Ali said, “A human rights organisation is protesting against it. They think that the officer should not be promoted because the man was killed in an obviously faked encounter.”

  Aruna said, “You mean they captured Adi and then killed him in cold blood? How can the human rights people tell that? Even if they had done it, it is no more than what the rakshasas deserved.”

  “According to the paper, there was a big blow to the back of the Naxalite leader’s head at least twenty-four hours before he died. They said there were bruises on his hands and legs that showed that he had been tied up. They are asking for a full investigation.”

  Ramanujam and Aruna glanced at each other, remembering the events of that hectic night in the forest camp.

  Ramanujam said, “I’ll speak to the deputy superintendent of the police. He is a family friend. The human rights people are probably right most of the time, but in this case they don’t know what they are talking about.”

  Pari turned to Vasu. “Stop drinking so much water. It will fill up your belly. That’s the second glass you’ve gulped down.”

  “The food is very spicy,” he said, refilling his glass from the big silver jug.

  “Don’t be silly, Vasu,” said Pari. “It must be just the chutney. It’s got ground green chillies in it. Leave that and eat the rest of your food.”

  “We had a magic show in school yesterday,” said Vasu. “The magician was dressed up like a genie. He took some money from his pocket, put it in his hat, waved a magic wand and it disappeared. He went to one of our teachers, checked her purse and the money was there. It was quite amazing.”

  “That’s a very common trick,” said Mr Ali. “Any wife can do it with her husband’s money. She doesn’t even need a magic wand.”

  “You should have married someone like that Swaroop woman in the next building. Then you would have known what spending is,” said Mrs Ali.

  “Don’t talk about that nasty woman,” said Pari. “Why do you keep meeting her mother-in-law? She seems just as bad as Swaroop.”

  Mrs Ali waved her hand without replying. As if to change the subject, she said to Aruna, “You are looking very well nowadays. Your complexion has really improved. Is there any good news that you should be sharing with us?”

  Aruna looked confused. “No, no…” she said. “There’s no news.”

  Mrs Ali, not wanting to embarrass Aruna, did not point out that she had single-handedly polished off all the lime pieces, leaving their desiccated skins in a pile on the side of her plate.

  Ramanujam said, “We want to go on a real holiday now, this time to Mumbai and Goa as we planned, but my parents don’t want us to travel.”

  Rehman said, “I want to go back to the village and get the trunk of stuff that I left in Vasu’s grandfather’s house.”

  His parents, Pari and Vasu all chorused, “You are not going back there.”

  Rehman looked at Aruna and Ramanujam and gave a theatrical shrug.

  ♦

  The next morning, Aruna came out of the bathroom holding a small plastic wand that looked like a toothbrush without the bristles and gazing at it intently.

  Ramanujam sat up in bed, bare-chested, the sheet around his waist. “What does it say?”

  Aruna silently handed him the stick. He stared at the clear window in the plastic. Two blue parallel lines stared back at him. He read the instructions below the lines and examined the lines again. A wide smile appeared on his face and he opened his arms wide. Aruna blushed and walked over to him. His hug enveloped her and she clung to his neck.

  “Can it be true?” she said. “A baby. Our baby! I still can’t believe it.” She pushed away from him and eyed him with concern. “You are fine with this, right?”

  “Of course,” said Ramanujam. “You are the one who wanted to delay having children until your sister finished her college and was married off…And you had seen all the tourist spots of India.”

  “I know I wanted to do that, but now, this just feels so right.” She closed her eyes and hugged her husband again. “Ohhh…I love you! I love you,” she said and kissed his shoulder. “I don’t think we will be allowed to travel so soon after our own adventure anyway. And as for my sister and parents, I’ll just have to work something out.”

  “That’s the spirit,” he said.

  Aruna lay against her husband’s chest for a moment. “The only time I missed the pill was when we were in the forest.”

  “I told you that you were a tigress that night,” said Ramanujam.

  Aruna blushed again and hugged him even more tightly.

  “When shall we tell people? Our parents will be ecstatic.”

  Aruna shook her head. “I don’t know. I want to wait just a bit,” she said.

  On the way back from dinner the previous night, the thought that she might be pregnant had struck both of them almost simultaneously and they had picked up the testing kit.

  “How did madam guess that I was pregnant? My period was a little late, but until she asked me the question, I did not even imagine…I just thought all the stress of the kidnapping had somehow delayed it.”

  Ramanujam said, “Nothing escapes her eye. She is one sharp lady who can count your guts if you just yawn in front of her.”

  Aruna laughed. “It’s lucky that she likes us.”

  �
�

  The thief had a sneaky look in his eye as he crept closer to his target. Mrs Ali was sure of it.

  She watched as the crow dropped on to the ground from the lower branches of the guava tree. Mrs Ali was in her cane chair, on the verandah, keeping her eye on the front yard where she had laid diced pieces of tomato on a plastic sheet to dry in the brilliant post-rain sun. Once the tomatoes had been dried for several days, she would add them to heated oil, red chilli powder, fenugreek seeds, curry leaves and other spices to make a pickle that would last all year.

  “Shoo! Shoo!” said a voice at the gate. Leela, the tall, lean servant maid, was not sporting her habitual smile. “Oh! You are right here, amma. Why are you letting the crows eat the food?” she asked.

  “It’s OK,” said Mrs Ali. “I deliberately put that tomato piece a little away from the others, so the crows could get to it. They are God’s creatures too and need to eat, you know.”

  Leela looked at her mistress as if she was going mad, but, perhaps out of politeness, made no comment.

  “You are right,” said Mrs Ali and laughed. “Put out the stick so the crows know what their limit is.”

  Leela took the stick out of the side alley, wiped it with a clean cloth that lay next to the tomatoes and laid it across the sheet. When she turned, Mrs Ali saw that her expression was unusually grim.

  “What’s wrong Leela?”

  Leela sighed. “I’ve decided to drop the second-floor flat, madam. I cannot stand the daily fights. If I wash the dishes before sweeping the house, the mother-in-law complains. If I sweep the house first, the younger woman says that she is getting delayed in packing the lunches for her husband and children. The two women are constantly at each other’s throats. I lived with my mother-in-law in a small, one-room shack, but that big flat with multiple rooms is not enough for those two. I tell you, amma, I have finally realised that property and material things do not bring happiness if people cannot get on with each other.”

  “Then why the long face? Go and tell them that you are not working there any more and that’s the end of it.”

  “It is not so easy for poor people like us, is it? I really need the money. My grandson’s medicines still take a big chunk of my son-in-law’s income and I help them out when I can. I also need to save for my second daughter’s wedding.”