by Farahad Zama
Rehman nodded and the men dragged the pickpocket away. Not all of them resisted giving the young man a smack or a kick every so often. Rehman turned to Usha and they hurried in the opposite direction on the dusty road. The bus was waiting at the stop. It was already full and a mob of people were at its two doors, getting in, women in the front and men at the back. A few boys were doing a brisk business selling tea through the windows to already-seated passengers. Rehman pursed his lips in a silent whistle as he looked at the scene.
“There’s no way you’ll get on that bus, especially with that sack,” said Usha.
Rehman nodded his head slowly. He looked at his watch and said, “Well, another four hours to go. I’d better call ammi and tell her that I won’t be home for dinner.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Usha. “I’m going back to town too and I can drop you off.”
“Are you sure?” asked Rehman. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”
Usha laughed and said, “You are so formal. Let’s go and find out whether the puncture has been repaired. Do you want me to carry your bag?”
Rehman looked down at the cotton bag holding his soiled clothes and shook his head.
They walked down the road through the busy street, past the cart selling flip-flops, the cart selling coloured ice-water and the shop displaying bright children’s clothes and lurid-pink plastic toys. Rehman thought they must make an odd pair – the groomed, perfumed, rich young girl in the classy sari and the rough-looking man with an unkempt beard, carrying a sack of brinjals and red spinach from Mr Naidu’s farm on his shoulder, like a coolie. They passed the wide front of a cinema showing posters of a heavy-set man with bloodshot eyes and arrived at a gold-coloured car by the side of the road with one of its wheels on a jack.
“Isn’t it ready yet?” said Usha to the short, dark man in his forties standing by the car.
“Sorry, madam,” said the driver. “Almost done. It will be another five minutes.”
“Make it quick,” said Usha. She pointed to the sack that Rehman was carrying and said, “Put it in the boot.”
“Right, madam,” the driver said and walked round to the back of the car and opened the boot. He turned to Rehman. “Be careful. Don’t let the sack touch the edge here,” he said, pointing to the sill.
Rehman put the sack into the car. As he turned away, Usha said, “Why don’t you put your bag away too?”
Rehman nodded and said, “Good idea.”
He swung the bag in and the driver looked at them open-mouthed. “But…madam – ” he said.
Usha looked at him severely and said, “Yes, Narsi? Do you have a problem?”
The driver gulped and closed his mouth. He shook his head and said, “No, madam. What problem can I have?”
“Good!” said Usha and turned away. Rehman followed her. “Narsi probably thought you were a porter carrying that sack for me,” she said, smiling at him.
Rehman looked down at himself and shrugged. “Not surprising, given the way I look. Weren’t you a bit severe with him?”
“He’s a slime ball. He beats his wife,” she said. “And I’m sure he’s going to carry tales about you to my father.”
“If it’s going to be any trouble…” began Rehman.
“No, no! I don’t mind.” She pointed to a man sitting cross-legged by the roadside on a small mat. He had a tiny wooden cage next to him. “Look, a parrot astrologer. Let’s get our fortunes read.”
Rehman shook his head. “You can’t believe in that, surely?”
Usha smiled and said, “Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. But it’ll be a time-pass and we’d be helping keep alive a traditional occupation.”
Rehman met her eyes and smiled, shaking his head. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”
Rehman and Usha sank down to their knees on the mat in front of the astrologer. The man twirled his long moustache and dragged a small stick across the bars of the parrot cages, making a staccato noise. He said, “Welcome! Are you having family problems, financial or health issues? Is your son not studying well? Is your daughter not getting married? Let my birds read your fortune. Forewarned is forearmed.”
Rehman smiled and asked, “How long have you been giving that speech?”
Usha frowned at him, but the astrologer did not take offence. “My family has been in this profession for generations, sir! My grandfather and his grandfather before him have all been astrologers.”
Rehman nodded his head, impressed.
Usha asked, “How much?”
The man said, “That depends on the birds, madam.”
He lifted the rectangular wooden cage and put it down a couple of feet in front of Usha. Inside were two green parrots, cracking and eating sunflower seeds. He raised the bars in front of the cage like a portcullis. The birds looked at Usha but did not come out of the cage. Usha put a one-rupee coin on the ground in front of them. The parrots pecked at the coin and went back to their seeds. The astrologer continued twirling his moustache. Rehman laughed. Usha stuck out her tongue at him and placed another coin on the ground. The parrots continued eating.
Usha turned to Rehman and said, “Don’t!”
“I didn’t say anything,” said Rehman. He covered his mouth with a hand and guffawed. Usha looked at him severely.
“Sorry,” said Rehman, biting a knuckle to stop laughing.
Usha took a deep breath and shook her head, but couldn’t help smiling. She opened her purse and took out a five-rupee coin, placing it on the ground with the other money. One of the parrots left its seeds and walked out of the cage with an awkward gait. The astrologer pocketed the coins and put a deck of cards, face down, on the ground. The parrot picked the top card with its beak and laid it aside. Usha looked at Rehman. He raised his eyebrows and nodded to her.
The parrot continued rejecting the cards. When the pile was about half reduced, it walked over to its master with the next card. The astrologer took the card and gave the parrot a peanut shell. The parrot cracked it open with its red curving beak, quickly ate the two nuts and went back inside the cage.
The man closed the portcullis, twirled his moustache and said, “Let’s see what the bird has picked for you.”
He turned the card and his face blanched. “Oh dear!”
Usha’s hands tightened into fists. “What?” she said in a low voice.
The astrologer showed them the card’s face. It had a picture of two intertwined snakes.
“Snake lovers. This is a really bad sign,” the man said.
“Why?” asked Rehman.
“Did you walk in any fields or past trees recently?” the astrologer said to Usha.
“Yes, there is a neem tree behind my grandmother’s house and I’ve been going for walks there almost every day for the last couple of weeks.”
“Hmm…” said the astrologer. “It cannot be the neem tree because generally nothing bad happens there. Are you sure you haven’t been anywhere else?”
“Yes!” said Usha. “I remember now. The day after I arrived in my grandmother’s house, I went with some of the village girls to the communal well. On the way, there is a sprawling banyan tree with many of its branches supported by aerial roots and we stopped in its shade.”
“Just as I thought,” said the man. “You must have disturbed a pair of cobras making love under the banyan tree. The queen cobra has cast a curse on you. You will encounter serious trouble in your own love life.”
“But I am not married,” said Usha.
“In that case, the curse will create obstacles and stop you from getting married,” said the man.
“How long will it stop me?”
“A cobra’s vengeance lasts twelve years,” said the man.
“What can be done?” asked Usha.
“I can offer prayers and food to Naga Devudu – the god of snakes. I cannot break the spell completely but I can mitigate its effects. It will cost a hundred rupees.”
“This is ridiculous!” said Rehman loudly, st
anding up. Usha looked at him. Rehman continued, “He is treating you like an illiterate villager, a gullible fool from whom he can extract money. Let’s go.”
The astrologer remained impassive. Usha looked from one man to the other, biting her lower lip. She opened her purse and took out a fifty-rupee note. “Do what you can with this,” she said, getting up and joining Rehman.
They didn’t say a word to each other as they went back to the car.
“We are ready to go, madam,” said the driver.
Usha silently nodded and got into the back. Rehman went round the car to the other door. The driver slowly looked him up and down twice before getting in behind the wheel.
They were both silent for a few minutes as the car left the town and sped up. Then, Rehman said, “I am sorry I shouted earlier at the astrologer’s.”
“No, don’t apologise. I admit that I was scared for a moment, even though I know I shouldn’t have been. I couldn’t help it,” said Usha.
She turned to Rehman. Her palm was raised, facing him, and her middle and index fingers were crossed. “Friends?” she asked.
This was a childhood gesture – if Rehman separated her fingers, it meant he didn’t want to be her friend. He looked at her earnest face for a moment, then raised his palm and touched the tip of her index finger with his own crossed fingers.
He smiled and said, “Friends.”
Some instinct made him turn his head to the front of the car. He found the driver’s eyes looking at him intently in the rear-view mirror.
♦
“Enough, ammi,” said Rehman, pushing his chair back and getting up from the dining table.
“What enough?” said his mother. “You look so thin. You obviously didn’t eat anything in the village. What can you eat in a household without women anyway?”
“Ammi, I am full. Mince, liver, brinjal and peas, radish samb-har, soya beans, curds,” said Rehman, rubbing his stomach. “And, oh, rice and sweet as well.”
Mrs Ali looked at him doubtfully for a moment and then said, “All right. Don’t sit down straight after dinner like your father. Walk around for a few minutes. I’ll clear up the table here.”
Rehman had arrived just over an hour ago. A hot bath, a shave, fresh clothes and his mother’s cooking made him feel like a new man. He walked into the living room and saw his father watching the news on TV.
His father turned to him and said, “So was it a good harvest this year?”
“Yes, abba,” said Rehman. “Mr Naidu said it was one of the best yields in years. Not just the rice but even the vegetable patch produced a good crop.”
On the television, the newsreader said, “And now for the weather. The temperature in the four metros…”
They both turned to the screen and watched the weather forecast. His mother came in, wiping her hands on the edge of her sari.
“Sit down, Rehman,” she said. “Why are you standing there?”
“But – ” began Rehman and stopped. He shrugged his shoulders and sat next to his mother on the settee.
She said, “You need to get married, Rehman. I’ve been very patient with you but there are limits.”
“Not again, ammi,” said Rehman, groaning.
“It’s shameful. Your father is running a successful marriage bureau and our own son is unmarried. Do you know Chote Bhabhi asked me that very question when we went to their house last week? It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her to find a groom for her own daughter before she started talking about other people’s children, but I refrained,” said Mrs Ali. She had never got along well with Chote Bhabhi, Mr Ali’s younger brother’s wife.
Rehman laughed. “So I have to get married because Chachi, my aunt, made some silly remark?”
“It’s not a laughing matter, Rehman,” said his mother severely. “It’s not just her. The whole town is talking. You should get married soon.”
Rehman stayed silent.
After a few moments, she turned to his father. “Why don’t you say something? Don’t you want to see your son get married? Or are you only worried about your clients’ weddings?”
“What’s the point of me saying anything? When did he listen to me?” said his father. “The English have a saying – you can take a horse to water but you cannot make it drink.”
Mrs Ali turned to Rehman and said, “If you don’t trust our choice, tell us who you like and we’ll go and finalise the match. Is there somebody that’s caught your eye?”
Rehman, of course, had never brought any girl home. His parents would find it really rude and the very idea of it was quite unthinkable. He supposed he could just about mention the name of a girl and let them take it up family-to-family. He shook his head and said “Just let it go, ammi. It’ll happen when it happens. There’s nobody in my mind.”
He closed his eyes to forestall any more argument and was startled when the image of Usha’s face looking upwards, eyes closed, her long, fair neck exposed to him as she drank water from a bottle, appeared vividly in front of him.
Two
Aruna padded on bare feet into the en-suite bathroom for a shower. It was a little past six in the morning and she had already been up for about fifteen minutes. She tucked her hair inside a cap and turned on the tap. Warm water gushed out and she tested the water with an outstretched arm to make sure it was the right temperature before moving into the stream.
Just a few months ago, she had been a poor woman living with her parents and sister in a one-room house with a cramped bathroom. In her parents’ house, having a bath meant filling a bucket with cold water and pouring it over herself with a broken-handled mug. She wondered why they had never replaced it – mugs did not cost much, did they? If she wanted a warm bath, she would have had to heat up some water in a vessel and mix it with cold water in the bucket. Except on really severe mornings in midwinter, her mother would not allow water to be heated. Fuel was expensive.
“The water is boiling,” her mother would shout, before it had got little more than lukewarm.
Aruna sighed in pleasure, stretching like a cat under the cascade of hot water as the bathroom fogged up with steam. I could stay here for ever, she thought; but after several minutes she reluctantly got out of the shower, wrapped a towel round herself and walked into the bedroom. Her husband was still sleeping. She opened the wardrobe and looked at the row of silk saris hanging from the long rail, with plastic covers over the tops to keep the dust away. Her entire clothes collection had once fitted into half a shelf of the green metallic cupboard at her parents’ house but now she had more saris than she could wear in an entire month. She ignored the expensive hanging saris and took out a simple rose-pink cotton one from a neatly folded pile on the shelf.
Once dressed, Aruna made to leave the room. Just before she opened the door, she took a sideways look at her husband. He had turned and was now lying on his back. He looked so innocent, but she blushed as she thought, He is not a small boy! She walked over, tousled his hair and kissed the fingers that had touched him. She was so happy. Did anybody deserve to be so happy?
Her mother had always told her, “Don’t laugh too much, for then you’ll cry.” Aruna was sure her mother was wrong this time.
She left the room, closing the door behind her, and went to the small alcove in the living room that served as a shrine in the house. There was a two-foot-tall brass idol of Venkateswara, Lord of the Seven Hills, and a small silver idol of the elephant-headed Ganesha with a big paunch, sitting beside his mount, a rat. There was a round plate in front of the idols on which stood a lit oil lamp, a small bronze bell, copper coins and a covered, decorated silver pot. An old photograph of her husband’s grandfather, surrounded by a garland made of dried, plaited lotus leaves, hung to one side of the alcove. She picked up the bell and rang it for a long minute, saying her morning prayers. After the prayers, she put the bell back in its place, opened the silver pot and dipped the middle finger of her right hand into the sindoor inside. She applied the red powder to her fore
head in a round dot and picked up the plate.
Her father-in-law stood up from the sofa as she walked in. He was about to go for a walk and had been waiting for her.
“Namaste,” she said, holding the plate in front of her.
Her father-in-law dipped his open palms towards the fire in the lamp until they were a few inches away, then touched his eyes and forehead with his fingers.
“May you for ever remain a married woman,” he blessed her, in Sanskrit, before adding, “Ramanujam’s mother is in Mani’s room.”
She nodded and went there to find her mother-in-law stripping the bed. She stopped her work, dipped her hands towards the fire and touched her eyes. She blessed Aruna and turned back to the bed.
Aruna said, “Amma, why are you doing it? If you just wait a few moments, I will come and help you.”
“No, that’s all right. I know you are busy.”
“At least wait for Shantamma,” Aruna said. Shantamma was the widowed Brahmin woman who ran the kitchen with her never-married brother. At this time in the morning Shantamma was usually busy with breakfast but she would be free for other tasks in an hour or so.
“No, I can’t wait. I want to get the room all ready for my daughter. You remember that we are going to her house later today, don’t you?” her mother-in-law said to Aruna.
“Yes, amma. I’ve already told sir that I’m not working this afternoon.”
“It’ll be good for Mani to come here. She’s been having bad morning sickness all the way.”
“Yes,” said Aruna. “And it will be good to have her boy here as well. I love children.”
Her mother-in-law smiled at her. “Yes, dear,” she said. “Don’t let me keep you waiting. Go on, take a cup of tea for your husband.”
Aruna smiled and left the room. She put the plate back in the shrine and went into the kitchen. Shantamnia was standing at the hob, mixing something with a spatula. Her brother, Kaka, was sitting on the floor and grating a coconut that had been split into two.