by Farahad Zama
♦
“What do you want, sir?” asked a young salesman as soon as Rehman and Usha walked up to him.
There were no other customers and the salespeople were huddled in a couple of groups, chatting.
“Shirts for the gentleman,” said Usha, before Rehman could reply.
“This way, sir, madam…”
He took them to another room towards the back and turned to Usha. “For office use, madam, or casual?”
“Show us both,” she said.
“What size, sir?” asked the salesman.
Rehman shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said.
The salesman took out a tape and measured Rehman’s shoulders, nodding to himself. The room was large with counters along three walls. Though there were air-conditioning ducts along the ceiling, they were silent; the shop was very warm and smelled of fabric and new textiles. The salesman switched on a pedestal fan standing in one corner and its blades started revolving loudly.
“That feels good,” said Usha, standing in the breeze of the fan.
The salesman pulled out a number of shirts from a shelf along the wall and spread them out on the counter. Usha felt one of the shirts between her fingers and said, “Pure cotton only.”
“No problem, madam. Come behind this counter,” said the salesman, pointing to the far wall.
He pulled out some more shirts and Rehman looked at one of the price tags. “Fifteen hundred rupees? You must be joking. I never pay more than three or four hundred rupees for a shirt.”
“Yes, I can see that,” said Usha. “My treat – let me pay for it.”
“That’s not the point,” said Rehman.
“The point is that clothes make a difference,” said Usha. “People take you more seriously if you dress well.”
“They shouldn’t – ” said Rehman.
“But they do, Rehman,” said Usha. “You cannot always see the world as it ought to be. Some things just are and you have to take them as you find them.”
Rehman shook his head, but couldn’t think of an answer.
She turned to the salesman. “Do you have any T-shirts?”
“T-shirts? I’ve never worn a T-shirt,” said Rehman.
“I know. That’s why I want to buy you one. I think you’ll look good in a T-shirt.”
The salesman pulled out several from an open cupboard and spread them out on the counter – bright blue and pale yellow, plain and stripy, with and without collars.
Rehman looked unhappy.
“This looks good,” Usha said, picking out a pale T-shirt with dark stripes.
“No way!” said Rehman. “I am not wearing that.”
“Why not?” Usha said.
“Madam is right, sir. It is very good. This is the latest fashion. All college students are now wearing T-shirts like this,” said the salesman.
“Fashion, pah!” Rehman said.
Usha waved to the salesman, asking him to leave. He looked at her and she stared back at him until he dropped his gaze. “I will be in the front. Please call me when you want to see more clothes.”
When they were alone in the room Usha turned to Rehman. “Right, why is this not suitable?”
“I don’t know. It’s just not me.”
“I do understand, Rehman. It’s different from what you normally wear. But you are a young man – be adventurous.”
Rehman shook his head. “No thanks,” he said. “I am happy with my clothes and don’t see any need to change. If you want to buy me a shirt, let’s go to Khadi Bhandar and we can get one made from hand-loom cloth. That way, we’ll be helping an artisan too.”
“You already have shirts like that – you are wearing one. I want something different…” Usha said and trailed off in mid-sentence.
“Yes?” said Rehman.
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
“What problem?”
“That’s it. You think that a hand-loom shirt in rough cotton is Indian but a fine T-shirt is not.”
“Well…It’s true, isn’t it?” said Rehman.
“That kind of thinking is so old-fashioned, Rehman. Gandhi asked people to avoid machine-loom cloth during the Independence struggle because it was being imported from Manchester but that was before you and I were born. Look at this,” she said and showed him the label on the collar of the T-shirt.
The manufacturer’s name, Saffron Colours, was printed in big letters. Below it, in smaller letters, it said, Made in India.
“Our country is one of the biggest cotton growers in the world, and as far as I know, we import only a small fraction of our total use. So, the black soil, the monsoon rain, the farmer who planted the seeds and toiled in the hot sun, the bulls that pulled the plough, the croppers who picked the cotton, the workers who ran the mill, the tailors who stitched the shirt, the driver who got it from the factory to here, this shop’s owner, the salesman…”
Usha stopped speaking for a moment. Her cheeks were rosy and, despite the fan’s breeze, her forehead glistened with perspiration.
She continued, “Every single element in the chain is of this land, so how is it any less Indian than the rough kurta you are wearing?”
Rehman stared at her.
“Well?” she said, impatiently after a moment.
“I love you,” he said finally.
“Just because Gandhi…” she began and stopped suddenly. “What did you say?” she asked, her voice a high-pitched squeak like the thinnest string of a sitar.
“I love you,” he repeated.
“What are you talking about?”
“You…and me,” said Rehman. “Will you marry me?”
Usha looked around wildly but there was nobody else in the big room. She faced Rehman again.
“Don’t be silly,” she said.
“I am not being silly. I am proposing,” said Rehman. “I want to marry you and live with you for ever.”
Usha looked suspiciously at him for a moment and then smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, yes, yes!”
He took her hand in his hand and marvelled at the soft, smooth feel of her skin. Her face was as bright as the full moon and she was laughing. She caught his eye and blushed.
“Let’s go,” she said.
He nodded and released her hand. They walked out of the shop. When they were out on the side of the busy road, she said, “I promised my mother that I’d be back for dinner. I have to go.”
Rehman nodded. “Me too. Let’s meet at the beach tomorrow evening.”
She nodded. “That would be lovely,” she said and then laughed. “You got your way after all.”
“What?”
“You didn’t buy the T-shirt.”
He laughed with her as they crossed the road side by side, dodging the traffic, happy as only a pair of young lovers together can be.
♦
Usha waved to Rehman from inside the car and drove away. She couldn’t stop smiling. It was probably the happiest day of her life – even happier than the day when she had been eight years old and her father had agreed to her request and brought home a puppy.
She negotiated the busy traffic at the main bus station complex and sped up on the Rama Talkies Road beyond. She wondered how to tell her parents – not just that she was opting for a ‘love’ match but also that Rehman was not from their own caste – in fact, he was not even a Hindu. She would have to make sure her father was in a good mood before she broke the news.
Still, it was exciting. Rehman was a fantastic guy – sure, his clothes sense was horrible, but she could sort that out. The proposal had come a bit out of the blue – they had been meeting each other regularly for only a short time. She had been aware that her feelings for him were deepening but she knew that there would be opposition to the match from both families so she was being cautious about letting the relationship develop. But the moment Rehman had declared his love, all her own doubts had disappeared in a flash. She was surprised that Rehman had moved so quickly but, hey, that’s what I lov
e about him, she thought. His heart leads him and he doesn’t stop to think with his head.
Usha parked the car and walked towards the house, trailing her hand over a basil plant and skipping up the steps. The ‘Night Queen’ in the corner of the front garden was just starting to fill the air with its powerful, sweet, perfume. Later on, the fragrance would be sickly strong, reminding her of the time when she ate too many mangoes in one sitting, but Usha loved the way it smelled now. Her senses were heightened tonight. She could hear the low talk and the jingle of the pots used by the worker family who lived in a shack under the banyan tree on the footpath outside. They pressed clothes on a cart with a heavy coal-fired iron for a living.
She looked over the fence at the forlorn house next door. Normally, the sight of it sucked away some of her happiness, but this evening it had lost its power to reduce her joy. The mad-eyed man who lived there was standing on the verandah, gazing straight ahead like a granite statue. He and his dotty wife were the only occupants of the large bungalow. They had no servants and their garden was overgrown with weeds, luxuriant creepers and out-of-control fruit trees.
The moon was a couple of days past full and high up in the sky, flooding the gardens with a silvery light. She walked into the house through the open doors and saw her parents sitting on the sofa facing her. Lightly she called out, “Hi, Mum. Hi, Dad. Ready for dinner? I am starving.”
Her mother would not meet her eyes while her father was glowering at her.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“Just out meeting a friend,” she said, shrugging. She wondered what her father was upset about. This was obviously not the time to tell them about Rehman’s proposal and her acceptance.
“Which friend?”
A tiny warning bell started ringing in her head, but she didn’t want to lie to her parents. “Somebody you don’t know,” she said, moving to her bedroom. “Let me change into something more comfortable for dinner.”
“Stop right there, young lady,” said her father, standing up. “Don’t think that we are blind already. We know where you’ve been and who you are seeing.”
Usha turned back. This was not the way she would have chosen to bring up the topic but there was no help for it. “Yes, naanna,” she said. “I’ve been to meet Rehman. He’s a fantastic man and I want to marry him.”
“Ohhh!” moaned her mother.
“Shameless hussy,” roared her father. “How dare you talk like that in front of your parents? Is this what your education has taught you?”
“What is there to be ashamed about?” said Usha. “Rehman loves me and I love him. He has asked me to marry him and I’ve said yes.”
“This family has a reputation. When I walk on the street, nobody dares raise their eyes to my level. People come to me, asking for advice. I will not let you ruin the name that we have in this town with your brazen activities.”
“Naanna, don’t be so feudal. What you think of as respect is just fear – fear of your money, fear of your connections and fear of your temper. Well, I am not afraid of you,” she said, jerking her head back to dislodge a lock of hair from her face.
“No fear? I’ll show you something to be scared about,” said her father in a strangled voice. His face was mottled with strain and his Adam’s apple convulsed up and down. Usha shrank back before his anger and wondered whether she had pushed him too far.
He rushed towards her and grabbed her arm above the elbow in his right hand. Time seemed to still as she looked at her father in horror while he slowly raised his left hand to strike her. Her mouth opened in an O, but no sound came out. Even when she was a child, he had never hit her – leaving corporal punishment to her mother – and she could not believe what was happening.
“Husband…” Her mother’s voice rang out.
Her father seemed to come to his senses – the wild look left his eyes – but he did not let go of her arm. He turned to Usha’s mother and said, “You shut up. It’s entirely your fault. If I had not listened to you and let her go to work for that television channel, we wouldn’t be having this tamasha today.”
Yes, thought Usha. The whole scene was rather like a drama. Her mother looked as if she was trying to meld into the sofa, cowed by his anger. Her father turned back to Usha and wagged his finger in her face, dragging her deeper into the house.
“Where are you taking me?” she said, trying but failing to dig her heels into the hard marble floor. Her mother followed them, making futile, useless gestures with her hands. Usha noticed the way her mother’s greying hair hung lifelessly. Amma looks like a scared bird, she thought, surprised to be thinking about her mother when she should be concerned about her own fate. Strangely, she did not feel personally involved. It was almost as if this could not be real. It might be happening to a character in a movie.
The procession came to a stop outside Usha’s bedroom and her father kicked the door open. He pushed her with surprising strength into the room and shut her in. By the time Usha recovered her balance and went to the solid teak door, she heard the squeaking noise of the iron bolt being drawn across it. Normally used to keep servants out, it would now be used to lock the daughter of the house in.
Usha heard a final clang as the bolt banged home against the wood. She pushed the door but her puny, human strength was no match for its inanimate solidity. She banged her fists on the door, to no effect.
She heard her mother say, “What are you doing? She hasn’t had dinner, the poor girl.”
She could hear the fury in her father’s voice as he said to her mother, “Let her go hungry – her lard might dissolve and lower her passions a bit.”
Usha cried out, “Let me out, naanna. Don’t do this.”
“You stay in that room and think about your family too instead of just about yourself.”
“How long?” she said in a softer voice.
“Until you come to your senses – as long as it takes.”
She heard footsteps moving away. Her father was saying, “You stay away from that room. Nobody’ll be worse than me if she leaves there, understand?”
“Food,” she heard her mother say.
“Only when I am here and only when I say so.”
Usha went to sit on the bed. She looked out through the iron bars of the window – it was dark outside but she could hear the noise of traffic. The sound of a cricket came from somewhere in the garden, calling out to its mate. That insect will probably have better luck than me, she thought, realising that her mobile phone was in her handbag. She could remember the exact spot where she had put her bag down on entering the house – on the small sofa in the living room, on the other side of the door.
A thought came to her. She suddenly jumped up, ran over to her table, pushing off papers and books until she dug out the black telephone extension from underneath the mess. She started dialling even before the handset reached her ear. She waited almost a minute without breathing before it hit her that the silence was final. The phone was dead. She traced the wire and found it plugged into its socket in the wall. What had her father done to kill the phone?
“Aargh!” Usha lifted the phone in both hands and threw it against the wall where it bounced with a crash. She had taken this incarceration lightly, almost like a joke, thinking that she could escape any time she wanted, but now a cold horror gripped her heart and she felt breathless. What if this was serious? What if she couldn’t leave?
It was almost half an hour before she recovered enough to look around the large room that had been hers since they had moved into this house four years ago. It was now her prison: a fairly luxurious one, she acknowledged – with its table and chair, air-conditioner, fan, a queen-sized bed, wardrobe full of clothes, en-suite bathroom and shower. The servant maid had left a carafe of water as usual by the bedside cabinet earlier in the evening, so she wouldn’t go thirsty, at least.
Usha changed into a loose cotton kaftan and lay down on the bed. She tried to recapture some of the early-evening mood. Only
Rehman would propose to a girl when she was haranguing him about nationalism, she thought. She smiled at the memory. She wondered when she would see him again. She suddenly remembered that she was supposed to interview the mayor tomorrow about the beach festival that the municipal council was organising later in the month. She had to get word to her controller – he was an MCP, keeping up a low-level murmur of complaint about the unreliability of female staff. If she didn’t call, her working life would be miserable for months afterwards.
She heard a scratching on the door a couple of times before she realised what it was. She jumped up from the bed and padded over to it. “Who is it?” she asked.
“Shhh! Not so loud,” whispered her mother, from the other side.
“Where is naanna?” she asked.
“Your father is sleeping. How are you?”
“I’ll feel even better if you open the door,” Usha said.
“I can’t do that,” said her mother. “How could you do this, Usha? A Muslim, of all people. If he had been a Hindu, even of a different caste, I could have talked your father round, but now – ”
“How long will you keep me in this room? I am an adult and I can make my own choices. I am going to marry Rehman and that’s it. This is the twenty-first century and you cannot stop me.”
She could hear her mother sigh. “You take after your dad – both of you are as stubborn as a pair of a washerman’s mules.”
“Amma, before I forget – do me a favour. Call my colleague, Bhavani, and tell her that I can’t come in tomorrow. It’s important.”
“I can’t,” said her mother. “Your father has pulled the phone line out of the wall.”
“Use my mobile.”
“Number?”
“In my phone, look up Bhavani’s name.”
“OK. I’ll tell her that you are not well.”
They were both silent for a moment.
“How did you all find out anyway?” asked Usha. “I was going to tell you at the proper time, not like this.”
“Narsi told your father. He dressed it up in high-sounding words – said that he had eaten our salt and it would be disloyal if he allowed shame to come on our family by being silent – but he was just sucking up.”