by Farahad Zama
Narsi, the wife-beating slime ball! She would sort out their driver if it was the last thing she did. With that thought to fill her belly, she went to bed.
Ten
The previous five days had been a sore trial for Aruna. She had informed Mr Ali that her husband was ill and she needed to stay at home. The first couple of days, Ramanujam had been confined to bed and had needed her support even to go to the bathroom. It had been a relief when his doctor, the old professor, had looked at the test results and told them that Ramanujam did not have malaria; he had a viral infection that needed to run its course.
After that, Ramanujam had been able to come into the living room and sit on the sofa, but was too weak to do anything but watch the family continue their activities round him.
“Drink this fresh-lime juice,” Aruna said, sitting down next to Ramanujam with a tall, frosted glass.
“Not thirsty,” he said.
“Please drink it,” she said. “It’s got both sugar and salt and is good for you.”
“I said no, didn’t I?” he snapped at her.
“Sorry,” she said in a small voice, involuntarily withdrawing from his unaccustomed anger. “I’ll leave the glass here in case you want it later.”
He sat glowering on the sofa, saying nothing.
I hope he gets better soon, she thought. He is as irritable as a bear plagued by buzzing honey bees.
Aruna went into their bedroom, where she saw Sanjay, Ramanujam’s sister’s son, sitting at the table.
“Hello! What are you doing in here?” she asked.
“Nothing,” said the boy, quickly jumping away from the table.
Aruna frowned and went to where he had been sitting. She couldn’t see anything obviously wrong and she turned back to Sanjay. His hands were behind his back and she said, “What have you got in your hands?”
“Nothing,” he said, quickly.
“Sanjay, show me your hands.”
“I didn’t do anything,” he said.
“Show me your hands,” she said, her voice rising a little.
The boy slowly brought his hands into view. He was holding Ramanujam’s fountain pen. She took it away from him and said, “Your uncle keeps important papers and other things on that table. You are not to come in here and disturb anything. Do you understand?”
Sanjay nodded stiffly and went out of the room. She sighed and put the pen away. She had forgotten what she had come into the room for and she looked around, hoping that the sight of something would remind her. Suddenly, she heard a wailing noise from outside. Aruna rushed out and was shocked to see Sanjay crying.
“What happened?” she asked. “Did you fall down?”
He ignored her and continued weeping. Ramanujam and his parents came running over. Even Sanjay’s pregnant mother came over, walking as quickly as she could.
“What is it, babu?” she said and the boy hurled himself into his mother’s arms, sobbing.
Ramanujam looked at Aruna quizzically. She shrugged and mimed, “I don’t know.”
He nodded and turned to Mani. Sanjay’s crying reduced to the occasional sniffle when his mother promised him a chocolate.
“What is the problem, babu? Why did you cry?” she asked again, smoothing his hair with her hand.
“She!” he said rudely and dramatically pointed a chubby finger at Aruna. “She shouted at me and told me not to go into her room.”
Everybody looked at her as if she was an evil hag and Aruna clamped a hand over her mouth, shocked.
“Did you say that, Aruna?” asked Ramanujam.
“Yes, but…”
Ramanujam shook his head and turned back. She looked at his parents but they wouldn’t meet her eyes. Mani’s eyes blazed like Lord Shiva’s angry third eye that was reputed to reduce anything it looked at to ashes.
“Your room?” she hissed. “How dare you?” She turned to her brother like an angry cat. “Why are you just standing there like a stone idol? Your wife insults me and my son in my own parents’ house and you have no words. It is true what they say – a woman is a guest in her father’s house. Is this what all our shared childhood has come down to? This…this…” Mani’s bosom heaved and tears came into her eyes. “This two-bit woman who has come here less than a year ago dares to speak like this.”
“Mani – ” said Ramanujam.
Mani turned away and led Sanjay out. Aruna stood still for several moments. “I – ” she then began.
“Leave it, Aruna. Don’t say anything,” he said. His bleak voice cut through her, like a thorn through a banana leaf. He got up and went back into their room, closing the door behind him, leaving Aruna alone and miserable in the rich surroundings. The only sound was the whirr of the ceiling fan, going round and round, just like her thoughts.
♦
The next morning Usha woke later than usual, after the curtains had given up their fight to hold back the bright sun. She looked at the clock and jumped up into a sitting position on the bed, annoyed that the servant maid had not come in to wake her up. Her feet touched the cool marble floor before she remembered the events of last night.
Had Rehman really proposed to her? Was she truly imprisoned in her own room? She quietly walked over to the door and tried it. It did not budge. Annoyed, she pulled the handle more violently. It made a noise but did not open. She banged on the wood and shouted, “Let me out.”
Her stomach rumbled and she realised that she had not had dinner the previous night. She heard footsteps on the other side of the door and shouted even louder, “I am starving.”
The door opened and her father stood there with his arms folded on his chest. She started to sidle out around him but he shook his head. “Stay where you are,” he said. “We need to talk.”
She calculated the odds of pushing past her father, but then what would she do? She was still in her nightclothes. And where would she go? “I am not talking until I have had breakfast,” she said, turning back.
“Your mother is bringing it in a few minutes. Let’s have a chat until then.”
She sat down on the bed, hugging her knees. “Right, when are you going to let me out?”
“You can leave the room as soon as you give up the ridiculous notion of marrying such an unsuitable boy.”
“Never.”
“Then you’ll be here a long time. It doesn’t give me any pleasure to play the heavy-handed father, but if that’s what I have to do, that’s exactly what I will do. I shouldn’t blame you, though I thought I raised you better. It’s our own fault for spoiling you by giving you too much freedom.”
Her mother came in with a pile of hot puffy puris and steaming, yellow potato and onion curry – Usha’s favourite. She cleared the study table and set the breakfast down without meeting Usha’s eyes. Even though Usha hadn’t brushed her teeth, she sat down at the table and polished off the food. Her mother got her a fresh jug of water.
“Think about what I told you,” said her father.
Her parents left the room and she heard the bolt slamming home loudly on the other side of the door. Even though she hadn’t expected anything else, it was still a shock to find herself alone again. With nothing better to do, she completed her ablutions, took a bath and changed into fresh clothes. She tried to read a book but threw it petulantly down.
This is getting tiresome, she thought. She prowled round her room like a restless tigress in a cage, looking for a way to escape. It faced the side and back of the house with windows on two walls. Behind the glass panes, the windows were barred with iron rods, solidly fastened to the wooden frames to keep out burglars. High on the walls, just below the ceiling, there were ventilator holes, but as they were too small to let a sparrow in, she didn’t think they were any use to her.
The window on the side of the house just looked out on to their own garden, but the other one was different. Because of the way the land fell away behind their house, from her window she could see through the iron bars over the compound wall and into a narrow l
ane. The boundary wall was built of stone, its top rounded and studded with broken glass to keep out thieves. She had never noticed it before, but the view from her room made it look like a prison.
She was annoyed, both at her plight and with her father. She was an educated woman with a good job, earning a decent salary, and here she was, trapped like an illiterate, lower-class woman. She was a journalist, for heaven’s sake. She should be reporting stories like this, not caught up in one herself. Why blame her father entirely? Her mother could let her out easily, but she hadn’t. Sure, she said that she was scared of her father, but was that the entire truth? Her mother obviously thought that Usha was acting wrongly by marrying somebody for love outside their caste and religion. Argh! She could strangle them both.
She thought about Rehman for a while – remembering some of the jokes he cracked. For such a serious guy, he could be funny when he wanted to be. He must be trying to get in touch with her, she thought. If only she could contact him somehow. What would he do if he found out about her situation? He would march straight into the house and confront her father. While she loved Rehman, he was not the type of man her father wanted for a son-in-law, even ignoring Rehman’s religion. Her father wanted someone suave, well-dressed and rich, who drove an expensive car. Rehman, with his ethnic, hand-made cotton tunics, open leather slippers and cotton sling bag, would not impress her father.
At the rattle of a key she sat up. The door opened and her mother walked in with a glass of buttermilk. Her father stood in the doorway. For some reason, a smile had replaced his usual frown and that worried her. What was going on? She finished the drink and wiped her lips with the back of her hand.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
Her mother took the glass from her with a nervous, quick movement and glanced over at her father. She said, “Your father’s contacted a marriage broker.”
Usha looked at her father and shook her head. “Oh no, you haven’t,” she said loudly.
“Yes, I have,” said her father. “He’s a shifty character, goes round from one house to another with a bunch of photographs and horoscopes; all he cares about is his commission on the dowry. I told him we were in a hurry and he had the gall to increase his rate. He backed down when I told him that there were others who could find me a match and that I was going to see one of them this evening. Stupid fool – thinks he can negotiate with me.” Her father smiled to himself and then continued, “But he had one particular match immediately available. A young man called Sankar. I asked the broker to send him over to see us tomorrow. He’s not everything I wanted in a son-in-law but it’s your own fault for putting me in such a rush.”
Usha frowned. “Where is this Sankar coming over from?”
“A village near Alamanda. His father is a big landlord there.”
“You are joking,” said Usha. “You want me to marry a villager? No way.”
“He is dark but still looks quite good in the photo,” said her mother.
“Looks good in the photo?” exploded Usha. “Have you been listening to anything I’ve been saying for the last couple of days? I am engaged to marry Rehman. You can forget anything else, especially some country bumpkin you people have found who can probably only talk about how many buffaloes his father owns.”
“It’s not so bad,” said her mother. “He is a younger son and he has agreed to leave his father’s house and stay here. You can continue to live here after marriage. He has agreed to let you continue working too.”
“A house son-in-law! What kind of man with even an ounce of self-respect would agree to stay in his wife’s house after marriage?” said Usha. She half-closed her eyes and said in a high-pitched, sing-song voice, “He has agreed to let me continue working.” She opened her eyes and her voice took on a note of steel. “Listen to me, both of you. I am not marrying this worm that you’ve conjured up under any circumstances. I am not some helpless girl who does not know her rights or cannot stand up for herself. I have a successful career with a good salary and can easily look after myself. If I haven’t walked away from this house, it’s because I am still giving you a little respect. Don’t force me to do anything drastic.”
“What career?” said her father. “I called Binoy, your um…controller, and told him that your marriage has been fixed and you didn’t want to work from now on. You don’t have a job any more. And I told him that a rowdy, a bad character, was trying to break up the engagement and he was not to give out our address to anybody who came asking. Your controller said that he would pass on the message to all your colleagues as well.”
Usha struck her forehead with the palm of her right hand. Binoy was male chauvinist enough to take her father’s word without insisting on speaking to her. None of her colleagues knew where she lived, anyway – only the office. She hadn’t wanted them to know how rich her family was.
“How dare you go behind my back to my employer? You can drag me to the altar but I have to walk around the fire seven times on my own legs to get married and I am not doing that. Now both of you get out and leave me alone.” She sat down on the edge of the bed.
Her mother scurried away quickly. Just as her father was closing the door, Usha said, “Cancel that viewing tomorrow if you don’t want to be insulted in your own house.”
Her father bolted the door and said from the other side, “You will marry this man. After that we’ll see what happens.”
Usha lay back and closed her eyes. Her thoughts drifted. She must have nodded off but suddenly her eyes snapped wide open. She had to get a message out urgently. She had been prepared to sit it out and rely on her father coming to his senses but this was getting out of hand.
She jumped up, went to the table and took out a piece of paper. She scribbled a letter and found an envelope. But she had no stamps. That would complicate matters. It wasn’t just a question of asking somebody to drop an envelope in the nearest postbox. They would have to go to the post office, buy a stamp and then post the letter. Not many people would want to go to so much trouble. But she knew one person who would – their servant maid. She was a thin young woman who wore pink saris and liked to watch romantic movies. She could be easily convinced to carry a letter for her.
A knock came at the door and she hastily hid the envelope before shouting, “Come in.” She looked at the clock on the wall and was surprised to see that over an hour had passed since her parents had brought her the drink.
Her father stood by the door while her mother brought in lunch.
“Where is Subbi?” asked Usha, referring to the maid.
“I asked her to take a few days off – paid.”
“Did she rush out without asking any questions in case you changed your mind?” asked Usha.
“Something like that,” said her mother glumly.
Usha laughed. She knew how much her mother hated it when servant maids took time off. But it was a blow. Now what would she do? To Usha’s surprise, her mother sat down with her and they had the meal together. Her father continued standing by the door. Once they had finished the meal, her mother collected the dishes and soon Usha was left alone again.
She walked to the window and looked out. It wasn’t a busy street but someone went past every so often. She would send a message through a stranger, she decided. But she would have to be careful. She didn’t want to hail someone, only to have them go round and knock on the front door. Or ignore her message.
An old man hobbled slowly past her window. His back was stooped and his head was bald. She stared at him for a few minutes and then shook her head. He would definitely go to her father.
Several minutes later, another man shuffled past. He was younger and had once been fatter, but now the skin hung loosely on him. The side of the face towards her was slack and his hand was twisted in the characteristic shape of a stroke victim. Slap, shuffle, slap – she watched silently as he dragged himself on one good leg. The man had enough troubles of his own and she doubted that he had the dexterity to go to a post offi
ce with her letter.
After that several people went past on motorcycles and scooters but it was almost half an hour before another pedestrian came into view. A young man strolled past, carrying books in one hand and holding a mobile phone against his ear in the other. She waved to him and even shouted, softly, but he walked on, engrossed in his conversation and oblivious to her. She stamped her foot in frustration after he had disappeared.
A small skinny boy, about ten years old, skipped past, wearing ancient shorts that looked too big for him and a shirt that flapped loose because it was missing a few buttons. He threw one marble ahead of him and then tried to hit it with another. He then collected both the marbles and started again. Too young, she thought.
The pedestrians after that walked so close to the boundary wall of their house that she could see only the tops of their heads. She was puzzled for a moment before she realised that the sun had climbed in the sky and the people were walking in the shadow of the wall to escape it. It’s winter, you fools, she screamed in her head. Walk in the sun! The meal, the enforced idleness and the half-completed nap of the morning made her drowsy, so she had a siesta.
She woke up at about three-thirty in the afternoon and went to the window immediately. At this time, the scene outside had taken on a sleepy atmosphere. Even the fresh winter-green leaves on the trees did not stand at attention and seemed to wilt a little. She saw again the boy from the morning, carrying a bamboo basket on head and walking slowly. He held the basket up with his left hand and continued playing marbles with his right. His thin legs stuck out like black sticks from the bottom of his outsized shorts. She remembered where she had seen him before. He belonged to the street-family outside who ironed clothes. He disappeared round the bend of the lane. She wondered where he was taking whatever was inside the basket.
About ten minutes later, the same boy returned along the path. No other pedestrians had used the lane in the meantime. He was free of his burden now and more enthusiastic. The target marble came to rest just opposite her window. The boy concentrated, his face pinched with the effort and his tongue protruding slightly, as he threw the second overhand. It hit a small stone near the first marble and ricocheted away into the storm drain that went along the base of the wall. The boy ran quickly and vanished from her view as he jumped into the gutter. It was almost five minutes before he reappeared and picked up his first marble.