The Many Conditions of Love

by Farahad Zama

  “Gossip!” said Ramanujam.

  Aruna laughed. “You know something else? Sir and Madam’s son, Rehman, was very happy to see her details. I could never figure out why.”

  At that point the waiter came back with drinks and they moved on to other topics – the paper he had sent off for the neurological conference; one of the marriage bureau’s clients who refused an otherwise perfect match because the bride’s father was a lawyer; Vani; Mani’s sons, and others besides.

  “Look,” said Ramanujam pointing through the shrubs. A man had walked over to join Usha at her table.

  Aruna was scandalised. “Why, that’s…Madam’s son, Rehman. I wonder whether his mother knows that he is meeting the journalist? Then why was he so delighted when her father was arranging for her marriage?” She shook her head in bewilderment. “She’s a Hindu as well…Oh, my God…”

  Ramanujam shrugged. “Maybe they are just meeting to discuss his next interview.”

  Aruna glanced at him with a look as if he were a dunce. Her husband started to speak but Aruna put a finger to her lips. If they stayed silent, they could hear what was being said at the other table.

  Usha smiled at Rehman, leaned forward and patted his hand. “You are looking so good. How’s your job?”

  Aruna glanced significantly at Ramanujam. “I wish I hadn’t seen this now,” she whispered. “What do I tell Madam?”

  Ramanujam shrugged. “Why do you have to tell her anything?”

  At the other table, the conversation continued. “The brickwork is more than half done and we’ll be starting to wire the first two floors soon.”

  The waiter came over and they ordered fresh-lime sodas.

  “Tell me about your work. Did you manage to get the interview with the District Collector?” Rehman said.

  “I did. He didn’t want to meet me because it must have been pretty embarrassing to admit that his office had done nothing even though almost a hundred people had fallen ill, but I just camped outside his office until he had no choice.”

  Rehman smiled at her and said, “Poor man – to come up against you. Was it really the water supply that was at fault?”

  “Oh yes. The reservoir had gone dry and then partly filled up in the rains, and they think that caused the supply to be contaminated.”

  The breeze increased suddenly and brought with it the subtle fragrance of jasmine. A stalk of small dried leaves swayed and fell from the hedging tree that towered over Usha and Rehman on to the table between them. Usha picked it up and absently started twisting it. The waiter came over to their table with the glasses. After he left, Usha raised her glass and pursed her lips round the blue plastic straw; the cloudy liquid rose and her throat moved. Rehman stared at her intensely.

  “What are you looking at?” Usha said, putting the glass down and raising an index finger to her nose. “Have I got something here?”

  “No,” said Rehman shaking his head. “I was just looking at you and thinking…that straw is so lucky…to be in such close contact with a beauty like you.”

  Usha blushed. Then suddenly her eyes clouded over and she looked inexplicably sad. “Do you still think about Mr Naidu’s death?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Rehman. “Ever since I received his letter, I can’t help wondering about the circumstances of his passing. Farming is a chancy business – anything can go wrong over such a long growing season. And most Indian farmers don’t have much spare cash lying around; they live from harvest to harvest. So how can the company draw up a contract where they pile all the risk on the cultivator? It may not be illegal but it’s surely immoral, especially when you consider that a lot of farmers are illiterate and don’t understand what they are agreeing to.”

  “You’ve told me that before as well,” said Usha. “But what can be done? It is a contract between two independent parties, after all. Do you think contract farming should be banned?”

  “These contracts have come to India only in the last few years and I don’t think banning them again is the answer. Farmers do benefit from modern technology and new techniques. You are right; the two parties to the contract are independent. But they are unequal. We have to equalise the playing field somehow.” Rehman leaned forward while talking and, towards the end, he was poking the table with a finger.

  Usha drew him out, like the journalist that she was. “So how do you propose that should be done?”

  “The one strength that farmers have and companies don’t is that there are many of them and they each have a vote – more, if you consider their families. Also, even the non-farming public is generally sympathetic to people on the land. After all, as Lai Bahadur Shastry, the second Prime Minister of India, said: ‘Hail Soldier, Hail Farmer.’”

  Usha smiled slowly at him. “Go on,” she said softly. Something in her tone checked Rehman for an instant but then his passion drove him on.

  “We have to make use of that respect – most politicians will jump through hoops to avoid antagonising farmers. That’s how we won in the Royyapalem land campaign. Once we got the public interested, the government backtracked.”

  Usha had covered the campaign, which was how they first met.

  “That was an easy issue to publicise. You had a whole village being thrown off their lands so a multinational company could build on it. This is very different.”

  “You are right,” said Rehman. “But Mr Naidu cannot be the only man who has killed himself.”

  “He is not,” said Usha. “I’ve been looking into it. More than ten thousand farmers commit suicide each year in India and our state is one of the worst affected. But most of the suicides are not related to contract farming. Farmers have many problems – lack of credit, lack of irrigation, too little rain, too much rain, arbitrary changes in government policies…”

  “That’s true,” said Rehman, taking a deep draught from the glass. “But contract farming is still at a very nascent stage in our country. Beginnings are such sensitive times – we can make the most difference now. If we let it go unchecked, it will make the situation worse in the coming years. We have to make sure that standard contracts are used that share risk and divide profit equitably between the parties – that the inevitable loss of the occasional harvest does not result in destitution and loss of ancestral holdings.”

  “How, darling?” said Usha.

  Her endearment did not go unnoticed by Rehman. Her right hand was lying on the table. He took it and held it in both hands. Her skin was silky and he almost brought her hand to his lips. After a moment, Usha extricated her hand and folded her arms in front of her. Tiny coloured lights strung on the trees came on. It had grown dark while they were talking. A shiver went through her.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  She shook her head and asked him to carry on.

  Rehman took a deep breath. “Where were we?” he said, before remembering. “Yes, harvests fail every few years but that should not mean that farmers lose everything. For that contracts need to be drawn up by an independent body that balances everybody’s rights and the companies should be forced to use only those contracts. The first step is to investigate some of these suicides and find other instances where farmers have taken their lives because of a contract with a company. Once we’ve collected a number of cases, we can then go to the media, to officials and to the elected leaders. I am sure something can be done. There is no doubt.”

  Usha remained still, her back straight.

  Rehman went silent. His throat was dry and he took a sip from the glass. The juice had finished and all that was left was water from the melted ice cubes.

  “But I can’t do it right now. It will be pretty much a full-time job to go to the villages and talk to people, here and possibly in Hyderabad, the state capital, to gather momentum.”

  Usha nodded.

  “This is all academic,” said Rehman, shrugging. “I’ve given up all that. My target is simple. Stick to my job, save some money and buy a flat and a car.”

  Us
ha put her hand on his and squeezed it gently. “I love you,” she said simply and they both fell silent for a while. Then she said, “What happens afterwards?”

  Rehman was puzzled. “What afterwards?”

  “You stay in your job, earn money, buy a car and move into a nice flat. Then we get married. After that? You will have to pay the mortgage every month, you know. And buy petrol for the car. And school fees when we have children. And…” she trailed off.

  Rehman stared at her, his eyes open wide. “I haven’t thought about it that far,” he said.

  “It’s like joining the queue of pilgrims at Simhachalam temple when they reveal the face of the idol, Rehman. Once you get stuck in that crush, you can’t turn back. You have to keep moving with the rest of the crowd.”

  “What can I do?” said Rehman. “I love you.”

  Usha squeezed his hand again. “I know that, darling. And I love you too. But what makes you unique, and what I love more than anything else about you, is that you are a free spirit. Your heart dictates what is right and you follow its direction like a sailor following a compass. You don’t think about career, money or a nine-to-five job; about savings accounts or mutual funds. At least, you didn’t. I cannot take that away from you.”

  “You are not taking it, Usha. I am giving it up, freely, so I can live with you, enjoy life with you. That’s why I will now have to start taking an interest in all those things.”

  Usha gave the twig in her hand a final tug and threw the fragments away. “How long can you live a normal life like everybody else, Rehman? Eventually, you will become frustrated by not being able to follow the dictates of your heart. I don’t know if it will take six months or six years, but one day you will. And what will happen that day when you wake up and realise what you’ve given up to be with me? Will you stop loving me? Will you go so far as to be angry with me and despise me?” She jerked her hand away and folded her arms in front of her again. “I couldn’t bear that, Rehman.”

  Rehman murmured an indistinct denial. “That will never happen.”

  “No,” said Usha, more strongly. “I think we should stop this now. Rehman, I am breaking off the engagement.” Her voice broke into a sob, but she continued to look at him.

  Rehman rocked back in his chair and closed his eyes. The image of her grim expression did not fade. He felt as if a khanjar had been driven into his chest, the sharp dagger piercing his heart.

  “No…” he heard himself say. The sound of blood rushing in his ears was louder than the crash of the surf on the beach. “No…” he repeated.

  He opened his eyes after what felt like hours and he was surprised to see that she hadn’t moved an inch, and was looking at him with the same stern expression.

  “Yes, Rehman. It has to be this way. Goodbye.” She stood up and almost staggered.

  “Don’t do this, Usha,” said Rehman. He hadn’t felt this close to crying since he was ten years old and their cat had disappeared. “Don’t destroy our love.”

  She walked over to him and gently stroked his cheek with her fingers. “I am not destroying it, darling. I am preserving it.”

  She walked briskly away while Rehman just sat there like a soldier who has been too close to a shell burst.

  “Oh, my God, this is awful,” said Aruna, her hand covering her mouth. “Did you hear that?”

  Ramanujam nodded, frowning.

  At the other table, Rehman got up blindly and started walking down the path. The waiter carrying a tray with glasses on it came running up to him and said, “Sir, the bill.”

  Rehman continued walking forwards like a bull that doesn’t change direction even when its keeper shouts at it. The waiter reached out and tapped him with his left hand. Rehman turned and flung the waiter’s hand away, knocking the tray down. The glasses fell on the red dusty ground, all without damage, except one that hit a stone and shattered into a hundred pieces. Rehman moved on doggedly. The waiter stared at Rehman’s back and gave a roar.

  “Thief,” he shouted. “I’ll call the police.” He tackled Rehman like a kabbadi player and knocked him to the ground. Rehman hit the waiter on the jaw. The waiter grabbed Rehman’s hair and pounded his head into the dust.

  Twenty

  Usha never remembered how she got back home. Thinking back about it later, she was surprised that she had hit nobody with her car. Only the sheer unpredictabihty of traffic on Indian roads, and the consequent cautious self-preserving nature of every person using them, must have saved them from her automaton-like driving.

  When she reached home, she walked in and found her grandmother sitting in the front room, watching a devotional programme on television. Her parents were nowhere to be seen. She sat down stiffly next to the old lady, her back not touching the sofa. Her grandmother must have sensed something, because she turned to her and said, “What is it, my dear?”

  Usha burst into tears. Her grandmother switched off the TV and hugged her. “It’s OK. Tell me what the problem is and we’ll solve it.”

  It was several minutes before Usha freed herself from her grandmother’s clasp and sat back, wiping away her tears with the edge of the old lady’s soft cotton sari.

  “You planned this all along, didn’t you?” Usha said.

  “Planned what, dear?”

  “I broke off the engagement.”

  “Ahh!” said her grandmother. “Why did you break it off?”

  “Why do you think?” said Usha bitterly. “You and your conditions – steady job, nice flat, car…”

  “Has the young man given up, then?”

  Usha shook her head. “I said I broke it off. Rehman was suppressing his heart and doing exactly as you asked him. If he had continued like that, our love would have been dust.”

  “I didn’t plan it, dear. I just hoped that something like this would happen. Either your young man would give up the struggle and prove himself unworthy of you, or he would persevere and you would realise that you could not hold him in such thrall. Whatever happened, I would win.”

  “Why?” cried Usha. “Why did you do it?”

  “The marriage really was unsuitable, Usha. How could you think of marrying somebody outside our caste and a Muslim too? Your father was right to say that our family’s reputation would have poured down the gutter. But he was wrong in how he tried to convince you. You are a girl after my own heart and I knew that you could never be thwarted from your course by threats. I realised that the whole family would be ruined if your father continued his reckless way. But I also knew that you were a sensible girl. You would never marry a man who could not look after you. And that’s why I did what I did.”

  “I thought I could trust you, naannamma. That is why I paid the boy for those marbles and sent the letter to you when I was trapped in my room. How could I have been so mistaken?” said Usha.

  “It depends upon what you mean by trust, dear. I just gave you a chance not to be swept away by emotion and make a mistake, that’s all. I prefer to think that I discharged my responsibility as a family elder properly. It’s a pity because your young man is actually very good. I can see why you fell in love with him – idealistic, handsome, responsible. But I am sure that in time you will also come to look on this affair as a rainy season’s dream, sweet but short-lived and doomed from the start.”

  Usha shook her head. She wanted to hate her grandmother but she couldn’t. She was honest enough to recognise the truth of the older woman’s words. “Where are amma and naanna?” she asked finally.

  “They’ve gone to see a first-show movie. Your mother said that the dinner is on the dining table and asked you to eat when you came home.”

  Half an hour ago, the very thought of food would have made her sick, but now her stomach rumbled like an empty cavern.

  “OK, let me wash,” she said. At the door she turned to her grandmother. “You tell my parents that I’ve broken up with Rehman. And tell them not to mention it again. I don’t want to talk about it. And tell them not to go looking for another h
usband for me. I will never marry and I don’t want to go through those arguments again.”

  “Don’t say never, Usha. That’s too melodramatic. I will give you one year to mourn your love and, after that, we’ll find somebody who’s suitable for you. Don’t worry, as long as I am alive, nobody will force you to marry against your wishes.”

  Usha returned to her grandmother and hugged her, wondering how such a thin, frail frame could hold such a strong spirit. “In that case, I hope you live for a long, long time. But I am sure I’ll never find a man as good as Rehman – not in a year, not in a lifetime.”

  ♦

  Aruna and Ramanujam ran up to the fighting men. Aruna was surprised to see Rehman so angry – he was usually so calm and even-tempered. Ramanujam pulled the waiter away. Rehman got up slowly but before he was fully standing, the waiter made a wild kick that connected to Rehman’s groin. He groaned, clutched his privates and staggered backwards, half bent. Aruna raised her hands in horror and moved towards her boss’s son. He looked at her like a wild dervish, then turned and half ran, half stumbled down the path, towards the beach.

  Ramanujam almost pulled the waiter off his feet. “Who do you think that man was? How dare you hit him?”

  The waiter’s anger left him and he suddenly looked small. Ramanujam let go of him in disgust and the waiter collapsed to the ground. “I am sorry,” he said. By this time, two other waiters and a cook came out and pulled their colleague to his feet again.

  “Let’s go,” said Aruna. “We have to inform his family.”

  Ramanujam nodded. “The sooner the better. Let’s go.” They both turned and walked towards their car.

  “Sir, madam. Your dinner is about to be served,” said the dishevelled waiter. When they didn’t respond, he continued in a small voice, “The bill…”

  Ramanujam snorted in anger, took out a couple of hundred-rupee notes and flung them on the ground. “That’s to cover our and the other gentleman’s bill,” he said.