The Marriage Bureau for Rich People

by Farahad Zama

  The Marriage Bureau for Rich People

  FARAHAD ZAMA

  Hachette Digital

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Teaser chapter

  Acknowledgements

  The Marriage Bureau for Rich People

  FARAHAD ZAMA

  Hachette Digital

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  Published by Hachette Digital 2008

  Copyright © Farahad Zama 2009

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a

  retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without

  the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated

  in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published

  and without a similar condition including this condition

  being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those

  clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978 0 7481 1102 2

  This ebook produced by JOUVE, FRANCE

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

  www.hachettelivre.co.uk

  Hachette Digital

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  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DY

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

  To my parents, my wife and my sons.

  For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?

  Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

  Richness does not mean having a great amount of property; rather, true wealth is self-contentment.

  Prophet Mohammed (Peace be upon him)

  Sahih al-Bukhari, Vol. 8: #453

  JUST SOME OF THE REQUIREMENTS OF A PERFECT BRAHMIN WEDDING

  The mehndi henna patterning for ‘making the bride’

  Austere clothes for the bridegroom to dress as a monk in the pre-ceremony rites

  A palanquin for carrying the bride to the groom’s house

  Four banana plants cut off at the root with fruit still hanging off them

  Mango-leaf chains and jasmine, marigold and kanakambaram flower decorations

  A coconut for breaking before the bridegroom as he arrives

  Two tall brass lamps

  An idol of the elephant-headed god Ganesha

  Rice flour and red dust for floor designs where the bride and groom sit

  A sari that’s held as a divider to keep the bride and groom apart in the early stages of the wedding

  A hearth and small logs for a fire; ghee and camphor to light it

  Five types of fruits, and some betel nuts and leaves, crystal sugar, dried fruits

  Garlands for the bridegroom, his parents and his sisters’ husbands

  Small photo of the family deity and photos of the parents of the bride and groom if they are not alive

  Cumin and jaggery paste, turmeric sticks, kumkum, plate of flowers

  White pendants with designs for the bride’s and groom’s foreheads, made of styrofoam

  Rice to be used as confetti

  Brass plate and tumbler for washing the groom’s feet

  Bronze bell and idols of Krishna, Ganesha and other deities for praying in the new household

  Silver tumbler with water and spoon for anointing and drinking

  Sprouts of nine types of lentils for Gayatri puja

  Clear area to display household artefacts that the bride will take with her

  Silver or gold toe rings to be put on the bride by the groom

  Grindstone on which the bride will put her foot while the toe rings are being put on

  CHAPTER ONE

  The honking started early. It was not yet seven in the morning and Mr Ali could already hear the noise of the traffic on the road outside. The house faced east and the sun’s warming rays came filtering into the verandah through the tops of the trees on the other side of the road. The curved pattern of the iron security grille was reflected on the polished black granite floor and halfway up the light green wall. Motorcycles, scooters and buses went past in a steady procession, noisily tooting away. A speeding lorry scattered other traffic out of its path with a powerful air horn. It was a crisp winter morning and some of the motorists and pedestrians were wrapped up in monkey caps and woollen clothes. Mr Ali opened the gate and stepped outside.

  Mr Ali loved the garden he had created in the modest yard, about twenty feet wide and ten feet long. He rubbed his hands to warm them up - sure that the temperature was less than twenty degrees. On one side, a guava tree spread its branches over most of the area from the house to the front wall. Under it grew many curry-leaf plants, a henna plant and a jasmine climber. There were also several plants in pots, including a bonsai banyan tree that he had planted eleven years ago. A well on his left supplied their drinking water and next to it there was a papaya tree and a hibiscus plant - morning dew shimmered silvery-white on a perfectly symmetrical cobweb stretched between them. The low wall at the front continued round the house, separating his property from the road. He took a deep breath, taking in the fragrance of the jasmine flowers, and enjoyed the illusion of being in a small, green village even though his house was on a busy road in the middle of a bustling city.

  Two maroon flowers had blossomed overnight on the hibiscus plant. They were high up on the plant - above the height of the front wall. Mr Ali walked up to them to have a closer look. The petals were bright and glossy, the edges fringed delicately at the end of a long fluted trumpet. The stamens peeked out of the centre of the blooms: bright yellow pollen dotted among tiny, velvety, deep red hair. Mr Ali ran the back of his knuckle along one of the petals, luxuriating in the soft silky touch.

  Lovely, he thought and stepped away to pick up some yellow guava leaves that had fallen down. Mr Ali put them in a small plastic bucket with a broken handle that he used for a dustbin.

  He turned back to the front and noticed a man reaching over the wall to pluck one of the flowers and shouted, ‘Hey!’

  The man jerked his hand away, detaching the flower from the branch. Mr Ali walked over to the front gate and opened it. The thief looked like a respectable man. He was wearing smart clothes. He had a mobile phone in his shirt pocket and he was carrying a leather briefcase in one hand. In the other, he held the bright blossom.

  ‘Why are you stealing flowers from my garden?’ Mr Ali asked.

  The man said, ‘I am not stealing them. I am taking them to the temple.’

  ‘Without my permission,’ Mr Ali said, angrily.

  The man just turned and walked away, still holding t
he flower.

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked Mrs Ali from the verandah. Mr Ali turned back and looked at his wife. Her hands were covered with flour and dough from the morning chapattis.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Mr Ali said, his voice rising. ‘That man just . . .’

  ‘Why are you so surprised? It’s not unusual. These people want to lay flowers at the feet of the idol at the temple. It’s just that normally you are not awake at this time. And, anyway, don’t start shouting so early in the morning. It is not good for your health,’ she said.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my health,’ muttered Mr Ali.

  ‘I heard that,’ said Mrs Ali.

  ‘There’s definitely nothing wrong with your ears,’ he said, turning back to close the gate. ‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘Shoo! Get out! Out!’

  A white skinny cow rushed back outside through the gate. It must have come in when his back was turned. Something red flashed in its mouth. Mr Ali looked at the hibiscus plant and it was bare. Both its flowers were gone.

  He struck his forehead with his hand in frustration and Mrs Ali laughed.

  ‘What?’ he asked. ‘Do you think it’s amusing to lose all the flowers from the garden before the sun has even risen fully?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘but you are getting worked up too much over trivial things. After retiring, you’ve been like an unemployed barber who shaves his cat for want of anything better to do. Let’s hope that from today you will be a bit busier and I get some peace,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  Mrs Ali rolled her eyes. ‘I have been running the house for more than forty years and the last few years since you retired have been the worst. You keep interfering and disturbing my routine,’ she said. ‘You are not the first man in the world to retire, you know. Azhar is retired too and he keeps himself occupied quite well.’

  Mr Ali said, ‘Your brother goes to the mosque regularly to spend a little time saying his prayers and a lot more time sitting around on the cool marble floor discussing important matters like politics, the Indian budget, the shameless behaviour of today’s youth and the Palestinian problem.’

  ‘So what’s wrong with that? At least he is not troubling his wife at home while he’s at the mosque,’ said Mrs Ali.

  Mr Ali knew that this was an argument he could not win, so he did not reply. Besides, despite Azhar’s new-found piousness (he had recently started growing a beard), he actually liked his brother-in-law and got along well with him.

  Mrs Ali nodded as their servant maid opened the gate. Leela was a thin woman in her forties with a perpetual wide smile that showed her big teeth; she was wearing an old faded cotton sari that had once belonged to Mrs Ali. She came into the yard.

  ‘Start by sweeping here first,’ said Mrs Ali to her.

  Leela nodded and said, ‘All right, amma.’

  Mrs Ali turned to go back into the house. She said to her husband, ‘Come in and eat your breakfast before the painter comes.’

  Mr Ali took one last look at the bare hibiscus plant and shook his head before following his wife inside.

  The doorbell rang soon after they finished their breakfast. Mr Ali went to the verandah and opened the gate. The painter grinned at him and waved towards a large, rectangular package wrapped in newspaper and lashed to a bicycle standing just outside the gate.

  ‘All ready,’ he said. ‘I’ll need your help to put it up.’

  ‘OK,’ agreed Mr Ali, going on to the street with the man.

  They unwrapped the package and a sign painted on a galvanised sheet with a wooden frame behind it came to light. They carried it to the wall outside the house. Mr Ali held up the sign so it was square and the painter hammered long nails through the wood and fixed it.

  Mr Ali was pleased with the way it looked, but out of sheer habit he said, ‘Five hundred rupees is too much for a simple sign like this.’

  The man’s smile dropped. ‘Sir, we’ve already agreed on the price. I am doing this at a special rate for you. The cost of paints is going up day by day. See,’ he said, touching the edge of the painted metal. ‘I’ve used special galvanised sheets that won’t rust after the first rains. I’ve also put it up for you on the wall. I didn’t just dump it like so much junk on your doorstep, did I?’

  Mr Ali quietly handed over five hundred rupees and the painter left. He wanted a better view of the sign, so he started crossing the road. A thin cyclist in an ill-fitting brown jumper almost bumped into him and Mr Ali had to move smartly aside to avoid a crash.

  ‘Look where you are going!’ said the cyclist.

  ‘You should have rung the bell,’ Mr Ali said. ‘How will people know you are there if you don’t ring?’

  ‘I was right in front of you. Did your eyesight fail when you got grey hair?’ asked the cyclist, shaking his head and pedalling away before Mr Ali could reply.

  Mr Ali dismissed the rude man, who did not even know the rules of the road, from his mind and walked forward until he was in the shadows of the houses opposite. He stood under a tall gulmohar tree. Its crown was still green, with just a few hints of budding red. A crow cawed raucously in the tree’s branches. Sparrows twittered and flew busily about on their duties. Mr Ali turned and looked back at the sign hanging on the wall of his house.

  ‘Ali’s Marriage Bureau for Rich People’ it proclaimed in big bold red letters on a blue background. Underneath, in smaller letters, it said: ‘Prop: Mr Hyder Ali, Govt Clerk (retired)’ and ‘Ph: 236678’.

  Four-storey apartment blocks overshadowed his small house on either side. His house was the only one with a garden in front. All the others had been built right up to the street. Two doors to the left, he saw the temple that was the bane of his garden. A tiny shop, already open, hugged the temple’s walls and sold newspapers, magazines, fruits and flowers. Mr Ali looked at the flowers outside the shop and scowled. Why did people steal flowers from his garden when there was a shop selling them right on the temple’s doorstep?

  Mr Ali looked back towards his house and saw two boys walking to school stop to read the new sign. He was so pleased that he quickly crossed the road and asked the boys to wait while he got them guavas from inside.

  Mr Ali’s house was built on a long, narrow strip of land about twenty feet wide and the rooms were all laid out in single file. After the garden, there was a verandah at the front, sharing the roof with the rest of the building, open on three sides to light and fresh air but secure against people with waist-high walls and an iron framework above them to the roof. The house proper started behind it - living room, bedroom, dining room and kitchen. At the back there was a little cemented yard.

  Standing in the verandah, Mr Ali called out, ‘Let’s set up the office.’

  His wife came out, wiping her hands dry on the edge of her old blue cotton sari. She had brushed her hair and plaited it. The braid was not as thick as it used to be years ago and there were streaks of grey in the black hair.

  ‘Let’s clear everything out first. There is a lot of junk here that’s not suitable in an office,’ Mr Ali said.

  Mrs Ali nodded and they set down to work.

  ‘We should have done this yesterday,’ said Mr Ali, picking up a lampshade. ‘What will clients think if they come in?’

  ‘The ad in the paper is being published tomorrow, isn’t it?’ asked Mrs Ali. ‘Anyway, you told me that our address was not included in the advertisement. Isn’t that true?’

  Mr Ali looked at his wife and laughed. ‘Don’t be so suspicious. Of course I haven’t put our address in the paper. But what if someone looks at the sign outside and walks in?’

  ‘I doubt if anyone will come in that soon. Come on, let’s finish this. I want to start cooking. Remember, Azhar and his wife are coming over for lunch,’ said Mrs Ali, gathering a bunch of old Reader’s Digest magazines and taking them inside the house.

  ‘Take that photo off the wall,’ said Mrs Ali, when she came back.

  Mr Ali looked at the picture of their
son with a young couple and a three-year-old boy hanging by a wire off a nail. He reached out and started to take it down, but then stopped. ‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘It won’t look out of place in an office, and Rehman put it up.’

  Mrs Ali looked at him oddly and Mr Ali said, ‘What?’ She shook her head and didn’t say anything.

  Half an hour later, the verandah was completely empty. Once Leela had swept away the cobwebs and mopped the floor, Mr and Mrs Ali surveyed the space.

  ‘Wow!’ said Mrs Ali. ‘I had forgotten how big this verandah is.’

  ‘Let’s look at it from a client’s point of view,’ Mr Ali said.

  He stepped outside into the front yard and closed the gate to the verandah. He waited a moment, then pushed the iron-grille gate and stepped inside. He stood just inside the gate in one corner and pointed left. ‘Let’s put the table so that I will be sitting with my back to that wall and facing any customers walking in,’ he said.

  He then walked to that wall and stood with his back to it, facing the width of the house. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I will sit here and the table will be in front of me. I will need a cabinet to hold the files and other stationery. Let’s use the wardrobe for that.’

  Mrs Ali nodded and said, ‘Let’s put the sofa against the front wall so clients can sit here and talk to you without shouting. We can put a couple of seats against the other two walls, so other clients can sit down as well.’

  ‘All right, let’s do it,’ he said.

  They started moving the furniture from inside the house. The table and chairs were relatively easy to move but the wooden wardrobe and the sofa proved much harder, especially at the doorstep between the living room and the verandah.