The Marriage Bureau for Rich People

by Farahad Zama

  Mr Ali asked Aruna to take out Irshad’s file. She had already taken it out and kept it on top of the table, so she just handed it over to Mr Ali. He smiled at her and sat on the chair across the low coffee table in front of Irshad and looked through it.

  ‘We have already advertised twice on your behalf. You got a few responses for the second ad. What happened to those?’ he asked.

  Irshad said, ‘Nothing. I wrote to about half of them, but except one or two of them, nobody even replied.’

  Mr Ali looked up with interest. ‘Oh! What did those people who wrote to you say?’

  ‘They said they were not interested,’ said Irshad.

  ‘Hmm . . . So people responded to the ad but did not reply back after you wrote to them. What did you tell them?’

  ‘The usual - I am a successful salesman with a salary of eight thousand rupees but earning twenty-five thousand rupees most months. I am an only son. My father is no more and I live with my mother. The house is our own, built by my father a long time ago - we couldn’t afford to buy one in the middle of the town like that now.’

  ‘I agree. There is nothing wrong with any of that. You are not short or too dark either. What about the girl? Are you asking for a lot of dowry or any other unusual requirement?’

  ‘No. In fact, I don’t mention any dowry at all because it doesn’t even get to that stage,’ replied a clearly frustrated Irshad.

  ‘Yes, your case is unusual. I don’t see any reason why you should not get any matches. Why are you doing all the running around? What about your mother?’

  ‘Since my father died, my mother has just immersed herself completely in religion. She spends half her time in prayers and the other half reading the Koran. She has just been on a pilgrimage to Ajmer Sharif and now she wants to go to Mecca and never come back.’

  ‘Oh, dear! You do have lots of trouble on your head at the moment. Well, if she goes off to Mecca, it will help you settle in with your bride when you get one,’ quipped Mr Ali.

  ‘Yeah, when I get one . . .’ muttered Irshad sourly.

  ‘Just out of interest, what do you sell?’ asked Mr Ali.

  Irshad’s face shone with excitement for the first time since he had come in. He said, ‘I sell valves - little tiny ones to control chemicals or huge big ones for use in the shipyard. I sell electric valves, pneumatic valves, manual valves - all types. I am the best salesman for our company in the whole of South India.’

  Mr Ali asked, ‘Do you think valves are important?’

  ‘Of course, sir. Without valves, modern life would be impossible. Running water, flush toilets - you name it. They all need valves. Forget modern conveniences - without valves, your blood could not circulate in your body. Life itself would not exist.’

  Mr Ali looked at his earnest face and asked, ‘Do you mention this when you speak to your potential in-laws?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ replied Irshad. ‘If they respond and ask me what I do, then I tell them.’

  Mr Ali sighed and said, ‘OK, let me think about this. I will give your matter some consideration. Don’t be disheartened. You are a young man earning a good salary, with your own property. You are not too bad-looking and you don’t have seven sisters to marry off. I am sure a match will come soon. Don’t you have any uncles or other family elders who can help you?’

  Irshad said, ‘No. My father was an only son and my mother was much younger than all her brothers. They have all died. My father was transferred from place to place and we’ve lost all contact with any family.’

  Mr Ali replied, ‘Yes. That’s a big problem with modern life. Families get scattered like chaff in the wind. Don’t worry, young man, we will do our best and find the perfect somebody for you.’

  Irshad thanked Mr Ali and left. Soon after, they heard his motorcycle start.

  Mrs Ali came out after Irshad left. She said, ‘Before you came, he was shouting at Aruna. He even shouted at me, claiming that we were frauds.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mr Ali, ‘you should have told me. I would have made him apologise to both of you.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ said Aruna. ‘I was scared at first, but Mrs Ali really put him in his place. He was meek after that. I thought he would shout at you when you came back but he must have cooled down while waiting.’

  She laughed with relief. Mrs Ali laughed with Aruna.

  ‘Yes, he was jumping up and down like a live prawn, but I was pretty good, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Yes . . . before you came, he was talking about going to the police and everything,’ said Aruna.

  Mr Ali frowned. ‘But I do find it strange. Why isn’t he getting any responses?’

  Mrs Ali said severely, ‘What do you mean by joking about his mother? She might go to Mecca or to Medina. What’s it to you? You should not joke about these things.’

  ‘How did you hear that?’ asked Mr Ali.

  ‘I was in the front room in case he started shouting at Aruna again,’ said Mrs Ali. ‘And don’t change the subject.’

  Mr Ali nodded and said, ‘I could see he was upset and I was trying to calm him down.’

  Mrs Ali replied, ‘You were lucky. He could just as easily have taken offence and taken off again.’

  They talked for a while longer about Irshad and Mrs Ali went back inside. Mr Ali turned to Aruna. ‘Let’s have a look at those new members first and make their ads. The agent from Today will come in first thing tomorrow for the copy.’

  She gave him the list and Mr Ali sat down and started making up the ads. This was one task he had not delegated to Aruna. Forty-five minutes later, he handed the pile of papers to Aruna and told her, ‘Please put them in the top drawer. If I am not here when the ad boy comes, give them to him and tell him I will pay him later.’

  Aruna quickly flipped through the papers and put them in the top drawer.

  She turned to Mr Ali and said, ‘Sir, I can understand somebody like Irshad using our help. He is an average-looking man in an ordinary job. He doesn’t have a father or other family elders to help him, so it is not a surprise that he will come to somebody like us. But why would somebody like Ramanujam, the doctor, need a marriage bureau? He is a good-looking man, a surgeon, quite young and his family is very wealthy. Why would he come to us?’

  Mr Ali laughed and said, ‘The world is full of all kinds of people - luckily for us. I don’t know why they made that decision but let me tell you something - as long as his sister is looking for a bride for him, he will never get married.’

  Aruna was shocked and asked, ‘Why do you say that, sir?’

  ‘Call it experience, call it a sixth sense. His sister will keep looking for the perfect bride, but perfection is an attribute of God alone - it doesn’t exist in this world. It is said that the Mughal emperor Aurangzeb’s daughters never married because they could not find anybody who was good enough for them, and that’s exactly how it will be for Ramanujam. A pity, because he seems like a good chap.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  On Friday, about a month later, Aruna arrived home and went into the kitchen as usual to help her mother. She started chopping up ladies’ fingers, okra, into little rings. Her mother was turned away from her, stirring the onions in the pan. She asked, ‘Monday is your day off, isn’t it?’

  Aruna looked up at her mother’s back. ‘You know it is. Why?’ she said.

  ‘Shastry-uncle came today.’

  ‘He comes here almost every day,’ said Aruna, laughing. ‘What’s so special this time?’

  ‘He said he may have found a match for you,’ said her mother.

  ‘Amma, I don’t want to go through that hassle again. Just tell Shastry-uncle to drop it, will you?’ said Aruna, pushing up a fringe of hair that had fallen in front of her eyes with the back of her hand.

  ‘They seem like good people - he is a clerk in the Indian Bank. His father was a bank employee too. They are from the village next to ours.’

  ‘Amma, what’s the point? You know—’ started Aruna.

  ‘Aruna, do
n’t get disheartened. Maybe this time it will work out,’ interrupted her mother.

  ‘You know it won’t. I won’t go through it again. I won’t,’ said Aruna. She knew she sounded like a child having a tantrum, but felt unable to be any other way.

  Her mother said, ‘Arunaa . . .’

  Aruna knew that tone of voice. Her mother wasn’t going to take a no from her.

  Aruna went back to her chopping, sulking.

  ‘Just because it didn’t work out last time, it doesn’t mean that the same thing will happen now. Forget the past,’ said her mother.

  After a while, Aruna said, ‘Amma, our finances are not good. Naanna is only getting half pension now. Why don’t we wait another two years until his pension comes back to full strength before looking again?’

  ‘The seasons don’t wait for anyone, Aruna. Especially not for young girls who have come of marriage age. It is already very late. If God had shown us some mercy, you would have been married by now. We’ll manage somehow. We cannot delay your wedding.’

  Aruna sighed. Her father had taught Telugu and maths in government schools before he retired. Most teachers who got posted to schools in small, remote villages either bribed their way out of the posting or simply never turned up at school. Her father had never done either - he accepted every posting stoically and went about his duties. His students, as she knew because she had been one of them, groaned because alone among the government teachers, he was never absent. He marked his students fairly, but strictly. He never gave private tuitions, but if a student showed aptitude, he taught the student at weekends at his home without charging any money.

  Almost three years ago, Aruna’s father retired and they moved to Vizag and settled in a small house. Aruna graduated and started her MA course at the university. Vani joined a local school. About a year and a half later, a bombshell had dropped on their family. The government wrote to Aruna’s father saying that his pension had been calculated wrongly and he had been overpaid since he retired. The letter said that his pension would be stopped for eighteen months until the extra money he had received was cancelled out. Her father was not the only one who had been overpaid. The whole batch of employees who had retired that month were in the same position. Her father joined the other employees and protested until the government changed its mind. Instead of being completely cut, their pension would be reduced by half and the money recovered over three years.

  The family already had financial problems and now found it difficult to manage on half of an already meagre pension. Aruna stopped studying for her post-graduate degree and as the financial troubles got worse, she took up a job to help her family.

  A few days later, Mr Ali was going through the Christian Mala list that Aruna had typed earlier in the day.

  ‘This is good,’ said Mr Ali. ‘But I think the next time you should fit more addresses on each page. Here, instead of saying date of birth, just type DOB.’

  Aruna nodded.

  Mr Ali pointed out another address in the list and said, ‘Here, you’ve typed Andhra Pradesh. We can just type AP or not type it at all.’

  Aruna nodded again and said, ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘No, nothing to be sorry about,’ said Mr Ali. ‘By the way, it’s a good idea of yours to put up photographs of our successes. There are quite a few there already and the other day, Mr Konda became a member after seeing those pictures.’

  Aruna smiled and said, ‘Thanks, sir. I’ve been meaning to ask you a question: Who are the couple with your son in that photograph?’

  Mr Ali looked at the picture on the wall and sighed. ‘That’s a sad story. That couple were classmates of Rehman who fell in love with each other. The boy was a poor farmer’s son from a nearby village and the girl was the daughter of a rich merchant from town. They married each other against the girl’s family’s wishes. They had a son, as you can see from the picture, but the girl’s father never relented. Then, a couple of years ago, when the boy was five years old, his father died in a construction accident. The girl took her son and went to her parents’ house, but her father insulted her and threw her out. The poor girl could not bear it and committed suicide. Rehman thinks it was with the hope that once she was no more, her parents would take care of their grandson, but they proved heartless. They didn’t come to her funeral and never asked about their grandchild.’

  Aruna said, ‘Some people are so stubborn. What happened to the poor child?’

  Mr Ali said, ‘His paternal grandfather is bringing him up on his farm in the village.’

  He was going to add something more, but he heard footsteps outside and looked up. Aruna took the list and went back to her seat. Mr Ali saw the salesman Irshad come in, and smiled. ‘Good you could come so quickly when I called,’ Mr Ali said.

  ‘Salaam, sir,’ said Irshad. ‘Thank you for thinking about me.’

  Mr Ali had been mulling over the young man’s problem for the last few days. That morning at breakfast he had been listening to the news on All India Radio and an idea had clicked in his brain. He called Irshad and asked him to come over. Irshad told him that he had an appointment with the chief engineer in the port at one, but he would come in just after noon to meet him.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Mr Ali, ‘what do you tell your prospective in-laws about your salary?’

  ‘I tell them my base salary is eight thousand rupees but with commission it goes up to twenty-five or thirty thousand rupees a month.’

  ‘Right, and what do you tell them about your job?’ asked Mr Ali.

  ‘I tell them that I am a salesman, sir. I tell them that my company is the second biggest distributor of valves in India. We have a collaboration with German manufacturers as well,’ replied Irshad.

  ‘All right. Is your company a well-known brand?’

  ‘No, sir. It is just like valves. Without valves nothing could run but, just as nobody pays any attention to them when they are doing their job, our company is not really known to the general public.’

  ‘Are you a good salesman?’ asked Mr Ali.

  ‘Yes, sir. I have already told you, I have the best sales in the whole of South India, better than any salesman covering bigger cities like Chennai and Bangalore.’

  ‘Do you talk about valves to your prospective in-laws?’ asked Mr Ali. He noticed that Aruna had given up working and was listening avidly to the conversation.

  ‘Well . . .’ demurred Irshad.

  ‘Yes or no?’ demanded Mr Ali.

  Irshad dropped his head and wouldn’t meet Mr Ali’s eyes. Mr Ali just stayed silent, staring at him. Irshad looked up after a few moments and admitted, ‘Once or twice.’

  ‘Do you talk about your mother spending all her time in prayer when you meet potential clients?’ asked Mr Ali.

  ‘Of course not, sir. It is irrelevant.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Mr Ali. ‘You are talking about irrelevant things when people are coming to see you. Once you have met several times and got engaged or married to their daughter, then you can talk about valves all you like and nobody is going to be rude to you. After all, you will be their son-in-law. But until you get to that stage, no talking about things that absorb you greatly but are of no interest to them. You are a salesman and you are failing to sell yourself. Do you understand?’ asked Mr Ali.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Irshad softly.

  ‘Think of yourself as a product - a valve, an important and unglamorous valve. The customer needs it but she doesn’t know it yet. It is your job to convince her that you are just the right product.’

  Irshad was looking at Mr Ali with his mouth open.

  ‘Er—’ he began.

  Mr Ali interrupted him. ‘No ers and bers. We have a product to sell and we are going to sell it. What’s your salary?’

  The young man was thrown by the sudden change of topic. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Aruna giggled. Irshad glanced at her and his face reddened. He said, ‘Eight thousand.’

  ‘Wrong,’ said Mr Ali. ‘What is
the minimum you’ve made, in the last six months, including your commission?’

  ‘Er . . .’ said Irshad, clearly thinking hard. ‘Twenty-two thousand, ’ he said.

  ‘OK. Your salary is twenty-two thousand.’

  ‘What’s your job?’ asked Aruna.

  Both the men turned to her. ‘Salesman,’ said Irshad.

  ‘No. You are a sales executive,’ replied Aruna.

  ‘Excellent. That’s a very good suggestion.’

  ‘You own your own house in the centre of town. Your mother is a pious woman who will be no trouble to her daughter-in-law. No sisters to marry off. All positive points that need to be made clear in your sales pitch. Let’s look through the latest list of brides.’

  Aruna took out the list of Muslim brides. Mr Ali and Irshad went through the list and identified five potential candidates who were the right age, height and similar financial background.

  ‘Have you contacted any of them already?’ asked Mr Ali.

  Irshad pointed out two of the five and said, ‘I’ve contacted these two.’

  ‘Let’s leave them out. You have three possibilities here. Let’s see, Malkeen, twenty-two years old, five feet three inches tall. Her father is an accountant in the shipyard and she has two brothers. Can you take out her photo, Aruna?’ asked Mr Ali.

  Aruna looked up the reference number and took out the photograph from the file and passed it to Mr Ali. He looked at it briefly and passed it on to Irshad who glanced at the photograph and nodded. Mr Ali then moved on to the next girl in the selection.

  ‘Shameem, twenty-six years old, five feet two. Her father runs that famous department store near the old head post office,’ Mr Ali said, looking up. ‘You know the one I mean - it is on two storeys and sells all those wall clocks and pressure cookers.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I know the one you mean.’