by Farahad Zama
She tried to speak lightly but Aruna couldn’t keep the tremor out of her voice. She picked up a piece of paper from the desk and turned to the cupboard.
‘What happened to the wedding?’ he asked. He must have noticed her hesitate because he added, ‘You don’t have to tell me if you’d rather not.’
Aruna sighed. ‘It’s very simple. My father fell ill and he was in hospital for a long time. Most of our savings were exhausted.’
Ramanujam said, ‘If he broke off the wedding because your father was not well, then maybe he wasn’t such a good guy. You will probably find somebody even better.’
Aruna shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He was - is - a good man. He married a distant cousin of mine. They are very happy. My cousin is the mother of a lovely boy,’ said Aruna.
Aruna thought that her heart would break. Sushil was the first match that had been proposed to her. The match had been perfect in almost every way and Aruna had fallen in love with him at first sight. At least, she had thought it was love. Now she wasn’t sure if what she had felt was love; she just knew that she had never felt those emotions before. She met him three times - each time she had felt breathless when told that he and his family were coming over; each time she was almost tongue-tied when actually face to face with him. She had taken great care of her appearance, wearing her best saris - now sold for household utensils - plaiting her long tresses with a coloured ribbon, wearing her gold necklace and earrings and applying just a touch of talcum powder to her face and neck to appear fairer than she really was.
She had been ecstatic when he had brought a string of jasmine flowers for her hair the third time he had come to visit her. He came without his mother or any other family - straight from work. Her father had been out and Aruna could see that her mother was scandalised that Sushil had turned up at their house without his family. Aruna’s mother sent Vani over to their neighbour’s house and had gone into the kitchen, leaving Aruna and Sushil in the living room talking to each other. Aruna and Sushil had talked for over forty-five minutes about all sorts of things. He had told her that he liked a particular South Indian film actress and she had teased him, saying the actress’s nose was too wide. She told him that she had never been out of their state and he had told her that he would remedy that as soon as possible after the wedding. He had told her that he would take her to Chennai and the hill station of Ooty. He had mentioned the word ‘honeymoon’ and she had blushed furiously and gone into the kitchen to see if her mother needed any help. Her mother didn’t need any help, of course, and so she went back into the living room in less than five minutes. He had apologised profusely for talking like that and she had prettily accepted his apology.
Sushil had asked her if she liked any film stars. She had shaken her head - no.
‘Not even Chiranjeevi?’ he asked, naming the most popular Telugu film star.
‘No. Anyway, boys like him more than girls because he acts in all those action movies,’ she replied.
They even talked about serious topics: why did he think the weather was getting hotter every year? What did she think about coalition governments? Should Naxalites - Maoist guerrillas - be supported when they burnt down liquor shops in tribal villages? They agreed on some subjects but not on others. Their agreements brought them closer - conspirators against the world - their disagreements added passion to their chat.
The talk had moved on to careers. He had asked her if she wanted to work after marriage and she had replied that she would like to work somewhere if she could find a job and it was all right with him - and his family.
‘I don’t mind,’ he had replied. ‘My mother might not like it - let us see.’
She truly hadn’t minded either way. Aruna knew his mother would be difficult to get along with, but was confident that in time she would win her over. She was in love with her fiancé. The sun shone in the heavens, the world was bright, anything was possible.
Vani came back from their neighbour’s place - and Aruna had never hated her sister so fiercely. Her mother brought some boorulu from the kitchen. Sushil had taken a bite into one and burnt his tongue on the hot jaggery core. He had waved his hand in pain from the hot sugar and Aruna had rushed into the kitchen to get a glass of cool water. She had hovered over him, asking if he was all right at least three times until he had assured her that he was fine - that it had just been a momentary shock. She had looked anxiously at him and their eyes met - almost like a scene from a movie.
Her father had returned soon after Sushil had gone. Aruna and her mother kept quiet about the visit, but Vani thoughtlessly revealed it to their father. He was not happy at this unchaperoned visit, but didn’t say anything. After all, the man was practically his son-in-law.
Aruna had gone to bed extremely happy - all night long she had vague dreams of Sushil and herself visiting a very atmospheric mountain valley with rolling fog. It was cold in the mountains and the two were walking down a mountain path wrapped in a single blanket. Delicious feelings tingled through her. She had woken up happy - hugging the memories of the previous evening tightly in her mind. She had remained in that state of mind for three more days, until the night her father had cried out from bed, unable to get up, and the dreams had slowly faded away as colour was leached from her life, from her clothes, from her soul.
Aruna had never spoken about these events and feelings to anybody - not even to her mother or sister. She certainly couldn’t tell the whole story to Ramanujam. But she couldn’t hold it all inside, either. She now related some of it - just the bare facts.
Aruna and Ramanujam kept talking. He talked about his college days - he had done his MBBS in town at the Andhra Medical College, but his post-graduate study for an MD in neurosurgery had been at the premier All India Institute of Medical Sciences in Delhi.
Aruna was impressed. ‘AIIMS? Isn’t it difficult to get into?’ she asked.
Ramanujam shrugged. ‘It’s a great institute. The campus is lovely and you get the best professors there. But for all that I learnt at the college, I think I learnt just as much staying in a hostel away from my family.’
‘I’ve never been away from my family. The only times I stayed away from home was when I went to Shastry-uncle’s house for the summer holidays when I was younger,’ said Aruna.
Ramanujam said, ‘There were girls too in AIIMS. We boys were not allowed inside their hostel, but they could come and visit us. If we wanted to meet one of the girls at the hostel, we had to stand in the front lounge and wait for somebody to walk past and then ask them if they would take a message. Some girls were pretty nosy. They wanted to know why we wanted to meet the girl; they asked all sorts of questions and then refused to take the message.’
‘It must have taught you patience,’ teased Aruna.
‘It was frustrating. While we stood there, the milkman would walk past, the postman would walk past, the washerman, the canteen boy, the gardeners - in fact all sorts of guys would be walking past but we students couldn’t cross the line in front of the lounge,’ said Ramanujam.
‘Like a Lakshman rekha,’ observed Aruna referring to the line drawn by Lakshmana to keep his brother Ram’s faithful wife Sita safe from all danger in the Hindu epic Ramayana.
‘Exactly like a Lakshman rekha, though some of the girls in the hostel did not exactly take Sita as their role model,’ laughed Ramanujam.
Aruna asked, ‘So how many times did you stand outside the ladies’ hostel waiting for somebody to deliver your message?’
Ramanujam replied, ‘Not often - just three or four times.’
Aruna laughed, ‘Yeah, right!’
‘No, really,’ said Ramanujam. ‘Besides, it was more fun to meet the girls in Singh’s teashop.’
She laughed at his naughty grin.
Mrs Ali suddenly called out from inside the house, ‘Aruna, why haven’t you switched on the lights?’
Aruna realised with a jolt that it had grown quite dark. She replied to Mrs Ali, ‘Sorry, madam. I am switchi
ng the lights on now.’
She got up and switched on the light. The long white tube flickered a couple of times and then came on. Aruna closed her eyes, said a small prayer and touched her forehead with the tips of her fingers.
Mrs Ali came out and saw Ramanujam.
‘Sorry,’ she said to Aruna, ‘I didn’t realise you had a client.’
She went back into the house. Aruna felt guilty. It was very unusual not to have any clients visiting them in the evening. Had anybody left without coming in because the lights were not on and the front of the house was in darkness?
She turned to her files and said to Ramanujam, ‘We received one match that might be of interest to you. It came yesterday by post and it hasn’t gone into the list yet.’
She copied the details of the match - the daughter of a member of the legislative assembly - on to a piece of paper and gave it to Ramanujam. ‘We don’t have a photo for the girl. Her father writes in the letter that he will come by and have a chat with us when the assembly breaks up and he comes back from Hyderabad.’
She didn’t need to say that the bride’s family was wealthy. Everyone knew that all politicians were rich. Ramanujam looked through the details. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I am not sure I really want to marry into a politician’s family.’ He looked at her and said, ‘It’s time I was leaving. Do you know what time Mr Ali will be back?’
Aruna shook her head. ‘I don’t know what time sir will be back,’ she said.
Ramanujam nodded but made no move to leave. ‘Normally, I run my private clinic at this time, but not on Tuesdays because that’s the day I have two surgical sessions at the government hospital, ’ he said.
Ramanujam told Aruna about the surgery he had carried out that day. A young man had been brought in from a village, suffering with epileptic fits. The fits were so violent that he could not travel in a bus or train. The family had tied him up on a string bed and had brought him to the hospital on a bullock cart. The young man had been recently married and his wife had come along as well as the man’s parents. He told Aruna how the man’s parents were ill-treating the poor woman, blaming her for their son’s illness.
Aruna sighed in sympathy. If a man fell ill or lost his job soon after getting married, everybody blamed the poor bride for bringing bad luck into the family. Strangely, it didn’t work the other way round - it wasn’t the man’s fault if the woman fell ill after marriage. In fact, the woman was scorned for not being a healthy bride.
‘How did the operation go? Is he cured?’ she asked.
‘Well, we took a tumour out. He still hasn’t woken up from the anaesthetic. We’ll know in the next few days.’ Ramanujam looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said.
Aruna smiled at him. She said, ‘I hope I didn’t bore you.’
‘Not at all,’ replied Ramanujam. ‘I had a very pleasant evening. I hope I didn’t keep you from your work. Thanks for giving me the list.’
‘No problem. I hope you find a proper bride,’ she said, smiling.
Ramanujam rolled his eyes and got up.
Aruna stood up as well. ‘It’s time for me to go too,’ she said. She put the papers away and closed the cupboard doors. She had already tidied the table away while talking to Ramanujam and she was ready in a minute. She put her handbag - a new purchase - over her shoulder and peeked behind the curtain into the house and called out to Mrs Ali, ‘I’m going, madam.’
Mrs Ali was on the phone. She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and smiled at her. ‘Please close the door behind you,’ she said.
Aruna and Ramanujam left the house together. Aruna closed the door, pulled the bolt through the iron grille and they walked out on to the road. Ramanujam’s shiny, white car was parked outside. Aruna didn’t know much about cars but she could tell it was an expensive model. He clicked on the key fob and the car beeped and flashed its indicator lights twice. Ramanujam opened the door and turned to Aruna. ‘Do you want me to drop you off?’ he asked.
‘No, thanks,’ replied Aruna. She was tempted, but knew that if people saw her getting out of a car driven by a stranger, they would talk.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘Yes, it is not far and I have to pick up vegetables on the way,’ she replied.
‘All right, then. See you soon,’ he said and turned to sit down in the car. Aruna stepped back from the car and started to walk away.
‘Aruna,’ he called out, and she turned.
‘Yes?’ she asked.
‘Here’s my card. It has my mobile number on it. If any suitable Brahmin girls become members, please call me,’ he said.
She looked at him quizzically.
‘I want to check out the details before my sister or my mother sees them,’ he said.
‘Are you afraid they’ll force you to marry somebody you don’t like?’ she asked, laughing.
‘No, nothing like that. But it is easier if they don’t even see somebody I don’t like; I won’t have to keep refusing them,’ he said.
Aruna nodded. ‘No problem,’ she said, taking the card and putting it in her handbag.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The next day, Mr Ali and Aruna were going through their lists to identify non-members. These were people who had responded to ads but had never become members themselves. Mr Ali wanted to write to them reminding them to become members. They had been at this task for over an hour when Mrs Ali finished preparing lunch and came out with three glasses of cool sherbet and sat with them. She used the end of her sari to wipe her brow and brought the chair a little forward to better catch the breeze from the fan. Mr Ali called a stop to their work.
‘Let’s take a break,’ he said. ‘This is hard work.’
The three were silent for a few minutes while they sipped the dark red drink.
‘What is this, madam? I’ve never had this drink before,’ asked Aruna.
‘This is rooh afza. I suppose you can call it rose syrup. It is an old cooling drink used by Muslims. Most young people don’t know about it now - they all drink Coke or Pepsi,’ said Mrs Ali.
After some time, Mrs Ali asked her husband, ‘So, what did all you oldies do on the beach yesterday?’
Mr Ali laughed. ‘The usual - we walked along the beach, talked about our aches and pains and how much money our sons are earning or how much our little houses are now worth.’
Mrs Ali asked, ‘How many of you were there?’
Mr Ali thought for a moment and said, ‘About ten of us. Oh, one more thing happened . . .’
Mrs Ali frowned. ‘What happened?’ she asked softly.
‘As Azhar and I reached the beach, a Christian missionary stopped us. He started telling us how the Bible was the one true book and we should follow it if we wanted to go to heaven,’ said Mr Ali.
‘I bet Azhar walked away from him and you didn’t,’ said Mrs Ali.
‘How did you know?’ asked a surprised Mr Ali. ‘I looked around and Azhar had disappeared. I told the missionary that it was a miracle, the way my brother-in-law had disappeared, but I don’t think he had a sense of humour.’
‘Poor man,’ said Mrs Ali in a sympathetic voice.
‘Yes, I know. Here I was, ready to join my friends on the beach and this guy stops me and wants to talk religion,’ said Mr Ali.
‘Not you. I meant the missionary. Poor man, that he encountered you. You must have destroyed his confidence,’ said Mrs Ali.
Aruna laughed. Mr Ali looked at her severely and she bent her head, studiously looking at the lists.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Mr Ali, turning to his wife.
‘Did you or did you not exchange words with him?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘What exactly did you tell him?’ asked Mrs Ali.
‘Well, he showed me a pamphlet that he said proved the truth of the Bible. The pamphlet talked about how the Bible gave the order of creation of animal life - fish, reptiles, birds, land animals and finally men. He said that the probability of getting such a
sequence right was one in many billions - that it proved the Bible must have been divinely inspired. He asked me to come to their church to hear more about the Bible and save myself from eternal damnation.’
‘What did you tell him? Did you insult him?’ she asked faintly.
‘Insult him? No! That was your brother who insulted him by rudely disappearing as soon as he opened his mouth. I did him the courtesy of listening to his spiel and responding to him,’ he said.
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ said Mrs Ali.
‘I pointed out to him that the Quran had the sequence the same way. I asked him if that didn’t mean that the Quran was divinely inspired too. He said that he didn’t know the Quran, so he couldn’t say,’ said Mr Ali.
‘Did you invite him to our house to study the Quran?’ asked Mrs Ali.
‘No, don’t be silly, woman,’ said Mr Ali, exasperated. ‘I said, fair enough, you don’t know the Quran, but surely you know about the Dusavatar of Hindu mythology. He said, yes. I asked him if he knew the order of the ten avatars of God that came down to earth to destroy evil.’
Aruna looked up in interest.
‘I said the order of the ten avatars started fish, tortoise, boar, half man half beast . . . Isn’t that correct?’ he asked, turning to Aruna.
Aruna nodded. ‘That’s correct - the Dusavatars start off as matsya, koorma, varaha, Narasimha and the rest are human avatars,’ she said.
‘I said to the guy, What a coincidence. Wasn’t Hindu mythology divinely inspired too? And since all our religions are saying the same thing, why go through the hassle of converting from one religion to another? I was born a Muslim and I am happy to remain one.’
Mr Ali looked at both women, as if expecting applause at his cleverness.
Mrs Ali shook her head from side to side. She said, ‘Husband, one day somebody will bash you up. I just don’t know if it’s going to be Hindus, Christians or Muslims.’