by Farahad Zama
‘Yes, dear. My shoes,’ Irshad said patiently.
‘Are they lost, uncle?’ she asked brightly.
‘Yes, my girl. Where are they?’ he asked.
‘I can find them for you if you give me a fee,’ she replied.
‘All right,’ Irshad said, taking a hundred-rupee note from his pocket and giving it to her.
The girl waved the hundred-rupee note in derision. ‘Nah!’ she said. ‘That’s not worth my time.’
Irshad added another hundred-rupee note. She looked at him with the best sneer she could manage on her young face. Irshad sighed and added a five-hundred rupee note.
‘Shall I tell my aunt that she married a stingy man?’ she asked, playing her trump card.
Irshad looked around. Everybody was laughing and he was embarrassed. He was definitely coming out second best in these negotiations. He added three-hundred rupees more, bringing the total to a thousand rupees. The girl looked thoughtfully at the money and glanced at one of her older cousins standing a little bit away. The older cousin nodded discreetly and the girl turned to Irshad, took the money and disappeared. She reappeared in a couple of minutes with the shoes.
‘They were just round the corner, uncle. I don’t know how they landed there,’ she said.
‘I’m sure you don’t,’ laughed Irshad, putting on his shoes.
Irshad was led into a room in the house. Mr Ali decided to stay outside while people started stacking the chairs and unfolding tables for the wedding feast in the marquee. Mr Ali started chatting to the other official witness, Aisha’s oldest uncle. The gentleman’s name was Mr Iqbal and he had worked for the state government before retiring, in the irrigation department.
‘Let’s go and have a look at the food being prepared. It must be almost ready by now,’ he said taking Mr Ali’s arm by the elbow.
The two men went through the crowded house to the open area at the back. There, the scene was one of organised chaos. Men and women rushed around carrying spices and utensils. Three large stones were placed in a triangle and a big cauldron, taller than a large boy, was on the stones. Stacks of firewood were burning under the cauldron. Steam enveloped a man stirring the spicy brinjal and bottle-gourd khatta with a five-foot-long iron spatula. A fat, bare-chested man with a towel tied round his forehead to keep the sweat from pouring into his eyes was standing next to an even larger cauldron. This was sealed tight with a ring of cotton cloth covered in dough between the lid and the pot, and the fire underneath was banked up. White-hot embers from the fire were spread on the lid, so the food inside was steaming as if in an oven. This was the famous dum biryani without which any South Indian Muslim wedding is incomplete.
The menu at a South Indian Muslim wedding feast is always the same: mutton biryani, brinjal and bottle-gourd side dish as a sauce and a coconut and onion raita. Long after everything else is forgotten and the bride has become a matron with grown-up children, the biryani will still be remembered and used to grade the quality of the wedding celebration. The best meat is mutton from a full-grown ram. There must be at least as much meat by weight as the rice - preferably one and a half times or even twice as much, if the family can afford it. Ideally, the rice should be Basmati, but few families can afford that, and so a local long- and thin-grained variety is acceptable. The meat and rice alone are not enough, however. There is the skill of the chef and the right combination of onions, chillies, ghee, salt, spices - cloves, cardamom, cinnamon, poppy seeds, ginger, garlic and a vast number of others - cooked for the right amount of time at the correct temperature. Cooking for a thousand people in one batch is not a job for the faint hearted, especially when all the guests have eaten the dish scores of times before and fancy themselves as critics.
Mr Ali looked at the fat man and knew that he was the biryani chef. He was walking round the cauldron, checking the seal around the lid. The bride’s uncle saw Mr Ali looking at the chef. He said, ‘His name is Musa. He is a good cook, but not as good as his father. His father cooked the biryani at all our weddings and people still talk about those feasts.’
Musa gave a shout and several men ran to him, including the man stirring the khatta or wet curry. The moment of truth had come. Mr Ali and the bride’s uncle moved to one side to give the men a clear space. The embers on the lid were swept away carefully. Two long wooden poles were brought and placed under the overhanging lip of the cauldron. The poles were tied together with old cotton saris. All the men took up position, holding the poles.
The chef counted: ‘One, two, three!’
On the count of three, the men’s arms bulged and their faces tightened with strain as they lifted the hot and heavy cauldron off the stones and placed it on a previously prepared sand pit next to the stones, so it was away from the fire. The dough around the lid had dried up and it was hastily chipped away and the lid taken off. A vast amount of steam arose from the cauldron, bringing with it an aroma of cooked rice, meat, ghee and spices. Everybody stopped and all eyes were on the chef as he dug a big spatula into the food and took out a sample of the biryani. He tasted the rice, felt the texture of the mutton between his thumb and index finger, and popped it into his mouth. He chewed for a few seconds, nodded and smiled. Mr Ali had been unconsciously holding his breath and he let it out with a big sigh of relief. The frowns of concentration around him were replaced by smiles. Musa turned around and called the bride’s father. The bride’s uncle joined her father in going to the chef and he pulled Mr Ali along with him. They all tasted the biryani and gave it their approval. Musa nodded in satisfaction and shouted at his men to put the lid back on the cauldron, leaving a little gap for the steam to escape, and retired. His job was done.
After lunch, there was a lull while everybody rested, the bride and groom separately. In the late afternoon, Mr Ali knew, other ceremonies start, like jalwa - the show. In this ceremony, the bride and bridegroom are shown to each other, traditionally, for the first time ever. There is much ribaldry and teasing of both the partners. Then comes the bidaai, the goodbye, when the bride takes leave of her father’s house and her childhood and accompanies her new husband to her new house to start her new life. There are always lots of tears at every bidaai, as there would be at this wedding as well.
Mr Ali did not want to stay for all this, however. He looked round until he saw his wife talking to some ladies of the bride’s family. She finally caught his eye and came over.
Mr Ali said, ‘That was a good wedding, wasn’t it?’
Mrs Ali sighed. She said, ‘You know how young women become broody when they see their friends’ babies? I feel like that now.’
Mr Ali looked at his wife, alarmed. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘Broody?’
‘No, silly!’ She laughed. ‘I long to see our son’s wedding. I wish to see him on a horse with a floral veil covering his face going to his bride.’
‘I know what you mean. I feel like that too, but I don’t see when our silly son will give us that pleasure,’ he said. ‘Anyway, let’s go. I don’t want to see all the crying and wailing at the bidaai.’
Mrs Ali agreed. They said their goodbyes and left.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Aruna was in the office and getting bored. She wondered how Irshad’s wedding was going. She had never attended a Muslim wedding so she didn’t know the sequence of ceremonies. Mr Ali had missed the deadline for placing the ads in the Sunday papers and it was very quiet. No clients had come in all morning and there had been hardly any phone calls.
Mr Ali had told her to contact a Kapu girl’s father and give him the details of a potential match. The bridegroom was working in a multinational company in Delhi, though the boy’s parents lived locally. She called the father but he was not at home. She left a message and hung up. She decided to write the postcards they used to reply to people who responded to their advertisements.
Half an hour later, Aruna had written a pile of cards and her fingers had cramp. She dropped the pen on the table and massaged the fingers on her right hand. She was thinking of shutting
up shop and going home early when the doorbell rang and in walked Ramanujam.
‘Hello,’ she said in surprise.
‘Hi, Aruna,’ he replied.
‘Did Mr Ali call you and say that you had more matches?’ she asked. ‘I don’t remember any coming in.’
Ramanujam did not say anything. She got up and pulled out his file from the cupboard. There was no note in it and she checked the new joiners’ file. A Brahmin girl had joined the day before after she had gone home.
‘Must be this one,’ she said and took out the form from the file. She read out the details of the girl: ‘Twenty-four years old, five feet seven inches.’ She looked up at him. ‘She’s quite tall, isn’t she?’ she said.
Ramanujam nodded.
She went back to reading the form. ‘Graduate in home science; doesn’t want to work after marriage; fair. The family’s wealthy too. They own several houses in town and are willing to give a large dowry. They haven’t said how much, though. She has one brother and he is a doctor in America.’ She looked up at him and said, ‘Sounds ideal to me. What do you think?’
Ramanujam said, ‘I—’
‘Oh! Look,’ interrupted Aruna, ‘we’ve got a photograph of her.’
She jumped up and went to the cupboard and took out a photograph. She looked at the photograph and handed it to Ramanujam. She said, ‘She looks beautiful. I wish I had a complexion like that.’ She laughed ruefully.
Ramanujam looked briefly at the photograph and set it aside. ‘Aruna . . .’ he said.
Something in his tone caught Aruna’s attention. She slowly sat down in her chair.
‘Relax,’ he said, ‘I didn’t come for any matches.’
‘Oh,’ she replied, puzzled. ‘But it doesn’t matter what you came for. This girl is still very suitable. I am sure your family will find her perfect.’
‘I was in the area, so I thought I’d drop in,’ he said.
‘That’s good of you. Sir and madam are out and it has been very quiet. It’s lucky that you came when you did; I was actually thinking of shutting the office and going home early,’ Aruna said. ‘By the way, thanks very much for taking us to your orchard. We had a wonderful time. Vani also asked me to thank you.’
‘I enjoyed the day very much. I should thank you. Or maybe, I should thank the ticket inspector who was so officious.’ Ramanujam laughed.
Aruna shuddered. ‘Thank God you called back after I missed you. I was getting worried - stuck out there with no cash. That reminds me, let me return your money,’ she said, taking out a hundred-rupee note from her purse.
He waved it away. ‘Don’t be silly!’ he said. ‘If you hadn’t called, I would have missed a lovely day out.’
‘No, no,’ said Aruna. ‘You said it was a loan.’
‘All right,’ said Ramanujam and took the money from her.
‘How is Vani? Tell her that I haven’t forgotten about the cashew mangoes. When they are ripe, I’ll get some,’ said Ramanujam.
‘Thank you,’ said Aruna. ‘She really loved the orchard.’
‘What about you? Did you like it too?’ asked Ramanujam.
‘Of course,’ said Aruna. ‘It was absolutely wonderful. We lived in several villages when I was growing up and it reminded me of them. But it wasn’t just the place - I thought the company was good too.’
Ramanujam looked at her intensely. ‘Really?’ he said.
Aruna blushed. ‘Yes,’ she said, lifting her chin, ‘I enjoyed your company.’
‘That’s what I like about you, Aruna,’ said Ramanujam. ‘You are so artless.’
‘Is that a compliment?’ asked Aruna.
‘Yes, it is. Most girls think it is cool to be coy,’ said Ramanujam.
‘I know, but I’ve grown out of it,’ said Aruna, laughing.
‘How is your dad?’ asked Ramanujam. ‘Is he still opposed to getting you married?’
Aruna’s eyes flashed. ‘It’s not that he doesn’t want me to be married. We don’t have the savings for a wedding without going into debt. Also, he cannot see how the family can manage once we are in debt and I am not earning.’
Ramanujam said, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. So the problem is not going away?’
Aruna sighed. ‘No,’ she said softly.
‘Shall we go out for lunch?’ asked Ramanujam.
‘No!’ said Aruna, shocked. ‘My parents are expecting me at home.’
‘Some other time?’ asked Ramanujam.
‘Maybe,’ said Aruna, doubtfully. She had never gone out with a man except for the picnic and even then Vani had been there. She supposed that rich people did that sort of thing regularly, and going out for lunch didn’t mean anything. Among her own family and friends, there would be a scandal and her reputation would be ruined if anybody saw her alone with a man.
They both fell silent and Aruna started fiddling with some papers on her desk.
After a little while Ramanujam said, ‘Aruna . . .’
Aruna looked up from her desk. ‘Yes?’ she said.
Before Ramanujam could continue, the phone rang. ‘Sorry,’ she said to him, picking up the phone.
It was a client who had become a member a week ago and had not yet received his lists. Aruna looked through the new joiners’ file and found his details. The lists had only been sent out a couple of days ago because of all the delays during the week.
‘Your lists are in the post, sir. Please call us back if you don’t get them in the next couple of days,’ she said.
Aruna put the phone down and said again to Ramanujam, ‘Sorry.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Ramanujam.
‘What did you want to talk about?’ asked Aruna.
Ramanujam took a deep breath. ‘Aruna, will you marry me?’ he asked.
Aruna was startled by the question and looked into his face.
‘No, Ram,’ she said, using his name for the very first time, ‘I cannot marry you.’
He looked shocked and Aruna knew she had wounded him. She was sure she was doing the right thing but, by God, why did it hurt so much?
Aruna closed her eyes, but she could still picture him, smiling, in her mind. She remembered her relief and how safe she had felt when he stepped out of the car outside the old lady’s café the other day.
She opened her eyes to find him still looking at her intently. He is absolutely perfect, she thought, but the whole idea is impossible. His family was looking for a beautiful bride from a wealthy background. His mother and sister were so sophisticated and she would be too gauche in their midst. She couldn’t imagine Ram being comfortable in her father’s front room, sitting on the metal folding chairs with the paint faded from the seats after long use. And the scandal! What would her father say if she went home and announced that she had found her own husband? On top of all this, how would her family cope without her income? Vani might have to leave her education unfinished.
Ramanujam sat on the sofa, his head hanging down. Aruna wanted very much to sit next to him and hug him. Why did she have to refuse him? Wouldn’t it be so wonderful if she could just say yes and not worry about the consequences? They got along quite well - they could talk about a dozen subjects, they made each other laugh. He was rich, with a good job and without doubt a great catch in the marriage market. She knew that given her family circumstances, she was lucky to get any proposal, let alone from somebody as eligible as Ramanujam. It’s a dream and poor people cannot afford dreams, she told herself. That way lies unhappiness. She had to stick to her duty and let her karma unwind itself as it would.
Ramanujam got up after a minute. ‘Bye, Aruna,’ he said. She stood up as well. ‘I am sorry. I hope we can still be friends. I’m still hoping to eat the cashew mangoes, you know,’ she said, smiling sadly.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ replied Aruna, even though she knew this was dangerous. It would be best if she cut him off completely, but she couldn’t bear to do it, just yet. She thought he was one of the most h
andsome men she had met. He was the first man who had proposed to her for her own sake, not as the result of a match sought between two families. The thought of never meeting him again was unbearable, even though it was taking all her strength to keep her resolve.
Ramanujam nodded. ‘See you around, Aruna. I hope you have the best in life always,’ he said and left quickly.
Aruna waited until she heard the door of his car slam shut and the car move away. She moved slowly to her desk and sat down. Suddenly, without any warning, she burst into tears. Why? Why? Why was life so difficult?
He would probably forget her soon and move on. She doubted if she could do the same.
Mr and Mrs Ali found their taxi. The driver was snoring in the front seat of the taxi with a door open. He was, no doubt, sleeping off the excellent biryani. Mr Ali woke him up.
‘Sorry, sir,’ said the driver, getting up. ‘Are we leaving now?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Ali. ‘Let’s go.’
They got into the car and settled in the back seat. As the car was about to start, Mr Ali leaned forward and asked, ‘Do you know the way to Royyapalem? How long would it take?’
‘It is not far, sir. It would take less than an hour,’ said the driver.
Mr Ali turned to his wife and asked, ‘Shall we go there?’
Her eyes were shining and she nodded eagerly.
Mr Ali turned to the driver and said, ‘Let’s go to Royyapalem first.’
‘The taxi has only been paid for a direct journey,’ said the driver. ‘It will cost two hundred rupees more to go there. Also, if we don’t get back to the city by seven, there will be a waiting charge as well.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Mr Ali. ‘Let’s go.’
Royyapalem was a village by the side of the highway. The taxi left the highway and turned left into the village on to a narrow road that was heavily pitted with potholes. Mrs Ali had heard so much about Royyapalem in the last few weeks that she was disappointed to find that it was just another small village like many she had seen over the years. There was something strange about the village, though, that she couldn’t quite figure out at first. As they jolted down the road, she saw a few brick houses and many thatched huts crowded together. There were stray dogs panting in the shade of the houses and the taxi slowed down almost to a stop to get past a black buffalo standing in the middle of the road and defecating. They came to a small market. Mrs Ali knew it was a market because there was an open place with little mounds on either side of the road. In the evening, each mound would become a stall selling a different vegetable. As they crossed the market, Mrs Ali suddenly realised what was eerie about the village.