by S L Bhyrappa
She didn’t want to talk about her son’s father’s second marriage.
His tone when he narrated this was remarkably polite. She looked at him and sensed a certain softness that was missing earlier when he had argued with her. He wasn’t the religion-fuelled Nazir anymore. She knew that he didn’t understand the fact that the reason for this sudden transformation was the food that he had just eaten, mixed and served with love by his mother.
‘How long is your vacation?’
‘Six weeks.’
‘Why don’t you stay here then? You can go to Bangalore whenever you want to meet friends.’
He didn’t reply to this. ‘You get a bus every fifteen minutes from Kunigal to Bangalore. Or you can hire a car for as long as you want to stay here.’ He didn’t reply even now. It was clear he wasn’t interested. ‘Have you thought about getting married?’ she asked, changing the topic.
Silence again. She repeated the question.
‘If I could get married just by thinking about it…’ he said.
She knew the routine. Young men like Nazir who worked abroad would tell parents to look for prospective brides. When they came to India on vacation, they would talk to seven or eight prospects, select one of them, get married and return with the wife. But Nazir’s case was a little tricky. Razia was almost wholly cut off from the Muslim community for four years. And then there was the issue of Amir’s second wife. Finding her son a non-Muslim bride was unthinkable. A good idea would be to advertise in the papers. The American-university Masters tag-cum-well-paying-Saudi-job was sure to draw a decent number of responses. Was it impossible to find a girl minus all the stifling restrictions of religion? And it occurred to her that if the answer to that was yes, he wouldn’t agree to marry someone like that. She opened her mouth to say something but he had lapsed into sleep again. She looked at his face. Everything about him was Arabic; dress, beard, moustache—everything screamed out to the world that he was a Muslim. But this kind of emphatic assertion of their Muslim identity had become commonplace of late among Indian Muslim youth. Another thought occurred to her. Was it mere coincidence that he graduated in petrochemical engineering and took his first job in Saudi? He was such a pretty baby! How I wanted to teach him to keep an open mind, to look at things without the tinge of religion attached to them. She shook her head sadly. She had failed to be a good mother. Locations. Shooting. Theatre. Speeches. And now when she thought about it, she realized that she had completely missed his steady but logical growth into an orthodox Muslim under the upbringing of his equally conservative grandparents. Her eyes didn’t leave his sleeping form. He turned in his sleep and changed position. He opened his eyes in a kind of start. An hour had elapsed. He looked at his watch and sat up straight.
‘What happened?’
‘It is time to do the Asar namaz!’ he said, swinging his legs down from the bed, and then almost ran out of the room.
She followed him to the bathroom. He dipped the mug into the huge brass vessel, took it out and began to do uzzu. He made his niyyat and recited Bismillah. Then he washed both his hands till the elbows, gargled, took a few drops of water into his nostrils and washed them. He ran his fingers through his beard, washing it thoroughly till the roots. He washed his fingers and toes as if he was stringing beads and ran his fingers along his ears and then all over his body, and washed his right hand and right leg and finally, his left hand and left leg. He repeated this ritual three more times and began to recite the Du-aa in clear Arabic accent. His pronunciation was flawless.
‘Ash-hadu alla ilaha illallahu wahdahu la shareeka lah wanna mohammadan abduhu (I bear witness that there is no God but Allah, and He is Alone. He has no partner. And I bear witness that Mohammad is His servant and messenger. O Allah! I pray to You. I bear witness that there is no one other than You who is worthy of prayer. Make me of those who are repentant and of those who purify themselves).’
He recited this as he walked to the study. He unfolded his janamaaz on the floor, wore his skull cap, sat down and began to perform namaz. She realized she had forgotten most of the duties, the farz, which he recited.
‘…Ashadu Allah ilaha illa Allah wa ashadu anna Mohammad rasulu Allah (I bear witness that there is no God but Allah, and that Mohammad [sallallahu alaiyhi wassallam] is his Prophet and messenger…)’ He repeatedly chanted this verse at specific turns in the namaz. Then he turned his neck to the right and chanted, ‘Assalam aleikum warahmatullah’ and then turned it left and chanted it again. She knew he was done with his namaz.
She watched him fold his janamaaz and put it on a chair.
‘Should I get some tea?’
He nodded.
She entered the kitchen to tell Lakshmamma to make tea and saw Kenchappa there. His face clearly showed displeasure even as he hesitated to say whatever that was bothering him.
‘Awwa, madam: I don’t know how to say this…but you are one of our own. You’re our Gowda’s daughter. I know you’ve polluted your caste in the past but you’re still our own. We don’t mind if you get into the kitchen and touch our vessels and bathroom and water. But your son is a Turk by birth. I’m telling you because you understand these things. He has entered the bathroom and touched the water and polluted it. We must empty all that water and purify it by washing it clean with tamarind. I must draw more than six buckets of water from the well. Lakshmamma is angry.’
Lakshmi suddenly felt sweat break all over her body. How did I miss this? But this isn’t the time to argue with him and really, there is no point trying to get him to see reason. No amount of calm reasoning will change him or Lakshmamma. He has been set in his ways for years and even if he saw reason, there was no way he’d antagonize the entire village and people of his caste. Pressure wouldn’t work. He might simply turn back and blame me for trying to pollute his caste because he was my servant. That’d be suicidal. He is tied to me by the thread of gratitude he has for Father. I can’t let that break.
‘You’re right, Kenchappa, it was my fault. Do this: keep a plastic bucket and mug in the cowshed. I’ll tell my son to use that. We can get him hot water in that bucket for his bath. Because it’s plastic, there’s no risk of pollution.’
This seemed to comfort Kenchappa. He nodded.
She got back to the study after giving tea to the driver. Handing him his cup, she asked Nazir, ‘I’m curious. Didn’t you find anybody suitable in Saudi? I mean, surely your colleagues, friends know you’re an eligible bachelor. Didn’t they do any matchmaking?’
‘Oh, but I’m not a Saudi!’ he replied instantly.
‘But you’re a Muslim.’
‘But you don’t understand! Saudis think they’re the best. They don’t marry their girls off to non-Saudis and they’ll cut the throat of any girl who says she wants to marry a non-Saudi man. And they demand outrageous amounts of dowry from the groom. I’ve seen how middle-class Saudis who can’t afford that kind of dowry get their sons married off to girls from Syria and Egypt. But the worst is reserved for women from India, Bangladesh and Pakistan. These poor women generally work as servants. The man of the house forcibly marries her as his third or fourth “wife”.’
‘But doesn’t Islam preach that Muslims everywhere in the world are equal?’
‘But people of every country think they’re superior to others. And in Saudi, there are several tribes and each tribe thinks it’s superior to the other. Some tribes don’t marry outside of their tribe.’
‘Child, is there any compelling reason for you to work in Saudi?’
‘No, not really. But no other country will pay as much for the work I do. Besides, other countries take like a third, or even half my salary as tax. Saudi doesn’t have income tax. Even Europeans and Americans come to work in Saudi if they get a chance.’
10
Professor N.S.N. Sastri had distinguished himself as one of the leading intellectuals of Karnataka quite early in his career before he earned pride of place for himself on the national stage. He was a naturally gifted
orator endowed with flawless command over language, an ability to emote and erudition to evaluate any issue on philosophical grounds. He fearlessly proclaimed his revolutionary ideas and gave fiery speeches that motivated young people to join the group of revolutionary thinkers, whose goal was to change the course of history. Professor Sastri was every youth’s role model. He could speak for hours with equal ease on the state of the world’s economy and on India’s five-thousand-year-old cultural history. He condemned societal evils like dowry and untouchability and called for immediate, drastic reforms. This quickly endeared him to the media. Suddenly he was everywhere. He was the star of every seminar. He was the pillar that supported progressive rallies and the esteemed guest of every inaugural function. Professor Sastri came to be regarded as a social reformer of sorts. Professorship came to him at a very young age, followed by national honours such as the Padmasri, Padmabhushan and Padmavibhushan. However, these weren’t enough for his students, fans and followers alike.
‘You deserve nothing less than the Bharat Ratna, the highest civilian honour!’
‘Awards get their value from the person—the person doesn’t become great because he has bagged awards. Until you understand this timeless truth, you’ll remain stuck at the individual level; you’ll never be elevated to the philosophical level. Think about it. Tell me the names of all those people who changed the direction of history and were given awards for their efforts.’
This was at a private gathering of a handful of his followers. The followers hung on to every word, which he said in a trance-like state, his eyes surpassing time itself. The papers reported this and his fame and respect increased exponentially.
Another reason contributed to his immense popularity with young men and women. After he completed his MA in India, Professor Sastri travelled to Oxford and returned with his degree and a British wife. A widely circulated rumour held that Professor Sastri’s mentor at Oxford gave his daughter in marriage to his brilliant disciple as a gift of sorts. A counter-rumour held that the first one was horribly wrong because the West had no concept of ‘giving the daughter in marriage’ and that she was the professor’s classmate who was drawn to his intellectual prowess. In the end, nobody was sure which rumour was right. If she had graduated with him, it didn’t make sense for her to not work. An Oxford degree guaranteed a lecturer’s position at the minimum. Something didn’t quite tally with this British woman who chose to stay at home and be his wife rather than go out and make a career of her own. Nobody now remembered these wild guessing games, which belonged to an era that dated back to forty years. His wife, initially a mandatory ornament to every function that Professor Sastri graced, gradually withdrew and then completely stopped accompanying him. She’d go to bookshops once in a while and buy a few James Hadley Chase novels. Sunday was church day. After service, she would chat with a few friends. This was pretty much her social life. She was polite with neighbours but the politeness didn’t develop into anything. She knew enough Kannada to speak to the servants who worked at her house. She wasn’t really in touch with her parents, strict Catholics who had bitterly opposed her marriage to the professor because he had refused to convert. She had flown to England exactly twice in all these years of marriage. Her parents took solace in the fact that she still retained her Catholic faith. They died a few years later. After that, there was nothing left in England for her.
The couple had a son and daughter. Diganth was ten years older than Aruna and resembled his father in skin colour and facial features, while Aruna was fairer and had brown hair. Diganth was academically brilliant and graduated in computer engineering, followed by an MBA from Stanford. He joined an information technology company in the Bay Area and worked there for a few years before returning to India. Back in India, he got a job in a large multinational software company and worked for two years before starting his own firm. It grew quickly and before long, his customer base spread to Germany, the United States and France. Last year, his company posted a record turnover of 96 million. He had ambitious dreams, one of which was to outclass the likes of Wipro and Infosys. He married Babita, a Punjabi who had been his colleague in the past. Babita looked after administration and staffing while he focussed on sales and marketing. The government had recently approved their proposal to build a massive corporate facility and had sanctioned fifty acres of land for the purpose. The approval was the outcome of Professor Sastri’s tactful conversation with a minister to whom he acted as an unofficial campaign adviser. It was rumoured that Diganth had to pay 5 million ‘beyond’ his father’s apparent closeness to the minister. It was also said that the professor had himself ‘fixed’ the sum. It was not difficult to know who was behind these rumours or what the intent was. It was meant to discredit Professor Sastri’s career as a committed Marxist. Nothing would damage his public image more than the fact that he had helped broker a kickback deal between a politician and his own son, a flourishing capitalist. While wink-wink, nudge-nudge deals between businessmen and politicians were common knowledge, it was unthinkable that the arch-proponent of Marxism in India would do something that could destroy everything he had built over a lifetime. And this rumour was spread by former loyalists of the professor who had access to sections of the media. But the professor was made of sterner stuff. His response was characteristic.
‘I’m a staunch adherent of democratic values and these values give strength to my words. It’s true he’s my son but that doesn’t mean I have a right to impose my will on him. I look upon such behaviour as a blot on my own character. Indeed, I have, from the very beginning, been at the forefront of opposing such feudal cultural mores. I have lived by example. I’ve walked out on my parents because they believed in a regressive culture, which they sought to impose on me. I didn’t oppose my son marrying a Punjabi girl. On the contrary, I blessed him from the bottom of my heart because his marriage is at one level an example that showcases national unity. Equally, we all know what’s happening in our country in the name of chasing the liberalization mirage. The private sector is multiplying at an alarming pace and the consequence is an equally rapid increase in the numbers of workers. As history has shown, the private sector will exploit the workers and sooner or later, workers will unite and overthrow these capitalists and establish an order where the dictatorship of the workers will be a reality. But to reach that stage of history, we must pass through the present stage. This is the essence of Marx’s statement that communism first triumphs in industrialized nations. My followers and anybody who has respect for me must actually feel proud of the fact that my son will be but one small stair that leads up to a fully communist India of the future. And for the record, I don’t live with my son and I have nothing to do with his business interests. If I know my son well, he hasn’t and he won’t pay bribe to anybody and the allegation that I brokered some deal is the product of a very diseased mind. Needless to say, it has wounded me very deeply and I’m left with no option but to take legal recourse against the authors, purveyors and publishers of this disgraceful personal attack.’
However, this statement didn’t create the intended panic among the perpetrators of the personal attack. They wrote their own retort, which the newspapers didn’t publish. They distributed pamphlets against the professor and wrote in magazines and journals where they commanded some influence but nothing came out of it. The professor knew that they would eventually give up, owing to sheer fatigue. And they did. But an interesting outcome of this sordid affair was that it endeared him to the business class, which had till then avoided him because of his committed communist credentials. They began to invite him to their functions and requested him to deliver inspiring lectures. He spoke about the importance of having an open climate to do business as the best way to ensure faster economic growth but cautioned businessmen against having profit as the only goal. Entrepreneurs, he said, quoting Mahatma Gandhi, were trustees of the society and he urged them to follow the Mahatma’s dictum. From this perspective, he said, there was no fundamental diffe
rence between Mahatma Gandhi and Karl Marx. His popularity soared. More invitations poured in. He became a regular at diverse corporate functions—parties to celebrate new appointments to the top management, to felicitate a CEO, and company annual days. He introduced heads of powerful business houses to his son and daughter-in-law who were invariably present at these occasions.
Aruna was an average child from the beginning. She took down copious notes in class, memorized her lessons and transferred them back on to her answer paper during exams. Her grades were average throughout school and college, right up to her MA. Despite his enormous influence, her father found it tough to get her a job that would secure her future. If he wished, her brother could take her in his own company but he ran a computer software outfit and she had graduated in the humanities. Then there was Babita, also a partner of the company. She refused to admit any family member in whatever position in the company. In the end, the professor managed to find her a lecturer’s job in a rundown college. It didn’t pay her a full salary but she had a job. She was also free to choose her life partner, but she hadn’t done that either. A thorough introvert, she had accepted her life as it was. Her age compelled Professor Sastri to do some groom-hunting for her. He spoke to his friends and contacts and followers and generally put the word out, but nothing materialized. For all its cosmopolitan and open atmosphere, Bangalore’s society had barely progressed beyond a few superficial steps. The families of prospective grooms noticed some glaring aspects: a British Catholic mother and the complete absence of Indian traditions of celebrating festivals and observances on special occasions. Professor Sastri had promised his classmate at the time of marrying her that he wouldn’t interfere with her religious beliefs and he had remained true to his word. He had eschewed religion and, one way or the other, it didn’t matter to him. His devout Catholic wife made it a point to take both her children to the church every Sunday. Post high school, Diganth became convinced that children were supposed to follow their father’s religion. In his engineering days, he learned that his father was a committed Marxist and had a fair idea of what that meant. His experience in the US led him to conclude that religion was a set of beliefs, practices and traditions that had evolved over countless centuries and these were different for different races. Babita, who had graduated from IIT Delhi, was content to have her religious needs fulfilled by Diwali, bhangra, and some important vrats—observances and fasts. Diganth had agreed to get married like a Punjabi groom. He wore an elaborate sherwani, sat on the horse, led the baraat—the groom’s procession—and sat before the sacred wedding ceremonial fire before tying the knot at midnight. The professor, his wife and Aruna attended the wedding and blessed the couple.