by S L Bhyrappa
‘Have you forgotten,’ she asked indignantly, ‘forsaking Jesus means eternal damnation in burning hell?’
‘I’m forsaking one prophet for another. If that prophet comes after me to inflict punishment, this prophet will protect me. Besides, the Last Prophet Mohammad (sallallahu alaiyhi wassallam) is far mightier than your Jesus. How many battles he has won, how many lands conquered and look how far he has spread Islam in the world! What strength does your Jesus have, a prophet who asked his followers to show the other cheek? He has the strength to neither attack on his own nor defend himself against those who attack him!’ replied Aruna in a tone her mother had never imagined she would hear from her daughter.
‘I have no objection. Let her convert to Islam. But you must have a civil marriage,’ said the professor.
‘Uncle, if the Saudis find out that I’ve married a non-Muslim, I’ll stand to lose my job the next time there’s a lay-off in my company. I know the procedure. She needs to become a Muslim first and then we need to get married in the presence of a Maulvi and get a marriage certificate. This certificate will be the basis for her passport. Her details will show that she has a Muslim name, and that she’s a proper Muslim wife of a Muslim man. Else, she won’t get her visa. But uncle, you tell me, what’s the use of a civil marriage? I mean, why do we even need it?’
Professor Sastri replied in a cheerful tone dripping with intimacy, his body language also conveying that intimacy, ‘Let me tell you something frankly, my boy. I helped your mother and father marry each other. I encouraged your mother to convert to Islam. And now, your father has married again when your mother is still his wife. A civil marriage would have prevented this. I’m sure all our intentions are honourable but one cannot predict the future. The human mind is fickle. It can turn any way. As her father, I must be extra cautious. You agree, right?’
‘I don’t know what the matter between my parents is. I love my mother a lot. But uncle, don’t you see that my father hasn’t pronounced talaq on her? Isn’t that great? Besides, it is rude to comment on the relationship of one’s own parents. You agree, right, uncle?’ Nazir said in a tone that almost mimicked the professor’s.
‘Can’t you get a job in any other country?’
‘That’s not the point, uncle. I’m in love with Salma. And I’ll continue to love her with the same intensity as long as I’m alive. Trust me. You’re a man and I know you’re able to understand my feelings. Oh! Salma is your daughter’s name. She has agreed to change her name to Salma.’ He rose and put his hand warmly on the professor’s shoulder. That gesture told the future father-in-law that the argument was over.
Professor Sastri spoke to his daughter after he left.
‘But you must have a civil marriage. You can have your nikah later. That’ll be an effective legal barrier if he decides to marry again.’
‘Daddy, mutual trust is the basis of every marriage. How is a marriage even possible without mutual trust? If I doubt him now, he might call off the wedding.’
‘Let him. I’ll find another groom for you.’
‘Daddy, please don’t worry. I fully trust Nazir. And please don’t say anything that’ll hurt his feelings. Besides, tradition says that the wife has to change over to the husband’s religion.’ she said, decisively.
The professor was stunned. Barely a week and she was so deeply attached to Nazir! Was this the real meaning of romantic love? His mind recollected his feelings for Elizabeth during those heady initial days. Not very different. But he had failed to detect how grossly incompatible they were as a couple. But his daughter’s behaviour was puzzling. In an age when educated women across the world were critical of the unilateral authority of the Muslim male, Aruna, his daughter, was willingly putting her neck on the block. She wasn’t too bright but she wasn’t a total idiot. She had done her fair share of reading and she wasn’t unaware of these things. Then it dawned on him. She was sexually repressed. She was twenty-eight. Which meant the repression had a history of at least ten to twelve years. Plus she had been strictly groomed by her Catholic mother. And this was India, unlike the West, where social sanction existed for young people to have sex after they turned sixteen. Children were taught about contraceptives and the need to practise safe sex. Small wonder that she instantly fell for the tall, virile Nazir and blindly accepted all of his conditions. What did she say? Ah! Tradition says that the wife has to change over to the husband’s religion. He was pretty sure her own female friends held that it was unacceptable for a woman to sacrifice her individuality at the altar of marriage. Hell! I’ve earned countless female fans after I thundered such stuff in seminars. A woman is not completely free until she discards silly taboos about her body. Why did my own daughter turn out like this?
But the professor was dogged. He asked Lakshmi to try and convince Nazir. She thought it made sense and spoke to him.
‘Ammajaan, marriage is bound by Shariah. If I have a civil marriage before my nikah, it means my nikah is just for namesake.’
‘No. It simply means the two marriages complement each other.’
‘Please! You can’t convince me with your noble-sounding reasoning. Shariah provides total justice to both the man and the woman. If the man decides to leave the woman right at the moment of the wedding, he has to pay a penalty for doing so. If he pronounces talaq, he has to pay a previously agreed upon sum to the wife and she has to take that and leave. Marriage is a contract, right?’
‘And what if you marry another woman—or women—like what your father’s done?’
‘The Shariah provides for even that. It asks the man to treat all his wives equally. But nothing can shake my faith in Islam—it’s deep, true and genuine and it’s not an outward show.’
She knew that was the end of the matter. And she cursed herself for a moment. His ideal match should’ve come from a family that shared his rigidity and irrational orthodoxy, but she wanted him to marry an educated girl. Aruna had blindly agreed to all his conditions but did she really understand the complete ramifications? She wasn’t sure if the professor had explained these ramifications to her. She didn’t feel good about this. Aruna wasn’t her daughter but it was unfair to hurt any daughter. She called the professor and reported her conversation with Nazir.
‘Sir, I don’t mean to spoil my own son’s chances of marrying Aruna, but this is serious. Let this matter remain between us. I need you to explain the complete repercussions of marrying an orthodox Muslim man. I need you to convince her to agree to a civil marriage…’
He cut her off mid-sentence with, ‘If I’d already done that, I would have called you.’
‘But why does she insist on marrying him?’
‘I can’t say that on the phone. I’ll tell you when we meet.’
~
It was two months since Aruna—now Salma—had married and flown to Saudi but the professor never stopped worrying. He regretted that he was unable to give her a good upbringing. Worse, he was unsure if her marriage was safe. And he blamed her mother for giving her a narrow-minded Catholic upbringing that closed all avenues of free intellectual exploration. Her mother was angry for a different reason. She hated the fact that Aruna had converted into a faith that was the enemy of Christianity from historic times. And she was doubly angry because Aruna’s marriage happened with the full support of the father. The professor and his wife stopped talking to each other and this silent marital war continued without disturbance. There was no need for either of them to suffer the humiliation of breaking the silence first.
The professor suddenly began to miss his mother intensely. There was no logical reason, but she occupied his mind more often after Aruna left. He recalled the words of a poet who wrote that the mother is reborn as the granddaughter. Mother is eighty-five. I was born when she was fifteen. Oh well, it was like that in those days…I was the only son…the only son who survived apart from three other daughters. Just four survived out of who knows how many other children she bore. And how your world changes once you step
out of your limited circle of parents and sisters! Even Elizabeth. She could’ve been a little accommodating. ‘I’m not asking you to leave your religion. Wear a sari. Put a bindi. Wear bangles. It’ll be easier for my parents to accept you.’ She refused. ‘You’ve given your word. Don’t try to hoist your pagan practices on me.’ She discussed with the padre at the Bangalore Catholic Church. He confirmed her views. ‘No. No. Don’t entertain any unchristian practices.’
He didn’t take her to Narasapura ever. She’d never met his parents. He’d visit once every two or three years and take some money with him. ‘No thank you. Lord Narasimha has given us enough, son.’ He’d ask his mother what jewellery she wanted. ‘Why would I need jewellery at this age, son? You keep that money. You’ll need it for your family.’ He felt bad but it somehow made sense. He wasn’t earning too well then. His career was just taking off and then he needed a fair bit to maintain the house according to British standards.
~
But for the beef-eating episode, they wouldn’t have cut off ties with me completely. I was making waves as a Progressive in those days. I wrote a highly charged article in the monthly The Critic about how the rishis, the sages of Vedic India, used to freely eat beef. Orthodox Hindus raised such a massive stink! They organized rallies and got farmers from the villages to join their protests. They threw stones at my house and trailed me everywhere shouting ‘Down down Sastri!’ God knows, the bloody retrogrades would’ve torched my house and probably maimed me. The government of the day offered tight police protection and assured their complete support to me. Even otherwise, nothing would’ve stopped me. I wrote in the very next issue, ‘The seekers of a ban on beef-eating are keeping the beef-eaters out of mainstream society, a dangerous form of separatism, which if left unchecked, will culminate in yet another Partition. Look at the world: which other country has banned beef-eating? I ate it when I was abroad and I eat it even now whenever I have the opportunity to. Does that mean I’m not an Indian? Does my identity as an Indian rest on my beef-eating credentials? In a democratic country, nobody has the right to impinge on my right to eat the food of my choice…’ This piece didn’t arouse the earlier fury. I guess the orthodox anger had subsided. The government’s protection assured, we continued organizing seminars and workshops without fear.
I think it was the next year that I went to Kalenahalli. Prakash Gowda had invited me to his daughter’s wedding. I couldn’t refuse the invitation because he was the local socialist leader. This was a great opportunity for me to expand my reach inside the party and so I went. Narasapura was right next door. I couldn’t have risked not paying a visit. If I didn’t go, the bloody rustic gossipers would use that to spread more lies about me. It was almost 3 p.m. when I reached home. Mother was in the portico making cotton wicks for the oil lamps that she placed before her idols. She didn’t recognize me. Which was understandable. I was dressed in the ‘Jayaprakash Narayan’ style. ‘Mother it’s me, Nanu.’ Her face brightened. She began to get up when I saw Father walking towards her. I didn’t see him emerge from the house.
‘You’re coming here from Prakash Gowda’s daughter’s wedding? Wait.’ He stormed into the house, returned with a copy of The Critic, held it before my face and said, ‘You’ve openly, and boldly admitted that you eat beef. Is that true?’ This lightning-like interrogation stumped me. I recovered quickly and said, ‘Father, I work in the political circles. I need to say, I need to write things at times, things that I don’t believe in. Do you believe all that? Come on!’
‘If what you’ve written is untrue, why do you write such lies? How many tongues do you speak with? I’m your father, and she’s given birth to you. Look at us and tell the truth!’
That wounded my self-respect. I retorted, not concealing the anger I felt, ‘I come here all the way to see you and I get this kind of treatment! Even if I did eat beef, what’s wrong? Every country—apart from China and Mongolia, which don’t rear cattle—every race, in fact everybody in the world eats beef. Even here…do you have any idea just how many people eat beef? You can’t regulate people’s diets. That’s not healthy for democracy. That’s…that’s…that’s fascism!’
‘I’m glad you admitted the truth. Your mother and I will go atone for the sin of being responsible for your birth.’ And he went in. I sat in my car, started it and left the place.
Prakash Gowda told me some days later that Narasimhe Gowda had given my article to father. So this was that old Gandhian’s way of avenging my act of supporting his daughter marrying a Muslim. Ha! Even Gandhi was a cow-worshipper. Their loss! The Progressive Movement knows no bonds. The deluge of the movement drowns friendships, relationships, people, siblings, parents—it lashes them to who knows which shores. The life of every committed Progressive shows how he was alone throughout life, separated from ignorant parents and brothers and sisters. This is my path as well.
This gave Professor Sastri solace for twenty-five years. But now, the thought of Aruna in Saudi minus the safety of a civil marriage…his mother’s image began to torment his thoughts. There was no way the two were related but Mother…It was illogical and insane. But his mind refused to think of anything else. His parents had showered all their love on his three sisters, their husbands and grandchildren. Mother is eighty-five. Father is ninety-five. He might touch a century. Or cross it. Or…who knows? They won’t let me do the last rites. And I was cut off from all their family functions. It wasn’t their fault. What kind of a religion is it that lets them dismember ties with their own son because he ate cow meat? What kind of a religion is it that despite my taunts, criticism, rallies and speeches it continues to thrive without as much as a whimper?
11
The professor put the letter down. The message was from the US. It was an invitation to a series of discussions about the trends in intellectual discourse in academia in different countries. They had written to him, enquiring about his availability. A month-long stay. He had to deliver a biweekly talk on ‘The Intellectual Climate of India’. Northwestern University had indicated that it would deeply appreciate his ‘soonest possible arrival’ there. It didn’t take long for him to spot Tom’s hand behind this invitation. Tom was a deeply-committed academic-intellectual tirelessly working to spread Leftist ideology in the US university circles. The professor decided that this would be a good trip to make. It would engage his mind constructively. And then there was the prospect of dollars. He could buy a new car with that. But there was a problem. He had already agreed to become a senior resource person at a major but boring workshop in Varanasi. These workshops were different in all but name. The same crowd of enthusiastic young men and women. The same questions. But he couldn’t back out. He’d given his word. If he cancelled it, he’d upset a lot of people. Negative publicity. He decided to finish this workshop and then head to the US. He looked at his calendar. Ah! I’ll call a small press meet and tell the world I’ve been invited by the Northwestern University. No. Wait. I need to talk to Diganth first. Ask him how he’s doing. Make some small talk about his company. Must be in touch. Smart boy, I know he’s doing well.
Suddenly he felt a surge of pride. He had used his influence to further his son’s business but he hadn’t taken a single rupee from him. That’s the way it should be. Never take from your children. I know Elizabeth takes money from him but…oh well, women fall short in the self-respect department. But I can’t say this in public. The feminists will fall on me. Am I too hard on Elizabeth? If she had a job, I suppose she wouldn’t be asking Diganth. And if she did, she’d have divorced me long ago. No no no. She was Catholic…damn! Where’s that calendar?
He saw shadows before him and looked straight ahead. The two who stood before him were about thirty years old and were dressed like Progressive intellectuals. Unkempt hair, baggy shirts and jeans. They didn’t waste time with introductions. They were planning an ambitious seminar across Karnataka on Progressive ideas and they wanted Professor Sastri to inaugurate it. He knew them. There was no chance he wouldn�
��t know anybody who called himself a Progressive and there was no chance that any Progressive worth his label wouldn’t come to the professor at least once in his life to seek his blessings. The professor patiently listened to them and gave a mini-sermon about the power of Progressive ideas. ‘Look where Europe was before it grew into a gigantic tree on the fertile roots of ideas, which powered its conquest of the world. Rationalism! Rationalism itself is power, and lack of rationalism is weakness. So yes, you’re on the right path with this seminar.’ The two young men were lost in the sweep of his magical words. They offered him a cigarette, lit it for him and before they could light theirs, the phone rang. ‘Ah! What do we do with this? An instrument of convenience becomes a concentration-destroyer! Excuse me…’
‘Sir, this is Lakshmi. I’m calling from Kunigal. I’ve bad news for you. Your mother has expired…’
‘What! Haa! Whe…what happened?’ The colour drained from his face.
‘She was unwell for a long time. You know the kind of medical care that we have in the village. Your sister Vishalakshamma took her to Tumkur for treatment. Your father was there in Tumkur for a month. Doctors said heart trouble but they said treatment was pretty much useless at her age. And now…’
The professor said nothing.
‘And so there was the question of her cremation and other ceremonies done as part of her last rites. Your father said the son-in-law is equivalent to a son and appointed his eldest son-in-law to carry out the rites. He did the cremation. And now they’ve decided to have the rest of the rites in the village. Meenakshi and Jalajakshi are already there. Their husbands and children will join them on the seventh day. Vishalakshamma came home today and asked me to call you. “I don’t want people blaming me tomorrow. You tell him. After all, he’s the son and he has the first right over all the funeral rites.” I came to Kunigal to make this phone call.’