Mrs Ali’s Road to Happiness Read online

  Another half an hour passed while the peon shuttled in and out. Mr Ali caught his eye a couple of times, but was just waved down. Although he was increasingly frustrated, there was nothing he could do.

  At last the cabin door opened and the engineer walked out. Mr Ali stood up and said, “Sir, our power has been disconnected – ”

  The official nodded. “Later,” he said and strode out.

  The peon came back, wiping his forehead. “He won’t be back until three,” he said. “You might as well return then.”

  The clerks had stopped working and were now gathered round one of the desks, discussing where to go for lunch.

  Mr Ali gave a deep sigh and trudged back to his scooter to find a big white bird dropping smeared across the black seat. He looked up into the tree, but the bird was long gone.

  ♦

  Meanwhile, Mrs Ali and Azhar were still en route. The car lurched into another pothole and they were thrown around like dried peas in a pod.

  “Sorry, sir, madam,” said the driver. “The recent rains have left the roads in bad shape.”

  They had already lost half an hour when one of the tyres had been punctured. The driver was now going slowly to avoid another puncture. Finally the road became smoother and they picked up some speed, reaching the village just before noon.

  “A microwave. Thank you, daada!” squealed Faiz and hugged her grandfather.

  Her in-laws too were happy to see them and even happier as each of them had been given their personal gift. Mrs Ali could see Faiz’s sisters-in-law surreptitiously comparing their saris, but as much thought had gone into selecting the saris as into any military campaign by Alexander the Great. Mrs Ali was sure that the ladies would not find any issues with the absolute or relative value of their gifts.

  “What is this microwave?” asked Faiz’s mother-in-law. “What does it do?”

  “It is an oven that cooks without fire,” said Faiz.

  “This is all too advanced for a simple villager like me,” said Faiz’s mother-in-law. Mrs Ali silently agreed.

  They unpacked the gadget and found their first problem.

  The only electrical point in the house was in the living room where it was already used for the TV. The TV was unplugged and the microwave was put in its place. The blinking clock elicited exclamations from the assembled ladies. With its clean, white, high-tech-gadget looks, it attracted the men as well, even though they normally did not have anything to do with cooking.

  “Get a glass of water,” said Azhar.

  One of the women ran into the kitchen and came back with a brass tumbler. Azhar shook his head. “No, you cannot put metal in the microwave. Get something non-metallic.”

  “Chinni?” asked the woman.

  Azhar nodded. China was fine. The shopkeeper who had sold him the microwave had given him a quick lesson on how to use it. The lady came back with water in a teacup.

  Everybody gathered round as the light came on in the microwave.

  “It’s going round!” said Faiz’s mother-in-law.

  A minute later, the microwave switched itself off with a ping and Azhar took out the now-warm cup and it passed from hand to hand.

  “What strange things will people keep inventing?” said Faiz’s mother-in-law.

  Mrs Ali had been impressed as well but she kept a stiff upper lip in front of these rustic in-laws. She was a city woman after all and had to maintain her sophisticated image.

  Just then, Faiz’s husband, Sharif, came in. “Hello,” he said. “What’s going on here?”

  “Look!” said Faiz happily. “Abba has sent us a microwave oven.”

  Sharif gave his wife a tight smile, turned to Mrs Ali and Azhar, greeting them with polite salaams, and handed three eggs to his mother. “I found out where the red hen is laying its eggs – by the side of the long hedge.”

  Faiz’s face fell, but only Mrs Ali seemed to notice.

  “Oh, good!” said Sharif’s mother. “I wonder why the hen changed where it lays eggs.” She turned to one of her daughters-in-law. “Boil them and add them to the khatta.”

  Azhar said, “Give me the eggs. The microwave should be able to boil them inside their shells.”

  “Are you sure, Bhaijaan?” said Sharif’s mother. “It’s no trouble at all to boil the eggs.”

  “It’ll take just a couple of minutes.”

  The eggs were placed inside the microwave. “Look,” said Azhar. “They are turning round the opposite way from the water.”

  Nothing happened for forty-five seconds. Then there was a loud explosion and the inside of the microwave disappeared in white shrapnel and a yellow, gooey mess. Azhar froze and the only part of him that moved was his mouth, opening and closing like a goldfish. There was another explosion and the glass front became even more smeared with mess-of-egg before Azhar reacted and jabbed at the door-release button. The door swung open just as the third egg exploded.

  “Eeuw!” screamed the ladies as they were spattered by bits of yolk and white, but it was Azhar who caught the main force of the blast.

  Two boys – Faiz’s nephew and a neighbour’s son – came running in and stopped in surprise at the sight of Azhar. “What’s happened to uncle?” the neighbour’s son asked.

  “Shhh…” said one of the ladies.

  “Egg,” said Faiz’s nephew confidently. “On face.”

  Amid the clean-up, Mrs Ali’s mind wandered. This was not the first time that gifts had caused a problem for Faiz with her in-laws.

  Faiz’s wedding day had started normally. The Nikah ceremony had been held in the morning. Oaths had been exchanged. Sharif and Faiz had been pronounced man and wife – in theory, sight unseen. A few hours after lunch, the Jalwa had been held, in which the bride and groom were shown to each other, officially, for the first time ever and the bride was formally placed in the care of her husband’s family.

  It was then time for Faiz, who had symbolically changed from her wedding sari into another provided by her in-laws, to depart with her new family. As the guests started leaving, the father-in-law had come to Arif, Faiz’s father, to say that they needed help to take away the bridal gifts.

  Apart from the dowry and two hundred and twenty grams of gold jewellery, the gifts included a wooden bed frame, a foam mattress, a steel wardrobe, three kilos of silver platters and tumblers, a full set of stainless-steel dishes, melamine crockery and other bits and bobs. The entire trousseau had been laid out in one corner of the hall for everyone to admire during the ceremonies.

  Unfortunately, Mrs Ali’s older brother, Nadeem Bhai, had overheard the request for help to take away the gifts. He had been complaining all day about the expense of the wedding and had taken offence at not being given the deference he considered his due as the oldest member of the family.

  He butted into the conversation and addressed Faiz’s father-in-law. “As you are the bridegroom’s father, it is your responsibility to take the gifts away.”

  Mrs Ali silently agreed with her brother. That much was tradition. The bride’s family’s job was to deliver the bride and her trousseau to the wedding hall. Once the ceremonies were over, the bride and gifts belonged to the new family, to be taken away by them. But why make such an issue over a simple matter?

  Arif tried to placate Nadeem Bhai, saying that as the bridegroom’s family didn’t know Vizag, he didn’t mind arranging a truck for them. But Nadeem Bhai wouldn’t be shushed.

  “We have already spent far too much money on this wedding. And if you don’t even have the capacity to take it all away, why did you demand so many gifts? Your son is just a clerk, after all.”

  Mrs Ali was dumbstruck. An even more important tradition than the bridegroom’s family taking away the trosseau was that the bride’s family be obsequiously polite to the groom’s family.

  The groom’s father’s face turned an interesting colour. “My – son – is – a – diamond,” he said deliberately. “He could have been an officer anywhere in the world and if he chose to
remain in the village, it’s because he is a well-brought-up boy who loves his family. My son doesn’t need to work at all. My grandfather was a well-known barrister during the British times. We have fertile fields not only in our own Kothagudem but also in the village of Kattulapalem – the village of swords. The whole taluqa – sub-district – knows us wherever we go.”

  By this time, he was shouting, which brought Azhar over. “Sir, it’s nothing. We’ll sort out a truck – ”

  Nadeem Bhai interrupted his younger brother. “Everybody knows that Kattulapalem isn’t about swords. The name means the village of knives, and your family probably handle the blades because they are barbers. That’ll explain why everybody knows them.”

  Mrs Ali raised her hand to cover her open mouth.

  The groom’s maternal uncle immediately lost his temper and rushed at Nadeem Bhai, shouting, “How dare you insult my family?” and landing a blow on Nadeem Bhai’s head. When Nadeem Bhai shoved back, the man lost his footing and fell down. Some of the groom’s young men rushed to support their elders and Faiz’s cousins moved in; a free-for-all developed within seconds.

  Mr Ali and a few other senior men managed to separate the groups.

  “We are not taking the bride with us until your brother apologises,” said the groom’s father to Azhar.

  “Why should I say sorry?” said Nadeem Bhai. “I haven’t said anything that’s not true.”

  Mrs Ali realised that a major scandal would ensue if the bridegroom and his family left without Faiz. Nobody else would marry her and the young woman’s life would be ruined. Mrs Ali tugged her older brother’s hand and forcibly pulled him away, still protesting self-righteously. She led him into a small room, told him that she would get him a glass of water and locked him inside.

  When she came back to the scene of the fight, her husband, her other siblings and many others on the bride’s side were apologising profusely to their opposite numbers. Eventually, they were able to calm the groom’s family.

  No, thought Mrs Ali as she saw Azhar return, washed and wearing Faiz’s father-in-law’s kurta. Faiz didn’t have much luck with her family’s gifts to her in-laws.

  ♦

  Mr Ali spent the afternoon in the electricity office, waiting for the engineer to turn up. Finally, at four, he gave it up as a lost cause and returned to his scooter, which he had parked away from the trees after the morning’s experience with the bird’s droppings. As he took it off the stand, he wondered how his wife would react when she returned to a still-dark house. He plonked his seat on the scooter, then jumped up and down like a grasshopper, almost falling off. The black seat had absorbed hours of strong afternoon sun and was scorching hot.

  Even though the sun had not yet set, the verandah was dark because it was shaded by the guava tree and the thin curtains behind the iron grille-work. Mr Ali had sent Aruna home early and sat by himself, drawing up his advertisements all over again. Thank God for paper records, he thought. Computers are very good, but only while they are working. Otherwise, they are no more use than a paperweight.

  Somebody rattled the iron gate and Mr Ali looked up. A family was standing there – two parents and a young girl. “Is this the marriage bureau?”

  “Yes,” said Mr Ali. “Please come in and take a seat.”

  “We were not sure because it is so dark,” said the man, as he sat down.

  “Sorry, we are having some issues with our electricity supply. Anyway…”

  After the pleasantries, Mr Ali discovered that they had seen an ad for a bridegroom a couple of weeks previously and wanted to find out more details about the match.

  “Which one is it?” he asked.

  “The Kamma caste man working in the fishery business.”

  Mr Ali remembered the ad. For some reason, he hadn’t got a very good response for it.

  “It’s a very good match,” he said. “They are traditional landlords with fields elsewhere, but the bridegroom himself lives in Vizag. He is doing very well in his career and his salary is almost thirty thousand rupees a month. Why don’t you become members? We can call them right now and have a word with them, so you can introduce yourself. We have other matches too that are just as good. Here’s a form. Please fill it in.”

  The man took the blank form and a pen and filled it in rapidly. Mr Ali felt that it was one of the easiest sales he had made in a while. The parents looked well off and it didn’t appear as though the fees would be an issue for them. Over the last year or so that he had been running the marriage bureau, he had developed a sixth sense for who would become a member and who wouldn’t. He was not one hundred per cent accurate, of course, but he could usually tell – and this family was a definite prospect.

  The man passed the form back to Mr Ali and said, “First, can you give me an idea of the kind of people among your members who would be interesting to us?”

  “Of course,” said Mr Ali, and then realised that he could not do it without the computer. “Sorry, sir. We don’t have power at the moment, but as soon as I can get the computer running again, I will be able to pull out a special list for you.”

  The man thought for a moment, looked at his wife and daughter, and then turned his gaze back to Mr Ali. “OK, in that case, we’ll come again another time.”

  “If you become a member now, I can send the list to you by post as well, sir. Why trouble yourself to make an extra visit?”

  The man shook his head. “No, no. We’ll come back another time.”

  As they were walking out, Mr Ali heard them talk about visiting another marriage bureau that had opened recently by the culvert down the road.

  This was really annoying. He was now losing business because of this power cut.

  He switched on the emergency lamp, but it flickered and went off – it had been used too long already. Mr Ali sighed and hunted for a candle. His wife would have known exactly where it was, but he had to search for it and then for a matchbox. How was he going to explain to his wife that there was still no power in the house when she came back?

  The phone rang, its sudden shrill tone startling him. He picked up the receiver and said, “Hello, hello…”

  When the phone continued ringing, he realised that the cordless phone would not work in the absence of electricity. He rushed to reach the main instrument before the ringing stopped. It was his wife.

  “What took you so long to answer the phone?” she said.

  “Never mind that,” he said. “How is it going?”

  “It’s OK. But we need to stay here overnight. Is that all right?”

  Sudden hope gleamed in Mr Ali’s heart. He had a day’s reprieve. “Humph,” he said, trying to disguise his relief. “Why?”

  Mrs Ali’s voice dropped as if she didn’t want the people round her to hear what she was saying. “There are problems between Faiz and Sharif. I’ll try to have a word with them before I leave.”

  Mr Ali nodded. “All right,” he said.

  “I’ve spoken to Pari,” said Mrs Ali. “She is making dinner for you. You can go and eat in her flat. But she will be busy in the morning, getting ready for work and school, so it is best if you get breakfast for yourself.”

  Mr Ali said, “That’s all right. I can go to Sai Ram Parlour and get idli with coconut chutney.”

  It was only after he put the phone down that Mr Ali remembered that he had not asked what the problem was between Faiz and Sharif. Oh well, his wife probably couldn’t have spoken freely anyway.

  Now, how was he going to sort out the electricity problem before his wife came home? And before his business started going down the drain?

  Five

  Mrs Ali walked slowly down the village path towards the tomb of the Sufi saint. Sharif kept pace with her, while Azhar and Faiz were a few paces ahead of them.

  “I have heard that the urs – the anniversary – of the saint is celebrated quite grandly,” said Mrs Ali.

  Sharif nodded. “Yes, Maami. Both Hindus and Muslims come from all over the district
to attend it. We have an all-night festival with qawwalis and big feasts.” Qawwalis are Muslim devotional songs sung at the tombs of Sufi saints.

  “I’d love to see a qawwali performance. It has been a long time since I’ve attended one.”

  “You’ve just missed this year’s urs. It comes early in this month of Shaabaan. But you should definitely come next year, and bring Maama too. Last year we commissioned two different qawwals – one man and one woman – and it worked really well as they each tried to outdo the other. The singing went on well past midnight.”

  “It will be good for your maama to lift his head out of the marriage bureau. Insha’Allah, we’ll come next year.”

  Unusually, Faiz called her naani – or grandmother, while Faiz’s husband, Sharif, called her maami – or aunt, because they were related from both sides. Faiz, of course, was her brother’s granddaughter while Sharif was the son of her husband’s cousin. As they walked through the village, Mrs Ali thought back to her English lessons. English was such a strange language – expressive in so many ways, but so bland in others. It used the same word for maternal and paternal grandmother. And the word uncle was worse – it was used when referring to a maama, a mother’s brother; a chaacha, a father’s brother; or a phuppa, a father’s sister’s husband. And yet they had two words where one would do – gate and door, for example – as if the subtle difference between them was more important than the major distinctions in the family.

  Mrs Ali’s ruminations stopped when they reached the sundrenched dargah with its whitewashed walls and onion dome, in the midst of a green lawn dotted with gravestones. A thin, old man was cutting the grass with a sickle and putting the clippings into a bamboo basket that he dragged behind him. Two ravens flew past with raucous caws. From the distance, beyond the dargah’s compound, could be heard a cow’s long moo.

  Sharif and Azhar put on white lace skullcaps. Faiz and Mrs Ali draped the ends of their saris over their heads. All of them took off their footwear and walked gingerly over the hot flagstones to the marble floor that was cool under the dome.