Authors: Meira Chand
‘But what is wrong with the family?’ Mr Murjani asked his wife, as they prepared for bed. They had returned from a dinner with the Balanis, in the Oberoi Sheraton Hotel. The Lalwanis had been there and also the
Premchands
. After dinner all the young people had
disappeared
into the discotheque. Mr and Mrs Murjani had returned home alone.
‘How will Rani be happy so far from home, in a strange country? Those Lalwanis talk and laugh so loudly. And Mrs Balani wears dresses, like a Parsi or a Christian. I have not seen her yet in a sari. The first time the boy came here with Pinky, his clothes looked fit only for a servant. They do not seem suitable,’ Mrs Murjani complained. Her husband struggled into his pyjamas.
‘They live abroad. Life there is different, more casual. The family is of good reputation, well-known to everyone, and that is what matters. The boy has a future, even if he doesn’t want to enter his father’s business. Balani has his own factories in the States, one for ballbearings and the other for the production of medical equipment. This is a good line for India, too. Through him we could achieve a tie-up. I have been looking for some time for a new line; India needs such equipment. Balani too is interested in a tie-up – I had a long talk with him. He will speak to his American associates.’
‘Business, business,’ Mrs Murjani muttered, rubbing cream on her face before the mirror.
‘They have money; Rani will be denied nothing. She will live as she is accustomed to; this is what matters.
And there is such a strong liking between the boy and the girl. It is noticeable to everyone. How will you marry her to someone she does not like, but you find more suitable? We live now in modern times, and she is a strong-willed girl. She takes after me,’ Mr Murjani said with a note of pride.
‘I am well aware of that,’ Mrs Murjani replied, and closed the lid on a jar of moisturizer with a savage snap.
‘Be thankful she has chosen this boy. I like him.’ Mr Murjani got into bed. ‘I am looking for a way to expand abroad. I see nothing wrong with a daughter in
America
. We shall become an international family.’
‘She too will learn to wear dirty jeans, or dresses like her mother-in-law.’ Mrs Murjani bit her lips in frustration.
‘She will do as she wishes. I am not worried. She is a sensible girl at heart. After marriage you will see how sensible she will become, all this rebellion will be forgotten. At this age the blood is hot. She should have been married two years ago, when I suggested.’ Mr Murjani reached out to put off the light.
Mrs Murjani lay quietly beside him. Her thoughts strayed back to the trouble over Sham Pumnani, that had thankfully been averted. She thought of Lakshmi, devoured by an unfeeling family. She remembered her terror out on the rocks of the
dhobi
ghat,
and the sudden vision then of the precariousness of existence. She had hoped to secure as a husband for Rani the son of some minor nobility, or an industrialist wealthier than Mr Murjani. But the reality was far from a disaster. As lawyers the Lalwanis were famous names throughout India. And the Balanis were known for
entrepreneurship
, not only in India, but in every expatriate
community
of Sindhis settled about the world.
‘Marriages are made in heaven,’ Mrs Murjani sighed, and resigned herself to the matter.
She closed her eyes, and the gleam of gems filled her mind. The diamond setters must return immediately; jewellery for the dowry must be finished quickly, for the Balanis wanted an early wedding. They would delay their departure to America, if the marriage could be quickly arranged. Thank goodness, thought Mrs Murjani, that she had preparations in hand. You never knew when something like this would blow up, with a daughter of marriageable age. But in America, where would Rani get a chance to wear lavish gems; she had heard the social life was unbelievably casual, and people preferred costume jewellery. Before sleep descended she saw a picture of Rani, in dirty, torn jeans and frayed sneakers, with a thick collar of
diamonds
about her neck. Mrs Murjani gave herself thankfully to oblivion.
*
Coming out of the disco, Kamal caught Rani’s hand. Their hearts still pumped from the exertion and music. He pulled her near him and grinned.
‘You’re quite sure about this?’ he asked.
‘Quite sure,’ Rani answered and gave a laugh. The others had gone on ahead; they were alone in the lift. He pulled her nearer and kissed her.
It was all going to happen soon. They were going to Paris for their honeymoon. By the Autumn she would be in America. Just in time, Kamal said, for the
beginning
of the academic year. They had found numerous ways to be alone, and discussed their future together in detail. She was going to take a Masters in social work. Kamal agreed with her decision. Application forms for colleges were already on their way. Once, he asked her what made her choose that subject. She did not tell him about the
dhobi
ghat
, and the old crone whose hut she had peered into. Or those sights of the city, suddenly seen with new clarity, on her way to
the Samtanis. Or Lakshmi. She thought a lot about Lakshmi.
Her mother was once more obsessed with diamonds, and now there was no escape.
‘There’ll be nowhere to wear it all, in America,’ said Kamal.
‘I’ll lock it up in a box and think of it as an
investment
,’ Rani decided.
‘Sneakers and jeans, preferably old ones, is all you’ll need on campus,’ Kamal added.
‘Please don’t tell my mother that. She might call off the engagement.’ Rani began to laugh imagining her mother’s expression at the sight of her daughter, as she was soon determined to appear, in frayed sneakers and dirty jeans.
They reached the glass doors of the hotel. The rain sluiced down beyond. Kamal put up an umbrella as they hurried to where he had parked the car. But Rani suddenly darted away and ran ahead of him.
‘Hey,’ he shouted. ‘Where are you going?’
She did not know why she ran, nor when she would stop, nor where. She held her face up to the rain and let it pelt freely down upon her, and laughed aloud, again and again.
‘Mohan is a waster,’ said Chachi. ‘Only dreaming all the time, and refusing to help his father. Why should we marry our Padma to this kind of boy?’ She pulled herself up on her string bed to face Rekha.
‘Now he is working with Sham a great change has come over him. Dada Lokumal says the fault is with his father, not with Mohan,’ Rekha explained. She had spent some time with Lokumal, before Mrs Watumal had joined them. Tears filled her eyes when she thought of the goodness of the old man.
‘Without even consultation you have agreed?’ Chachi inquired through pursed lips. ‘In this house it seems the views of elders are given no respect. The Watumals are
Bhaibund,
we are
Amil.
Why should our Padma marry a
Bhaibund
boy? In Sukkur—’
‘Those times are gone,’ Rekha said firmly. ‘We cannot refuse Dada Lokumal’s kindness. The boy and the girl have known each other since childhood. The family is like our own family, and Padma will stay here in Sadhbela. It could not be better,’ said Rekha. ‘Besides, through his work, Sham is also now
Bhaibund
.’
‘Since when is a
Bhaibund
family like an
Amil
family?’ Chachi argued, and turned to the wall with a shrug. ‘If this is your decision, then what can I say if the views of elders are no longer needed?’ She wound her scarf in a blindfold about her eyes and lay down. ‘The last time also my voice was not heard,’ she muttered.
Since her views had not been sought, she could not now show she was in favour of the marriage, but she had decided to go herself, when Rekha was out, to thank Dada Lokumal. Nothing after Lakshmi’s death
could ever be the same for them. Yet she sensed in herself, as she did in Rekha, an almost imperceptible shift, the first thin crack in the darkness of their present life with this incredible news.
‘It is a good match. It is God’s work,’ she muttered sleepily, and did not realize she spoke aloud. Beside her Rekha smiled sadly, for the first time in many weeks.
*
‘I left in the morning and when I got home I found Padma already engaged. The whole thing was a shock, however pleasant,’ Sham said the next day in the
factory
to Lata. He peered down from the office window at Mohan, speaking animatedly with a group of
workers
on the floor of the factory. He had been working enthusiastically, and since his engagement to Padma the night before, he seemed fired by even greater drive. Marriage would steady him; it was the best thing that could have happened. Sham still had difficulty
digesting
it all. Dada Lokumal’s kindness and the speed of events had left them all breathless.
‘It was so quick,’ Lata agreed. ‘I never heard of such a lightning engagement.’ She began to laugh. ‘Mohan has had his eye upon Padma for some time. I know there is an age difference, but I do not think it matters.’
‘Padma seems happy,’ Sham agreed.
‘Mummy is like a new person,’ Lata told him. ‘In twenty-four hours her life has changed. Mohan is engaged, and Sunita has had a look at the widower, and says she will accept him. So now there are two weddings to arrange. Mummy and Aunty Rekha, and Mrs Hathiramani and Mrs Bhagwandas, are rushing up and down to each other all day, to discuss one or another detail. The whole building has been stirred up. And Rani too is engaged, did you hear? Soon Sadhbela will be strung with fairy lights for a wedding on every floor.’
‘That leaves only you,’ Sham said.
‘Oh, there are widowers lined up for me too,’ Lata laughed. ‘But I’m not Sunita; I’m not worried about being an old maid. I’m happy working here. The place is going to grow, I can see it already.’
Sham sat down at his desk, picked up a pencil, and made a doodle on a message pad. Lata turned away and began stacking ledgers on a shelf. ‘If you got
married
and could also work here, would you change your mind?’ he asked, filling in a portion of the geometrical squiggle before him.
‘How many husbands would allow that?’ Lata shrugged.
‘I would,’ he replied and continued with the doodle, trembling at his audacity, amazed at where the words had come from. Ten minutes before no such thought had been in his head. He realized suddenly that he had carried the words deep within him since that time after Lakshmi’s death, when Lata’s quiet presence had filled his home. And now, near her constantly, he felt a strange diminishment in those hours she was absent. He forced himself to think of her withdrawal from his life, into a marriage like Sunita, with a suitable
widower
, and felt such a confusion of painful emotion that he thrust away the thought.
‘You?’ Lata gasped and sat down. She made no attempt at an answer. He waited for her to laugh. Instead the silence grew wider between them.
He should never have spoken. He began to black in each area of the doodle, pressing down hard with the pencil. He had nothing to offer but a houseful of broken old people, no money, not even a room of his own for the privacy of marriage. And Lata was five years older than him. It was impossible. He looked up suddenly in fear of what he had said, and saw her agitation. The easy companionship they had worked in would be finished now.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘Forget I asked. It was a mad idea. I don’t know where it came from. It wouldn’t work, it’s quite wrong.’ He looked down again at the message pad. A great construction of complex shapes towered up on the page before him.
‘Yes, a mad idea,’ Lata said suddenly in a hard voice. ‘Who could want an old maid like me? Don’t worry, I’ll forget you ever spoke. You’ve no need to feel sorry for me, you know.’
‘Sorry?’ He looked up in alarm. ‘The thought never entered my head. Don’t call yourself an old maid. You’re not. I was sorry for my boldness in suggesting such a thing. What can I offer? No proper home, a houseful of old people, no money. Who would ever marry me?’ He added more boxes to his tower, and blackened a further triangle. They fell silent again. He pressed his pencil to the pad industriously. He heard her stir.
‘Your family are good people. A house can always be rearranged, partitions be put up. And you are earning money now, the future need not be bad. Why should you not marry?’ she asked, her voice low and flat. Looking up again, he saw tears in her eyes.
‘I didn’t ask you out of pity,’ he repeated. ‘I meant it, but it’s a silly idea for the reasons I’ve told you. And it has upset you, I didn’t mean that.’ He looked down again, miserable.
‘You take the offer back then?’ she asked in a fierce voice.
‘It was a mad idea,’ he repeated, and bent his head lower over the pad in shameful embarrassment. There was silence again. He heard her stand up and turn to the shelf of ledgers. He raised his eyes as she spun suddenly round to face him, her face angry, and wet with tears.
‘What’s mad about the idea?’ she yelled suddenly.
‘There’s nothing mad about it at all. If you want my view, it’s a good idea.’
He dropped the pencil and stared at her. ‘Oh my God,’ he exclaimed and began to laugh, while Lata continued to cry.
‘It’s a very, very good idea,’ Lata sobbed and sat down again, and searched for a handkerchief.
‘What’s good about the idea?’ Sham inquired. He offered his handkerchief over the desk.
‘Nothing really, to those who don’t know,’ Lata replied. She took the handkerchief and blew her nose.
‘But those who know might feel it could work?’ Sham asked quietly.
‘I think so,’ said Lata, not looking at him.
‘Then perhaps it’s not such a mad idea. Perhaps I should reconsider,’ Sham announced.
‘I think you should,’ Lata smiled, lifting her face to him now.
‘Think of the things people will say,’ Sham warned.
‘Who cares what they say?’ replied Lata. ‘Already they’ve said so much, what does a little more matter?’
‘You’re right,’ Sham agreed. ‘I suppose you’re always going to be right. That’s the trouble with finding a sensible wife.’
‘They’ll say you’re hen-pecked,’ Lata laughed.
‘They’ll say you’re a cradle-snatcher,’ Sham returned.
‘Who cares?’ Sham threw the memo pad up in the air. Lata caught it neatly and put it back in its place.
‘Behave yourself,’ she said.