Madras on Rainy Days: A Novel Page 4

  “We thought of you, of course,” Abu Uncle said, leaning toward the alim. “The girl is not sick, she needs the demon removed.”

  “Please, Alim-ji,” Amme said. “The wedding begins the day after tomorrow. We need you to do something quick. We only just discovered this ourselves.”

  “My sister, you cannot marry your daughter in such a condition. It is not possible.”

  I straightened, almost smiling behind my chador. Perhaps there was a way out of this marriage? A reasonable way. Let the alim forbid it. None of my own objections had mattered, but if someone Amme revered protested, maybe she would listen. The alim’s words filled my head like a silly, catchy jingle I wanted to believe in, and in those few moments, I saw clearly how I was a ghost caught in these cultural ruins, not a ghost from the past, but one from the future, someone whose life had already been lived for her, not once, but a thousand times before, and there was nothing left for me to do but gaze at the scorched relics of my own existence.

  “What are you saying?” Amme asked the alim. In her fear, she clutched the chador against her lips, and I saw her hand tremble. “Will this demon kill her if she weds?”

  “No, no, you misunderstand me. What I am saying is that your child is not fit to marry. Are you, Beta?” He turned in my direction.

  I wanted so badly to agree with him, but when the time came, I found myself thinking more about Amme’s happiness than my own. Perhaps if I had not seen her trembling, I would have been courageous enough to reverse all that had come before.

  “How would she know?” Amme asked. “You are the alim. You tell us. We have come to you for help and now you are giving us more strain. What kind of help is this?” She snorted. “Ageeb admi hai,” she said under her breath, strange man.

  “Hahn’” Abu Uncle agreed. “What Apa says is true, Alim-ji. We cannot stop the wedding now. The invitations have been sent out. The chefs hired. The wedding hall rented. The date was set a year ago. Ar’re! We are not playing a game here. This is a serious matter. This is a wedding. Layla’s name has been linked with the boy’s. No one else will marry her now. Tell us something we can do.”

  Amme nodded at Abu Uncle, silently praising him for standing up to the alim. My uncle nodded back, once, his lips downturned. confident.

  The old man slumped in thought, his beard now reaching the hair on his chest. His brows were thick and overgrown, his blue irises shining through the white film. He folded and unfolded his hands as he rocked.

  “Sister, if you do not mind,” he finally said, “I must say you are rushing this marriage. Perhaps you could postpone it until your daughter is better suited to meet her husband?” He sighed, his fleshy belly rising, then sagging. Over his sloped shoulder, I saw the black bird sitting on a brass rung of a chandelier, tilting its head this way and that as it contemplated its own reflections. “But you are the mother of the child and you will do for her what you think is fitting. There is nothing I can say that will change your mind?” He paused, and Amme and Abu Uncle lowered their heads, remaining silent. The alim muttered something in Arabic and spit over his shoulder. Then he said, “Who is this young man she will marry?”

  “The boy’s name is Sameer,” Amme said. Behind us, the rain fell heavily again. Monsoons were like that. An outpouring, then a retraction.

  “And whose son is he?”

  “Ibrahim Mohammed’s.”

  “Ibrahim? Yes, I know the man. Very gentle. Very caring.” The alim paused and played with his beard, the tips of his yellow fingernails poking through. Some strands were dyed red as though he had experimented with henna at some point, then decided to let the color fade and be natural. One eye turned toward Noor, who stood so quietly I wondered if she slept, and the other hung over my shoulder, to where the mourning doves perched. “I know the son well, too,” he finally said.

  “He’s an engineer,” Abu Uncle said quickly. Degrees were prized here, often put on the back of names, like a doctor’s: Sameer Mohammed, Mechanical Engineer, Hyderabad University. My relatives touted Sameer’s degree to let people know I was marrying an educated man. It raised family esteem.

  “Yes, I last saw the boy when he was entering university. His mother brought him to me after Sameer broke his leg in that terrible accident.” He clucked. “The leg never healed properly. I blame the mother for the boy’s misfortune. She did not want to spend the money on an operation. Now the boy has a limp. The leg is shorter than the other. He is the one you are marrying, Beta? Yes, you are doing a good deed. Allah will bless you for it.”

  I didn’t respond for a moment, surprised at what I’d heard. Then I changed positions, rising to sit on my heels, so that I could lessen the distance between the alim and me. White stubble grew on his reddish brown neck. My legs had fallen asleep and began to tingle. “I … I don’t think that’s the one,” I said, stammering and staring at the wet circles under his arms. “I’m not doing any good deed. I think you must be thinking of someone else.”

  Abu Uncle moved away from the alim, half of his bottom hanging off the takat. Amme had forgotten her manners and stared directly at the old man’s face. “The boy has never limped before us,” she said. “Yes, you must be wrong.”

  “But I cannot be wrong. I know him well. He is the elder son of two. The boy was in an accident only six years earlier, when he was eighteen, and the mother brought him to me. Of course, I couldn’t heal him. The boy just needed medical attention. I told the mother this. But she refused.”

  I didn’t know Sameer’s mother well, having met her only twice, briefly. Still, I couldn’t imagine why a mother wouldn’t heal her child. A year earlier when I had been engaged to Sameer, I hadn’t noticed a limp either. But he had had some problems sitting cross-legged at the ceremony. And now, for the wedding, the groom’s family had ordered chairs for the wedding stage, something that was uncustomary and perplexing, yet something that we had not asked to be explained. After all, the groom’s family had the right to ask for what they wanted. And we, the bride’s family, had not the right to ask why.

  “What kind of accident was it?” I asked.

  “A motorcycle accident. He broke his leg severely. Up by the thigh and hip. He couldn’t walk for months. Somehow, without medical attention, he healed. A miracle! For even I, after my accident … But the boy did not tell you this himself?” Now the alim also appeared confused. “I am sure I am thinking of the right boy. His father, Ibrahim, still visits me. We are very close.”

  “In this community,” Amme said, “there are many Ibrahims and many Sameers. How can we say they are the same? Certainly the family would have told us, Alim-ji. Why would they deceive us on such a big matter? You must be thinking of someone else.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, Sister,” the alim said. “Of course you are right.” He crossed his arms over his chest, bringing his shoulders in tight, and over them, I again saw the bird. Now it flew madly in the living room, smashing into mirrors, unable to find its way out. Each time I heard the dull thud of the small body as it hit glass, I cringed, wishing Noor would shoo it out with a broom. But she remained motionless, her hands cupped before her thighs.

  Then the old man asked to see my hand, but by this time, our minds were on Sameer and what the a/im had told us, so no one listened closely. After our visit, the alim refused any donations. He must have felt that he had told us something his other clients did not intend for us to know. More important, he knew that he had upset a situation that was going forward, and in India, weddings are not taken lightly. Careful scrutiny is taken of horoscopes, numerology, and the Qur‘an that considers not only the groom’s name and the bride’s, the groom’s birthday and the bride’s, but also the parents’ names and birth dates to see if the marriage will be Bad, Mixed, or Good. Sometimes, as in my case, the Qur’anic reading comes back as Better. Better, as in Better Than Average, Better Than Good, Better Go For It. Even specifics had been described: my husband and I would have two boys, one girl; we would travel; we would earn much money; we
would be happy together; and Sameer would only take on one wife during his lifetime— me. According to one palmist we consulted, the sex would also be Better.

  When we heard about Sameer’s broken and never-quite-healed right leg, my mother and uncle became understandably concerned. As did I. Surely if I was agreeing to marry a man of my mother’s choice, then the least she could do was provide one who had two even legs. This was certainly unfair. We all thought this. Unfair. It was as though the word lingered between us, crowding us, choking us, and when we looked up and saw that poor, injured bird flying about the living room, trapped by its own reflections, unable to find its way out, we thought it again. Unfair. So when the alim felt my forehead and arm, when he placed his hand on my abdomen, then encouraged Amme to bring me to a “lady doctor as quickly as possible,” Amme and Abu Uncle vaguely nodded in adherence, then rose unexpectedly.

  I followed.

  “No demons, then?” Abu Uncle asked, straightening his pants at the waist. He tucked his shirt in farther.

  “Not ones I can chase away,” the alim said.

  “Good, good. Thank you. The mother has been very worried. Did you hear that, Apa? No demons.”

  Amme nodded again, but her eyes, the most expressive feature on her, resembled the alim’s as they darted about the room. I prayed she was finally seeing how there was no way to move forward with the wedding.

  “Visit a doctor, Beta,” the alim said to me. “I give you the same advice I gave your fiancé’s mother.”

  “You are thinking of the wrong man, Alim-ji,” Amme said suddenly She stood over him, glaring into his face. “Who do you take us for? I would never marry my daughter to a man like that. What does my daughter not offer? She has everything. Everything. She has America. She could marry any man she wanted. I have known Ibrahim since I was a child so I chose his son for my daughter. The family would not have hidden such a big thing from us. I am sure they would not have.”

  The alim lowered his head. Noor looked away Abu Uncle placed his arm around Amme to comfort her.

  “Let us go, Apa. We’ll talk about this later.” He tried to guide her to the courtyard.

  She flung his arm away before throwing a bundle of rupees next to the old man. Then she turned, the chador swirling around her legs, and walked off. “Ageeb admi hai,” she muttered as she went.

  Noor jumped ahead, racing to the gate. I looked at the mirrors on the wall again, some smudged by the colliding bird. It lay now on the tile floor, its small chest heaving.

  “I keep the mirrors to trap demons,” the alim said. “Once they are inside the mirrors, they can’t get out.” He must have sensed my astonishment, for he laughed. “Don’t be scared of me, child. I am an old blind man. I have been this way for most of my life. In order to survive, I must be able to sense what is around me. I must be able to see what you see … and a little more.” He paused. “I would never harm you,” he said.

  “Come on, Layla, stop talking to that useless man,” Amme called from behind. “Chalu !” She was already annoyed. But it was not her fault. She had too much to think about. And right when she thought things were moving smoothly It becomes difficult for some to trust in the good that happens in life when punishment trails so closely behind. Amme was like that, an angel of sorrow

  “Thank you,” I said to the alim. He nodded once. I salaamed him and he salaamed back, his eyes roaming. Then a high beep sounded, tearing the air between us. He fumbled for his watch and turned off the alarm. “Time for prayers,” he said, rising. He stood on top of the takat, and when I followed his movement up, I noticed, for the first time, that the ceiling, too, was covered with mirrors. In it, the entire room was displayed, upside down. The alim and I stood on our heads, my face elongated, our feet dangling, the black-and-white tile floor was now the sky, and on it, that bird, still puffing, black, the red-tipped wings twitching, once, twice, then motionless. Too sudden for me to understand.

  I dashed across the courtyard, the rain feeling cool against my face. The way the chador rose behind me, I hoped that I would scare the doves into flight. But the two sat cooing on the bucket, their voices holding human sadness, yet without human meaning.

  AS WE RACED back through Elephant Alley the azan began, calling Muslims to the second prayer of the day The three of us ran silently, not noticing this time the heavy rain, not the women in the doorways who reappeared at the echo of our footsteps, not seeing the cobblestones, not tripping, not holding hands, just rushing.

  “Allah ho Akbar’” Allah is great, the imam’s deep voice rang through the loudspeaker.

  We sprang from the alley’s curve. The car was quiet, the driver’s door open. Ahmed’s feet dangled out. He was sleeping. The kids had finally let him alone.

  “Ashadan-la-illah-ha-illa-la,” there is no God but Allah.

  Abu Uncle pounded on the hood. The cheap metal bowed under his fist. Ahmed shot up. His face was deep brown, the blood had drained into his head. Amme and I rounded the Fiat from either direction. Ahmed held open the back door for her.

  “Hai ya-lul-salah,” come to prayer.

  The cushion dipped when we sat, more on Amme’s side than on mine. We rolled down the windows and looked out. Rain sprinkled my right arm and thigh.

  “You can’t pray because of your bleeding,” Amme said, then sighed. “I’ll have to pray for you myself. All my life I’ve been praying for you.”

  “Where to?” Ahmed asked. The car reversed out of the alley.

  “Home,” Amme said.

  “I thought you wanted to shop for the wedding?”

  “Don’t argue, Ahmed.”

  “Sorry, memsa’ab.”

  “Hai ya-lul-falah,” come to success.

  “Don’t worry, Apa,” Abu Uncle said. “They would not hide such a big thing from us.”

  Amne pursed her lips.

  “I’ll go over to find out if you want,” he offered.

  Still no answer.

  “That’s a good idea,” I said.

  He nodded.

  The back streets were empty. The residents most certainly at the mosque. Even those brats.

  “Such a big thing to hide,” Amme said. “A cripple!”

  “Ar’re!” Abu Uncle said. He laughed. Uneasily “He is not a cripple, Apa. Just an injury.”

  Ahmed looked in the rearview mirror at me. His eyes were round, big, and I knew he took it all in. Let him.

  “Kat ka mut tes salah,” come to good deeds.

  “No wonder they ordered chairs for the wedding,” Amme said. “The boy can’t sit. How could I have been so blind?”

  “We don’t know if it is him, Apa.”

  “Oh, shut up, Abu,” she snapped. “Who else could it be? Our community is not big. There’s only one Ibrahim with one son named Sameer. And only one cheap mother. Zeba. She doesn’t bring her own son to the hospital. For what? Money! I have never seen such strange people!”

  The car fell silent. Every minute or so, almost on cue, Amme let out a sigh. Deep. Guttural. It sat between us, edging me more and more toward the door. Even the wind coming through the open windows could not blow her moans away

  My story had gotten lost in his. What better twist of fate could I have asked for? I sat back in the seat. We wound our way out of the alleys, away from all fables about eager bridegrooms and trapped creatures.

  “Allah ho Akbar,” the imam repeated, Allah is great.

  I smiled, hidden by the chador. He certainly is, I thought.

  Mehndi

  DAWN. THE FIRST day of my wedding.

  I was standing on the flat roof of my mother’s great house in the old walled city, staring out at the dirt alleys and whitewashed houses, slim minarets rising all around, the neighborhood that was as much part of me as the tree-lined suburban streets, the Colonial-style homes in Minneapolis. Five times a day, from each of these corner mosques, a different azan sounded, filling the air with God’s adoration, his greatness, humble words quickly evaporating, being replaced with the s
ounds of cocks crowing, goats bleating, a lone dog’s howl. Even the lamb now tied to a guava tree in our house’s inner courtyard, awaiting its own slaughter on the day of the nik’kah, four days from now, bayed along with the azan, as though itself praying for Allah’s mercy

  Allah’s mercy It was what I, too, wanted, though coming in what form, I could no longer say. What was I feeling on this, the first day of my wedding? Indeed, like God’s praise evaporating, leaving in its wake the noise one could not bear to hear, the noise of dirty animals, the soul transcending the body, plunging down to earth, so, too, had my dread, my apprehension, my small hope of escaping these marital ties vanished, and the emotion that took over was no emotion at all, just a dullness that matched the overhead skies, singing of a different kind of surrender.

  DAD WAS SITTING on a bamboo chair in front of me. His chin was resting on a hand as one graceful finger stroked the skin below his fleshy lower lip. He was grinning at me, his light eyes filled with a playfulness, a tenderness, I’d not seen before … at least, not since he’d married Sabana. We were facing each other, our deep chairs shifted to stand just beneath the ceiling fan. Its wind blew back the collar of his white kurta, exposing fair skin still taut around the neck, under the eyes, though he was forty-nine and overworked, though he managed two families. Below the tunic, he wore the dark trousers he usually wore to the hospital, pressed down the center, and below that, deep brown patent leather shoes whose color had, in the two days since his arrival, grown even deeper from dirt and dust. I knew he’d end up giving them to Ahmed or Munir, the cook, before he returned to the U.S. A servant doing chores in shoes that cost more than a year’s salary The shoes were left untied and he wasn’t wearing socks.

  The finger moved to his dark mustache and smoothed it down. “Do you remember the song we used to sing when you were a little girl?” he asked. Before I could answer, he began singing it himself. “Early in the morning, just like me. You are eating breakfast, just like me. Dancing in the streets, just like me … !” He threw back his head and laughed, the roof of his mouth a healthy pink against his white teeth.