vehicle. Sweat plastered her petticoat to the backs of her legs. She pulled it free and rearranged her sari. Her daughters each offered an arm and she hobbled forward on short, rheumaticky legs.
There was no lift. With difficulty Mrs Watumal arrived at last upon the third floor. There was a fetid smell of damp cement, Burmawalla’s door stood open. A plate on the wall outside said, S. D. R. Burmawalla. Horoscope. Clairvoyance. Special powers. Mrs Watumal and her daughters entered.
At the end of a short corridor a lavatory door gaped open. The stench of urine was overpowering. The white tiled floor of the toilet was wet, and covered with muddy footprints. To one side of the corridor was a waiting room, filled with metal chairs. On the walls were pictures of Nehru, Mrs Gandhi, and the King of Burma, adorned with a topknot and gold earrings. Several framed Urdu scripts hung beside them. Theroom was crowded with people. Two assistants, a small swarthy man in a yellow checked shirt, and a muscular ayah with a pockmarked face, appeared frequently in the waiting room to scrutinize clients. Each time they passed the lavatory they slammed the door shut. It opened again immediately. Since they passed often there was a constant banging noise.
Mrs Watumal hobbled to the swing door of the consulting room. ‘We also are waiting,’ came cries from the other room. The assistant in the checked shirt appeared at the commotion. The swing doors bulged and released the ayah, who raised a muscular arm. Mrs Watumal retreated before the menacing limb. She did not sit down in the waiting room, but stood defiantly.
‘Who are these people?’ she demanded of Sunita, glaring at the crowd. Only a fat man with a briefcase, a skeletal man in a green suit, and a Parsi mother and son appeared worthy of note.
‘Ssh. Let us sit down,’ Sunita whispered. Lata had already taken a seat and tugged at her mother’s sari.
Mrs Watumal fixed her gaze upon the Parsi couple. The ironed folds were still crisply apparent on the boy’s white shirt, his eyes were earnest above a pubescent moustache. His mother blinked anxiously behind her heavy spectacles. A short, pink, frilly dress revealed her bare arms, and a neck scraggy as a fledgling’s.
‘What are you here for?’ Mrs Watumal demanded. Her daughters exchanged a glance and looked at their feet. They were thickset and no longer young. They had their mother’s protruding eyes, Sunita her father’s heavy jaw and Lata his wide-set teeth. Both had straight, shoulder-length hair. Lata’s was black, but Sunita took pride in the auburn glory of henna.
‘His shadow has become fat,’ the Parsi woman replied in a small, bleating voice, looking at her son. ‘At the same time worms have entered his stomach.’The boy shifted nervously under Mrs Watumal’s scrutiny . She sat squarely on the chair, her legs wide apart beneath her sari. She clicked her tongue impatiently.
‘How long must we wait?’ she demanded.
‘Both are your daughters?’ the Parsi woman inquired, smiling at Lata and Sunita.
Mrs Watumal nodded. ‘I have also one son. Eldest child,’ she replied.
‘All must be married?’ questioned the woman. Mrs Watumal frowned.
‘Not yet,’ she answered and looked away.
‘Why are they not married?’ the woman insisted. ‘They are so old.’ Sunita and Lata lowered their heads.
Mrs Watumal gave a moan, and called upon God. ‘It is these modern times. They have been shown so many boys of good family but always, one is too fat, one his voice is too high, another his trousers are too baggy. Nowadays, they like smart boys who wear imported jeans.’
The Parsi woman observed the girls through thick lenses. ‘But your son, he of course is married?’ she encouraged.
Mrs Watumal shook her head, disinclined to elaborate . The state of non-alliance in her children’s lives was like a permanent hole within her which, at this moment, was filled with such fury that she had been driven to seek,
There was no lift. With difficulty Mrs Watumal arrived at last upon the third floor. There was a fetid smell of damp cement, Burmawalla’s door stood open. A plate on the wall outside said, S. D. R. Burmawalla. Horoscope. Clairvoyance. Special powers. Mrs Watumal and her daughters entered.
At the end of a short corridor a lavatory door gaped open. The stench of urine was overpowering. The white tiled floor of the toilet was wet, and covered with muddy footprints. To one side of the corridor was a waiting room, filled with metal chairs. On the walls were pictures of Nehru, Mrs Gandhi, and the King of Burma, adorned with a topknot and gold earrings. Several framed Urdu scripts hung beside them. Theroom was crowded with people. Two assistants, a small swarthy man in a yellow checked shirt, and a muscular ayah with a pockmarked face, appeared frequently in the waiting room to scrutinize clients. Each time they passed the lavatory they slammed the door shut. It opened again immediately. Since they passed often there was a constant banging noise.
Mrs Watumal hobbled to the swing door of the consulting room. ‘We also are waiting,’ came cries from the other room. The assistant in the checked shirt appeared at the commotion. The swing doors bulged and released the ayah, who raised a muscular arm. Mrs Watumal retreated before the menacing limb. She did not sit down in the waiting room, but stood defiantly.
‘Who are these people?’ she demanded of Sunita, glaring at the crowd. Only a fat man with a briefcase, a skeletal man in a green suit, and a Parsi mother and son appeared worthy of note.
‘Ssh. Let us sit down,’ Sunita whispered. Lata had already taken a seat and tugged at her mother’s sari.
Mrs Watumal fixed her gaze upon the Parsi couple. The ironed folds were still crisply apparent on the boy’s white shirt, his eyes were earnest above a pubescent moustache. His mother blinked anxiously behind her heavy spectacles. A short, pink, frilly dress revealed her bare arms, and a neck scraggy as a fledgling’s.
‘What are you here for?’ Mrs Watumal demanded. Her daughters exchanged a glance and looked at their feet. They were thickset and no longer young. They had their mother’s protruding eyes, Sunita her father’s heavy jaw and Lata his wide-set teeth. Both had straight, shoulder-length hair. Lata’s was black, but Sunita took pride in the auburn glory of henna.
‘His shadow has become fat,’ the Parsi woman replied in a small, bleating voice, looking at her son. ‘At the same time worms have entered his stomach.’The boy shifted nervously under Mrs Watumal’s scrutiny . She sat squarely on the chair, her legs wide apart beneath her sari. She clicked her tongue impatiently.
‘How long must we wait?’ she demanded.
‘Both are your daughters?’ the Parsi woman inquired, smiling at Lata and Sunita.
Mrs Watumal nodded. ‘I have also one son. Eldest child,’ she replied.
‘All must be married?’ questioned the woman. Mrs Watumal frowned.
‘Not yet,’ she answered and looked away.
‘Why are they not married?’ the woman insisted. ‘They are so old.’ Sunita and Lata lowered their heads.
Mrs Watumal gave a moan, and called upon God. ‘It is these modern times. They have been shown so many boys of good family but always, one is too fat, one his voice is too high, another his trousers are too baggy. Nowadays, they like smart boys who wear imported jeans.’
The Parsi woman observed the girls through thick lenses. ‘But your son, he of course is married?’ she encouraged.
Mrs Watumal shook her head, disinclined to elaborate . The state of non-alliance in her children’s lives was like a permanent hole within her which, at this moment, was filled with such fury that she had been driven to seek,
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