the tiny fish woven into the border of her sari. Her longing for someone to love floated about her in silence.
Mr Batra glanced at her. A one room home in a world obsessed with material goods was not a fit setting for her daughter’s sterling qualities. But the astrologer, recognising Nina’s worth, had phoned after the birthday visit. He knew a woman whose brother was in Canada; if she wished he could make enquiries, but he would need a photograph. This Mr Batra surreptitiously gave.
‘Don’t you want to know who he is?’ she asked.
‘Alright.’
‘A dentist. Settled in Canada.’
The daughter digested this information. ‘The dentist himself is coming?’
‘No, no, his sister. And you know who brought the match?’
‘Who?’
‘The astrologer. Now say you don’t trust astrologers.’
‘I don’t. I thought his questions had little to do with the stars. He must be paid to do this kind of thing.’
‘And why not? Somebody has to. I will pay him myself, one hundred rupees, plus donate another hundred at the Katyayani Mandir the day you get married.’
‘You will never be able to afford to marry me to a dentist in Canada, so you can keep your hundred rupees.’
‘We will see,’ said the mother, hopeful because, regardless of their circumstances, the sister of a boy settled in Canada had expressed an interest in meeting her daughter.
Come Saturday, Mr Batra’s anxiety reached hysterical proportions. She cleaned and cleaned, coaxing a dull shine from the old furniture, a dubious transparency from the thick glass in the windows. She soaked dals and imli, she ground the walnuts for her special barfi, she fried namak para. She rearranged the pots in the little cemented area in the front, she plucked a few puny branches and arranged them in two vases. And yet, it all looked sad and dreary, the home of people who had come down in the world.
It was just as well that Nina worked on Saturdays, such preparations made her nervous and angry. ‘We have to be taken as we are, surely that is what marriage is all about.’
And the mother retorted silently; as we were, people must take us as we were. This is not us, this is some dreadful fate that has happened because of our karma.
But she said none of this aloud, Nina despised talk of karma: the opiate of the masses, the bane of Hindu society, the smugness of resignation, the invitation to do nothing.
Sunday. Despite the hot sultry monsoon, the gods have dredged up a cloudy sky, intermittent raindrops and a cool breeze to honour the occasion.
Nina woke to the sound of a mixie; Mr Batra grinding dal for the dahi bhallas.
‘Ma, give me a break,’ she shouted from her bed, ‘do you have to start preparing so early in the morning?’
‘It won’t take a minute,’ called back the mother, not wanting to antagonise her daughter. But the bhalla paste had to be ground, the bhallas fried, then soaked in water, then soaked in dahi. The accompanying tamarind chutney also had to be made, and it was already ten.
Nina emerged, dishevelled and bad tempered. ‘Why are you going to so much trouble? Some biscuits will do. It’s just tea.’
‘You want me to starve her? Will that please you?’ Mr Batra’s lip quivered. Why did Nina have so little sense of the world? Someone with whom you hoped to establish a connection was coming—you had to make an extra effort.
Nina noticed her old friend, the quiver. Her mother would never understand how degraded she felt by the way she slaved on these occasions.
‘If this works out your Daadi will stop blaming me.’
‘I keep telling you, don’t listen to her.’
It was all right for the young. They were less vulnerable. Nina used stupid words about her mother’s endeavours: bought—sold—marriage market. She didn’t understand that if a girl was thirty, you had to submit to the process even more.
How the sister ate! Three dahi bhallas, two barfis and fistfuls of namak para. Some perfunctory praise for the homemade
Mr Batra glanced at her. A one room home in a world obsessed with material goods was not a fit setting for her daughter’s sterling qualities. But the astrologer, recognising Nina’s worth, had phoned after the birthday visit. He knew a woman whose brother was in Canada; if she wished he could make enquiries, but he would need a photograph. This Mr Batra surreptitiously gave.
‘Don’t you want to know who he is?’ she asked.
‘Alright.’
‘A dentist. Settled in Canada.’
The daughter digested this information. ‘The dentist himself is coming?’
‘No, no, his sister. And you know who brought the match?’
‘Who?’
‘The astrologer. Now say you don’t trust astrologers.’
‘I don’t. I thought his questions had little to do with the stars. He must be paid to do this kind of thing.’
‘And why not? Somebody has to. I will pay him myself, one hundred rupees, plus donate another hundred at the Katyayani Mandir the day you get married.’
‘You will never be able to afford to marry me to a dentist in Canada, so you can keep your hundred rupees.’
‘We will see,’ said the mother, hopeful because, regardless of their circumstances, the sister of a boy settled in Canada had expressed an interest in meeting her daughter.
Come Saturday, Mr Batra’s anxiety reached hysterical proportions. She cleaned and cleaned, coaxing a dull shine from the old furniture, a dubious transparency from the thick glass in the windows. She soaked dals and imli, she ground the walnuts for her special barfi, she fried namak para. She rearranged the pots in the little cemented area in the front, she plucked a few puny branches and arranged them in two vases. And yet, it all looked sad and dreary, the home of people who had come down in the world.
It was just as well that Nina worked on Saturdays, such preparations made her nervous and angry. ‘We have to be taken as we are, surely that is what marriage is all about.’
And the mother retorted silently; as we were, people must take us as we were. This is not us, this is some dreadful fate that has happened because of our karma.
But she said none of this aloud, Nina despised talk of karma: the opiate of the masses, the bane of Hindu society, the smugness of resignation, the invitation to do nothing.
Sunday. Despite the hot sultry monsoon, the gods have dredged up a cloudy sky, intermittent raindrops and a cool breeze to honour the occasion.
Nina woke to the sound of a mixie; Mr Batra grinding dal for the dahi bhallas.
‘Ma, give me a break,’ she shouted from her bed, ‘do you have to start preparing so early in the morning?’
‘It won’t take a minute,’ called back the mother, not wanting to antagonise her daughter. But the bhalla paste had to be ground, the bhallas fried, then soaked in water, then soaked in dahi. The accompanying tamarind chutney also had to be made, and it was already ten.
Nina emerged, dishevelled and bad tempered. ‘Why are you going to so much trouble? Some biscuits will do. It’s just tea.’
‘You want me to starve her? Will that please you?’ Mr Batra’s lip quivered. Why did Nina have so little sense of the world? Someone with whom you hoped to establish a connection was coming—you had to make an extra effort.
Nina noticed her old friend, the quiver. Her mother would never understand how degraded she felt by the way she slaved on these occasions.
‘If this works out your Daadi will stop blaming me.’
‘I keep telling you, don’t listen to her.’
It was all right for the young. They were less vulnerable. Nina used stupid words about her mother’s endeavours: bought—sold—marriage market. She didn’t understand that if a girl was thirty, you had to submit to the process even more.
How the sister ate! Three dahi bhallas, two barfis and fistfuls of namak para. Some perfunctory praise for the homemade
Similar Books
