A Fine Family: A Novel Read online

  Some were holy men, others performed some service in the house, a few were just beggars, and there were others who did not want to pass up the free food. Since Bhabo had never missed this ritual, and had always made it a point to return home by noon, everyone was concerned when the poor started arriving and there was no Bhabo. To the servant who knocked on her door, she gruffly replied that she did not want to be disturbed and asked him to take over her noontime duties.

  When she did not come down for lunch either, the situation became alarming. An air of crisis permeated the house. Bauji, in a rare gesture, went up to talk to her. Soon both of them came down, Bhabo walking behind him, drying the tears from her reddened eyes. She had relented because Bauji had promised to send the family barber to the boy’s parents’ home to formally request the hand of their son for her daughter. She smiled as she ate a mango cut by Bauji’s hands.

  Bhabo was in good humour by the time the two Khanna sisters dropped in for their daily visit. The two sisters were married to the Khanna brothers, both accomplished lawyers from Lahore. The ladies always looked fresh and smart, dressed in white saris of Manchester Muslin No. 26. They came punctually at three everyday, had tea with Bhabo, gossiped and left promptly at four before the menfolk returned from the Courts.

  The Khanna ladies enthusiastically supported Bauji’s efforts to find a professional husband for Tara, and Bhabo felt relieved. Since they had grown up in Lahore, the Khanna ladies brought modern and enlightened ideas to the provincial mind of Lyallpur. Among Bhabo’s friends, they were the first to install a sink for washing hands. This was a novel and clever idea which was the talk of the house for days. They also heated their water in an electric heater, which impressed Bauji because it was clean. Bhabo’s children admired them because they were modern and systematic: they budgeted their expenses, observed regular hours, ate at a dining table, and lived in separate houses and not in a joint family as Bauji’s family did.

  ‘Sister,’ said the elder one to Bhabo, ‘What is Bauji’s secret in finding such a good match for his daughter? Imagine, an irrigation engineer for Tara! Tell us, sister, for we too have daughters to marry off.’

  Bhabo smiled and replied honestly that she did not know. She then naively recounted her humiliating experience with her friends in the morning.

  After the Khanna ladies left, Bhabo invited Tara to visit her ‘treasure room’. It was an unexpected honour since no one was allowed to enter this tiny room on the first floor, which was situated next to the ‘cotton carpet room’. In the narrow, dark, cool room Tara saw neatly stacked rows of silk saris, embroidered linen, silver utensils and velvet covered boxes filled with gold jewellery.

  ‘This is part of your dowry, my child. I have been collecting it for years,’ Bhabo whispered conspiratorially.

  Tara was left breathless. She had tears in her eyes. But she was diverted by the sight of a hundred rupee note which was torn in shreds on the floor. Bhabo picked it up and laughed.

  ‘The mouse must have eaten it,’ she said. Tara smiled uneasily for she knew that it was a lot of money.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ she said. ‘Your Bauji will be angry if he finds out.’

  Tara nodded.

  Tara kept her promise, but Bhabo could not contain herself and related the fate of the hundred rupees that same night to everyone’s discomfort. At that time it was indeed a great deal of money to lose to a mouse. Bauji did not say anything, but the atmosphere became tense.

  ‘Imagine, that is more than the cook’s wages for a whole year!’ groaned daughter number two.

  ‘How could you let it happen?’ said daughter number three incredulously.

  Big Uncle came to Bhabo’s rescue and diverted everyone with a hysterical account of Megh Nath’s wife’s brother’s marriage, from where he had just returned. Big Uncle had attended the wedding as the representative of Bauji’s family. At the mention of his contemptible nephew’s name, Bauji suddenly became attentive. It turned out that Megh Nath had selected a temple for the sehra-bandhi ceremony rather than his house. ‘Probably to save money,’ interjected Bauji. While the crown of flowers and gold thread was being solemnly tied onto the groom’s forehead, the priest of the temple suddenly let out a shriek when he noticed that the groom was wearing sandals. In the confusion of the ceremony the poor groom had apparently forgotten to take off his sandals. He had thus defiled the temple according to the enraged priest. Any amount of apologies would not quiet him. The indignant brahmin insisted on an outrageous fine of two thousand rupees in order to purify the temple. After prolonged negotiations the matter was finally settled. But Megh Nath’s pocket was lighter by five hundred and one rupees, they were late by two-and-a-half hours, and Bauji’s entire family, including Bhabo, had a big laugh.

  A few days later the family barber set out on his delicate mission after being thoroughly but contrarily briefed by both Bauji and Bhabo. Before entering the boy’s home, the barber went to the bazaar in Pindi, and he met members of his caste to circumspectly enquire about the boy’s family and also to alert the boy’s family to his mission. Later that evening, after he had prepared the ground for his visit, he went to Seva Ram’s fathe’s modest house, where he was received with cold courtesy. The groom’s family were naturally cut up because they had been denied any part in the engagement by their rebellious son. It was politely suggested that the barber should go to the guru. But the barber was clever, and he slowly won over the parents-to-be with tact and praise. They were simple-hearted people, and they generously offered their hospitality to the barber. He ate heartily and slept comfortably in the future groom’s uncle’s room, which was especially prepared for him. The next morning, they served him a rich breakfast of fried puris, curried vegetables, yogurt, halwah and buttermilk and fruits. He reciprocated by delicately singing the praises of the bride-to-be before the future mother-in-law. He showed her the bride’s photograph and invited her to visit Lyallpur to see the bride. The boy’s parents were flattered by the proposal, and gave their unreserved consent. They also thanked the barber and praised him profusely.

  When he returned to Lyallpur, the barber related the result of his mission with much self-importance. Not receiving his due attention from Bauji, he went to talk to Bhabo and tried to change her mind against the match. His arguments related to the economic and social status of the boy’s family. He claimed they were virtually impoverished landowners compared to Bauji.

  ‘Look at you,’ he told Bhabo, ‘here you are in a big house, with horses and servants. Look at them, so poor they couldn’t even feed me in the manner appropriate to such an occasion.’

  Bhabo was naturally up in arms. But Bauji quickly attacked the source of this mischief. He called in the barber and vigorously cross-examined him in Bhabo’s presence. Using his legal skills he got the barber to finally admit that it was a good match, because Tara would be marrying a boy with excellent prospects in life, which was more important than the number of servants and horses his family owned. The barber volunteered that the boy’s family were good people even though they were not rich. Bhabo was finally appeased.

  Although Bhabo was reconciled, Tara was not. After the barber left and the others went upstairs, she said to Bauji, ‘I won’t marry him.’ She tried to appear calm and decisive, but the boldness of the statement surprised her as well. Her dark eyes were stormy, wilful and anxious.

  Bauji could tackle Bhabo and the barber, but Tara, he knew, would be a different matter. He feigned interest in the hookah’s smoke in the dark space in front of his nose. The shadowed shrubs in the courtyard lay awake in the warm lifeless air. From outside the gate came the hoot of an owl. The summer sky was clear and the stars looked inert in the sultry atmosphere. He was vexed at having to conduct negotiations with his own daughter.

  ‘What is the matter?’ he asked gently.

  ‘I won’t marry him,’ she repeated.

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘He is short, he isn’t good looking, and I don’t like him.�
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  ‘First impressions are often wrong. Besides you haven’t talked to him.’

  ‘No, first impressions are always right,’ she said.

  He had the uncomfortable sensation of finding himself in a conversation not to his liking. He did not want to employ the verbal dexterity and guile, which he used in dealing with outsiders. He had always been open and affectionate with his favourite daughter. But tonight he found it tiresome to try to persuade her as well. There was a time, he thought with regret, when he could say anything that came into his mind. And everyone accepted his words and behaviour unquestioningly. Children were expected to be obedient and respectful, and did not oppose their parents blatantly. It was a matter of good breeding. But Tara had always been independent and ever since she went to college the problem had become more serious. Bhabo had of course warned him. She had constantly been opposed too much schooling for the girls. It was he who had stubbornly persisted in educating his daughters, especially in the English language. He now looked at Tara’s face, and he remembered that he liked her precisely because she did not submit easily. Her sisters, in contrast, were quick to compromise and to comply. Bhabo had felt that he over-valued this characteristic in Tara. Ironically, at this moment he sought precisely the opposite virtue—obedience and submission.

  ‘There is much more to marriage, young lady,’ he said. ‘He is a good boy, and he will take good care of you.’

  ‘Why can’t I marry someone I know?’

  ‘Child, we usually have to marry someone we do not know. Look at Bhabo and me: we did not know each other; look at your older brother; look at all our relatives and friends. It has always been that way.’

  ‘All those marriages haven’t been so wonderful, have they? None of you are good companions. You hardly ever speak to Bhabo.’

  The girl was going too far, thought Bauji. No one else would have dared to speak to him like this. What position was she in to judge the marriages of those older than her? But he did not want to get into that.

  ‘Young lady, don’t you worry about our marriage. We have had four children who are healthy, and we are prosperous. Thank you.’

  ‘But how much better would it have been if you and Bhabo had grown up together, known each other and been friends before marriage,’ argued Tara.

  ‘Who were you thinking of marrying?’ asked Bauji suddenly.

  ‘No one especially,’ replied Tara reticently.

  ‘Come, come, you must have someone in mind,’ persisted Bauji.

  ‘Why can’t I marry someone I know?’ she said more hesitantly.

  ‘Like whom?’ asked Bauji.

  ‘Like Karan,’ she whispered.

  Bauji raised his head and looked steadily into his daughter’s eyes.

  ‘Don’t look at me in that way, Bauji. Don’t look at me. I shall cry if you do.’

  ‘But he is your brother,’ said Bauji.

  ‘My cousin,’ she corrected him. Her voice broke; tears started in her eyes, and she turned away to hide them.

  ‘Still, it is not done. Not amongst Hindus. How can you even think of it? It’s sinful.’

  ‘Well I meant someone like him. Not him necessarily.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Someone I like,’ she said.

  ‘You will learn to like your husband. One learns to like one another after one is married. It happens. Liking is created by habit, common interests, and children.’

  ‘No, some one I like before marriage,’ she persisted.

  He was aware that the conversation was taking a dangerous turn. He wanted to change its direction. These romantic fancies were clearly the product of too much Western education. The English novels which these girls read were full of subversive ideas.

  ‘That sort of liking, my child, grows weak in time. But friendship is strengthened by time. The liking after marriage is like friendship. It lasts. Your kind of liking doesn’t last.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Does Karan want to marry you?’

  She was silent.

  ‘Well, he does not. He doesn’t even know that you exist.’

  ‘Bauji, I don’t want to marry a stranger!’ she said in tears.

  Bauji understood her fear of the unknown. A different and affectionate layer of his nature came to the fore, and he felt his heart wrenched. He was equally distressed at the prospect of losing his daughter to a stranger. Apart from sympathizing with her fears, he also thought of his own loneliness: who would he talk to after she left the house? As he was trying to hide his heart under the mask of patrician authority, he became suddenly aware of the presence of a third person.

  ‘Karan!’ exclaimed Tara, and she let out a cry of joy.

  He had not heard his nephew come in. The boy was positively like a cat. He had on his usual amused smile. Neither Karan’s approach nor his eyes were those of a person wanted by the police.

  ‘Bauji, I am leaving. I have come for your blessings,’ said the young man, bowing to touch his uncle’s feet.

  Although he had expected it to happen any day, this confident statement upset Bauji. But he did not show his feelings and continued to puff gently on his hookah.

  ‘And where are you going, may one ask?’ asked Bauji, after a long pause.

  Karan threw his head back with youthful zest—a gesture which Bauji secretly envied, as it emphasized the difference in years between them—and he flippantly answered, ‘I am leaving Lyallpur. It’s not safe here, and I have work to do.’

  Despite the manner in which it was announced, Bauji took the news seriously. The idea of his talented nephew going away to pursue the Quit India Movement was distressing. Even if he did not become a corpse like the one he had found in the Company Bagh, he would most likely rot in jail for the rest of his brilliant youth. This boy, whom he had seen grow from a child to a handsome young man of twenty; this boy, in whom he had placed high hopes and ambitions; this boy was now calmly asking for his blessings to ruin that brilliant future which he had clearly charted for him. There he stood with a confident twinkle in his eyes, just as he used to when he was sixteen after winning a cricket match.

  Like most successful people, Bauji valued his peace of mind and tended to avoid anything that upset his calm. But there was no escaping from this situation, and he found himself getting irritated. It was difficult enough dealing with his daughter’s tiresome infatuation. He was conscious of Tara’s agitated state, which was not helped by Karan’s presence. But these worries were swept away by his prescient concern for Karan. With his sensitivity for public events, Bauji had developed an uncanny ability to read symbols and to presage what was to come. And what he saw overwhelmed him with regret.

  ‘Give me a list of books, boy, that you want sent to jail. You will have lots of time on your hands there. You are too young to write your memoirs.’

  Karan smiled.

  ‘You’re mad, my boy, to go off with those people. You have such a future before you! Your mother has told you that we plan to send you to England. You could even clear the ICS exam there and then India will be yours to rule.’

  Karan nodded and then touched Bauji’s feet, which at first the latter thought was from gratitude. But he quickly realized that it was a gesture of farewell.

  ‘Don’t you realize what you are giving up?’ Bauji persisted.

  ‘I’d rather be an ordinary citizen of a free country.’

  Karan’s eyes smiled again as he turned to leave. Even though Bauji didn’t agree with this defiant youth, he felt strongly that this was his true son. He got up suddenly, pushing the hookah aside, and asked the departing youth to wait. He went inside with a quickened step and quickly returned with a wallet, which he thrust into the embarrassed boy’s pocket.

  The bold youth mischievously said, ‘Bauji, don’t tell me that you are financing our side! I better not tell that to the police when I am caught.’ After a pause the boy added, ‘It doesn’t harm to buy a little insurance, does it, in case we come to power.’


  ‘Stop being insolent! Go and pay your respects to Bhabo before you go.’

  As Karan went upstairs, followed by Tara, Bauji was left to his own thoughts. Fortunately, it was a dark night and he could hide his troubled face in the cloak of darkness. If only Gandhi had accepted in March the sensible offer of Cripps, he thought, we wouldn’t be having this terrible business. Once the offer was rejected the country’s mood naturally became bitter and frustrated. The future again looked gloomy. The British, on their side, had also stiffened their attitude. Gandhi, through his strange logic, believed that the British in India were a provocation to the Japanese. Thus they must quit India so that a free India could mobilize its full strength against the Japanese menace. What could be more impractical at this stage, thought Bauji. Now with the Congress leaders in jail, what would happen in the future? The Muslim League would again be in the center of the stage, and Jinnah would go all out to exploit the religious fears and emotions of the Muslim masses. Gandhi and Nehru at least tried to bring the communities together. But Jinnah only spread his poison to keep them apart. With Gandhi out of the way, Jinnah would surely hold sway, felt Bauji.

  He wondered if this thought had crossed Karan’s mind. Probably not since he was too obsessed with getting rid of the British. Everyone seemed to think only about the British and no one seemed bothered about what would happen to India after the British left. Slowly Jinnah’s poison was bound to affect the body politic.

  7

  As the wedding approached, the house began to fill up.

  Countless aunts, uncles, cousins and nephews began to arrive from the village. To many of them it was a great opportunity to visit the city, make merry, enjoy Bauji’s hospitality, and ventilate old grudges.

  A family of Muslim craftsmen was engaged from Kashmir to embroider the bride’s trousseau with gold thread. They worked in Bauji’s house and were a source of fascination to everyone. The entire east wing of the house had been turned into a kitchen to feed scores of people daily. The hunchback was hired and located in the east wing in order to produce massive quantities of sweets for distribution to what appeared to be half the city. Lists were made endlessly of those who were to receive sweets. An army of tailors also moved into the only room spared from the cooking brigade. All day long there was a bustle of blouses being altered, petticoats being hemmed, salwars being stitched.