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A week later Pyare Lal said to his wife, ‘You have to see a girl.’

Sushila knew her husband seldom said things without having other things in mind. She waited.

Pyare Lal poured tea into his saucer and sipped, lips puckered so his moustache did not get wet. ‘A Bansal girl,’ he let fall.

Sushila was at once alert. ‘Which Bansal?’

‘The Fancy Furnishings one.’

Sushila’s mind raced. A Bansal girl! Vijay’s future would be made. Such a good boy, doing whatever his elders told him to, never giving a day of trouble, he deserved the best. But to bring a Bansal girl here, with only one bathroom? Maybe they could construct more rooms on the roof. And Vicky – well, it was high time Vicky went back to Bareilly.

‘How did the party come?’

‘The uncle saw Vijay in the shop.’

‘And?’

‘They are interested.’

‘And?’

‘Now you have to see.’

Pyare Lal had full confidence that unless there was something drastically wrong, his wife would find the girl suitable. After Sona and Sushila had paid their visit he and his brother would start dowry negotiations.

‘When things have to happen, how quickly they happen,’ marvelled Yashpal over the coming month. The girl had been seen, the boy had been seen, the prices agreed upon, now the only thing left was for the young people to meet each other. Nobody foresaw any impediment. There was no reason for disliking and with their youth, similar backgrounds, education, and families’ approval, every reason for liking.

At the moment of meeting, Vijay directed his gaze towards the floor. He had already declared that any choice his elders made was all right by him.

The bride’s name was Rekha. She was doing a BA by Correspondence – what greater proof of her unspoiled nature, agreed the family. In addition she was attending cookery classes, specialising in Continental vegetarian. Today’s girls like to indulge in fancy homemaking, said her mother. These twisted cheese straws she made, dusting them with chilli flakes, was her idea, as was decorating the eggless chocolate cake with Cadbury Gems.

As the bride’s cooking initiatives were praised, her hands strayed among the bangles on her wrists. Her kurta was of a dark red satin, her bent posture emphasised the flesh that strained at the seams. Her skin was dark, her teeth were small, white and even, her lips were full. Her stature was short, but as Sushila said later, how tall is our Vijay?

The wedding was fixed for May, coinciding with the rash of weddings all over India when the good star would be in the ascendant.

It was Sushila’s big moment. Her son was adding to the prestige, status, and wealth of the house. Her conversation centred around the future daughter-in-law, so sweet, so unspoiled, so loving, already concerned about her mother-in-law’s health. ‘Homely, just like Seema,’ gushed Sushila. ‘That girl never says a word.’

Nisha, listening, thought of the time, now coming soon, when she would marry. She would talk, laugh, sing, smile. There would be no need for her to be silent or demure, she was going to the home of her boyfriend (here she blushed for her own benefit). Hers would be a modern relationship. Gone were the days when women needed to be so silent. And anyway silence in itself was a subversive activity. This she had gathered from her teachers, who had spent much time explaining Fanny Price and the voices in which silence spoke.

After Vijay it would be her turn, and her boyfriend had better hurry up and do something. She didn’t want her parents to embarrass themselves by promising what strictly speaking was not theirs to give – their daughter.

With much fanfare the Bansal family was united with the Banwari Lal family. Months of preparation went into Vijay’s wedding. Tailors and embroiderers were hired. In the angan sewing machines whirred while swathes of expensive material lay wrapped in old saris on the charpai.

This time Sona was determined that during the wedding a match even more advantageous than Vijay’s be achieved for Nisha. Her daughter had beauty, which the bride didn’t, and it was only appropriate that for such good looks, much wealth be put forward, a bargain in which both would be the winners, and happiness for ever be the result.

The wedding lasted a week. First the engagement, then the sangeet, then the mehndi, then the all-night marriage rituals, then the welcome home of the bride, and finally the reception. In this manner the Banwari Lal family acquired another daughter-in-law, from the same caste, the same community, the same locality. Everything humanly possible had been done to ensure the success of the marriage, after that it was in the hands of the gods.

At every function Nisha bloomed. Sona thought she had never seen her daughter look so lovely. And true to her expectations there were offers, offers which began with interest, then moved quickly to a demand for the horoscope. She kept her fingers crossed.

With Rekha’s dowry, the flat above the shop was bought, and differences between the generations now had a fresh chance to exhibit themselves. Ajay and Vijay wanted the fancy establishment they could not have when their grandfather was alive. Pyare Lal and Yashpal thought this was throwing away good money. A shop was a shop – goods made it special, not extravagant decorations. ‘Look at the shops around, fountains, glass doors, soft lighting, murals, fancy show windows, with such competition we will soon be left behind,’ argued youth impetuously, persistently, and finally successfully.

An architect (Ajay’s friend’s brother) declared that much could be done even with such an old-fashioned structure as theirs. Central air-conditioning a must, plaster-of-paris ceiling with frills and moulding, mirrors, a gold and glass chandelier, a tiled toilet (customers stay longer if you allow them to pee), a kitchen to store cold drinks and make tea, a stainless-steel spiral staircase at the back, a picture window out in the front, mannequins surrounded by fairy lights at night: with all this, theirs could be the best shop in Karol Bagh and his fees were thirty thousand.

Thank you very much, they would get back to him.

Yashpal and Pyare Lal had with reluctance agreed to the architect, but thirty thousand – was the man mad? It was Ajay’s idea, Ajay’s job now to beat him down to a reasonable figure.

Said Ajay to the architect, lower your rates and they would be his customers for life; as it is, the MCD was going to squeeze them when they started construction.

Replied the architect to Ajay, he also had to live, while he thought, yes, bribe the MCD fifty thousand per month, but refuse a designer his just wage.

As a compromise the architect suggested twenty thousand and a turn-key contract, just for them, old friends as they were.

Turn-key?

‘I do the job of designer, contractor both,’ explained the architect.

Ajay would get back to him, thank you very much.

Demanded the family of the world at large, did the architect think they were fools? Did he think he was doing something really useful, like getting permissions, or changing the land use? No, he just wanted to make money on the side. Twenty thousand without any turn-key business.

Pleaded Ajay with his family, ‘Be reasonable. How can he change the land use? That even God can’t do. Let him have his own contractor, it is not as though we are going to supervise every little thing. Any funny business, don’t pay him his balance money.’

Mused Yashpal that his father would have supervised every little thing, but what was the use of teaching old ways to the young? Wasting money over architects and contractors, going in for show – but if Pyare Lal said nothing, neither would he.

Pyare Lal didn’t. Both sides resentfully agreed to twenty thousand which included the building contract, and construction started. A scaffolding that covered a third of the front of the shop was erected on the pavement. All day workers climbed up and down, balancing on their heads sacks of cement, malba, boxes of tiles, bags of plaster of paris, stone, electrical conduits, mirrors, toilet, sink.

The scaffolding up and along came a policeman. He disappeared into the shop, and demanded to see the permission necessary for any change in structure. Tea was offered instead. Pyare Lal declared the policeman was his father, how could he be of service? The policeman smiled benevolently, he wished his sons well, but he was answerable to his seniors. His job was on the line.

What to do? cried the Banwari Lals. He knew how impossible it was to get permissions, even God would fail in a government office. Get this clearance and that, grease this palm and that, a whole life spent at the mercy of such people. How would they run their shop? They had children to feed and educate.

The father understood, but alas it was not up to him. He would send the Junior Engineer.

More conversation of a similar nature took place when the Junior Engineer arrived. The JE in turn was helpless, the law was the law and he was answerable to his own seniors. However, fifty thousand per month while construction was visible might ensure they looked the other way. On a meagre government salary, he too had children to feed and educate.

He left and the policeman returned the next day. His salary was even more meagre, and his children … The matter was settled at a few hundred per week.

With the meter ticking the speed of construction was of the essence. The architect was told he had to make sure the scaffolding was removed in one month.

This was his job, assured the architect, they were to run their business and leave the whole thing up to him.

There were now twenty labourers, working two, sometimes two and a half shifts. They slept and ate upstairs, their meals were carried up and down the scaffolding. Tea, food, tea, food, tea, food.

Pyare Lal watched the architect, his supervisor, the subcontractors, and the labour like a hawk. ‘A day over a month, a day over a month, and he is fired,’ he kept muttering.

His temper was not improved by the extra high bonus that the JE and the police, not to mention their own staff, demanded that Diwali. ‘Congratulations! May the Banwari Lals grow and prosper, may the goddess Lakshmi shine for ever on the shop!’

But before the goddess Lakshmi could shine, the JE got transferred. What you fear is what happens. Life is going to kick you, beat you, try you. To deal with this, both stoical acceptance of what you don’t have, and appreciation of what you do, are essential. Which is why, after his new start in Karol Bagh, the elder Banwari Lal had made it a business policy to be content.

‘Illegal construction,’ declared the latest JE.

‘How is it illegal?’ countered the family. ‘We are just remodelling rooms for ourselves.’

‘Where are your papers?’

He had them there. How could they get papers? Did they have worlds enough to spare? But he was their father. They deserved his protection, he deserved their gratitude. This relationship had been established by his predecessor.

The new Junior Engineer was not impressed.

The next day they found their shop sealed. Locks on the door and a ministry order. Once it was put on paper that they had broken the law, their shop would come under court jurisdiction, and generations of their family could kiss their lives goodbye.

Devastated, the architect, Pyare Lal, Yashpal, and Ajay spend the day running around the MCD office. Finally a meeting with the Assistant Engineer. They explain their position. Please, you must show mercy, there has been a misunderstanding, our case must not go to court. It is a question of their bread and butter, and their children’s future.

The AE understood. He would do all he could to help them. The new JE was still a boy, he did not know the ways of the office.

It took two days and twenty thousand rupees to get the locks removed. They were told they were getting away dirt cheap. They knew that and were suitably thankful. If the case had gone to court, they would have had to pay countless bribes just to get their files noticed and read, and then countless more to get it heard. Years could pass. Only a fool relied on the promise of justice that the legal system held out.

The case of Rupa’s husband suddenly sprang to life, proof that courts were worse than useless, and their twenty thousand well spent. Twenty years Prem Nath had fought to get that tenant out of his house, twenty years while the lawyer-tenant flourished on his paltry fifty-rupee rent and the landlord languished in poverty.

Construction continued for well over the promised one month. The architect said the delay was due to the shop being locked, during which time part of his labour had disappeared. With great bitterness Pyare Lal paid a further fifty thousand rupees to ensure continued blindness towards their illegal building for another month.

After two months a hole was punctured in the ceiling at the back of the shop. A prefabricated stainless steel spiral staircase was installed to unite the shop from the inside. Outside, after two months and a hundred and twenty thousand rupees, the scaffolding could come down and the meter stop ticking. Now only the interior of the upper floor was left to be done.

A thick polythene sheet was hung to partition off a narrow alleyway for the workers who snaked up the staircase. Round the clock they worked, laying the marble floor, building glass-cased cupboards, putting up granite counters for the salespeople. Seating took up too much space, it had to be replaced by standing, efficiency, and fatigue.

That was the modern way, none of this leisurely sitting down which allowed for old-fashioned persuasion, the unhurried display of metres of unfolding cloth, the slow creation of a buyer out of a non-buyer, the testing of sales skills amid tea and cold drinks.

Eight lakhs later the upstairs interior was ready. The architect came for his balance of five thousand, and was told to get lost. After all that trouble with the MCD, there was no way he was going to see another paisa.

The architect argued and argued, but they stood firm. As he left the cubicle he had designed for their private use, he thought it was just as well he had taken a commission from the contractor. These money-minded shopkeepers were all tight-fisted.

XV

The Karol Bagh house