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‘Don’t do that, your hands will itch.’

‘They won’t. Who is she?’

‘Can I help it if people enquire? Does that mean instant marriage?’

Peapods disintegrate under the daughter’s hands. The mother continues with her shelling. ‘Everybody knows a younger brother cannot get married before an older sister.’

Nisha ignores this. It is no secret how her parents have been worrying, daughter getting older by the minute, son’s future blocked because of this, good matches passed over because of this.

One day a proposal comes that is so indicative of all-round advantage that they are forced to contemplate it, and as they do, the claims of the son become immediate and insistent.

‘Who is she?’ repeats Nisha.

‘It may all come to nothing,’ began Sona carefully. ‘You never know. Look what happened in your case.’

‘Even if it comes to nothing, I want to know.’

So Sona tells her daughter the story, prattling artlessly over the popping peas. Sushila had conveyed the interest from a richer branch of Rekha’s family, showrooms in Karol Bagh and South Extension, with a dowry quoted in dreams. A good home was their only criterion. The girl had had a burn accident one Diwali when she was young, skin grafts made the scar barely noticeable – like Nisha, she did not do too much housework, but she was a very loving, caring, homely girl. She would bring a maid who could help with Nisha’s work as well.

‘So you have settled it?’

‘You know we can settle nothing till you are married.’

But Nisha, with myriad peapods around her, could already hear the wedding band, could see her brother sitting with his bride before the marriage fire.

Unknown to Nisha, her parents were under great pressure to take this proposal seriously. As once before, the match had come through Pyare Lal, but this time it was Rekha’s very own cousin, beckoning with the seductiveness of previously established ties and many lakhs as dowry.

It was during their morning walks that Pyare Lal broached the topic in earnest. As the two men, dressed identically in white kurta pyjamas falling gently over pot bellies, walked together in the coolness of dawn, rubber chappals flapping, birds chirping, Pyare Lal assured his brother that he understood his feelings, but the situation demanded judicious assessment.

Yashpal reiterated that there was no question, simply no question, of getting a younger son married before an older daughter. People would presume there was something wrong with the girl and it would ruin her chances for ever. No matter how favourable the match for the boy, her happiness could not be sacrificed.

If, responded Pyare Lal, Nisha’s happiness was being sacrificed, he would rather cut off his tongue than persist. But times had changed, people were not so old-fashioned as to think there was something wrong with a girl who had not married before her brother. When she did marry, it would be to someone who would accept her as she was, not look for faults or shortcomings. In the meantime …

He paused. They were isolated from the interruptions so usual at home, and Pyare Lal felt the need to choose his words carefully. His brother looked ahead, breathing heavily, his emotions and the exercise combining to increase his heart rate.

First of all, said Pyare Lal, Nisha was his own daughter. He would never suggest anything that would harm her. But Raju was his own son also. With this match his future would be made. If it weren’t for the accident, the girl’s family would be looking much higher, they had the means. This proposal had come to them without any effort. Who knew how hard they would have to look before meeting its equivalent? Perhaps this was a sign from the gods that they should not ignore.

Secondly, the families were already related. Rekha and Pooja were like sisters. The ties between their sons would be even more firmly cemented. They could die peacefully, knowing the business they had slaved over would not be destroyed by fighting among the daughters-in-law. With wives so close it was less likely that Vijay or Raju would take their share and set up on their own; unity and partnership would take precedence over rivalry and independence.

Thirdly, with Fancy Furnishings having given two daughters to their family, business interests would be closely linked. The shop was getting too small for five men. They needed to expand, and with their combined resources it would be easier. For example, they could open a showroom that dealt in soft furnishings. Household linen, sheets, towels, bathmats, napkins: they could use the same sources that Fancy Furnishings did, they could refer to each other’s shops, they would have more clout with the bank, they could keep less inventory.

Fourthly, with things as they were, Nisha would not be able to marry for some time. How long was it wise to make Raju wait? Of course younger brothers should not marry before older sisters, but circumstances provided exceptions. Suppose for the sake of argument they let this match go. Both brothers knew what the fires of youth could do. Raju unmarried, restless, at large – could Yashpal guarantee he would never look at a girl, never think himself in love, never insist on his own choice?

Silence, as Yashpal contemplated the wayward element in his son. Marriage and a new shop to stock, manage, and promote would keep him busy for years. Yashpal had to admit to a certain easiness of mind in knowing that his son was well settled, with a powerful family backing him.

‘He is not like you, Bhai,’ continued Pyare Lal, ‘and even you, you did love marriage.’

More silence, to allow Yashpal time to reluctantly realise that there was something to be said for the scenario his brother had painted. He could sacrifice everything for the sake of his daughter, but Raju was a different matter. In the next year or so, should he happen to like some girl, Nisha might still be sidelined and the advantages of further union with Fancy Furnishings lost for nothing.

Clearly no point in that. But the idea of actually agreeing to something so obviously inimical to Nisha’s interests kept him silent. From her earliest years he had imagined giving her a boy so full of qualities, both personal and worldly, that her happiness would be permanently assured. Her wedding would be the most elaborate in the family. Now Pyare Lal was urging him to postpone those visions and go ahead with Raju’s marriage. How would his daughter feel with a sister-in-law younger than herself?

They were on their way home, the sun had risen, the coolness of the air was rapidly vanishing. As they turned into their lane he could see the imposing exterior of their new house, the curved balconies, the wrought-iron gates, the shining glass windows. They had risen in the world, husbanded their resources, and had three boys whose transitions into adult life had been predictable.

Was there a curse on the Banwari Lal women? He thought of his sister. Better Nisha never marry than have the miseries of Sunita’s life. They must be careful, very careful.

Pyare Lal broke into his fearful thoughts. Babaji had so far been advising them about Nisha. Why didn’t they consult him with all three horoscopes?

The next evening Sona and Yashpal took the horoscopes to Babaji. They carried a box of fine pista burfi covered in delicate silver foil, while in Yashpal’s pocket nestled an envelope containing five hundred and one rupees. Babaji, like his father before him, demanded no recompense for his services. Anything people gave was from their hearts in gratitude. Mere payment would have been an insult.

They squeezed into the packed drawing room of Babaji’s house.

‘Every time we come there are more people,’ whispered Sona to her husband, pleased.

It made no difference to them. The connections between the families stretched over forty years, uniting the fathers and sons of two generations. It was natural and fitting they get preference and jump every queue.

The others watched curiously as they entered the inner sanctum, obviously favoured.

Babaji smiled benevolently at them. A small fat man with greying hair, polyester kurta pyjama, many rings, he sat cross-legged on a takht covered with a white sheet. In front of him were cane chairs and a small table. Gods and calendars decorated the walls.

‘Tea?’ he asked.

‘We have had.’

‘Cold?’

‘No, please.’

Water was put before them and they could start. Quickly Yashpal outlined the situation: ‘We do not want to spoil the girl’s chances by marrying the boy first, but neither do we want him to go astray while waiting, and the offer seems good. Here are the horoscopes. We are in a difficult situation.’

Babaji went through the diagrams on the scrolls they proffered, two familiar, one new.

‘The boy’s stars are good,’ he murmured. ‘His marriage will open the luck in the family.’

‘And Nisha?’

Some calculations were made, then Babaji looked up. ‘Is the girl suffering from some illness?’

On the basis of such discernment many futures had been decided. Sona leaned forward eagerly. ‘Yes, Babaji, that is why we are so worried about her marriage.’ Her sari palla slipped, Babaji’s eyes flickered over the long, deep cleavage framed by the red scoop of her neckline, before turning away with a frown. Sona’s casual hand drew the palla back up.

‘Not soon,’ he remarked. ‘Her marriage will be late. She is going through a bad period.’

‘When will the bad period be over, Babaji?’ asked Yashpal.

More calculations. ‘Another three years.’

‘Three years! She is twenty-two!’ exclaimed Sona.

‘That cannot be helped,’ said Babaji firmly. ‘If she marries during this period there will be trouble later.’

‘How can the brother wait three years? He is almost twenty-one!’

‘He, on the other hand, has no bad stars. Whatever he touches will turn to gold. Whoever he marries will be right for him.’

Yashpal felt a pang for his daughter. So pretty, so loving, so studious, only to fall prey to bad stars. Was there nothing besides the pujas they were doing that could counteract their vicious influence over her life?

Of course there was, there always was. They were not to lose heart. He looked again at Nisha’s horoscope. He would choose a stone, have it set, she should wear that.

‘And this girl?’ Yashpal asked, indicating the third horoscope. ‘Will she be good for my son? For the family?’

He would study everything and tell them. They should return in ten days.

While they waited for Babaji’s verdict the family plunged into an orgy of speculation. Day and night, Yashpal–Sona, Yashpal–Pyare Lal, Sona–Rupa, Sushila–Sona.

Mostly it was assumed that Babaji would give them the goahead.

‘It is a good family,’ opined Sushila, ‘not at all proudy. Rekha never says anything.’

That is not what she had heard, thought Sona to herself. In fact it was Seema, the older daughter-in-law, who never said anything, but this was not the time to delve into the distortions emanating from upstairs.

Pyare Lal suggested they consult a numerologist, but Yashpal preferred to wait. Who all could they keep running to?

Back at Babaji’s ten days later. He greeted them, smiling as usual.

‘Tea?’ he asked.

‘We have had.’

‘Cold?’

‘No, please.’

Water was put before them, and they could start. First Babaji slowly produced a small red satin pouch, then withdrew from it a packet of magenta tissue paper. He unwrapped it to reveal a large, glittering yellow amethyst set in gold.

‘The daughter should wear this next to her skin night and day. It will counteract the bad influences.’

‘Everything irritates her skin,’ remarked Sona gloomily.

Yashpal shook his head at her, took the stone, admired it, then wrapped it up reverently.

‘I have good news,’ continued Babaji. ‘The boy and girl’s horoscopes are perfectly matched. This girl will be good for the family, and even Nisha’s future will open after her sister-in-law comes to the house.’

Yashpal fingered the envelope he had in his pocket. Babaji was taking so much trouble, he had slipped in a thousand and one rupees this time. It was not too high a price to pay if his children’s futures could really follow the trajectory he predicted.

‘Keep faith, it will be all right,’ said Babaji, as he gracefully accepted the envelope.

Pooja Arora was in her second year of college when Sona, Sushila, and Rupa went to meet her.

A plump, fair girl with a burn mark that trailed across the side of her face before wandering along her neck. The mother had been at pains to explain the details of her plastic surgery – superficial, it had all been superficial, Pooja was otherwise in perfect health.

Much discussion among the three women followed this meeting.

She was short, just five feet, but what will our Raju do with a tall girl, he himself is only five feet five, said Sona, echoing Sushila’s two-year-old remark about Rekha.

‘We want a homely girl, one who will be a sister to Nisha,’ pointed out Rupa. ‘Pooja will not be in a position to give herself airs, despite her background.’

What does Pooja have to give herself airs with? thought Sona with satisfaction.

Sushila remarked that skin grafts cost a lot of money, but if necessary the family should consider them for Nisha.

This was going too far. ‘Nisha’s skin does not look anything like Pooja’s,’ said Rupa quickly, while Sushila replied equally quickly she did not mean it did, only that it was obvious there were other avenues to be explored.

Raju was allowed a glimpse of the girl, though his opinion was the least important. What did the boy know of life, that he should be allowed decisions?

The would-be husband claimed he did not like her – what was that thing on her neck and cheek? It was nothing, he was assured, in time he would not notice it; besides, she was an only daughter, and did he see how fair she was? How diffident, how shy and sweet her expression?

She was also buxom, and though this was not pointed out, Raju noticed. A wife, he was going to get a wife like his cousins upstairs, they would not be able to treat him like a child any more.

Sweets announcing the engagement were sent out in specially designed long, deep, clear plastic boxes with Raju’s and Pooja’s names etched in red on the lid, beneath an embossed Ganesh. Inside, dividers in baby pink and blue separated almond and pista squares.