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‘That is why he wants to see me, to see how bad it is?’

‘Beti, you get nervous for nothing. It is not so bad, hardly noticeable.’

What could she say in the face of such blindness?

The father continued with his own preoccupations. ‘He wants no dowry, he feels a dread of doing anything similar to the first time. But we are giving, you are our only daughter, it is your right.’

‘Papaji, I do not want.’

‘Don’t talk like a fool,’ scolded Yashpal. ‘It is our custom. We have taken with our daughters-in-law, we will give with our daughter.’ And without her asking, he added, ‘We have also spoken to them about a maid. If your mother-in-law wants, she will stay there; if not, we will pay for her to come and go every day. We have told them you need help in the kitchen. It was Pooja’s family who showed us how to do these things.’

Pooja was put in charge of the drawing room. On the morning of the meeting she and Raju went to the wholesale flower market near Hanuman Mandir and chose red and pink roses to match the maroon velvet sofas of the drawing room. These were now tightly bunched in brass vases in two corners of the room.

Sona had spent the day preparing kachoris, green chutney, dahi bhallas, and halwa. The china tea things were taken out, her stress dissipated in harassing the maid. It was a tense and hopefully auspicious occasion, a manglik coming to see a mangli, after a prolonged bad period in the lives of both.

‘Now for the sake of your poor mother, do not itch,’ said Sona in the bedroom, taking out the sari Nisha was going to wear, the matching long-sleeved blouse, and two dozen glass bangles. ‘And remember there is no need to say too much.’

‘If I am going to marry him, I should be able to say what I like.’

‘Later, not now.’

‘The horoscopes match, Didi,’ said Rupa quickly, getting the make-up ready. ‘It is good if they get to know each other. This time everything will be all right. They have agreed to the maid, they are trying to be accommodating.’ She carefully applied foundation to Nisha’s face. ‘See how nice it smells. Shall I put perfume?’

‘Arre, Roop, she will itch with perfume. They are coming to look at her, not smell her.’

The aunt looked at Nisha’s face critically, tilting it to the light.

‘All right?’ she asked the mother, who was standing by with the sari.

‘Little more, perhaps. If we can match the hands it will be good.’

Nisha’s hands; still fair, unblemished. Long white fingers with the nails painted a pale pink. Two gold rings on each hand, with stones to bring out the colour. As for necklace and earrings, the thin sari material simultaneously revealed and concealed.

Meeting.

The man cleared his throat. Nisha kept her eyes down. She was concentrating on not itching. Her two dozen bangles tinkled emphatically whenever she moved. She twisted the four rings on her fingers, her flickering glance resting on the man’s stomach spilling over the belt, straining the buttons of his shirt.

Why does he want to see me, will he say he doesn’t like me, is that why he doesn’t say anything? Nisha directed these thoughts towards the hem of her sari.

He cleared his throat again. She looked up briefly, took in the black moustache over full lips, took in his round, perspiring face, the cheeks that imitated the bulge of his stomach, the red-brown skin. His hair was streaked with grey, his watch clasped a dark and hairy wrist.

‘You know I have been married before?’ he asked eventually.

Nisha nodded.

‘I asked to meet you because I think people should know each other first.’

She nodded again.

‘First time I was twenty-one. Only son. We lost my father early, my mother needed someone.’

More nods.

‘She was seventeen. When we could not have children, my mother blamed her. They were alone in the house together, and she was very young …’

Was this man telling her his wife was murdered, or had committed suicide, that the story of the accident was a fabrication – what was he really saying?

She shifted her gaze from her sari to the floor between his squarely placed feet, allowed herself to take in the tightly held knees. Maybe he was tense too. It had not crossed her mind that others could be scarred in the marriage market. And a man at that.

‘Won’t you say something?’

‘What happened?’

His face twisted.

‘You don’t have to tell,’ she added nervously.

He looked up; no, he had to, it was her right. A bus hit the rickshaw she was in, it was evening, she had gone to the market to buy vegetables and was on her way home. She was only twenty-three.

She heard the protective note in his narrative and was reminded of her father. Maybe at last the planets that had reigned over her life were bidding their long-held position goodbye.

‘Is there anything you wish to ask me?’ enquired the man in the space of Nisha’s thoughts.

It felt odd to be giving conditions as though everything was settled, but maybe this was how it was done. ‘I work,’ she offered.

‘I know.’

‘I would like to continue.’

‘They told me,’ he said heavily.

Was that all he was going to say? She was disappointed.

The man shifted his weight about and looked at her. ‘How long have you been doing this business?’

‘Two years.’

‘Two years.’ More pause, more thought. ‘You must have worked very hard.’

Again he reminded her of her father. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it is called Nisha’s Creations.’

‘Lots of women are doing ready made. I see small boutiques operating from houses all over Daryaganj.’

‘I cannot give it up,’ she confided. This was the only thing she could visualise in any marriage, that she had to come to the basement every day.

‘Let us say, you come here till I have found room for you nearer home.’

She blushed, then felt suspicious. Were his words genuine or false?

‘One last thing,’ he now said. ‘I want registry. You do not mind?’

The many family weddings stretching down the years, bringing brides into the house, taking daughters away, had all been traditional. Not to have one of those. No ceremonies where she would be the centre of attention, of laughter, jokes, and teasing, no dressing-up or jewellery, no red and white bridal dots across her forehead, curving under her eyes, no arrival of the barat, no groom on horseback, no wedding fire, no sisters hiding the bridegroom’s shoes and taking as much money as they could to give them back, no vida, no tears, no photographers, no wedding album – nothing. She had not realised how much she expected these things in her future.

The man looked up and read her face. ‘You do not like the idea?’ he asked.

‘It seems strange.’

‘At thirty-four, I feel too old for fuss.’

She nodded briefly. Perhaps she had never been destined for a traditional wedding. What was important was the life after the ceremony, not the day itself.

They were looking at each other now. It seemed possible to ask a personal question. ‘What was she like, your first wife? Was she pretty?’

He looked at her. His face relaxed, he almost smiled. ‘She was not chosen for her looks,’ he replied.

Nisha felt comforted.

‘I have to marry and we are not interested in such things. My mother needs someone in the house.’

Nisha nodded. She didn’t question the world’s need to marry, it had been dinned into her head since birth.

They sat like that for a minute, then he got up and indicated they should join the others.

In the drawing room Nisha shrank as his mother turned her attention towards her.

‘Where have you studied, beti?’ she asked, holding Nisha’s face up by the chin.

Nisha did not reply. This stock question came as a shock after the intimacies inside. The woman kept looking at her.

‘Answer her, Nisha, answer your mother-in-law, do not be shy,’ chorused the family.

The woman let her go and looked carefully at her son. Assessing glances crossed the room.

Shuchi toddled towards the kachoris and began to crumble them in her fists. Pooja giggled, and snatched her up.

‘So naughty these children are,’ said Sona to the man’s mother.

‘Children should be naughty, otherwise where is the fun?’ commented the mother in turn.

Now that they were practically related, the atmosphere lightened, and in that spirit they talked of this, that, and left.

Immediately the family crowded around Nisha. What had he said? Did he like her? What did she say to him, how was it? Quick, they wanted to know, how was it?

Nisha was not sure. Overwrought, she began to cry.

‘My Nisha,’ said Sona, answering Nisha’s tears with her own, ‘you are going to be a bride.’ She cracked her knuckles around her daughter’s head.

Pooja hung around her, Rekha ran to get the cup of tea she had not been able to drink during the meeting. They had to wait to hear from the party, though with the mother telling Sona as they left that the girl was good, Nisha’s marriage, it seemed, was settled. Guilt and sorrow were packing their bags, soon it would be time to say goodbye.

Now that things had been arranged Nisha allowed herself to show some curiosity.

‘What is his name?’ she asked her aunt when she visited the next day.

Rupa Masi giggled. ‘Such a simple girl. Doesn’t even know that.’

Nisha frowned. She did not like being called simple, for a businesswoman it was tantamount to losing money.

‘Arvind. His name is Arvind,’ said her aunt.

‘What kind of shop?’

‘Upholstery.’

What were the connections of an upholsterer, could he help her to more retail outlets? But all she said was, ‘He is fat.’

‘Arre, Nishu,’ said Rupa, looking at her in surprise. ‘You know, sitting in the shop whole day, must be used to eating fried food. He is thirty-four after all, what can you expect? And he is just a little fat, it is not like you to be so fussy.’

Suresh’s body came to Nisha’s mind. Jeans around straight hips, the flat, yellow-brown belly with the line of hair going down, the small round buttocks which she tentatively touched when she could bear her feelings no longer.

Maybe Suresh looked like the man now. Raju had changed after all, his own belly beginning to strain his buttons, his gold watch beginning to sit on a larger, thicker wrist.

‘If he is fat, you can feed him food with less ghee, what is there?’ her aunt’s voice was going on. ‘He is the homely type, you can tell. Very hard working, looking after his mother, wanting no dowry as this is his second marriage, no smoking, drinking, really he has all the qualities. And they do not live far from here, you will be able to see your mother-father, look how often Pooja goes home.’

‘I am coming here every day for my tailors,’ reiterated Nisha.

‘We will see,’ said Rupa Masi indulgently. ‘Your family has to come first.’

She didn’t tell her aunt he had mentioned finding a place for her workshop. It made her feel shy; besides, she did not know if she could trust him.

At that point Sona entered the room and discussion of the boy and the match started all over again.

‘The mother looked very old,’ observed Rupa.

‘It is good. She won’t live long,’ remarked Sona. ‘Then Nisha will be sole mistress of the house.’

‘Uff, Didi, why are you talking of death on the eve of Nisha’s marriage?’ laughed Rupa at what must have been the thought in the minds of many, though to utter it were inauspicious.

‘My duty is done, and now I can die in peace, Roop,’ said Sona, incandescent with relief.

Relatives were informed about the match along with the registry qualification. ‘Simple wedding. They are very keen on a simple wedding,’ was the accompanying explanation.

Disbelief hung in the air. This was pushing simplicity to absurd extremes.

Voices lowered. Talk of the first wife, the groom’s sensibilities, he wants everything different, both are manglik, it is better not to attract the evil eye with too much show.

The whispers went on. In the middle of his grief at losing his wife, there was ugly bickering with the first one’s in-laws, who had been most unreasonable in their blame and greed. They wanted the girl’s dowry back. Arvind returned the jewellery, but the money had been spent on the shop, they had been married for six years. Only low-class families behaved like that.

Pooja’s parents, Rekha’s parents, the Yashpals and Pyare Lals all had much to do with each other. The medium of material called to them, binding them, weaving them, dyeing them in the same colours, dressing them in the same fabric. Now Nisha was the warp to be woven into the weft of a clothowning family in Daryaganj, but in her case she was bringing her own fabric, her own tailors, her own business. How would it be with her, for whom nothing had been as it should?

XXV

Nisha’s wedding

After many years the girl was doing as expected. Nisha was their precious daughter, and they were going to give with a generous hand, irrespective of the boy asking or not. It was her right, and their duty. The days passed, shopping expeditions increased.

By this time Nisha was having all her clothes stitched from the workshop, as well as every new suit worn in the family. For the informal wedding occasions, the younger women wanted her to make trendy clothes; for the formal, only saris would do. They came to her basement, she showed them magazines and samples, offered variations in shades, embroidery, laces, and materials. Various cousins commented frequently on the great convenience of having a boutique at home, recounting nightmares during previous weddings. Now endless trips to harassed, absconding, recalcitrant, cheating tailors were avoided, all thanks to the bride.

Nisha had to hire two more workers to cope with her personal and professional demands. She now had six tailors who churned out nine suits daily. And since she was getting married, she could even take Pooja’s help. She needed it and she no longer had to be wary of power struggles at home. ‘Pooji, make sure the seams are turned properly, Pooji, check that the laces the boy gets matches the old ones, Pooji, test the fastness of the embroidery thread, last time the colour ran, Pooji, send the boy to the dyers, they promised to give the material today.’