An Arranged Marriage.... (Short Story)

It took time for Mr. Sadarangani to register the message. His son Vishal was telling him that his girl friend Veena was pregnant. Mr. Sadarangani thought he would have a heart attack. “Hey Ram, what is this world coming to?” he asked his wife Gita, “I couldn’t imagine Vishal and Veena would betray our trust so.” The kids had grown up in the same building in Bandra. They had been classmates at the same school and the same college. Vishal was working now and Veena was doing her MBA. Both sets of parents knew that they were very friendly. Deep down in their hearts they also knew that they were madly in love with each other.

But nobody was willing to admit the truth which had been staring them in the face for so many years. The level of denial was so high that when both had turned sixteen Mr and Mrs Sadarangani had even tried to make Veena tie a rakhi on Vishal’s hand on rakshabandhan day. But they had not insisted when they saw the contempt with which both youngsters dismissed the suggestion. Veena’s parents Mr. and Mrs Menon were also told about Veena’s pregnancy. All hell broke loose in the Menon household too.

Mr. and Mrs. Menon were quiet clear that they didn’t want a Sindhi son-in-law. And the Sadaranganis were clear that they didn’t want a Malayali daughter-in-law. Even if she was as fair complexioned as Veena was. As a matter of fact the friendship between both couples was built on a foundation of intolerance. Mr. and Mrs. Menon were born and brought up in Kerala and they wanted Veena to marry a good Menon boy. This development was a shock for them. They felt that they should have acknowledged the relationship when they saw it clearly many years ago. But the parents of both were praying for it to be a passing infatuation. Since the situation had gone out of hand the parents got together over a cup of coffee. Mrs. Menon made her famous filter coffee and Mrs. Sadarangani brought the papads.

The parents were clear on one thing. The youngsters had let them down. They had not expected such a thing from them. They had brought them up with all the right cultural values and beliefs. They had never been allowed to become westernised. They were allowed to read as many books as they wanted, see movies and listen to music. But they were never allowed to go on dates or spend exorbitant amounts on clothes and cosmetics. Both parents tried to get the young couple agree to an early marriage. But they were adamant that they would marry only after Veena completed her semester in college. The parents were shocked. “What will people say, yende devamme!” wailed Mrs. Menon. “Oh shut up mama,” said Veena, irritated with her mother’s habit of wailing in Malayalam. Vishal also told his mother not to start getting hysterical in Sindhi.

After prolonged discussions it was decided that the young couple must get married the next Sunday. With only five days left to go they decided to invite a few close relatives. The other families living in the same building could become guests from both sides. The marriage went off very well. Mrs. Sadarangani coached Veena on the intricacies of becoming a Sindhi wife. The marriage rituals went off smoothly. After the marriage ceremony, which was attended by a small group of relatives and friends, there was a reception lunch hosted by the bride’s father. The same evening a reception was hosted by the groom’s father. Everything went off very well. Everyone was impressed by the thoroughness with which the ceremony was conducted.

A few days after the marriage Mrs. Sadarangani noted that Veena’s tummy wasn’t growing. Her suspicions became stronger when she realised after a week that Veena's tummy was still just the same. When she asked Veena about it she just smiled. Finally, out of sheer desperation she dragged Veena to a doctor who confirmed that Veena wasn’t pregnant. Both sets of parents had another meeting over a cup of tea in the dining room of the Menons’ house. Both the youngsters were summoned and were asked to stand in front. They stood in front of their parents in semi-attention. They were subjected to another scolding and asked to explain their behaviour.

“Simple,” said Vishal, “we had a good reason to do this.” Both the fathers pounced upon him and asked him to tell them the reason. Vishal looked at Veena. Their eyes met. They smiled at each other nervously and held hands. Veena addressed all the parents, “We had figured out that if we seek permission for marriage all of you would have said no. We calculated that if we were to give you the shocking news of pregnancy you would insist that we get married. And that is exactly what happened. Instead of a love marriage we had an arranged marriage. And all of us are happy. Are we not?”

The parents did not know what to say. They realised that the kids had made fools of them. There was a pregnant silence for a few seconds and then Mr. Menon burst out laughing. His laughter was infectious. He was followed by Mrs. Sadarangani and then Mrs. Menon. The kids also burst out laughing. Finally, a reluctant Mr. Sadarangani who was still recovering from the shock of having lost almost a crore of rupees as dowry in Vishal’s marriage, also joined in. A few months later Veena told her mother-in-law that she was pregnant. Everybody believed her this time.
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(Originally posted in my weblog in Sulekha.com : http://dkvblog.sulekha.com/blog/posts.htm )

The Sadhu on the highway near Mhow .....

I think this incident must have happened in 1984. I and my friend Prem had cycled 17 kilometres on the Agra Bombay Road from Mhow towards a lake named Yashwant Nagar Talab. A few kilometres outside Mhow the hilly terrain became green with forests. It was a beautiful sight. It was nice to be young and physically fit. On the way we stopped at a dhaba, where the truckers stop for food and rest, and had tea and some biscuits. We didn’t want to finish the stuff we were carrying with us. We passed various villages with quaint names. Gawli Palasiya, Jamli, Kuti, Yashwant Nagar. The lake or talab as it is known is due to a small dam which may well have been built before independence. I say this because it seems to be named after Yashwant Rao Holkar who was a ruler of the erstwhile Indore state.

When we cycled up a slope to reach the lake I kept quiet. I hadn’t told Prem where we were going. He was visiting his sister and brother-in-law who were posted in an Army establishment. He belonged to Trivandrum and he liked the change in scenery when he shifted from Kerala to the Malwa Plateau. We would often cycle into the countryside or go walking into the hills with other friends. That day when we climbed up the slope on our cycles and got a first glimpse of the lake I could hear Prem gasp. I wasn’t surprised. It was a beautiful sight. Forests, hills and a lake. It could have been heaven.

It must have been winter. There was a slight chill in the air. The lake was bathed with sunlight. So it was very tempting to stand on top of the dam and take a dip in the water. We did just that. As I was a non-swimmer I kept close to the dam for safety. But Prem had a nice swim. Drinking coffee from the thermos and eating the snacks we had brought made us feel on top of the world. While we were enjoying ourselves we saw a flock of wild birds swimming just above the water. They seemed like wild ducks to me. But as I am not very good at identifying wild birds at a distance I cannot say for sure. But I do remember this: As the flock turned in mid air they did so in such a way that each bird’s wing struck the water. The sound it generated was like a machine gun firing. Only there were no deadly bullets, just a lovely beat.

After spending a couple of hours there we started cycling back. On the way we came to a sadhu’s hut. We stopped to chat with him. The Sadhu, or holy man, looked very impressive in his saffron clothes. He was lean and thin nad had a long flowing beard. As Prem's hindi was weak I also doubled up as a translator. The Sadhu took us inside his small and clean hut. It had been constructed in a very simple and down to earth manner. I wasn't sure whether it could withstand a storm. He told us about how he had given up his family and his worldly wealth. He was fascinated to learn that Prem was from Kerala and that I was from an Army family. He was curious to know about Kerala and the Army. After a few minutes of chatting he took out his chillum (pipe) and filled it with tobacco and started puffing at it. Prem also took turns with him. I asked Prem whether it was only tobacco. I knew Prem loved grass. He winked at me and asked me if I wanted to try. “No thanks,” I replied. I have never connected to tobacco and grass. While they were smoking the chillum the sadhu kept speaking about how potent a force love was. He kept on and on about love and its power. We listened to him with rapt attention. He had almost hypnotised us with his powerful words.

Suddenly the tone of the Sadhu's voice changed and before we knew he was spewing filthy abuse and throwing stones. We turned to look and saw a stray dog running away. “Sala mera khana kha jata hai,” (“The damn thing eats up my food”). We were too shocked to say anything. Was this the same man who had renounced the world and all material possessions and had been giving us a long feel-good talk about love? It was a hilarious sight. It was clear that his sermon was over. The mood swing from one extreme to another had drained him. Once we had recovered from this verbal assault on the dog we decided to say goodbye. We were back to normal a few minutes after resuming. Once we were out of his hearing range we burst out laughing. We laughed so hard our stomachs ached.

As we cycled back home we kept laughing loudly. The change in mood had been so fast we had found it hard to believe. And the sweet, flowery language had become extremely abusive in a second or two. When we reached Prem’s sister’s house we sat on the verandah and enjoyed a cup of tea. Our aching muscles reminded us of the long cycle ride and the Sadhu’s invectives kept us in splits. As long as Prem was in Mhow all I had to do was to ask him whether he wanted to visit the dog-loving sadhu and he would burst out laughing and try to imitate the sadhu’s bad language in his broken hindi. I am not sure that I have seen the sadhu the past few times I have crossed that area. But these trips are generally in a car or bus. One of these days I must take my cycle and go down that road again. I may meet the same sadhu again. Unless he has got tired of renunciation and has returned to the big, bad world.