morningbefore boarding the bus in Ahmednagar. They know I have polio; I suppose it was the first thing the matchmaker told Sophiya’s parents about me, followed by an in-depth account of my father’s immense wealth. If today, after meeting with me, Sophiya feels she can tolerate my crutches and the braces on my legs, our families will go ahead with our marriage.
Did I say ‘marriage’? More like the shifting of a burden.
In the photo—which arrived via a circuitous route involving several strangers and relatives—Sophiya is in a red shalwar-kurta with red lipstick and red cheeks. She is holding a red rose and is standing against an immense poster showing a field full of deep-red roses. Everything else about Sophiya is either powder white or jet black.
‘I think she’s lovely,’ mom had said. Dad had studied the photo and agreed guardedly. ‘You have no reason to complain,’ mom told me.
Not ‘reason’. Mom meant ‘right’. I have no right to complain.
Sophiya isn’t the first girl. I have rejected all the substandard out-of-towners the matchmaker has been sending my way for the last three years. Sophiya seems no better or worse than the earlier eight. But this time I won’t refuse. I am twenty-five now, and after fifteen years of attending to me fulltime, of fetching my crutches and postponing their vacations, I believe it’s only fair that my parents be relieved.
*
Evening comes.
Sophiya and her parents arrive.
Sitting in a row on our sofa, all three look frayed and dusty after the nine-hour bus journey. It doesn’t surprise me that Sophiya is nothing like her photo. I am neither disappointed by her modest bust nor let down by her dusky complexion. Just a mild pang of panic when I imagine having to wake up beside one woman—just this one—for the rest of my life.
‘Money-wise everything is…?’ Sophiya’s father asks.
Dad nods. ‘Munaf has his own e-business, you know, of selling books on the Internet. Besides, everything I own is his.’
Sophiya’s mother inquires about the extent of my handicap.
‘Oh, it’s nothing much,’ mom says. ‘Would you like to see Munaf walk around?’
Sophiya’s parents say ‘yes’. They have been staring unabashedly at my special shoes. Their daughter is sitting between them, looking down at her plate heaped with the snacks mom has prepared.
Mom brings my crutches and rests one on either side of my armchair. I look at her, but her eyes are expressionless. I look at dad. He is staring at the floor. They always do this: they always make me parade my handicap. And I always refuse.
Seeing me linger, Sophiya’s father feels forced to say, ‘It’s okay, beta, doesn’t matter, forget it.’
‘No,’ I say, ‘you should know what you’re getting into.’
I sit up. I straighten my legbraces. Then I dig my palms into the armrests to lift my torso off the chair, when an urgent command shoots across the room: ‘Don’t! Please!’
I look up in shock. Sophiya is looking at me. It’s the first thing she has said since arriving.
Suddenly, everything seems awry—it is as if a spinner has delivered a fastball, as if Kenya has won the World Cup. That voice doesn’t belong to the garish out-of-town girl in the photo; it is not the voice of the skinny thing sitting between her parents on our sofa. The voice, that request, and the immense benevolence in those words belong to a woman, not some girl, but a woman, who, with just two words, has rendered my parents unnecessary.
I sit back with relief, the kind I haven’t known in years. I mumble ‘thank you.’ Sophiya nods and lowers her gaze.
Ten minutes later all three troop out, with Sophiya’s parents promising to notify us of their decision in a few days. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Even before she has left our flat I have sworn to myself: if Sophiya says no, I will remain a bachelor forever.
‘Please, God, please let them not say no,’ mom grumbles while clearing the coffee table.
Yes,
Did I say ‘marriage’? More like the shifting of a burden.
In the photo—which arrived via a circuitous route involving several strangers and relatives—Sophiya is in a red shalwar-kurta with red lipstick and red cheeks. She is holding a red rose and is standing against an immense poster showing a field full of deep-red roses. Everything else about Sophiya is either powder white or jet black.
‘I think she’s lovely,’ mom had said. Dad had studied the photo and agreed guardedly. ‘You have no reason to complain,’ mom told me.
Not ‘reason’. Mom meant ‘right’. I have no right to complain.
Sophiya isn’t the first girl. I have rejected all the substandard out-of-towners the matchmaker has been sending my way for the last three years. Sophiya seems no better or worse than the earlier eight. But this time I won’t refuse. I am twenty-five now, and after fifteen years of attending to me fulltime, of fetching my crutches and postponing their vacations, I believe it’s only fair that my parents be relieved.
*
Evening comes.
Sophiya and her parents arrive.
Sitting in a row on our sofa, all three look frayed and dusty after the nine-hour bus journey. It doesn’t surprise me that Sophiya is nothing like her photo. I am neither disappointed by her modest bust nor let down by her dusky complexion. Just a mild pang of panic when I imagine having to wake up beside one woman—just this one—for the rest of my life.
‘Money-wise everything is…?’ Sophiya’s father asks.
Dad nods. ‘Munaf has his own e-business, you know, of selling books on the Internet. Besides, everything I own is his.’
Sophiya’s mother inquires about the extent of my handicap.
‘Oh, it’s nothing much,’ mom says. ‘Would you like to see Munaf walk around?’
Sophiya’s parents say ‘yes’. They have been staring unabashedly at my special shoes. Their daughter is sitting between them, looking down at her plate heaped with the snacks mom has prepared.
Mom brings my crutches and rests one on either side of my armchair. I look at her, but her eyes are expressionless. I look at dad. He is staring at the floor. They always do this: they always make me parade my handicap. And I always refuse.
Seeing me linger, Sophiya’s father feels forced to say, ‘It’s okay, beta, doesn’t matter, forget it.’
‘No,’ I say, ‘you should know what you’re getting into.’
I sit up. I straighten my legbraces. Then I dig my palms into the armrests to lift my torso off the chair, when an urgent command shoots across the room: ‘Don’t! Please!’
I look up in shock. Sophiya is looking at me. It’s the first thing she has said since arriving.
Suddenly, everything seems awry—it is as if a spinner has delivered a fastball, as if Kenya has won the World Cup. That voice doesn’t belong to the garish out-of-town girl in the photo; it is not the voice of the skinny thing sitting between her parents on our sofa. The voice, that request, and the immense benevolence in those words belong to a woman, not some girl, but a woman, who, with just two words, has rendered my parents unnecessary.
I sit back with relief, the kind I haven’t known in years. I mumble ‘thank you.’ Sophiya nods and lowers her gaze.
Ten minutes later all three troop out, with Sophiya’s parents promising to notify us of their decision in a few days. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Even before she has left our flat I have sworn to myself: if Sophiya says no, I will remain a bachelor forever.
‘Please, God, please let them not say no,’ mom grumbles while clearing the coffee table.
Yes,
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