God,
I look at the ceiling dreamily,
please, yes.
A Digression With a Purpose
Now all Hamida wanted was to be Rafiq’s fourth wife.
She had, of course, planned on being his first wife. But, during summer, when Hamida returned to Ahmednagar after a week at her uncle’s home in Jalgaon, she found that Rafiq had married his aunt’s daughter.
They met a day later at their secret spot in the park. Rafiq fell at Hamida’s feet and swore he couldn’t help getting married, his father had forced him, and he had had no opportunity to mention his prior—albeit unofficial and unknown—commitment to Hamida. Hamida shrugged sportingly. They kissed for seven minutes. Later, when they stood hugging against an abandoned tonga, Hamida said, ‘Tell your father about us, Rafiq. I don’t mind, I can be your second wife, but tell him you want to marry me.’
‘Okay,’ Rafiq said, and they kissed till it became dark.
*
Several weeks later, Rafiq went to Delhi to collect payments for his father’s business. He was supposed to return in a week. He took three. And when he came back to Ahmednagar, it was with his second wife—another cousin—this time his mother’s brother’s daughter. Hamida insisted on a meeting the same evening. An anxious and harried Rafiq arrived an hour late. ‘Circumstances were such that…’
‘What? What were the circumstances?’ Hamida demanded to know.
‘They caught me kissing her and forced me to marry her.’
‘Oh, I wish I too was your cousin,’ Hamida said wistfully. ‘Tell your father about us, Rafiq. I don’t mind, I can be your third wife even, but at least now tell your father to marry us.’
‘I will, I will,’ Rafiq said, but he didn’t have time to kiss; he had to hurry home to pacify his first wife.
Two months later, when Rafiq came and said, ‘Bad news,’ Hamida didn’t even flinch. It was her twenty-first birthday; she had brought a piece of chocolate halwa for Rafiq. Hamida dropped the sweet and squatted on the ground as Rafiq said he didn’t want to,
he didn’t,
but was being forced to marry his sister-in-law’s sister whose parents had been killed in a riot.
‘You have turned my life into a shoddy joke,’ Hamida whispered.
Rafiq didn’t hear her, though, and continued, ‘Number one took it quite well this time; but I think number two is waiting to throw a tantrum at some choice moment. Wives, I tell you!’
Now all Hamida wanted was to be Rafiq’s fourth wife. There was, however, a problem: Rafiq couldn’t afford a fourth wife. Not unless she came with money enough for herself and at least two others. ‘My parents are paupers!’ Hamida cried. But Rafiq, who had started to look a decade older than his age of twenty-four, said there was nothing he could do. Much as he wanted to marry Hamida, money, and the shortage thereof, was too malignant a reality to be obscured by love.
Now all Hamida wanted was money. Short of working hard and prostitution, she thought of all the ways that could bring her immediate and immense wealth. She recalled that her friend, Sophiya, who lived behind the bakery, had been to Mumbai a few days ago to see a rich boy.
Hamida rushed to Sophiya’s house. She called Sophiya out and asked, ‘Listen, you are marrying that boy from Mumbai or no?’
‘I’ve not decided as yet,’ Sophiya said.
‘Okay, but decide quickly. If you are not interested, better give me the matchmaker’s number.’
Sophiya was amazed. ‘But, Hamida, that boy is handicapped. You yourself said you’d rather remain a spinster than marry someone with polio.’
‘I know, I know, but…’ Hamida told her friend her entire story.
By the time Hamida was finished, Sophiya was ready to vomit. ‘So, basically, after I divorce that cripple, I will take his money and come back and marry Rafiq. Good, no?’ Hamida beamed at her own cleverness.
It was at that moment, paralyzed by her friend’s grin, that Sophiya decided—enough, no more dithering, she
I look at the ceiling dreamily,
please, yes.
A Digression With a Purpose
Now all Hamida wanted was to be Rafiq’s fourth wife.
She had, of course, planned on being his first wife. But, during summer, when Hamida returned to Ahmednagar after a week at her uncle’s home in Jalgaon, she found that Rafiq had married his aunt’s daughter.
They met a day later at their secret spot in the park. Rafiq fell at Hamida’s feet and swore he couldn’t help getting married, his father had forced him, and he had had no opportunity to mention his prior—albeit unofficial and unknown—commitment to Hamida. Hamida shrugged sportingly. They kissed for seven minutes. Later, when they stood hugging against an abandoned tonga, Hamida said, ‘Tell your father about us, Rafiq. I don’t mind, I can be your second wife, but tell him you want to marry me.’
‘Okay,’ Rafiq said, and they kissed till it became dark.
*
Several weeks later, Rafiq went to Delhi to collect payments for his father’s business. He was supposed to return in a week. He took three. And when he came back to Ahmednagar, it was with his second wife—another cousin—this time his mother’s brother’s daughter. Hamida insisted on a meeting the same evening. An anxious and harried Rafiq arrived an hour late. ‘Circumstances were such that…’
‘What? What were the circumstances?’ Hamida demanded to know.
‘They caught me kissing her and forced me to marry her.’
‘Oh, I wish I too was your cousin,’ Hamida said wistfully. ‘Tell your father about us, Rafiq. I don’t mind, I can be your third wife even, but at least now tell your father to marry us.’
‘I will, I will,’ Rafiq said, but he didn’t have time to kiss; he had to hurry home to pacify his first wife.
Two months later, when Rafiq came and said, ‘Bad news,’ Hamida didn’t even flinch. It was her twenty-first birthday; she had brought a piece of chocolate halwa for Rafiq. Hamida dropped the sweet and squatted on the ground as Rafiq said he didn’t want to,
he didn’t,
but was being forced to marry his sister-in-law’s sister whose parents had been killed in a riot.
‘You have turned my life into a shoddy joke,’ Hamida whispered.
Rafiq didn’t hear her, though, and continued, ‘Number one took it quite well this time; but I think number two is waiting to throw a tantrum at some choice moment. Wives, I tell you!’
Now all Hamida wanted was to be Rafiq’s fourth wife. There was, however, a problem: Rafiq couldn’t afford a fourth wife. Not unless she came with money enough for herself and at least two others. ‘My parents are paupers!’ Hamida cried. But Rafiq, who had started to look a decade older than his age of twenty-four, said there was nothing he could do. Much as he wanted to marry Hamida, money, and the shortage thereof, was too malignant a reality to be obscured by love.
Now all Hamida wanted was money. Short of working hard and prostitution, she thought of all the ways that could bring her immediate and immense wealth. She recalled that her friend, Sophiya, who lived behind the bakery, had been to Mumbai a few days ago to see a rich boy.
Hamida rushed to Sophiya’s house. She called Sophiya out and asked, ‘Listen, you are marrying that boy from Mumbai or no?’
‘I’ve not decided as yet,’ Sophiya said.
‘Okay, but decide quickly. If you are not interested, better give me the matchmaker’s number.’
Sophiya was amazed. ‘But, Hamida, that boy is handicapped. You yourself said you’d rather remain a spinster than marry someone with polio.’
‘I know, I know, but…’ Hamida told her friend her entire story.
By the time Hamida was finished, Sophiya was ready to vomit. ‘So, basically, after I divorce that cripple, I will take his money and come back and marry Rafiq. Good, no?’ Hamida beamed at her own cleverness.
It was at that moment, paralyzed by her friend’s grin, that Sophiya decided—enough, no more dithering, she
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