Home by Manju Kapur Page A

benches. A kerosene stove hisses under a huge saucepan of steaming, red-brown liquid. Next to somnolent flies on piles of filth lining the gutter, hawkers are busy tying together bundles of morning newspapers.
    The wedding party sips hot tea in sticky glasses. ‘How sweet it is, bap re! Bhai Sahib, less sugar in the next round, if you please. We are Dilliwallahs.’
    In the darkness of the bus, Sona yawns and stretches. She takes a peek at Raju, slumped against Vicky, his mouth open, saliva staining the bridegroom’s new kurta. Satisfied, she rummages under her seat for the snacks packed in Delhi. Forty little packets of biscuits, barfi, mathri, gulab jamun. Sweet, spicy, salty, and bland. Her husband distributes them to everybody, driver and tea maker included.
    ‘The boy is getting married,’ he explains.
    ‘Wedding party,’ says the tea maker understandingly, and throws some extra leaves and milk into the boiling cauldron.
    The sky lightens. The flies begin to rise. Some more in the bus yawn, stretch, and stagger out for a second round of tea.
    The tea does its job. ‘Nature calls,’ whisper some wives to their spouses. Rupa’s husband goes to look for a suitable place.
    He comes back much excited. ‘There is a gurudwara round the corner. Neat and clean. Everybody can do their business there.’ A wave of ladies descend, murmuring ‘latrine’. Seduced by the promise of neat and clean, they drag along half-asleep children.
    Minutes pass. The bus driver sleeps. From time to time ‘Let’s go, let’s go’ is heard. ‘Murli Bhai Sahib will be at the bus depot in Bareilly at six-thirty’ is also heard.
    By now the sun can be seen. The women stagger back, affirming that the gurudwara is indeed neat and clean. They settle to the breakfast packages. The men are inspired. They slyly disappear around the corner. More tea is boiled up.
    And finished. Restlessness grows. ‘Are we going or not?’
    ‘I will take Vicky and go. You people can join us for the wedding dinner,’ cackles the grandmother.
    ‘Where is Vicky, that you will take him and go? He too is sitting on his throne in the gurudwara,’ points out Sushila. The bus giggles. Sushila looks pleased.
    ‘How will there be a marriage if we are here all day?’ points out another Banwari Lal.
    ‘Arre, barats are never on time. It is all right.’
    ‘At least phone Murli and tell him we shall be late. Poor man standing in the sun at the bus stop.’
    A group of young men troops to the nearest phone booth to phone the boy’s father.
    ‘Is Murli himself ever punctual that we should waste money phoning him STD?’ demands Sona as they go.
    ‘Arre, he is the boy’s father. Let him feel important. It is still not full rates.’
    ‘What has he done that he should be made to feel important?’ asks an older aunt known for her frankness.
    ‘He is making all the arrangements for dinner,’ replies Sona, in a way that suggests Murli had never done enough, nor ever would.
    ‘Well, it is his son who is getting married. If he doesn’t make the arrangements even for this, when will he do anything? When Vicky is dead?’ opines the frank aunt.
    ‘Hai, hai, don’t talk like this at Vicky’s wedding,’ comes a sleepy mutter from the back of the bus.
    The speaker looks abashed, and silence spreads in the bus. A newspaper vendor clambers on and shrieks the name of the local paper. A few are bought and used as fans.
    Finally the men come strolling out from behind the corner. They look fresh, washed, and combed. As they get in and settle down, the barat realises that the bridegroom is missing.
    ‘Where’s Vicky?’
    There is no Vicky.
    ‘Vicky has run away on his wedding day,’ declares Vijay. ‘He is frightened of his bride.’
    Ajay is sent to find Vicky. ‘Now hurry up,’ the barat shouts after him. ‘Or should we tell this chai wallah to start our lunch?’
    Five minutes later Vicky and Ajay appear. ‘He was having his bath,’ says an indignant