Home by Manju Kapur Page B

Ajay.
    His bath. Amazement ripples through the bus. Vicky has outdone them all.
    ‘Couldn’t wait to get ready for his wedding,’ chortles the frank aunt.
    ‘Now let us go,’ says the grandmother, whose legs are cramped and swollen from being dangled over the seat all night long. ‘The bridegroom may be ready but no one else is.’
    The driver is woken up, and the bus sets off in a swirl of dust into the increasing heat. The stop at Rampur has taken two hours.
    Murli is waiting, sweat pouring off him, a wet hanky wrapped around his head. The many Banwari Lals descend, shake out their clothes, and stretch. Yashpal asks him whether he got the STD call. Murli’s gratitude at their thoughtfulness knows no bounds. Neither does his hospitality. He has made arrangements at the Gupta Ashram. It is neat and clean, he avers, neat and clean. The barat begin to walk through the gullies of Bareilly. The luggage follows on rickshaws. From time to time they almost collide with a scooterist. The lanes grow increasingly narrow.
    The large central hall of the ashram has two long rows of mattresses covered with white sheets. Quickly the baratis stuff their luggage in the alcoves above, and settle down to the serious business of getting ready. Murli hangs around the halwais in the back angan, supervising the breakfast, puri aloo and lassi.
    In a corner of a smaller room, a pundit sits under a whirring fan, slowly putting out puja things. By the time breakfast is finished and the first puja starts it is 12 o’clock. Father and son have to be invested with the sacred thread. Murli sits, eyes glazed, his turn first.
    Next Vicky is called. He is found, bathed yet again, lying on the mattress in the next room, talking to his younger cousins, the centre of attention.
    ‘Vickeee, hurry.’
    Vicky’s shirt is whipped off, and the thread slung around his chest. The havan fire is lit in an old aluminium cooking pot. Water and cold drinks are passed around. Polish boys creep from guest to guest, urging their shoes off.
    The puja goes on and on, as does the lunch. Smoke fills the room, the elderly sit on cots, the younger ones hand them plates of food. Guests exhort each other to eat. Flies rise and fall with each passing step. Trays of sweets give off a heavy, sugary smell.
    The groom has a fresh red tilak on his forehead, conferred by the pundit and he looks self-conscious.
    ‘It’s just a few more hours, Vicky.’
    ‘How much can you delay now, Vicky?’
    Vicky scowls, and his audience titters.
    By four, tables are being cleared to make way for the six o’clock chaat. The press-wallah is ironing, guests retire to mattresses, children run around, Vicky plays cards, while some men think of bottles hidden in suitcases.
    The ladies are getting ready to go to the bride’s house. On two large decorated trays they carry a sari, petticoat, blouse, underwear, chappals, perfume, oil, hairpins, powder, jewellery, make-up and trinkets. From head to foot the bride has to be made over in things belonging to the groom’s side.
    And there is the bride, a small, thin girl hovered over by her female relatives. They watch as her future in-laws paint her nails, undo and redo her hair, apply lipstick, brush powder over the sallow complexion, stroke eyeliner on to the hopeful eyes.
    ‘Be careful, don’t smudge, otherwise Vicky Bhaiyya will get very angry,’ snigger the younger ones.
    Now it is the turn of the sari, blouse and petticoat. At this point the bride’s side declare there is no need to go through all this disrobing and robing. The bride will wear the sari in due course.
    We have to put it on her. We. This minute. She is ours.
    At this, the pundit from the bride’s side comes alive and asserts his authority.
    ‘No,’ he says.
    ‘No,’ replies the boy’s side.
    They confer.
    It was put on me.
    Me too.
    The bride looks down. A younger cousin is dispatched to demand of the elders in the Gupta Ashram: bride’s side says no – are we to