where they both worked – he as a driver, she as a maid – and pulled the door softly to behind him. Before he left, she had handed him two pails, one for the milk that he would buy in the market, and the other a tiffin of Mrs Ahmed’s chapli kebabs for his mother, and he swung these jauntily now, as he walked down the side alley of the house and opened the gate. The route from Mrs Ahmed’s house to his mother’s home beyond the shrine ran along the far western edge of the housing colony, parallel with the drain. He loved this daily journey, crossing from the large, tranquil place where he worked, into the hectic, densely packed, and much more antiquated settlement where he had grown up. He liked the peace and order of the planned colony; but the familiar people and the places around the Sufi shrine were part of him too: it was like walking from a peaceful riverbank into a forest noisy with birds, he thought, and he was pleased with himself for thriving so well in both places.
It was in good part due to his upbringing. When he was little, Humayun’s mother had looked after the Professor’s children – she had been ayah to Ash Chaturvedi, the man who Urvashi Ahmed’s sister was marrying this very evening. Humayun had grown up around the Chaturvedi household, watching their elegant ways and listening to his mother Raziya’s stories about the twins, Bharati and Ash – who had been raised in luxury but without a mother, poor things. Humayun’s mother had strong opinions about the family she once worked for, and she had pronounced that the affable young scientist was ‘throwing himself away with this marriage’. Aisha, too, who worked not only in Urvashi Ahmed’s house but also cleaned for the Chaturvedis every afternoon, found the future bride to be quite unfriendly and over-fastidious, and sensed that, once married, she might be very bossy. Aisha had confided in Humayun that marriage preparations at the Chaturvedi household were very low-key. There were no special lights or flower arrangements, no visiting tailors from south Delhi or jewellers from Chandni Chowk, no breathless delivery boys with huge boxes of crockery and extra-heavy white goods. The only notable thing that had happened, in fact, was that old Mrs Chaturvedi, the Professor’s mother, had sent Aisha upstairs to tidy her grandson’s room (it was a mess of scientific papers), and then she herself had unlocked the old tin trunk in her bedroom, removed an ancient red and blue quilt, and given this to Aisha to spread on her grandson’s bed. That was it. Aisha, who had been expecting marigolds and candles, jasmine blossom and giggling girl cousins, had pronounced herself, in her turn, ‘very disappointed’.
Humayun agreed. But he relayed none of this information to his mother, Raziya, despite her frequent questions on the subject. It was important, above all, that he did not allow it to come to her attention that Aisha was working in the Professor’s house. Raziya, too, was fastidious, and her greatest disapproval of all was reserved for Aisha’s mother. She liked to point out that the two families were only very distantly related; she certainly had more extravagant hopes for her son than marriage to a girl whose father had disappeared, whose mother had sporadic employment at best (she had recently taken to hawking bananas along the ring road), and who, since the government had cleared the illegal dwellings around the Hindu crematorium, was camping next to the chowkidar’s hut in the graveyard.
Ever since her husband had died, fifteen years ago, Raziya, too, was making do without a man around, and yet she managed, procuring not only a driving licence for Humayun but also employment at the Ahmeds’ – a rich, young and inexperienced couple who had only recently moved into the neighbourhood. Mrs Ahmed, indeed, had been born a Hindu, which made her the perfect employer, for she knew next to nothing about Islam. ‘Three weeks’ annual leave for
It was in good part due to his upbringing. When he was little, Humayun’s mother had looked after the Professor’s children – she had been ayah to Ash Chaturvedi, the man who Urvashi Ahmed’s sister was marrying this very evening. Humayun had grown up around the Chaturvedi household, watching their elegant ways and listening to his mother Raziya’s stories about the twins, Bharati and Ash – who had been raised in luxury but without a mother, poor things. Humayun’s mother had strong opinions about the family she once worked for, and she had pronounced that the affable young scientist was ‘throwing himself away with this marriage’. Aisha, too, who worked not only in Urvashi Ahmed’s house but also cleaned for the Chaturvedis every afternoon, found the future bride to be quite unfriendly and over-fastidious, and sensed that, once married, she might be very bossy. Aisha had confided in Humayun that marriage preparations at the Chaturvedi household were very low-key. There were no special lights or flower arrangements, no visiting tailors from south Delhi or jewellers from Chandni Chowk, no breathless delivery boys with huge boxes of crockery and extra-heavy white goods. The only notable thing that had happened, in fact, was that old Mrs Chaturvedi, the Professor’s mother, had sent Aisha upstairs to tidy her grandson’s room (it was a mess of scientific papers), and then she herself had unlocked the old tin trunk in her bedroom, removed an ancient red and blue quilt, and given this to Aisha to spread on her grandson’s bed. That was it. Aisha, who had been expecting marigolds and candles, jasmine blossom and giggling girl cousins, had pronounced herself, in her turn, ‘very disappointed’.
Humayun agreed. But he relayed none of this information to his mother, Raziya, despite her frequent questions on the subject. It was important, above all, that he did not allow it to come to her attention that Aisha was working in the Professor’s house. Raziya, too, was fastidious, and her greatest disapproval of all was reserved for Aisha’s mother. She liked to point out that the two families were only very distantly related; she certainly had more extravagant hopes for her son than marriage to a girl whose father had disappeared, whose mother had sporadic employment at best (she had recently taken to hawking bananas along the ring road), and who, since the government had cleared the illegal dwellings around the Hindu crematorium, was camping next to the chowkidar’s hut in the graveyard.
Ever since her husband had died, fifteen years ago, Raziya, too, was making do without a man around, and yet she managed, procuring not only a driving licence for Humayun but also employment at the Ahmeds’ – a rich, young and inexperienced couple who had only recently moved into the neighbourhood. Mrs Ahmed, indeed, had been born a Hindu, which made her the perfect employer, for she knew next to nothing about Islam. ‘Three weeks’ annual leave for
Similar Books
