“We will help you with everything, don’t worry,” said Amba.
The happy news spread within their community, and outside it. Among the upper castes, there was still anger and resentment because of what a Chamaar had accomplished. One man in particular, Thakur Dharamsi — who always took charge of the district polls at election time, delivering votes to the political party of his choice — taunted the tailor periodically.
“There is a dead cow waiting for you,” he notified Narayan through a servant. Narayan merely passed on the message to other Chamaars, who were happy to have the carcass. Another time, when a goat perished in one of the drains on Thakur Dharamsi’s property, he sent for Narayan to unclog it. Narayan politely sent his reply that he was grateful for the offer but was no longer in this line of work.
Among the Chamaars in the village, he was now looked upon as the spokesman for their caste, their unelected leader. Dukhi wore his son’s success modestly, out of sight, indulging himself only sometimes, when he sat smoking with his friends under the tree by the river. Slowly, his son was becoming more prosperous than many upper-caste villagers. Narayan paid to have a new well dug in the untouchable section of the village. He leased the land on which the two huts stood, and replaced them with a pukka house, one of only seven in the village. It was large enough to accommodate his parents and his business. And, thought Roopa fondly, a wife and children before long.
Dukhi and she would have preferred the older son’s marrying first. But when they offered to find him a wife, Ishvar made it clear he was not interested. By now, Roopa had learned that trying to make her sons do what they did not want to do was a futile endeavour. “Learning big-town ways,” she grumbled, “forgetting our old ways,” and left it at that, turning her attention to Narayan.
They made inquiries, and a suitable girl was recommended in another village. A showing-day was fixed, when the boy’s family would call on the girl’s family. Roopa made certain that Amba, Pyari, Padma, and Savitri were included in plans for the visit — they were like family, she said. Ishvar chose not to go, but arranged a twenty- seven-seater Leyland to transport the bride-viewing party.
The battered little bus arrived in the village at nine in the morning, and stopped in a cloud of dust. The opportunity for a bus ride attracted volunteers for the auspicious event, many more than could be accommodated in that modest conveyance.
“Narayan is like a son to me,” said one. “It’s my duty to come. How can I let him down at this most important time?”
“I will not be able to hold my head up if you don’t take me,” pleaded another, refusing to take no for an answer. “Please don’t leave me behind.”
“I have attended every single bride-showing in our community,” bragged a third. “You need my expertise.”
Many took their going for granted, and climbed aboard without bothering to check with Dukhi or Roopa. When the excursion was ready to commence an hour later, there were thirty-eight people crammed inside, and a dozen sitting cross-legged on the roof. The driver, who had witnessed nasty accidents with low branches along rural roads, refused to proceed. “Get down from the top! Down, everybody, down!” he yelled at the ones settled serenely in lotus positions. So the dozen from the roof had to be left behind, and the bus set off at a sensible crawl.
They reached their destination two and a half hours later. The girl’s parents were impressed by the bus and the size of the visiting delegation, as was the entire village. The thirty-eight visitors stood around uncertainly. There was not room for everyone inside the dwelling. After much agonizing, Dukhi selected a group of seven, including his best friends, Chhotu and Dayaram. Padma and Savitri also made it in, but Amba and Pyari had to wait outside with the unlucky thirty-one, watching the proceedings through the doorway.
Inside, the inner circle had tea with the parents and described the journey. “Such fine scenery we saw along the way,” said Dukhi to the girl’s father.
“Once, all of a sudden, the bus made a big noise and stopped,” said Chhotu. “It took a while to start again. We were worried about being late.”
By and by, the parents compared genealogies and family histories, while Roopa talked modestly of Narayan’s success to the girl’s mother. “So many customers he has. Everybody wants to have clothes made by Narayan only. As if there is no other tailor in the whole country. My poor son works morning till night, sewing, sewing, sewing. But his expensive new machine is so good. What-all wonderful things it can do.”
Then it was time for the bride-viewing moment. “Come, my daughter,” called the mother casually. “Bring something sweet for our guests.”
The girl, Radha, sixteen years old, entered with a platter of laddoos. Conversation ceased. Everyone took a good look as she went around with her head modestly lowered and eyes averted. Outside, there was much whispering and jockeying for position as they tried to catch a glimpse.
Narayan kept his eyes on the laddoos when she stopped in front of him. He was nervous about looking — her family was watching for his reaction. The platter had almost reached the end of its circuit. If he didn’t see her now, there would be no second chance, she would not return, that was certain, and he would have to make a blind decision. Look, oh look! he persuaded himself — and looked. He caught a profile of her features as she bent before her mother.
“No, daughter,” said the mother, “none for me,” and with that, Radha disappeared.
Then it was time to go home. During the return journey, those who had been unable to see or hear from outside were fully briefed. Now everyone had the facts, and were able to take part in final discussions back in the village. Opinions were entertained in order of seniority.
“Her size is good, and colour is good.”
“The family also looks honest, hardworking.”
“Maybe horoscopes should be compared before final decision.”
“No horoscopes! Why horoscopes? That is all brahminical nonsense, our community does not do that.”
Thus it continued for a while, and Narayan listened silently. His approval at the end, though not essential, did serve to strengthen the consensus, to his parents’ relief and the gathering’s applause.
Now the arrangements went ahead. Some of the traditional expenditures were sidestepped at Narayan’s insistence; he did not want Radha’s family indebted to the moneylender in perpetuity. All he would accept from them were six brass vessels: three round-bottomed, and three flat.
Roopa was furious. “What-all do you understand about complicated things like dowry? Have you been married before?”
Dukhi was also upset. “Much more than six vessels is due. It is our right.”
“Since when has our community practised dowry?” asked Narayan quietly.
“If it’s okay for the uppers to do it, so can we.”
But Narayan stood firm, with Ishvar’s backing. “Learning big-town ways,” grumbled their mother, foiled again. “Forgetting our village ways.”
There was a last-minute hitch. Two days before the wedding, under coercion from Thakur Dharamsi and others, the village musicians withdrew their services. They were too frightened to even meet with the family and discuss the problem. So Ishvar arranged for replacements from town. Narayan did not mind the cost of transporting them and their instruments. It was a small price, he felt, for frustrating the landlords.
The new musicians did not know some of the local wedding songs. The elders among the guests were quite concerned — strange anthems and chants could be unpropitious for the marriage. “Especially for producing children,” said an old woman who used to assist at births before her infirmity. “The Womb doesn’t become fertile just like that, without correct procedure.”
“True,” said another. “I have seen it with my own eyes. When the songs are not sung properly, nothing but unhappiness for husband and wife.” They conferred in worried groups, debating and discussing, trying to determine the antidote that would thwart the impending ill-fortune. They looked disapprovingly at those who were enjoying all that alien music and dancing.
The celebrations lasted three days, during which Chamaar families in the village ate the best meals of their lives. Ashraf and his family, the guests of honour, were lodged and looked after in Narayan’s house, which made some people unhappy. There were mutterings about an inauspicious Muslim presence, but the protests were few and muted. And by the third night, to the elders’ relief, the musicians were able to pick up many of the local songs.
