Free House of the Sun by Meira Chand Page A

grandchildren,’ Mrs Watumal burst out in a strident tone, ‘but for Hathiramani. It is his fault. Mrs Bhagwandas tells me the parents of the girl who was offered to Mohan are distantly related to Mrs Hathiramani. They came to get an opinion of Mohan from Hathiramani. It is after this we heard they are not satisfied. It is all his mischief.’
    ‘Then, Mummy, Burmawalla spoke the truth. She said “H” was one of the initials of the person against us,’ Lata gasped. Mrs Watumal nodded grimly.
    ‘If this is true, I will speak at once with Hathiramani ,’ Mr Watumal said.
    ‘Speak,’ Mrs Watumal exclaimed. ‘What good will it do? Hathiramani will deny he has said anything. After all these years, do you not know the man? I remember, even in Sind he had a reputation for twisting words. Magazines were printing articles by him, because they thought so much twisting, until you couldn’t understand any sense, was proof of cleverness. Even in Sukkur we had heard of his word-twisting, over the bridge in Rohri. He was famous for these things.’
    ‘Why drag up the past?’ Mr Watumal sighed. ‘We are no longer in Rohri or Sukkur. It is a simple thing, I am sure. A face-to-face talk sorts everything out. Iam always of that opinion. Face to face,’ Mr Watumal said.
    Mrs Watumal stood up so suddenly her chair fell over with a crash, her eyes blazed. ‘Never again will I speak with you, if you go near those Hathiramanis. You will only work yourself deeper into their magic. They have put the evil eye upon us. Originally his family is from Hyderabad Sind. Why did he leave there to trouble us here, and in Rohri and Sukkur?’
    She stretched across the table, and deposited Burmawalla’s potion before Mohan. ‘You must drink this.’
    ‘What is it?’ he asked. He uncorked the bottle and sniffed. ‘It smells.’
    ‘Drink.’ A hysterical note entered Mrs Watumal’s voice. Mohan hastily drank down the contents of the bottle and gave an exclamation of disgust.
    ‘The magic must pass out, it cannot be vomited up,’ his mother informed him.
    ‘This is crazy. I don’t believe in these things.’ Mohan appealed to his father, who shrugged wearily.
    ‘Sit now,’ Mr Watumal ordered his wife, who unexpectedly obeyed. There was silence then, for they were hungry.
    Lata looked down at her plate and wondered if the moment was right to speak. Her father ate in a concentrated manner, as if to block out all else. She knew his worry for them. She had tried not to be fussy, but the prospective bridegrooms produced by her parents were shifty-eyed or patronizing; one had a facial tic and another a stammer. But, more often than not, it was she who had been rejected first. She was tired of being shown to family after family, watched for the manner in which she chewed or poured a cup of tea, in an endless round of scrutiny and dismissal. She was sick of it all, she would rather not marry. She refused to face another humiliation. The thought made her fierce with anger.
    Sunita had been engaged a few years ago. Sweetmeats were exchanged, great baskets of fruit had been sent to the fiancé’s family and his relatives, all to no avail. She had quickly upset her future mother-in-law by not covering her head before the grandfather of the family, and by telling her fiancé such a custom was backward.
    ‘If already she cannot show us respect, what will she be like after marriage?’ demanded her future mother-in-law . The engagement was called off. The decline in Sunita had been noticeable since then. And Mrs Watumal’s further efforts to find a suitable match were hampered by this past disaster. ‘She cannot bear children ,’ was one of the rumours generated by the broken engagement, and that returned to Mrs Watumal and put her to bed with a migraine.
    Lata cleared her throat, and looked at her father. He was already partially blind from glaucoma in one eye. His nose was immense and appeared, as he grew older, to suck up most of his face. He