Shivarani’s parents shuddered. What hope was there for the girl, unless she was disguised in opulence and glamour? But those were Shivarani’s terms and she appeared before the aunts and mother of the prospective bridegroom wearing a plain handloom sari in beige and, ‘Oh no, my God,’ whimpered Meena, a pair of high-heeled shoes. ‘You said they must see you as you are, but you are not as high as that,’ mourned Meena Gupta but Shivarani insisted. Either she would appear thus dressed or not at all.
There came a little gasp from the assembled family of the prospective bridegroom that Meena knew was not of admiration. But all the same they continued with their questioning as though, in spite of everything, they were still interested.
A photo of the boy was produced. Meena accepted it with caution and for a moment hardly dared focus her eyes on it. There was sure to be something dreadfully wrong with the fellow or why was his family, even after seeing Shivarani in her khadi sari and high heels, still considering her? When Meena at last dared to look, she thought he was quite handsome.
When Shivarani saw the photo, for the first time in the husband-choosing process, she actually smiled. ‘He looks nice,’ she said.
At last Meena Gupta felt it was safe to tell her club friends. She was unable to keep the triumph out of her voice as she said, ‘He is good-looking, of high intelligence, from excellent family, and what more can any mother want for their daughter?’ Meena thought she saw a quick glance flash between two of her friends. ‘What?’ she asked. ‘I there something I don’t know?’
‘Of course not,’ said Leela hastily. ‘I have never seen the fellow and I am sure he is a very good match.’ She had been on the rough end of Meena’s temper once already and did not want to risk it again.
Meena went to have tea with the boy’s parents and to meet the boy himself while Shivarani waited anxiously at home. But when Meena, usually the most garrulous of women, returned, she hung her shawl on the hook and removed her outdoor slippers in silence.
Shivarani clenched her hands till her knuckles went white, and waited. After a long silent moment she asked, ‘What was he like?’
‘Very nice,’ said Meena. ‘Just as good-looking as in the photo. And he is clever too.’
‘Yes, but,’ pressed Shivarani.
Meena turned her back to her eldest daughter and looking into the hall mirror, began patting down her hair.
‘There is something wrong with him?’
Meena, her gaze on her reflection, shook her head.
‘But I know there is something,’ Shivarani pursued.
‘Well …’ said Meena.
‘What, yes? What?’ Shivarani could hardly bear it.
Meena shrugged gently and said, ‘He is young. Perhaps he will grow a little more.’
Shivarani, frowning, said, ‘Young? How young? I thought you said he was nearly thirty.’
‘That is young,’ said Meena stiffly.
‘What are you telling me?’ cried Shivarani. ‘That you are hoping a man of nearly thirty will keep on growing?’
‘But you never know. That’s what I am thinking,’ murmured Meena Gupta and winked a tear away.
Shivarani stared at her mother’s back and the colour drained from her face. ‘He’s a midget, you mean?’
‘Hush hush,’ soothed her mother. ‘Size is not all. He comes from a prosperous family. He looks like a very nice person. He has doctorates in three subjects. And most important of all, you are so tall and so if you have a short husband your children will come out the right size.’
Shivarani burst out in fury. ‘You want me to marry a dwarf so that your grandchildren come out the right size? That’s really amazing,’ she roared. ‘That is the end,’ she said. ‘No more bridegrooms. I will make my own way in the world.’
Meena Gupta knew then that the battle was lost and that Shivarani might never marry.
Her consolation became her youngest child, Koonty. Meena drew a pencil line on the frame of the door, measured the child weekly and each time felt reassured that Koonty was growing at a normal speed. Meena was not sure what she would do if her youngest child started sprouting too. Perhaps there were things she could do if the fault was discovered early enough. Maybe Sahib Singh’s, the Park Street chemist, had a medicine for slowing human growth. Meena was watchful of Koonty’s complexion too. She kept a photo of Shivarani at the same age, and at regular intervals held it up against Koonty’s cheeks, comparing for darkness although it is difficult to see skin colour properly in a black and white photo.
Shivarani’s parents began to feel despondent about the future of their big dark daughter. Meena, who could not think of anything more dreadful for a woman than to remain unmarried, said hopeful things like, ‘Perhaps your Papa could find the cash to send you to UK. I have heard that the men there are not all that fussy about what kind of woman they are married to,’ and could not understand why Shivarani suddenly burst out weeping.
‘What are you saying, Meena?’ cried Shivarani’s father, outraged. ‘That our darling should be shipped off to marry some undiscriminating gora?’ And to Shivarani, ‘Marriage is not all, my darling, no matter what your mother says. Perhaps you could join some religious community and devote your life to love of God. Mahadevi did so and she experienced constant holy bliss in spite of being without husband.’ Mahadevi was a Tamil saint of the middle ages who, abandoning all aspects of society, including clothes, wandered South India clad only in her long hair, devoting her life to Shiva and singing hymns to him. Shivarani’s father adored his eldest child, but felt he could not properly understand her because of the way her weeping intensified at his suggestion.
Shivarani went to college, put all her attention on her work and tried not to notice the way the young male students responded gently to other girls but not to her. She had friends, even among the men, but they treated her as though she was a friend, and like one of them. How else could have they been to a woman who was an inch or so higher than the tallest guy?
One of the young men was a joker. No matter how serious the conversation he would always spoil everything by some silliness or other. In the evenings when the young men and women gathered in the dark and grimy coffee house and were in the midst of a serious discussion about the fear of war with Pakistan, Bhima would ruin it all by making a funny face then chanting, ‘When I kiss a little Hindu I’m careful not to smudge her bindu. When I kiss a Pakistani I hold her tight and call her “jani”.’ The others, unable to stop laughing at such nonsense, would all the same get cross. ‘That rubbish has spoiled the important tone of our conversation.’
The students would talk for hours over a single bitter brew of dirt-cheap coffee-flavoured chicory, discussing the problems of India. There were those who said things would only be solved by a revolution after which corruption would be rooted out, education made available for all and equality created for Indians of every caste and either sex. To destroy the present society and rebuild it better was considered by some the only solution to the present problems of corruption and inequality. Others though disagreed, and felt that change could only come by building on what was already there and that killing people and destroying property would never solve anything. The arguments would grow increasingly heated as the night wore on and in the end they always seemed to turn to Shivarani for arbitration as if, though the same age as the rest, she was
