Dusk in the Frog Pond and Other Stories by Rummana Chowdhury

Author:Rummana Chowdhury
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Inanna Publications
Published: 2022-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

THE DOOR REMAINS CLOSED

Aftab Bhai, the marriage-maker, wanted ten thousand taka for having provided the family with a suitable bride. Five thousand, if the prospective groom and his parents liked the details of the girl, and five thousand upon completion of the first meeting between the future bride and groom. He sat with the groom’s father, counting out the first installment. It was short, just three thousand. Aftab stopped chewing and spurted red betel leaf juice over his silk kurti.

“I am supposed to receive five thousand, not three!” His fingers were dirty, nails broken and unkempt. He snatched the bride’s bio-data and passport photo back with indignation.

Modhu’s father was taken aback. He squinted at Aftab Bhai. “I like the bio-data. I think I might have counted the money wrong.”

“There are many grooms for this girl. Amongst my one hundred applications this is one of the best.” He washed the betel juice from his kurti and popped a fresh paan into his mouth, with betel nut cut ever so thinly by his wife and mixed with paan Bahar and zarda. This paan leaf was special, the sweet variety grown only in Chittagong.

“Did I not say I had made a mistake?” growled Modhu’s father. He understood that he could not swindle Aftab Bhai in any manner. Moreover, Modhu was becoming more difficult by the day. He had reports from two sources that people had spotted him going into the red-light districts. Why blame the boy? He also had to release himself from his physical urges when he was Modhu’s age. This girl looked pretty, though her family was not ideal. Time was running out. He grudgingly brought out two thousand taka, which he had hidden in the secret pocket of his underwear.

“Do I have to count again?” Aftab Bhai asked.

“Make sure you do not show this girl’s bio to anyone else.”

Aftab Bhai grabbed the money and gave Modhu’s parents back the picture and bio. He had a gnawing certainty that his matchmaking would strike gold in this case.

Next week, Modhu and his parents went to see Maya. Her parents were not as bad as Modhu’s father had imagined. They were lower middle class but talked with softness and dignity. Maya was dressed up in a pink-and-gold sari, wore barely any makeup. As she entered the room, holding a tray with small sherbet glasses of Rooh Afza, the room lit up. She had this inherent beauty and quiet determination as she softly tread across the mosaic floor. Modhu and his parents checked her walking, asked her a few questions about her studies and qualifications, checked her tone and pronunciation of words, checked how long her tresses were and asked whether she had any objections to living with Modhu’s family. Her accent did not reflect the tone of her parents’ distinctive regional dialect. She fixed her eyes on the floor when speaking to elders and was suitably quiet.

Maya’s father requested a modest Mehr, the obligatory monetary promise that is given to the bride in a Muslim wedding.

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