Fiction: Bedi and Sushma’s marriage is arranged but years later, they’re still looking for happiness

“Not now,” he spluttered. The breath whipped from his lungs leaving him hollow. It was happening again. He stopped walking, hunched over and covered his quivering mouth. He was starting to sweat profusely, threatening to seep through his only suit. He saw himself looking like one of the clerical workers on the sunrise trains who had crescent moons of damp cupping their flopping breasts. But he would have to worry about his appearance another time.

He placed his palm on the damp wall of a shack as two passing boys in greying vests glared at him. He tried to breathe but could only wheeze out a rattling sound. They were so skinny they were probably worried he’d eat them. He was careful not to lean too hard in case the whole facade caved in.

This place seemed nothing more than the sun, dust and an eternal hum of competing voices. He made sure the boys couldn’t see him touch his pocket to check that his wad of rupees was still there, along with the worn paper of his train ticket. As long as he had his cash, he would be alright, he reassured himself. His breathing loosened. Money always bestowed a protective aura – it was so much more efficient than the empty promises of prayer.

He decided to start moving again; it couldn’t be too much further. There were no pavements around him, just stacks of assorted rubble people hopped over while avoiding the meandering chaos of the rickshaws. It also stank of shit, thanks to the open gutters sloshing along the side of the road. Every time he passed a waiting, solemn cow in the street he had to avoid dipping his polished brogues into the filth. He didn’t belong in a place like this.

Maybe his heart was thumping and his lungs were squirming because this was supposed to be his homecoming, a return to the country of his people. But there was no fanfare waiting, only lingering looks. He felt like shouting. Didn’t they know it was rude to stare?

In India, Bedi was a tourist, not a prodigal son. He had been born in a different country, into a different shade of skin from the locals and a different sense of loyalty to their rulers. It was all because his father took up the offer of moving to another colony to work on the railroads, the offer of a better life. He was worried these Indians could smell the subservience on him and he hoped the family he was coming to see wouldn’t be so perceptive. He was on his way to meet and impress their daughter – some village girl he would be expected to spend the rest of his life providing for. Some deal.

It was his father’s idea. Ever since his mother had died and Bedi had started shooting out of bed to gulp the cool night air – to calm this pair of lungs he was sure was growing too fast inside his chest – his dad had begun to notice him again.

As kids, he and his three brothers only experienced their dad as a soothing absence or a terrifying presence. He was often on week-long trips to Mombasa, sloshing petrol into his cap to cool his bald head as the inferno of the engine enveloped him. While he was away, the boys would become the men of the house, hurrying to the bank to withdraw their father’s weekly salary, purchasing groceries for their mother – with added luxuries – and feeling like they were giving back some of the care she so freely gave them. When their father returned, it was always a different story. Now, they stood to attention by the dinner table, ready to deliver salt or sabzi as he kept his eyes fixed on the table and ate with fastidious care. They were equally ready to receive a kick on the backside or a slap along the legs if they were too slow or spilled the goods on their way. At 25, Bedi still struggled to eat before someone told him he could do so. He felt his stomach rumble with anticipation.

He didn’t have a watch so he didn’t know what time it was, but it felt like he was late. That feeling like the world was moving too fast and he was going too slowly, like the seconds were clicking offbeat, gently reminding him that he should be running. He could have taken a rickshaw from the station but Mrs Bhatia, that plump know-it-all who had set this whole thing up, had assured him it was only a short walk. He made her tell him the route twice, taking into account his terrible sense of direction, and she made sure to click her tongue as he noted down each turn, exasperated at this need for guidance. Did other men just always know where they were going?

At least his breathing was getting better. He made an effort to try and place himself back within his body and to exorcise whatever spirit kept kicking him out. He felt the sun warming the brim of his hat, he noted how his left knee crunched if he extended his leg too far and he took a big breath in, ballooning his chest outwards to suck up what felt like a teaspoon of the road’s gravel. He coughed reflexively and spat a wet slick of the grit back, spraying his shoes in the process.

“Penchod,” he muttered.

He heard a giggle and turned to notice those same two dark boys following him around the corner. He shooed them with a flick of his wrist and a kick of his leg that made his knee crack, again. They trotted off, unbothered and bored.

Excerpted with permission from A Person is a Prayer, Ammar Kalia, Penguin India.