"Yes, sir, we are having many beautiful girls. You looking in our catalogue please."
The fat Bengali behind the desk extended a much-thumbed loose-leaf folder. I took it, opened the cover and glanced at the first page. A black and white picture, not much larger than a passport photograph, was stapled at the top right of a printed form. Beneath it the form had been filled out to indicate that the photo depicted a certain Sushila Gupta, age 16, virgin, with no particular educational achievements and whose favourite occupations were cooking, sewing and looking after children.
I turned the page and another passport photo stared up at me, a young girl demurely head-scarfed, 17, also a virgin and also interested in cooking, sewing and looking after children. Three pages further on my eye lit on Nita Masih, 13, whose interests were sewing, cooking and looking after children. I looked up and caught the eye of the chap behind the desk.
"What's the good of advertising someone this young?" I asked. "She wouldn't be allowed to marry over here."
"No, sir. This is correct."
The man wagged his head from side to side in the Indian gesture of assent.
"However also, if young lady is looking mature and gentleman is willing to make necessary accommodations all these things can be arranged. If there is true love who can stand between young lady and her beloved?" he added sententiously.
"In other words, if I'm willing to pay a bribe you can get a false birth certificate."
The babu looked pained.
"Bribery is not permitted, sir. Only, you are correct in your surmise that accommodations of a financial nature are a necessity."
I turned over the page.
"What's the youngest you've ever managed?" I asked.
"Eleven years of age." The babu smirked. "But young lady is looking exceptionally mature. Very big girl."
I whistled without looking up and flipped through another couple of pages.
"You don't have many older ones here." I commented.
"No sir. Indian girls marrying very young. If you liking older girls I have here also catalogue of such, widows and divorced womans."
He pulled open a drawer in his desk and took out another folder, not quite so well used as the one I was holding. He held it out to me.
"Older womans are more anxious to pleasing their husbands, only sometimes there are complications."
"Complications?" I queried as I took the folder.
"Complications." He screwed up his mouth in distaste. "Children."
"Oh, I see."
I opened the second folder. A somewhat larger colour photograph was stapled to the first form. Mrs Rani Prasad, 32, widow, with three complications listed by name and age. Mrs Prasad's interests were cooking, sewing and going to the cinema. Looking after children, presumably, was taken for granted.
The second page, also adorned by a colour photograph, showed Mrs Indra Shakti, 28, divorced, no complications and interested in cooking, sewing and the cinema. I leafed rapidly through the book, noting with interest that while almost all the widows had complications only one of the divorced women was so encumbered - and her photograph showed a fierce eyed harridan whose husband was probably still offering marigolds to Ram for his lucky escape.
"I presume most of the divorces are for sterility."
"This is correct, sir. Children are a blessing from the gods."
The pious thought was so at variance with the earlier look of distaste that I couldn't help teasing.
"How many such blessings do you have?" I asked.
"Alas, I have not the good fortune to be married." the babu replied.
"With all this youth and beauty on tap, you are not married?" I picked up the first book and held it out to him. "You ought to sample your own wares."
He shrugged.
"This is my business. For myself I do not wish for children and there is one woman coming each day for keeping the house and for my pleasure."
I didn't reply, just turned back a page. I had spotted an extraordinarily pretty girl, Jumeela Gopal, 17, divorced, without complications and interested in classical dance. No cooking, no sewing and no looking after children.
"Who's this girl?"
I turned the book round so that the babu could see the page. He leaned forward, glanced at the picture and scowled.
"This is very difficult girl. Three times I am arranging marriage for her with very suitable mans. Twice her husband is dying without issue and third husband divorcing her after two years when there is no issue. Also he is afraid that she is having the evil eye and that is reason for deceasement of previous two husbands."
"I see."
I turned the book round and looked at the picture again.
"She must have been married pretty young the first time if she's been through three husbands already."
The babu wagged his head some more.
"First marriage is taking place when young lady is twelve years of age. First husband is old man and dying of heart attack within six months. Second husband is walking in the road late at night when one car is coming and there is accident."
"And the third husband you've already told me about. You know, I think I'd like to meet this Jumeela. She sounds interesting."
"That is fifty pounds deposit, sir."
I whistled.
"That's a bit steep, isn't it?"
The babu shrugged.
"We are only dealing with serious enquiries, sir. Indian girls are not willing for dating agency. In two days I am arranging for you to take tea with her parents. Girl herself is serving tea and you can be observing her and make agreement with her parents. If marriage is taking place you must pay me further one hundred and fifty pounds brokerage fee."
I took another look at the picture then stood up and counted out the deposit. She was a very pretty girl and, perhaps even more important, her face looked kind.
"Thank you, sir."
The babu shuffled quickly through the notes and stuffed them into a drawer, then laboriously wrote out a receipt. He tore it out of the book and held it out to me.
"May the gods give you good fortune with the young lady."
I thanked him for his wishes and left the office. As I drove home I wondered whether I was doing the right thing. An untidy divorce, when Pat ran off with a chap I had regarded as a good friend - if not quite the traditional best friend - had left me with a jaundiced view of modern women. The way in which she used the kids as a stick to beat me, even though she had never cared for the poor little devils, quite sickened me.
A friend, leafing through a contact magazine, first suggested the idea of marrying an eastern girl. The page he showed me advertised Philippino women "anxious to meet western men" but the idea didn't appeal and I gave it no further thought until a fortuitous traffic jam in Southall stopped me right outside the Ram Das Marriage Bureau just as a slim, long-legged Indian girl, bright as a butterfly in a colourful sari, caught my eye.
My grandfather, like many Englishmen, had served time out in India during the Raj so I did know a bit about the culture and customs - enough to realise, for example, that I certainly wouldn't be allowed to speak to the girl and I'd probably only catch the merest glimpse of her as she served the tea. Still, I thought, the alternative is some bra-burning feminist who'll walk out on me the first time we have a quarrel. No, a nice, meek little Indian girl, trained to be faithful to her man, will do me very nicely.
Three days later a letter came through the post informing me that Mr and Mrs Gopal would be honoured to welcome me into their home next Tuesday afternoon at three o'clock. I dropped them a little note to say that I would be delighted and then impatiently waited for Tuesday.
Three o'clock sharp I drew up outside the terrace of rather shabby houses and got out of the car. As I walked up to the door of number 23 the smell of curry filled my nostrils and from somewhere on the other side of the road bhangra music blared out noisily. I rapped sharply on the door and out of the corner of my eye noticed curtains twitching in the house next-door.
Footsteps padded down the hall and an Indian man opened the door.
"Yes?"
"Good afternoon. Mr Gopal?"
"Yes?"
"I'm John Curtis."
Mr Gopal stared up at my blond hair and seemed lost for words for a moment, then he recovered himself and invited me in, ushering me into the tiny front room, which was crowded with rickety furniture, a massive television and a cheap hi-fi. A garish picture of Ganesh stood above a little shelf, the god's elephant head smiling down incongruously at a marigold in a plastic cup.
I sat down and the sofa creaked alarmingly beneath me. Mr Gopal excused himself and disappeared down the hall where I heard him talking, presumably to wife and daughter. I couldn't understand what he was saying but I picked out the word "Angrez" repeated several times and guessed that he was telling them the alarming news that the prospective suitor was an Englishman.
A moment later Mr Gopal returned, followed by a plump, middle-aged woman whom he introduced as Mrs Gopal. I stood up at her entry and greeted her, but it was obvious from the way she simply smiled back at me that she didn't understand English.
"Please. Sit down. Sit down."
I sat and carried on smiling.
"You are Mr Curtis from the Ram Das Agency?"
"That's right."
"You are coming to seek for my daughter's hand?"
"That's right."
Mr Gopal turned to his wife and spoke to her in their language. She darted a quick look at me and lowered her eyes again.
"Why you wanting to marry Indian girl?"
I took a deep breath. I had to be convincing.
"I am an old-fashioned man, Mr Gopal. As you know, so many of the English girls these days have loose morals, they sleep with any man, they drink, they smoke, all they think about is going to the disco and watching television. They do not care properly for their children and they are far too ready to divorce their husbands on any excuse whatsoever."
I glanced up. Mr Gopal's head was nodding agreement. So far so good.
"I understand that well-brought up Indian girls are very different. They have good morals, they are faithful to their husbands, they care for their children. These things are important to me."
I stopped talking and Mr Gopal made another long speech to his wife, presumably giving her the gist of what I had been saying. His wife nodded slowly as he spoke and when he finished shot me another look, this time accompanied by the shadow of a smile.
"How much dowry you are wanting?"
I relaxed a bit. At least the man was willing to discuss the matter. I could also guess at his worry. If his daughter had been married three times before, then he had been obliged to find three dowries and the second and third ones would probably have had to be larger to make up for the fact that his daughter was no longer "new".
"A thousand pounds." I said, and paused just a moment while his face turned a little green. "Now, I have a good job and I am well able to look after your daughter. For that reason I do not want you to pay me any dowry. Instead I want you to put that money aside and look after it so that if anything unforeseen happens - such as my death, for example - your daughter will have that money for her support."
Mr Gopal thought for a moment and then talked some more to his wife. I could guess what was going through his mind. If he had control of the money then who could tell whether it had been paid or not? I was offering him an easy, face-saving way out of the dowry burden and I was pretty sure he was intelligent enough to see it.
Mrs Gopal now laid her hand on his arm and said something. Whatever it was she was saying he seemed reluctant about it but eventually he turned to me.
"She is saying that I must tell you there is some problem."
I put on as serious a face as I could while Mr Gopal blushed and struggled for words.
"My daughter is married three times already, but so far there is no issue."
I nodded gravely.
"These things are in the hands of the gods." I said, copying the babu. "Also such a problem is often the fault of the man and not of the woman."
Mr Gopal looked relieved and when his wife spoke to him again he hushed her impatiently and gestured towards the kitchen. Mrs Gopal got up and scurried out of the room.
"Now let us take tea. My daughter is bringing tea and after that we will talk some more."
A moment later I heard the tinny jangling of cups on a tray out in the hall and then Jumeela herself walked into the room. I looked at her appreciatively. She was five feet and a few inches tall, slim, her skin a lovely light brown. Long straight black hair streamed down her back and large dark eyes flashed a quick glance at me before she modestly lowered her eyelids and stared at the tray while I helped myself to tea and two teaspoonfuls of sugar. Her face was even more beautiful than the photograph.
Although a sari isn't the most revealing of garments, I was well satisfied with what I could see as she served her father: a good figure, boyish hips, ankles that seemed well-shaped and not as painfully skinny as some Indian girls. She straightened up and slipped gracefully out through the door and I knew that that was it. I wouldn't see her again unless I married her.
Her father made polite conversation while we sipped our tea but once the cups were empty he got down to brass tacks. What was my job, how much did I earn, where did I live, had I been married before? Then he wanted to know about my family and what they would think if I married an Indian girl. I reassured him on all points and when he had run out of questions I had a few myself, just so he could see that I was serious.
"What education does your daughter have?"
"She is living in India for many years, so she is finishing lower school only."
That meant that she had only been to primary school.
"Can your daughter cook and sew and look after a house?"
"Of course. These are most important things and she is doing all to perfection."
A few more perfunctory questions and then the one that I was dying to ask.
"The man at the Ram Das Agency said that your daughter was interested in dancing."
Mr Gopal looked unhappy.
"Only Indian dance, classical dance. This is not modern disco rubbish. Her grandmother is famous dancer and she is teaching something to my daughter."
I pretended to ponder the matter a bit.
"Well, if that's all it is, then I suppose it's all right."
Mr Gopal looked happier.
We chatted a bit longer and then I made my excuses and left. As I got in the car I glanced at my watch. If I hurried there would just be time to get to the Ram Das Agency before five-thirty.