The monkeys had just finished their attack. Bhaisaab grumbled, eyeing the display window of his boutique on Gandhi Road. He squeaked off the sticky trails of mango peels, cursing the base birth of primates in general. A hazy shadow reflected in the window. Looking up, Bhaisaab switched his facial expressions from the frown to his Best Salesman Smile.
It was a family of three: A high-caste husband, his head shaven except for the long ponytail that spouted from the middle of his head. He wore square spectacles that hung low on the bridge of his nose and a neatly pressed shirt and a dhoti. His wife, an old model of DesiBots™ was dressed in a prim cotton sari. And his teenager son, thin, gangly, uncertain, about nineteen. In other words, of perfect marriageable age. Bhaisaab gleamed.
“Most welcome, most welcome,” he pronounced, quickly sidelining the cleaning cloth he held. He folded his sticky hands into a namaste. “How may my humble boutique of bespoke brides help you today?”
“I’m Mr Tripatti,” said the man, “This is my wife and son. Your friend Mr Mehotra sent us here for—”
“We are looking for a bride,” interjected the woman, her head snapping clumsily to point in the direction of the display window. Two newer models of DesiBots™ posed in the window, dressed in wedding finery.
“A first generation Desibot™ with RealMood™ pavitronic brain!” Bhaisaab exclaimed before he could stop himself. First generation bots were rare in themselves, but seeing one in working condition, with a RealMood™ pavitronic brain was almost miracle. In twenty years of Bhaisaab’s experience, he had yet to see one.
“She’s an old model,” Mr Tripatti muttered, embarrassed.
“Oh, old is gold, old is gold. Don’t get me wrong. Only, it’s a rare honour to met the very first generation of DesiBots™ females in such good conditions,” said Bhaisaab, smacking his luscious lips. He grabbed hold of Mr Tripatti’s shoulder, leading him into his boutique. “Please. Any brother of Mehotra is a brother of mine. It will be an honour to serve your requirements, brother.” Mother and son followed. Bhaisaab led them all through an aisle, flanked by vertical pods on either side.
“How long have you been married, sir,” he asked the father, “if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Forty four years,” answered Mr Tripatti.
Bhaisaab surreptitiously glanced at the Desibot™ again. A first gen with a RealMood™ pavitronic brain. What a rare beauty. RealMood™ had been an experiment by a small team of scientists at DesiBots™ who had insisted on giving real, human-like tendencies to the pavitronic brains created for procreation robots. In order to simulate a human female brain, they had added layers of emotional altercation, mood swings and psychological complexity. DesiBots™ had sold only 1000 such bots before realizing that these robots were an ill-fit in Indian households, as they refused marital and kitchen duties and were classified as ‘unreasonable’, ‘brash’ and even ‘obnoxious’. The company had immediately recalled and replaced most of first generation. But apparently not all. Bhaisaab saw this as a rare opportunity. He glanced back again.
“Wonderful, wonderful. She’s in such a nice shape,” he said, looking at her fingertips as she straightened her sari’s pallu. Though first generation Desibots™ had stiff epidermis, this one seemed to have kept her skin from breaking with regular servicing.
“Show us the best only,” quipped Mrs Tripatti catching his eye. He nodded vigourously.
“Of course, madam, you’ll find only the best bots in Bhaisaab’s Bespoke Brides Boutique,” he said. He dramatically pressed a button at the far end of the aisle. A pod pulled out on rails, opening its flaps, like a unfurling lotus.
“This is DesiBot Version 56.7, an advanced bot,” he looked at the father meaningfully, “of the one you have, sir.” The bride gleamed in a sari covered with silk sequins and dazzling glowpins. Mr Tripatti squinted.
“Pavitronic brain with a six-quad memory, knows all the religious texts by heart, is capable of making 5,000 plus ancient recipes and has a pleasing, accepting, adjustable personality.”
“What about her build?” asked Mr Tripatti.
“Same, sir, only updated. Titanium, rust-proof body, with thinner epidermis for humanskin-like touch.”
“What skin have you used for her breasts, womb and legs? Anything that my son touches needs to be desi,” interjected Mrs Tripatti.
“It’s pure like cow’s ghee only, madam,” Bhaisaab said, showing his teeth. He’d recently paid for an expensive set of teeth which copied the award-winning grin of Bollywood star Smiley Khan. “Of course in this limited budget, you won’t be able to get a complete layer of desi epidermis-” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “-now if your family’s budget was to go up…”
He let the sentence hang. Click, click. Mrs Tripatti turned her face, her clunky neck moving slowly but determinedly. She gave a look to Mr Tripatti who fiddled with his shirt’s cuff nervously. Mrs Tripatti aggressively poked her husband with a finger. Bhaisaab noticed the nail on one of the index fingers had chipped off.
“Only the best for our Raja,” squawked Mr Tripatti, nodding and giving in to his wife’s silent demand. The son squirmed at this sudden focus on him. Bhaisaab quickly wheeled the Version 56.7 back into its holding bay, and led the family deeper into his boutique, ignoring various versions of bots that DesiBots™ had come up with in the past few years. Something told him that he could make an ultimate sale here. He stopped in front of a pod at the far end of the display bots, waiting for the family of three to surround him.
“Let me introduce you to the brand new Sanskaari Bahu Version 2.4,” he began, his hands flourishing like a magician’s. “This are the very purest, top-end range of females produced by DesiBots™.” He pressed a button alongside the pod and the platform glided out smoothly with a lotus-shaped pod. It opened delicately, revealing the bot standing on a pedestal. She was dressed in a delicately embroidered sari, all the right curves showing discreetly and appropriately. The son’s eyes flitted between the hint of a cleavage in the strap-thin blouse and the excessive curve of her hips.
“She’s a designer virgin, madam,” said Bhaisaab. “And that’s not all. There’s not a cheap titanium piece in her beautifully crafted body. Nothing from China. A few imported chips from Germany deep inside, but nothing that can be touched or seen. The desi skin used to construct the epidermis of her body, and I’m not only talking about the face and womb region only madam, but complete body here. The skin has been soaked in desi cow’s urine for two months washing all metallic impurities. She will be a chandelier to your house, madam, lighting up your lives.”
“I don’t know,” said Mrs Tripatti, making a face. In her case it consisted of a rough movement of her nose, cheek dermis and lips as if someone was playing jigsaw.
“That’s not all, sir,” continued Bhaisaab, looking at Mr Tripatti, “her womb has been enhanced with high caste DNA to construct the topmost quality of ovaries you could find today.” He kissed his fingers. “Just the ones to infuse your future offsprings with invested caste levels.”
“What level of caste?” asked Mr Tripatti.
“Brahm 238.”
The father gasped. Though they were high caste, with both father and son wearing a holy thread, BhaiSaab could see that the number was way above their social stature. His lips spread on his face like butter on hot bread.
“Highest caste, sir and that’s not all either,” he said, addressing the father again. “The genius team at DesiBots™ have installed a SanskaarChip™ in her pavitronic brain. The chip makes sure you get the purest vibration in your home, sir.”
“What kind of vibration are we talking about here?” asked the mother.
“Sanskaari Bahu is already updated with all the ancient texts. The mythologies,” he counted on his fingers, “true histories of our lands, the puranas, vedas, geetas and even obscure upanishadas. All approved by the Cultural Ministry of course. She can speak them in seventeen different languages with interpretations, explanations and footnotes.”
“That even my updated software can do,” scoffed Mrs Tripatti.
“Yes, madam. In 2D though. Sanskaari Bahu comes equipped with an immersive experience of 5D, sirs and madam.” The family gasped collectively. “You will not only hear the Vedas, you will be swimming in them. The very atoms in the air of your homes will vibrate with pure energy when she sings bhajans. Scientific research has shown that such vibrations cleanse the proton values in polluted cells of the environment.”
Mrs Tripatti’s jaw dropped off its mechanical hinges. There was a reason BhaiSaab was good at this stuff. He grinned.
“Even this is not all, madam,” he said, addressing Mrs Tripatti again. “Her fingertips have been especially created with purified gold so anything she touches remains pure, be it in the kitchen or pooja room. No lead, or any metallic impurities of the more, ahem, cheaper models here. Moreover, she comes preloaded with traditional food-making techniques of our Ancients. You will have home-made, pure food, sirs and madam. You are not welcoming a droid but a clone of Seeta Devi herself—may God protect her from all harm—into your homes.”
“What about prenuptial counseling?” asked Mr Tripatti. “To fit into our culture?”
“No counseling sessions are required for this model, sir. The DocileChip™ planted in her pavitronic brain ensures that. The bot comes preinstalled with a pleasant, patient and caring personality. No arguments, no questions, no problems. There’s nothing, nothing better in the market, sir, I assure you. This model is so exclusive, that only my bespoke boutique has its distribution across Delhi.”
“I…I have something to ask,” said Raja. He looked nervously at his parents. His mother frowned, but his father understood, pulling his wife into the far corner. The son inched towards Bhaisaab.
“Sir…” he said, “it’s just that…I don’t know anything of…I mean I don’t have much experience with slutbots, if you know what I mean.” His face flamed up. The salesman snaked his arm around the boy’s unsure shoulders. “She will teach you all, my boy. She knows all approved asanas from Cultural Ministry approved Kamasutra and tantric sex books.”
“But…but she’s a virgin and usually it’s the groom—“
“Inside the bedroom,” his whispered close to Raja’s ear, “she’s much beyond a slutbot.” The son’s eyes widened.
“You mean she knows the things a…a slutbot would…know?”
‘That and much, much, more,” Bhaisaab winked. “After all, we are a nation that encourages the freedom to choose. So why can’t we have both?” They turned around to look at Sanskaari Bahu, her eyes half closed as if dreaming of pleasures of the night. The parents came back.
“Can you turn her on please?” said Mrs Tripatti, “we would like to try her—“
“No need,” cried the son, “We will take her!”
“But…Raja, we need to check the model for defects…voice, action, performance, ovaries, there can be so many things that can go wrong—“
“Don’t worry, madam. She comes with a lifetime warranty for manufacturing defects. Of course we won’t consider damage while in possession, but any defects, even the minutest and you get a brand new model.”
Bhaisaab gleamed as he looked at the son’s smitten expression. This deal was as good as done. In his mind, he was already counting his money.
“How much does she cost?” asked Mrs Tripatti.
“Just ten crore rupees, madam.”
“What! Ten crore? That’s daylight robbery!” she cried.
“She’s a one-time investment, madam. Household, future, high culture all taken care of together.”
“I want her, mummy!”
“Mr Tripatti, put some sense in our son! Of course we can’t take her. We can’t afford to—” Her voice became shrill.
“But, dear, Bhaisaab is right na, you wanted a cultural daughter-in-law and he’s showing you the best only.”
“But…how will we afford her?” she screeched. Her body jerked, the drape of her sari falling down in agitation, revealing her blouse. “It is six times our budget. Remember what happened last time you gave in to this lazy idiot’s demand.”
“That’s enough, Mrs Tripatti!”
As if paused by a remote, Mrs Tripatti stopped, her face muscles ticking, her body still. Mr Tripatti sighed, bending forward to put the sari drape back on her shoulder and patting it in place. “She freezes if she gets too angry,” he said matter-of-factly.
“A safety feature the RealMood™ models were built with, sir,” said Bhaisaab, nodding understandably. “The unique personalities had to have some features to make sure there is a sense of control. As a retro enthusiast I understand. The new brides don’t have the freezing feature. Don’t require it, sir, as they come with preinstalled with the DocileChip™.”
“Can you give us a discount for Sanskaari Bahu or an installment plan we can afford?” Mr Tripatti asked, looking at his still wife. “Raja, be with your mother.”
“Let me see what I can do for your esteemed family,” gleamed BhaiSaab. “Would you like to come over to the counter, there are a few…urm…schemes you can perhaps look at.”
In an elaborate ritual, Bhaisaab packed Sanskaari Bahu back into her lotus pod, taking pleasure in how Raja sighed, staring at the closed pod as if it was a Russian Slutbot’s ass. He left the frozen Mrs Tripatti and her son on the bench, facing the lotus pod and reached the cash counter behind the window display, efficiently taking out a tab to calculate.
“Sir,” he said, addressing Mr Tripatti who stood opposite him, “since we are an exclusive dealer for Sanskaari Bahu, we have a one-time offer of low interest rate on an monthly installment. You can opt for a twenty-year or a thirty-year plan. Your monthly installment will come to,” tap, tip, tap, “four lakh, fifty thousand per month on a twenty-year plan or two lakh, ninety thousand approximately with thirty-years of installments. Of course these are estimates. The real costs will vary.”
“I’m…that’s simply not possible on a clerk’s salary, Bhaisaab.” He pushed his spectacles up his nose. “Please. You’ll have to do something more here.”
Bhaisaab followed Mr Tripatti’s gaze to his family. His lip curled up. “You know what,” said Bhaisaab, placing his ring-laden hand on top of the father’s hand. “You’re a brother to me. I will even throw in a SlutBot Version 15.7, imported from Germany, sir, not China, in for you. After all, at your age, you should be looking at alternate venues to experiment your freedom—“
“No, no. That’s not possible. Shyama will be horrified if she hears, and anyway we can’t afford the monthly installment.”
“Hmm.” Bhaisaab quieted, tapping on his calculator in a distracted manner. “If you don’t mind, sir, can you tell me where you found Shyama?”
“Oh, Shyama. I got her from a small shop in Connaught Place. A boutique place with second-hand brides. That’s the only one I could afford at that time. But other than occasional bursts and moodiness, which I guess all RealMood™ wives have, we’ve never had any trouble.”
“She’s special you know. And may I tell you, very, very rare too. I’m part of the Retro group and haven’t seen one in working condition yet.” He licked his lips. “I didn’t fail to notice that her epidermis and nails are chipping. Maintenance must be costly.”
“Oh yes. We try and do it as much as we can, but unfortunately, on my salary, there’s only a limited change we can bring about to her. The company has also stopped repair work for the first generation of bots. It’s hard.”
“Yes, so understandable, which is why brother, I want to help you.” Bhaisaab leaned forward. “A rich customer on my Retro group, he’s from South Park and quite moneyed. He is looking for a model with RealMood™ installed to complete his collection. Just like Shyama. He owns a Public FirstGen Home, a museum you see and lacks a RealMood™ model there. Very, very elite gentleman and ready to pay any price for the right wife.” Mr Tripatti’s eyes widened. “If you would be willing to donate your…ahem…missus…. I will be able to give you Sanskaari Bahu for almost thirty percent off the original price. That’s,” Tap. Tip. Tap. “Rupees eighty thousand, approximately, monthly installment for thirty years.”
“Bhaisaab, are you trying to suggest that I sell my Shyama for my son’s wife?”
“No one is asking you to sell her, Mr Tripatti, but…well think about it. Sanskaari Bahu will take your caste levels up by atleast 100 points. With that, your son can have a good life, sir. And you’re not selling your wife. Merely relocating her. Her ownership belongs to you.”
“And what happens to Shyama?”
“She will live comfortably, sir. The First Gen Bot Home is state-of-the-art with a Maintenance team which is better than the one they have in DesiBots™. She will be taken care of, switched off most of the days, given her own private room. I will draw up the contract myself and include your visitation rights, conjugal rights and any other conditions you might want to add.”
BhaiSaab looked in the direction of his wife and child, continuing: “I mean you have to consider….what’s best for the family…after all.” He paused. A commotion noise filtered in, distracting him. He looked out of the display windows, between the hips of the bride bots. Shadows of quick movement. He frowned, distracted.
“And…will I…get to meet her?” said Mr Tripatti softly.
“Oh what?” asked Bhaisaab, looking back at the customer. “Of course, sir, your ownership rights remain. You’re merely renting out your—monk–I mean, wife. That’s all.”
Mr Tripatti turned his neck to look at his still frozen wife and his son. His son was standing, touching the lotus pod of the Sanskaari Bahu.
“So you don’t feel lonely,” said Bhaisaab, suddenly in a hurry to close the deal. “I will even throw in the German Slutbot Version 15.7, I mentioned. After all, we are almost like brothers, aren’t we?”
A loud cacophony of screeches made them both turn their heads in unison. A horde of monkeys swooped into the shop, chattering, cackling, throwing sticky mangoes peels with missile accuracy on Bhaisaab’s face.
“You rotten beings! May your ancestry die in the pits of hell!” Bhaisaab cried, picking up the mop and running after the monkeys, the deal all forgotten. Mr Tripatti frowned and after a moment’s confusion arrived at a decision.

Glossary

• Sanskaari Bahu: ‘Bahu’ means a daughter-in-law, and the word ‘sanskaari’ means someone who has the right cultural, social and religious values and ethics and abides by them.
• Bhaisaab: ‘Bhai’ means brother in Hindi while ‘Saab’ means gentleman. The combined term is a polite way to refer to a stranger who belongs to your own level of caste and class.
• Pavitronic brain: A word combination of ‘Pavitra’ which comes from Sanskrit and implies pure in a religious sense and positronic a fictional technological brain.
• Sari: A popular garment consisting of a length of cotton or silk elaborately draped around the body, traditionally worn by women in India.
• Pallu: The part of the sari that covers the chest and breast and drapes across a woman’s shoulder.
• Ghee: Clarified butter, used in purity rituals and for healing in India
• Asanas: Yogic poses
• Sanskaar Circuit: A Sanskrit word, ‘sanskaar’ translates to values, be it cultural, religious or values belonging to the patriarchal society.
• Purana, Veda, Geeta, Upanishads: Ancient religious texts
• Bhajans: Religious songs
• Pooja room: A small room in every Hindu house, which houses the personal, family and community gods and goddesses.