Arranged Marriage: Stories (22 page)

“I don’t know,” she said, her brow wrinkled, folding and refolding her jeans. “I guess I’m just a private person. It’s not like I’m shutting you out. I’ve just always done it this way. Maybe it has something to do with being an only child.” Her eyes searched his face unhappily. “I know it’s not what you’re used to. Does it bother you?”

She seemed so troubled that Deepak felt a pang of guilt.

“No, no, I don’t care, not at all,” he rushed to say, giving her shoulders a squeeze. And really, he didn’t mind, even though he didn’t quite understand. People were different. He knew that. And he was more than ready to accept the unique needs of this exotic creature—Indian and yet not Indian—who had by some mysterious fortune become his wife.

So things went on smoothly—until Raj descended on them.

“Tomorrow!” Preeti was distraught, although she tried to hide it in the face of Deepak’s obvious delight. Her mind raced over the list of things to be done—the guest bedroom dusted,
the sheets washed, a special welcome dinner cooked (that would require a trip to the grocery and the Indian store), perhaps some flowers…. And her advisor was pressuring her to turn in the second chapter of her dissertation, which wasn’t going well.

“Yes, tomorrow! His plane comes in at ten-thirty at night.” Deepak waved the telegram excitedly. “Imagine, it’s been five years since I’ve seen him! We used to be inseparable back home although he was so much younger. He was always in and out of our house, laughing and joking and playing pranks. You won’t believe some of the escapades we got into! I know you’ll just love him—everyone does. And see, he calls you
bhaviji
—sister-in-law—already.”

At the airport Raj was a lanky whirlwind, rushing from the gate to throw his arms around Deepak, kissing him loudly on both cheeks, oblivious to American stares. Preeti found his strong Bombay accent hard to follow as he breathlessly regaled them with news of old acquaintances that had Deepak throwing back his head in loud laughter. She watched him, thinking that she’d never seen him laugh like that before.

But the trouble really started after dinner.

“What a marvelous meal,
bhaviji!
I can see why Deepak is getting a potbelly!” Raj belched in appreciation as he pushed back his chair. “I know I’ll sleep soundly tonight—my eyes are closing already. If you tell me where the bedsheets are, I’ll bring them over and start making my bed while you’re clearing the table.”

“Thanks, Raj, but I made the bed already, upstairs in the guest room.”

“The guest room? I’m not a guest,
bhavi!
I’m going to be
with you for quite a while. You’d better save the guest bedroom for real guests. About six square feet of space—right here between the dining table and the sofa—is all I need. See, I’ll just move the chairs a bit, like this.”

Seeing the look on Preeti’s face, Deepak tried to intervene.

“Come on, Raju—why not use the guest bed for tonight since it’s made already? We can work out the long-term arrangements later.”

“Aare bhai
, you know how I hate all this formal-tormal business. I won’t be able to sleep up there! Don’t you remember what fun it was to spread a big sheet on the floor of the living room and spend the night, all us boys together, telling stories? Have you become an
amreekan
or what? Come along and help me carry the bedclothes down….”

Preeti stood frozen as his singsong voice faded beyond the bend of the stairs; then she made her own way upstairs silently. When Deepak came to bed an hour later, she was waiting for him.

“What! Not asleep yet? Don’t you have an early class to teach tomorrow?”

“You have to leave for work early, too.”

“Well, as a matter of fact I was thinking of taking a couple days off. You know—take Raju to San Francisco, maybe down to Carmel.”

Preeti was surprised by the sudden surge of jealousy she felt. She tried to shake it off, to speak reasonably.

“I really don’t think you should be neglecting your work—but that’s your own business.” She controlled her voice with an effort, not letting her displeasure color it. “What I do need
to straighten out is this matter of sleeping downstairs. I need to use the dining area early in the morning, and I can’t do it with him sleeping there.” She shuddered silently as she pictured herself trying to enjoy her quiet morning tea and the newspaper with him sprawled on the floor nearby—snoring, in all probability. “By the way, just what did he mean by he’s going to be here for a long time?”

“Well, he wants to stay here until he completes his Master’s—maybe a year and a half—and I told him that was fine with us….”

“You
what
? Isn’t this my house, too? Don’t I get a say in who lives in it?”

“Fine, then. Go ahead and tell him that you don’t want him here. Go ahead, wake him up and tell him tonight.”

There was an edge to Deepak’s voice that Preeti hadn’t heard before. Staring at the stony line of his lips, she suddenly realized, frightened, that they were having their first serious quarrel. Her mother’s face, triumphant in its woefulness, rose in her mind.

“You know that’s not what I’m saying.” She made her tone conciliatory. “I realize how much it means to you to have your old friend here, and I’ll do my best to make him welcome. I’m just not used to having a long-term houseguest around, and it makes things harder when he insists on sleeping on the living-room floor.” She offered him her most charming smile, desperately willing the stranger in his eyes—cold, defensive—to disappear.

It worked. He smiled back and pulled her to him, her own dear Deepak again, promising to get Raj to use the guest
room, gently biting the nape of her neck in that delicious way that always sent shivers up her spine. And as she snuggled against him with a deep sigh of pleasure, curving her body to fit his, Preeti promised herself to do her very best to accept Raj.

It was harder than she had expected, though.

The concept of doors did not exist in Raj’s universe, and he ignored their physical reality—so solid and reassuring to Preeti—whenever he could. He would burst into her closed study to tell her of the latest events in his computer lab, leaving the door ajar when he left. He would throw open the door to the garage where she did the laundry to offer help, usually just as she was folding her underwear. Even when she retreated to her little garden in search of privacy, there was no escape. From the porch, he gave solicitous advice on the drooping fuchsias.

“A little more fertilizer, don’t you think,
bhavi?
Really, this bottled stuff is no good compared to the cow dung my family uses in their vegetable garden. I tell you,
phul gobis
THIS size.” He would hold up his hands to indicate a largeness impossible for cauliflowers, while behind him the swinging screen door afforded free entry to hordes of insects. Perhaps to set her an example, he left his own bedroom door wide open so that the honest rumble of his snores assaulted Preeti on her way to the bathroom every morning.

“Cathy, Raj is driving me up the wall,” she told her friend when they met for coffee after class.

“Tell him that!”

“I can’t! Deepak would be terribly upset. It has to do with hospitality and losing face—I guess it’s a cultural thing.”

“Well, have you discussed it with Deepak?”

“I tried, once or twice. He doesn’t listen. It’s like he’s a different person nowadays—he’s even beginning to sound different.”

“How?”

“His accent—it’s a lot more Indian, like Raj’s.”

“Preeti, you’ve got to talk to him.” Over the rim of her cup, Cathy’s eyes were wide with concern. “I haven’t ever seen you so depressed. There are craters, literally, under your eyes, and you look like you’ve lost weight. Surely if he knew how strongly Raj’s habits bothered you, he’d do something about them.”

Cathy was right, Preeti thought on the way back as the BART train’s jogging rhythm soothed her into drowsiness. She needed to make more of an effort to communicate with Deepak. Maybe tonight. She was glad she had taken the time that morning, before she left for school, to fix a
bharta
, the grilled eggplant dish which was one of his favorites. When she got home, she’d make some
pulao
rice—the kind he liked, with lots of fried cashews—and after dinner when they went to bed she’d lay her head in the curve of his shoulder and hold him tight and tell him exactly how she felt. Maybe they’d even make love—it seemed like a terribly long time since they’d done that.

But when she opened the door to the house, she was assaulted by a loud burst of
filmi
music. Deepak and Raj sat side by side on the family-room couch, watching an Indian
movie where a plump man wearing a hat and a bemused expression was serenading a haughty young woman. Both men yelled with laughter as the woman swung around, snatched the hat off her admirers head, and stomped on it.

“Vah
, look at those flashing eyes!” Raj exclaimed. “I tell you, none of our modern girls can match Nutan for style!” Noticing Preeti, he waved a cheery hand. “Oh,
bhavi
, there you are! Come join us.
Deepu-bhaiya
and I rented a couple of our favorite movies from the Indian video store….”

“Yes,” Deepak added, “that was a great idea of Raj’s. I never thought I’d have such a terrific time watching these old videos. They bring back some really fun memories.”

“I bet they do!
Bhavi
, did you know your husband used to be a regular street-corner Romeo in his bachelor days?
Yaar
, remember that girl who used to five across from your house in Birla Mansions? How you used to sing
chand-ke-tukde
—that means piece of moon,
bhavi
—whenever she waited at the bus stop …?”

“That’s enough, Raju! You’ll get me in trouble now,” Deepak said, but he looked rather pleased. “Preeti, come sit with us and I’ll explain the Hindi words to you.” He moved closer to Raj to make space on the couch, and Preeti noted with a twist of the heart how he casually let an arm fall over Raj’s shoulder.

“I have to warm up dinner,” she said through stiff lips.

“Oh, don’t bother!” Deepak said. “We stopped for
samosas
at that little restaurant next to the video store—what is it—”

“Nusrat Cuisine,” Raj supplied helpfully. “We’re stuffed.”

“We brought you back a few,” Deepak said. “They’re on the counter.”

Preeti walked to the kitchen. Her body seemed heavy and unwieldy, as though she were moving in deep water. Emotions she didn’t want to examine churned through her, insidious currents waiting to pull her under. She picked up the brown bag printed with the restaurant’s logo and, without opening it, threw it in the trash can. She wanted to throw out the
bharta
, too, but with an effort she put it in the refrigerator.

As she started up the steps, she heard Deepak call behind her, “Don’t you want to watch the movie?”

“No. I have a lot of schoolwork to catch up on.” She knew she sounded ungracious. A party pooper, in Raj’s language.

“Well, if you’re sure….”

“Do you think you could come upstairs soon?” She tried to make her voice bright and pleasant. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Sure thing. I’ll be up in a bit.”

This cant be happening to me
, Preeti told herself as she stared into the bedroom mirror. In the dim light her face looked sallow, unwell. She tried to remember her past successes—standing on a university stage in Ohio receiving her B.A. degree from the college president, knowing that she was one of a handful of students with solid A’s; opening an embossed envelope with trembling fingers to find that she’d been accepted at Berkeley; standing at a podium and hearing the roar of applause when she finished presenting a paper at a national conference. None of it seemed real. None of it
seemed to have happened to the woman who looked back at her from the mirror, the skin of her face drawn tight over cheekbones that stuck out too sharply. All her life she had believed that she could do anything she set her mind to; it was what her mother had always said. Now as a sudden wave of giddiness struck her, she felt doubt for the first time. Then she drew her breath in fiercely.
I wont let him ruin my life
, she said. For a moment it wasn’t clear to her if it was Raj she was referring to, or Deepak.

She changed into the lacy pink nightdress Deepak had bought her for their first anniversary. She sprayed perfume on her wrists and practiced, in the mirror, the words she would say.
Think positive
, she told herself.
Losing your temper will achieve nothing
.

It was a couple of hours before Deepak opened the door of the bedroom. He was humming a Hindi song under his breath.

“You still awake?” He sounded surprised.

“Remember, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Calmly, calmly
. But her voice trembled, thin and high. Accusing.

“Sorry,” Deepak said, a little shamefaced. “The movie was so good—I forgot all about the time.” Then he gave a great yawn. “Maybe we can talk tomorrow?”

“No! I have to tell you now.” Preeti spoke quickly, before she lost her nerve. “I can’t live with Raj in the house anymore. He’s driving me crazy. He’s …”

“What d’you mean, he’s driving you crazy?” Deepak’s voice was suddenly testy. “He’s only trying to be friendly, poor chap. I should think you’d be able to open up a bit more to
him. After all, we’re the closest thing he has to family in this strange country.”

“Even family members sometimes need time and space away from each other. In my family no one ever intruded….”

“Well, maybe they should have,” Deepak interrupted in a hard tone that made Preeti stare at him. “Maybe then you’d be a little more flexible now.”

After this, Preeti took to locking herself up in the bedroom with her work in the evenings while downstairs Deepak and Raj talked over the old days as the stereo blared out the Kishore Kumar songs they’d grown up on. Often she fell asleep over her books and woke to the sound of Deepak’s irritated knocks on the door.