Authors: Amulya Malladi
Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Literary, #Cultural Heritage, #General
“I want a husband and children and that house in suburbia. . . . well, maybe not suburbia,” I said. It was not a lie. I did want those things. I just wanted those things with Nick.
“I’m glad,” Adarsh said. “I don’t know much about you and you don’t know much about me. And in another ten minutes my mother or your mother will come and interrupt us because it’s still not right for us to be talking so freely for too long.”
“My mother will come out of curiosity, not out of some sense or propriety,” I corrected him.
He smiled again and the dimple on his cheek deepened. Telugu film star, Venkatesh, had nothing on Adarsh Sarma, son of the eminent Rice Sarma. Any girl in her right mind would grab this guy, hope that he would grab her as well, but I was contemplating whether or not to tell him about Nick.
“I’d like to be honest with you,” he said. “It’s important to be honest I feel because we have to make a rather large decision based on a very short conversation.
“I was dating a Chinese woman two years ago. We broke up after a three-year relationship. That was when I realized that I wanted to marry someone from India.”
This was an unusual boy . . . man. I had never heard of anyone discussing ex-girlfriends at a
pelli-chupulu
. It was simply not done and even though it gave me an opening to talk about Nick, I was reluctant. India was still a man’s world and it was still okay for Adarsh to talk about his ex but taboo for me to mention my current or ex. In any case, I didn’t have the guts.
“How did a bad relationship with a Chinese woman convince you that Indian women were the right variety for you?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t use the word
variety
,” he said, visibly flinching at my description. “I’m just doing what you’re doing, looking for a life partner who’ll make me happy and will make my family happy. With my ex-girlfriend it was great, we got along well, but Chinese New Year never started to mean anything to me and she never figured out
Ugadi
,” he said. “Can you understand that?”
Actually, I couldn’t. Nick and I hadn’t had any problems on that front. I celebrated Christmas and Thanksgiving with him and he celebrated
Diwali
and
Ganesh Chaturthi
with me. But we were hardly religious and all festivals on either side were about good food, spending time with friends and family, and alcohol.
“It appears that you’re looking for someone traditional,” I said, and rose from the swing. “I’m not traditional.”
He shook his head and gestured me to sit down. “Not traditional, just Indian.”
“I’m not very Indian either,” I told him evenly, still standing. “Don’t be fooled by the sari and the
bindi
and the jewelry. I work hard and I play hard. I’m not even going to remember when
Ugadi
is unless someone will tell me. I drink an occasional glass of wine and I’m known to smoke a cigar to bring in the New Year . . . I—”
He lifted his hand, a big grin on his face. “I’m not looking for some
gaonwali
. I’m not interested in some village-type; I’m looking for a peer. It doesn’t bother me if you want to drink a glass or two of wine, or even a bottle on occasion, I really don’t give a damn. I simply want someone I can share Hindi movies with, be Indian with. Someone who understands the jokes, you know?”
Now I did understand what he was saying. I had lost count of the times I’d translate something to Nick and he’d sit there with a wrinkle on his forehead, unable to comprehend the Indianness of what I was telling him. But I needed more from a relationship than the understanding of a joke or an Indian cliché. I needed so much more. I needed Nick.
“Priya Ma,”
Nanna
came outside then, obviously at the urging of my mother, “why don’t you offer our guest a cup of
chai?”
“Of course,” I said, and looked at Adarsh. The meeting as such was over. Now we’d have to make a decision based on this small conversation. A decision of a lifetime!
“How much sugar would you like?” I asked him.
“I don’t drink tea,” Adarsh replied.
“Coffee?” I asked.
“No thanks, I’m fine,” he said. “It was nice talking to you,” he added.
I smiled at him before walking away.
Even before I entered the kitchen, Ma descended upon me. “So what did he say? What did you say? You didn’t make any
pitchi-pitchi
remarks, did you?”
“No, Ma, I didn’t make any insane remarks,” I muttered, and sat down on a dining chair instead of going inside the kitchen. My heart was racing at a hundred miles a second. I had gone through with this demeaning ceremony. I, who was already spoken for, had talked to another man who considered himself a potential husband to me. I had insulted Nick, our relationship, myself, and, ultimately, even Adarsh.
“So . . . how did it go?” Sowmya asked.
“Okay,” I said, as tears threatened to fall like little hard pebbles of hail.
“Do you like him?” she asked.
“Of course she likes him,” Ma said. “What’s not to like?”
“Radha,” my father called out from the living room. “They’re leaving. Come here, will you?”
I joined my mother to bid our guests farewell. Adarsh smiled at me, and his parents grinned knowingly at mine when they saw their son smile at who they thought was their future daughter-in-law.
TO: NICHOLAS COLLINS
NICK, I AM SO SO SO SO SO SORRY!
I TOLD YOU I WOULDN’T GO THROUGH WITH THE BRIDE-SEEING CEREMONY BUT I DID. I SAT THROUGH THE DAMN THING AND EVEN TALKED TO THE HUSBAND-NOT-TO-BE. THIS DOESN’T MEAN ANYTHING. I HOPE YOU UNDERSTAND THAT. I COULDN’T BACK OUT. MY PARENTS . . . THATHA, EVERYONE . . . LORD, I’M SORRY.
I’M SO SCARED THAT NOW YOU WON’T LOVE ME ANYMORE AND THAT NOW WHEN I TELL MY PARENTS ABOUT YOU, THEY WON’T LOVE ME ANYMORE. I FEEL VERY LONELY, VERY CONFUSED, AND VERY ANGRY.
I’M REALLY SORRY THAT I COULDN’T FIND A WAY TO EXTRICATE MYSELF FROM THIS. I’M GOING TO TELL THEM ABOUT YOU TONIGHT, RIGHT AFTER DINNER. I PROMISE.
I DO LOVE YOU.
PRIYA
TO: PRIYA RAO
SUBJECT: UNDELIVERABLE: I AM SO SORRY!
YOUR MESSAGE
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: I’M SO SORRY!
SENT: SATURDAY 14:02:21 -0800
DID NOT REACH THE FOLLOWING RECIPIENT(S):
[email protected] ON SATURDAY
14:02:21 -0800
ERROR: RECIPIENT SERVER NOT RESPONDING.
Number 65 and the Consequences of Confessions and Lies
Sowmya looked into the mirror, the blue-bordered sari that I had worn just that afternoon draped over her shoulder. “Do you think I will look as nice as you did?” she asked.
“You’ll look better,” I said.
“You think he’ll like me the way Adarsh liked you?” she asked, her eyes glittering behind her thick glasses. “Maybe I shouldn’t wear my glasses, huh?”
“Wear them, don’t wear them, it doesn’t matter,” I told her. “And Adarsh does
not
like me. There’s nothing to like,” I added.
Sowmya put the sari down and picked up the sapphire jewelry I had also worn to parade in front of Adarsh and his parents. “
Amma
said that she will give these to me when I get married. If this boy likes me, you and I can have a double wedding. What do you think?”
She was trying so hard to make Nick disappear that I couldn’t take offense, but I couldn’t let it slide either. Guilt sat steadily in my throat like the taste of the bitter soft stone of a raw mango; no matter what I ate or drank after biting the soft stone, its taste stayed with me.
“I’m not going to marry Adarsh, Sowmya,” I said quietly.
She sighed and put the jewelry away and turned from the mirror in
Ammamma’s
room to face me. “You can’t marry a foreigner, Priya,” she told me calmly as she picked up the blue sari again. “You just can’t. They will all disown you. You will have to choose.”
I shrugged. “It’s no contest, Sowmya,” I said with certainty. “I will always pick Nick.”
As soon as I said it, I wondered. If push came to shove, which it would when I told my parents and
Thatha
about Nick, would I just walk out and fly away to the United States to be Nick’s wife? What about the daughter, granddaughter, cousin, niece inside me? Would I happily sacrifice all those identities to be Nick’s wife? I knew I would, I was sure I would, but it would be a sacrifice, and a big one. And did relationships based upon sacrifices truly work?
Maybe in a few years I would miss my family and they still wouldn’t want me; would that make me resent Nick? No, I told myself confidently, nothing would make me resent Nick. He was everything I wanted in a man, a husband, a friend. He was it. If he were Indian instead of American, or even better, if he were a Telugu
Brahmin
, my parents and grandparents would’ve jumped at the idea of our marriage and would’ve paid for a lavish wedding, inviting everyone they knew.
None of that would happen now. My wedding would be an almost clandestine affair that’d take place far away from India and its mores in the United States, which my family would believe to be more suited for our unholy matrimony. There wouldn’t be hundreds of Ma’s and
Nanna’s
and
Thatha’s
friends and my family, there would be Nick and his family and our friends. Would it matter that I would be without my family, the family, which had been part of my weekends by phone for the past seven years?
Every weekend I would call home, or if my parents were at
Thatha’s
house, I’d call there and we’d talk. I looked forward to calling my family on Saturday nights, sometimes on Friday nights if Nick and I were home. Would I miss that large telephone bill at the end of the month?
Ma walked into
Ammamma’s
room and threw her hands up in exasperation. “You also want to wear that hideous sari, Sowmya?” she asked. “She looked like someone’s grandma; you will look like her grandma’s grandma. Wear that yellow sari with the red border.”
Sowmya’s face fell. “But,
Akka
, I like the blue—”
“Wear that red border one,” Ma said forcefully. “Or do you want to go through another sixty-five of these?”
“Ma!” I cried out at her rudeness, but Ma just waved a hand and said, “Hush, what do you know? You just got here,
maharani
, and you are lucky that Rice Sarma’s son was in India at the same time. Sowmya doesn’t have those benefits.”
Sowmya pushed her sliding glasses up her nose.
“
Ma
,” I protested again, now embarrassed, and Ma shushed me again.
“Mahadevan Uncle called your father. Looks like they will make a proposal by tomorrow morning,” Ma said, gleeful triumph in her eyes coupled with a challenge for me to refuse this prize stud she’d found me.
I looked at her with wide eyes. “What proposal?”
“Farming proposal!” Ma said indignantly. “Marriage proposal, Priya. That is what we do. We see a family and the boy and then they make a marriage proposal and we accept.”
“Whoa . . . who said anything about accepting?” I demanded.
Sowmya raised both her hands. “
Akka
, they’ll be here soon and I need Priya to help me get ready. Neelima left with Anand, and they won’t be back until tomorrow, so I really need Priya.”
Ma looked at me and then at Sowmya. “I told you, Priya, no
nakhras
, your father might tolerate that nonsense, but I will take my slipper and beat the living daylights out of you if you continue to misbehave.”
I blinked and shook my head. I was not going to dignify that lame threat with a response.
“Remember that,” Ma added ominously before she left.
“She thinks that I’m still ten and she can hit me,” I muttered. “Why do Indian parents think they can beat their children into submission?”
“That is how it is,” Sowmya said wisely. “Now tell me, will I look good in this yellow and red sari?” she asked, as she draped the sari in question over her shoulder.
The “boy” who came to see Sowmya was definitely not a prize stud. His name was Vinay and he was soft-spoken, true to his name, but the rest was a far cry from anyone’s Dream Man. He was extremely dark (even darker than I), a little on the short side (but still taller by at least a couple of inches than Sowmya); he wore glasses, which were as thick as Sowmya’s, and to add to the interesting mix of physical traits was the small patch of balding hair that he was trying to hide with the classic and unsuccessful comb-over.
Sowmya served him and his parents the
bajjis
and
ladoos
while I served them tea, happy to be of help, since Vinay was Sowmya’s suitor, not mine. Vinay’s parents seemed like very nice people, polite and nonconfrontational. Vinay was thirty-five years old and was looking for someone who was homely and religious. Not too religious, though, just enough—should know how to do
puja
and keep
madhi
. Sowmya was par excellence at both. While Sowmya’s grandmother, my great-grandmother, was alive, Sowmya was asked time and again to keep
madhi
; that is, to cook right after she took a bath before touching or doing anything else and preferably in wet clothes. Sowmya flat out refused to cook in wet clothes as great-grandma expected, but she knew the ins and outs of all the religious nooks and crannies.
They didn’t want a working daughter-in-law, Vinay’s parents said. They wanted grandchildren soon. Oh, Vinay is still single because he was so busy with his career. Couldn’t be that busy, I thought cynically, after all he was just a small-time lecturer at some out of the way engineering college.
While I served tea, Sowmya sat demurely looking at her painted nails as her fingers fondled the yellow tassels at the edge of the red border of her sari.
“Do you play any instrument?” Vinay asked Sowmya and she nodded.
“I play the
veena
,” she said.
Jayant had brought the
veena
out from storage just that morning and Sowmya and I had dusted it clean.
Thatha
had been informed from a good source that the “boy” liked music and since Sowmya could play the
veena
, everyone thought it would be a good idea to keep it handy.
I slipped out of the living room into the backyard when Sowmya started playing. As the notes filtered through the house, it was obvious that the
veena
idea was a bad one. It had been almost three years since Sowmya had touched the musical instrument; she needed practice and a lot of it.
I found Nate in the backyard tying his shoelaces by the
tulasi
plant.
“Where’re you going?” I asked.
“Home,” he said without looking at me.
“Oh.”
He stood up and then looked me in the eye. “You should tell him, Priya. You should tell him.”
“I have told him,” I said, and when he looked at me suspiciously, I spilled the truth out. “The email bounced back, but I will send him another one. I will call him and tell him.
Ottu
, promise. I will.”
Nate shook his head.
“And even if I didn’t tell him, I don’t see what the problem is. It’s not like I’m going to marry Adarsh or anything,” I said belligerently.
“No, but you definitely gave everyone the idea you would marry him,” Nate pointed out. “Look, none of my business, but I just think that . . . I don’t know what you’re waiting for. They’re going to make a proposal, what do you plan to do then? Not say anything?”
Sowmya stopped playing the
veena
, just as I got ready to lay it on Nate. Who did he think he was? Some
laat-sahib
, some big shot who could tell me what to do and when?
“I just feel bad about all of this,” he said before I could yell at him. “I wish I could help, Priya, but I’m just going to go home and enjoy the house without Ma.”
“I’ll call you, as soon as . . . ,” I said. I knew he was being honest with me because he cared about me.
“You’re going to break
Nanna’s
heart,” Nate said. “That’s going to be hard.”
“Yes, and
Thatha’s
,” I said. “But what has to be done—”
“Priya?” Lata came out and I bit my lip. How much had she heard? Did we say anything incriminating?
“They’re leaving and your mother wants you there,” she said, and then smiled at Nate. “Going, Nate?”
“Yes,” Nate said casually. He winked at me before leaving.
“He is so aloof,” Lata complained. “As if we are not good enough.”
“He just likes his own company,” I defended Nate immediately. “And he is
not
aloof.”
“Oh, come on, he has always been in his own world, not interested in the family or anything,” Lata said, and then sighed. “Of course, you don’t see anything wrong because you are his doting sister.”
“There
is
nothing wrong with him,” I said annoyed.
The family was not fond of Nate. It was as if he was more
Nanna’s
son than Ma’s. Even
Thatha
was more close to me than to Nate. It probably was because Nate spent more time with his friends and on his own than with the family.
Nanna
always said that he didn’t blame Nate. “He isn’t married to your mother, he doesn’t have to be in her parents’ house all the time,” he would say.
And to be honest, Nate didn’t even try to get along with
Thatha
or
Ammamma
or anyone else. He spoke to Anand once in a while and got along reasonably well with him, but the rest of the family could go hang itself and Nate wouldn’t give a damn, as he always said.
After the guests left, everyone congregated in the living room.
Thatha
opened his pouch of tobacco and started rubbing some in the palm of his hand. “Nice family . . . enh, Sowmya?”
Sowmya nodded.
Ammamma
banged her hand against the arm of the sofa she was sitting on. “Very nice. If this works out . . . a big burden will be off our heads. I can’t wait for this marriage to take place. Ten years . . . ten long years . . . Now I want to see my Sowmya married.”
“They will definitely ask for dowry,” Jayant said. “Do you know what they want?”
Thatha
put the tobacco inside his lower lip and sucked the tobacco into his mouth. “From what I hear they are not greedy people. And whatever they want, we will give . . . within reason, of course.”
Sowmya fidgeted with the gold bangle she was wearing. “He lives with his parents,” she said quietly.
“And . . . ?”
Thatha
demanded immediately.
Sowmya just shrugged.
“Why? You don’t want to take care of his parents?”
Thatha
asked, chewing the tobacco noisily. “Sowmya?” he asked again when she didn’t respond.
“No, nothing like that,” she all but whimpered.
“So, do we have a problem, Sowmya?”
Thatha
asked.
“No,” she said after a minute’s hesitation.
We all knew she was lying.
“Grooms are not lining up outside the gate, you know,” Lata said as nicely as she could to Sowmya when the three of us were in the kitchen. “And his parents seem like nice people.”
Sowmya shrugged as she squeezed the pulp out of the tamarind, which was soaking in water. “Priya, large pieces, Ma. We need large pieces of tomato for the
sambhar
,” she told me, and threw the pieces of tomato I had diced into the sink. “You don’t even know the basics, Priya,” she complained. “You have to learn to cook . . . And if you don’t . . . just leave my kitchen.”
I wanted to leave
her
kitchen as she suggested. It was there just for an instant, the prick of pride, piercing and slamming against ego. I let it pass.
“I’ll do it properly,” I said, and showed her as I cut the tomatoes into large pieces. “This will do?”
Sowmya nodded without looking at me.
“He is a nice boy,” Lata said, looking up from the pearl onions she was peeling.
“He is thirty-five, dark, balding, and he wants dowry,” Sowmya said, tears glistening at the edge of her eyes, threatening to fall. “And he wants his wife to take care of his old parents. Haven’t I done enough? How many people do I need to take care of? What about me? Who will take care of me?” The tears fell.
I wanted to console her, but I didn’t have the words. What would I say to her? Wait for number sixty-six; maybe that will bring better luck?
Sowmya sat down on the floor and buried her face in her hands. “He asks if there is problem.” she sobbed, “There is always a problem. . . . I am the problem. Can’t wait to get rid of me, she keeps saying.”