The Full Moon Bride

by Shobhan Bantwal

  Mom’s eyes twinkled with barely contained excitement behind her plastic-framed glasses. As a wealthy woman Mom should have been wearing stylish designer eyeglasses and elegant clothes, but her humble Indian background still lingered inside her. Her wardrobe was mostly furnished by discount department stores: slacks in different colors topped with coordinated short-sleeved tops in the summer and pullover sweaters in the winter.

  Somehow the gold, diamonds, and silk saris that were considered solid investments didn’t quite go hand in hand with the $19.99 shoes and the $49.99 watch that were viewed purely as consumer goods, not worth throwing good money at.

  “Never pay too much for anything that loses value the minute it comes out of the store, and don’t buy unless there is a half-price or better sale,” Mom preached, and habitually scanned the newspaper ads for special end-of-the-season clearance events at the local department stores. A seventy-five percent reduction sale could make Mom giddy with delight.

  That philosophy didn’t extend to my dad, of course, since he was a prominent doctor and had to look the part. He always wore designer labels, drove an expensive car, and had his offices lavishly furnished. They were all investments. Mom’s life, on the other hand, was an eclectic mix of cheap and pricey, elegant and tacky, drab and colorful.

  “So, what do you think of the boy, huh?” my mother asked in a conspiratorial whisper as she placed the lid on the coffeepot.

  “I haven’t even seen the boy yet.” I’d been trying to postpone the inevitable as long as I could.

  “You mean you have not taken a secret peek yet?” Mom looked shocked. She always assumed I was as wildly excited about these occasions as she was.

  “Of course not. I don’t spy on people.”

  “It is not spying, dear; it is simple curiosity. Every girl does that, you know. When your dad came to see me, I hid behind the wooden screen in my parents’ home and took a good look at him. He looked so nice. He was a lot thinner then, too.” She giggled. “Your Pamma caught me at it, but she didn’t seem to mind.”

  “Good for you, Mom.” I couldn’t help smiling.

  “Just wait till you see this Kansas boy, and tell me if he’s not handsome.” Mom looked like an eager little girl waiting for my reaction to her first kindergarten project. Except in place of pigtails, she sported a short, bouncy bob that was dyed a shade too dark.

  Mom’s bathroom cabinet held a jumbo pack of Clairol hair color. All her toiletries came in discounted multipacks.

  “Handsome, too? Looks like you and Dad have outdone yourselves this time,” I said. This was the first time I’d heard any suitor described as handsome. But then, in Mom’s opinion, practically every fourth man she came across was nice-looking or distinguished-looking, so I had serious doubts about this Kansas guy.

  Mom’s face settled into a troubled frown. “I hope you are not going to be difficult about this, Soorya. You will behave like a good girl, right?”

  “Yes, Mom, I promise.” Sometimes she seemed to forget I had outgrown the toddler stage a long time ago.

  Mom’s tone softened. “I know this is tough, but the Vadepallis have come a long way to meet you, dear.” Good thing Mom was a forgiving sort and had overlooked the first few bride viewings when I’d deliberately worn faded jeans and sweatshirts or short skirts and tank tops that revealed my rolls and bulges to the point of driving away any potential young man and his family.

  Those were the days when I didn’t want to marry and get saddled with a husband and a couple of kids.

  However, along with maturity had come the slow realization that I did want all those sentimental and wholesome things. My thirtieth birthday some months ago was a sobering experience. Many of my girlfriends were married, and a couple of them had babies already. Even my best friend, Amy Steinberg, a rebel who’d denigrated marriage for many years, was now engaged.

  All of a sudden, I wanted a husband, too—a guy who’d bring me flowers, help me chop vegetables for the salad, shovel the snow, warm my bed, and hold my hand when I went into the delivery room to bring his babies into this world. Besides a fabulous career, I wanted marriage. I wanted a family.

  Why couldn’t I have it all?

  But it meant seeking out the right man first, or at least letting my parents find him for me. And that’s why I stood there dressed in a sari, wearing diamonds and makeup, and trying not to let it get to me. Nonetheless, my bland reply to Mom was, “Kansas isn’t the end of the world. I’m sure they can hop on the next plane and go home.”

  I had subjected myself to this torment since I was twenty three. Not that I counted the bride viewings anymore. The occasions were too numerous to keep a tally, too humiliating to acknowledge, too frustrating to ponder.

  It wasn’t Mom and Dad’s fault, though—this was the only method they knew. If I were to find someone on my own, they’d accept him wholeheartedly. In fact, they hoped I’d find someone and get married as fast as I could. They dropped enough hints on the subject. Since I hadn’t obliged, they were trying their level best to get me to the proverbial altar—or in my case the mandap, the ceremonial Hindu marriage canopy.

  Each time a potential groom came to meet me, the outcome was the same: rejection—for one reason or another. I was either too tall or too heavy or too dark-skinned, or a combination. After the barrage of negative responses, I’d become even more apprehensive about going out and finding a man on my own.

  I often wished I could summon enough nerve to go to bars and parties, get myself a boyfriend and put an end to this husband hunting. Amy had managed to find her perfect Jewish man in David Levine through the Internet. But I couldn’t. I had learned my lesson as a teenager when no boys in school had noticed me.

  My fear of dating was pathetic for a grown woman whose spirit was intrepid in every other sense, but I just couldn’t get over my inhibition. It had left me more or less out in the cold, to use a trite cliché.

  Despite wanting to know what a kiss felt like, I’d never had a taste of it. Imagine that—I’d never kissed a man in my entire life. I had often wondered what it would feel like to have a man’s lips touch mine, his tongue dueling with my own, his arms holding me in a passionate embrace.

  But I was too damned afraid of rejection to go out and find all those sexual experiences I dreamed about. I was afraid to fail. At least when my parents tried to find a man for me, any failures were as much theirs as they were mine.

  Initially, I believe what enticed the would-be grooms and their families to come bride-seeking to our house was the BIG DOWRY sign around my neck—my father’s flourishing medical practice. He owned three clinics around New York City, where he performed his own brand of magic: cosmetic surgery.

  My father’s clients included a long list of celebrities—movie stars, models, singers, business moguls, and sports heroes. A certain real estate tycoon had his puckered lips enhanced and his face lifted so he could bag his fifth trophy wife. A basketball legend had an unsightly birthmark removed from his armpit. A middle-aged gay singing sensation had his penis reshaped.

  Then there was the blond movie star whose breasts were enlarged so many times that she nearly fell on her face a couple of times, after which Dad was asked to refashion them to a more manageable size.

  I had a feeling Dad had perhaps played God more times than he could remember—he had probably adjusted, reshaped, rearranged, and remolded more body parts than anyone on the East Coast. Dad’s list of famous patients and their fascinating stories could fill a book.

  Too bad Dad’s charmed scalpel could do little for his only child. Unfortunately, I had inherited his looks, and he had inherited his from his father. But to his credit, he had tried very hard to use every ounce of his medical and cosmetic skills on me in conjunction with other specialists who’d given my looks a boost.

  In the end, after a few layers of fat had been surgically removed from my hips and belly, my nose cleverly restructured, teeth aligned with orthodontics, hair removed permanently from my upper li
p and arms, and some elaborate beauty treatments, I had made the happy transition from unappealing to slightly better than plain.

  “Look, baby, Dad made you so beautiful!” Mom had clapped her hands with girlish delight and held the mirror before me when the last of the procedures was over. I was twenty years old then. “Now all we have to do is find a good husband for you.”

  Pamma had nearly lost her dentures from grinding them too much and shedding tears of joy at the sight of her granddaughter’s improved appearance.

  I had merely walked away from the mirror with a long, tired sigh. From that day on I’d be known as Pramod and Vijaya Giri’s homely daughter. But homely was significantly better than ugly, I’d consoled myself.

  My latest birthday resolution had been to do whatever it took to look attractive.

  “Soorya.” Mom’s voice pealed like a bell to shake me out of my depressing thoughts. “Stop daydreaming now. It’s about time you came out and met them.”

  “Can’t you and Dad entertain them and send them on their way?” I pleaded with her.

  “I realize you’re nervous, but the boy seems very friendly, dear. I’m sure you’ll like him. He’s different from the other boys you have met.” She wiggled her eyebrows and grinned. “And don’t forget handsome.”

  “They’re all very friendly until they meet me, Mom,” I murmured. Even our eye-popping mansion, complete with fountain, swimming pool, hot tub, and Dad’s steel-gray Porsche sitting in the garage, didn’t appear to matter once they laid eyes on me. Then they all seemed to panic and run like hunted rabbits.

  The irony was, even the ugliest suitors wanted a pretty bride. It was all part of the male-worshipping Indian culture. The potential groom could be short, overweight, bald, or even disabled, but the prospective bride had to be perfect in every way. Centuries of technological and cultural changes hadn’t managed to bring about a shift in the double standards.

  “But his horoscope and yours match beautifully, Soorya. Besides, by a happy coincidence, today is purnima, full moon,” Mom chirped. “It is an auspicious moon. Maybe this time it will click.” She thrust the coffee tray into my hands while she put the finishing touches to the other one loaded with snacks and sweets.

  Mom always found something auspicious about every day. She was the eternal optimist, cheerful as the lark that heralds the dawn with a burst of song. But her temperament had its advantages. Thanks to her boundless faith in me, I had excelled in school, college, and then law school, and eventually become an employee of a prestigious Manhattan law firm at a young age.

  Of course, one of the reasons I got hired at the firm was Matthew McNamara, or Mac, the firm’s senior partner and one of Dad’s most grateful clients. Despite knowing the job was granted as a favor to Dad, I knew I deserved it. I wasn’t just a good lawyer, I was an outstanding one, and an asset to Mac and his august team of legal professionals.

  Mom finally picked up her tray. “Okay, baby, let’s go,” she announced.

  Pulling in a deep breath, I followed Mom’s slim figure down the hallway toward the living room. Even after three decades of knowing and loving Mom, I still felt this slight pang of envy whenever I noted her trim hips and slender arms.

  Although not exactly pretty by most standards, my mother was nonetheless petite and generous and charming in her own South Indian way. Her sweet, munificent personality drew people to her like bees to her prize roses.

  Why couldn’t I have inherited Mom’s skinny genes, or at least her sparkling nature? Why did Dad’s DNA have to be so dominant? I asked myself that every time I looked in the full-length bathroom mirrors that captured my image from every imaginable angle.

  After yo-yoing on Slim-Fast, Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, and LA Weight Loss, I was still a large woman. The anorexic, hollow-cheeked look still continued to be all the rage in this decade. My current diet had knocked off several pounds, but the red, white, and green fixation was beginning to turn my nerves into live, exposed high-voltage wires.

  The potent scent of coffee on the tray rose to meet my nostrils, reminding me to walk upright and smile. It was a bit of a challenge balancing a tray of hot coffee and china cups and trying not to trip over the bulky sari that swished and swirled around my ankles.

  Okay, Soorya, this too shall pass, I told myself and proceeded to check out the man who was waiting to meet me.

  Chapter 2

  Entering the living room, I took quick note of the people seated on our pink and white floral-patterned furniture. Mr. and Mrs. Vadepalli seemed normal enough—typically dressed in their own conservative discount-store apparel.

  Mr. Vadepalli was a lanky man in a pale blue shirt and gray pants that went out of fashion some five years ago. His salt-and pepper hair was slicked back with some kind of oil or pomade. His skin was the color of glossy ebony, with a few deep lines etched on its surface. Sitting on the couch next to my dad, Mr. Vadepalli looked almost gaunt.

  Mrs. Vadepalli, seated beside Pamma on the other couch, was a small woman with buckteeth. She wore glasses and ruby-red lipstick that emphasized the teeth. She was lighter-skinned than her husband. Her long hair was braided but looked as black as Mom’s. If nothing else, the two women could discuss hair color and exchange tips on buying it at wholesale prices.

  At a second glance, I realized these people were rather thin. They were likely to dislike me on sight. Slim individuals invariably had this disdain for fat people.

  Looking at Mrs. Vadepalli’s periwinkle blue pantsuit and black sandals, I wondered about the dress code. If the old lady was wearing American-style clothes, why had Mom and Pamma insisted on my wearing Indian attire and heavy jewelry?

  But old folks aside, it was the son, if that young man sitting in the recliner by the fireplace was indeed their son, who nearly caused me to drop my coffee tray.

  Oh my God!

  My mouth went dry. The cups rattled ominously in my trembling hands. Coffee dribbled out of the pot and into the tray.

  Dad sprang to his feet. “Let me take that, sweetheart,” he said and relieved me of the tray. As a rule Dad never lifted a finger to help with anything remotely connected to housekeeping. He must have been desperate to make a good impression on the Vadepallis to actually touch a coffee tray, dressed in his favorite white Ralph Lauren shirt and black slacks, no less.

  He didn’t want the guests to think I was a klutz.

  Meanwhile, oblivious to my disoriented state and my near mishap, my mother introduced me to the visitors. “This is our daughter Soorya, the lawyer,” she announced, her voice brimming with maternal pride. I was never just Soorya or Soorya Giri to my mother. I was Soorya the lawyer. To Mom it was a matter of prestige, but to me it was somewhat akin to being introduced as Xena the Warrior Princess.

  Regaining my equilibrium to some degree, I joined my palms in the traditional namaste to greet the Vadepallis. Mr. Vadepalli returned my gesture. “How do you do, Soorya.” With his bushy eyebrows and dark eyes, he looked rather serious and unapproachable.

  His wife adjusted her glasses and studied me for a long moment, her eyes traveling up and down my body a few times, making me feel like a rare exhibit at the natural history museum.

  So how did I measure up? I wondered. T. rex or woolly mammoth? And did I really care what they thought of me? These people would eat our delicious food and drink our imported coffee and be gone within the hour.

  By next week they’d be history, and Mom would put a check mark next to their name in her little blue book of matrimonial prospects. Then she’d move on to the next name on her list. Once again Pamma would pray to the Lord to bless me soon with a nice-nice husband.

  Despite my reservations, my eyes scooted right back to the guy in the recliner—the potential groom. There was something about him that drew my eyes to him. He was a human magnet.

  The young man, or rather the Greek god with silky-looking black hair that curled at the neck, unfolded his long legs and rose to shake my hand. “Hello, Soorya. I’m Roger.” Rog
er? What was a guy with brown skin and a South Indian Hindu surname doing with a name like Roger?

  I accepted his hand with a practiced smile. “Nice to meet you.” His hand felt long and bony and warm, and his handshake firm. His voice was deep—just raspy enough to make it interesting—like the cool, gritty texture of crushed ice in a tangy margarita.

  And . . . oh joy, he was taller than I. This was the first suitor I’d had to look up to, in spite of my one-inch heels. He was well over six feet.

  As I lifted my eyes to his, I realized his were big and cinnamon colored and fringed by incredibly long lashes—like Bambi’s. But unlike Bambi’s endearingly innocent ones, Roger’s eyes had a sexy, come-hither look. Bedroom eyes. What an attractive but deadly combination—bedroom eyes and bedroom voice.

  Oh my God. I breathed a long, wistful mental sigh.

  This time Mom was right. Handsome.

  Roger waited to sit down until Mom and I were properly seated. He had sweet manners, too—something I rarely came across in spoiled Indian men. From the corner of my eye I noticed he had a slim, tight body and a slightly crooked but captivating smile. His teeth were white and even, not at all like his mama’s buckteeth. Orthodontics or just pure luck in inheriting genes from the right ancestors? He wore khaki trousers, cream shirt, and brown loafers. Preppy and appealing.

  So what was this Roger doing here, looking at me? Right about now he was probably checking out all the exit routes, dreaming up a dozen excuses for hightailing it out of here. But this guy appeared to be clever and sneaky. Instead of looking bored or fidgety like the others I’d met, he looked relaxed and genial. His legs were stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles over the oriental rug and his hands were loosely locked over his middle.

  He looked more at home in my living room than I did.

  I caught him eyeing the food with interest. Perhaps he was hungry after his long flight from Kansas. Airlines were notorious for not providing meals on board these days. If Roger was a true Indian at heart, he was likely to take full advantage of a free meal. And my mother’s cooking was outstanding. The size of Dad’s, Pamma’s, and my waistlines could attest to that.