Roger beamed at the picture. “Something smells great. It’s making me hungry.”
“Didn’t you eat and drink already?” I whispered.
He patted his stomach. “I’m a growing boy.”
Mr. Vadepalli was the first to notice us. “Look, here they come.” He smiled at us in that indulgent fashion parents reserve for their children.
Dad turned around. “Just in time for dinner. So, what movie did you guys see?” His pristine white shirt had a grease spot right where it stretched across his belly. He’d been eating a few too many samosas.
Was it my imagination, or did Dad look particularly smug as he asked the question? Roger and I both replied at precisely the same moment. I wished we hadn’t, because it looked like we’d rehearsed it—a sure sign of guilt.
I wished there had been something to be guilty about, a little hanky-panky at least. It would have given me a chance to experience what Roger’s skin felt like. Maybe it would have helped me make up my mind about Roger.
“Was it a good film?” Mom asked as she moved to grab dinner plates from the cabinet.
“It was very interesting—a Bollywoodized version of a Hollywood movie,” Roger announced with such zest and launched into such a positive description that the elders immediately started to discuss the possibility of going to see the movie the next day.
I groaned inwardly. That meant the Vadepallis would stay at our house that night.
At Dad’s offer of a drink, Roger opted for a beer and I decided on a diet cherry soda. I went to the dining room to set the dinner table while Mrs. Vadepalli helped Mom bring the dishes of steaming food to the table.
Everything smelled delicious, but I knew I could eat only the tomato pappu, a spicy split pea and tomato curry served over plain rice, and the spinach salad.
Just before we sat down to eat, Pamma announced she was going to bed. Mr. and Mrs. Vadepalli promptly bent down to touch her feet in the old-fashioned Hindu way of bidding good-bye to an elder. Obviously thrilled at their show of respect, Pamma patted their heads, heaped blessings upon them, and then hugged the petite Mrs. Vadepalli, who barely reached Pamma’s chin.
It was a pleasant surprise to see Roger follow his parents’ example. Pamma’s eyes lit up. I could tell she hadn’t expected this young man with his American ways to touch her rough and wrinkled feet. “You are such a good boy,” she said. And her teeth clicked more than ever.
Roger was clearly unleashing his boyish charms on my unsuspecting grandmother. Pamma twinkled at him and asked how he liked his trip to New Jersey so far, and he replied in nearly perfect Telugu, albeit with an accent, that he was having a wonderful time.
Looking more impressed than ever, Pamma turned to Roger’s mother. “Very nice boy you have, Sharda. He is speaking very good Telugu.” Naturally Sharda looked pleased.
Roger glanced at me with a gleam in his eyes. I had to give the boy credit for speaking Telugu, which I didn’t. He’d made Pamma a happy old woman.
Of course, I’d have to endure the lecture from my parents and grandmother tomorrow about how awful I was for not making an effort to speak my mother tongue. I remembered having spoken the language fluently in my childhood, but somewhere between grades one and three, I’d switched entirely to English.
Sometimes I regretted it, like right that minute, when my parents and grandmother were looking at Roger like he’d just established peace in the Middle East and won an Olympic gold medal—all on the same day.
Once again, the Vadepallis made a hearty meal out of Mom’s cooking, making me wonder how this family could pack away so much food and manage to remain so thin. How unfair was that?
While I nibbled on dainty bites of tomato, rice, and spinach, I watched Mrs. Vadepalli, whose weight was likely no more than a hundred and ten pounds, devour second helpings of every dish.
The men ate everything in sight. My dad seemed ecstatic at having guests who ate as heartily as he did.
The conversation turned to Roger.
“Your father tells me you turned down medical school offers to take up theater arts, Rajesh. Why is that?” Dad asked with such a somber face that I almost felt sorry for Roger.
Defending his choice of occupation to me was different from doing it before an elder, especially a dedicated doctor who thought the sun rose and set over the medical profession and its esteemed practitioners, especially those who could fix oddly shaped chins and noses.
But Roger did a superb job of explaining to my father why he’d chosen show business over medicine. At the end of a long conversation, Roger seemed to have convinced both my parents that writing, producing, and directing plays was a perfectly reasonable way to make a living.
Mom’s soft eyes gazed in rapt attention while Roger made his impassioned speech and Dad nodded like he usually did when something made complete sense to him.
Roger was articulate and very convincing. If being a playwright wasn’t in his stars, I concluded he could always go into a sales career. The man could sell stripes to a herd of zebras and crude oil to a bunch of Arabs. Being a huge Broadway fan, Dad asked him questions about some of the more popular shows and they discussed them at length.
The only person who still had a look of disdain on his face was Mr. Vadepalli. “Useless, I say. What is the use of entertaining people for a living? There are so many useful and productive occupations in the world, and my son decides to go into entertainment. And calls himself Roger.”
“Entertainment is a legitimate business, Dad,” Roger explained with infinite patience.
“What is legitimate about men putting on lipstick and wearing dresses and dancing on stage? Besides, there is no stability in that. What is the guarantee that one will succeed? Look at all those Broadway and Hollywood flops. Only one in a hundred movies or plays will make it to the top. Doing something consistent and earning a decent living is the only way to survive.”
“But, Dad, my heart is not in any of the things that you like doing.”
The veins in Mr. Vadepalli’s neck seemed to expand. The look on his face was beginning to scare me. I hoped he wasn’t about to have a coronary attack or something. “Damn your liking, boy! Who says liking has anything to do with earning a paycheck?”
“Dad, there’s nothing wrong with liking one’s—”
“When you like something, it is a hobby, not a career. When I came to this country with eight dollars in my pocket, if I became a playwright, do you think we would be where we are today? We would be living in a ghetto somewhere, not knowing where our next meal would come from.” With that said, Mr. Vadepalli pushed away from the table and rose to his feet, essentially calling an end to a hitherto enjoyable meal.
An uncomfortable silence fell over the dining room.
It was a good thing most everyone had finished eating. All at once we all scrambled to our feet and pushed our chairs in. Mom and Mrs. Vadepalli picked up the pans and carried them to the kitchen. I applied myself to gathering up the plates and flatware.
A glance at Roger got me an apologetic shrug. I gave him a sympathetic look in silent support and went back to the task at hand.
For the first time that day, I felt genuinely sorry for Roger. I had no idea what it was like to be yelled at and lectured about my choice of occupation. My father had been supportive of me all through my school and college years, even though I’d chosen to go against his dream of his only child following in his footsteps. He’d encouraged me to apply to medical schools but never forced me.
Roger’s mother obviously didn’t have anything to say about his theater career, but then Mr. Vadepalli’s contempt and rage seemed more than enough for both of them.
Poor, poor Roger, I said to myself and went into the kitchen.
Meanwhile, Dad, our resident diplomat, saved the evening by deftly leading the fuming Mr. Vadepalli back to the family room. “Venki, have you seen that new Telugu movie yet? We have a DVD right here, so let’s watch it together, shall we?”
After helping
Mom and Mrs. Vadepalli load the dishwasher and tidy the kitchen, I quietly slipped out the back door to the deck and sat in a chair by the picnic table. After witnessing the heated outburst in there, I needed some quiet time. Other than some well-deserved reprimands during my rebellious years, I’d never been lambasted like Roger had been by his father, and certainly not before an audience.
But then, I’d chosen a lucrative profession with a lot of prestige attached to it, while Roger had picked something few Indian-Americans wanted to touch. I was beginning to see why Roger couldn’t count on his rich father to finance anything he’d dream up.
What about his mother? I wondered. She’d been silent and kept her eyes on her plate all through her husband’s diatribe. What were her feelings about her son’s career? At least my mom, despite her old-fashioned deference to Dad, had some opinions of her own, unique and separate from his. And she had no qualms about voicing them, either.
Dad was an accommodating husband and always offered Mom the privilege of speaking her mind. I was given lots of independence to say exactly what I wanted, too. Foul language was frowned upon, but I never really got chastised for using it occasionally. Pamma could be an opinionated woman at times, but Dad and Mom always let her air her views, too.
The mosquitoes were all around me, but I managed to keep them at bay with the can of bug repellent spray left on the table. Mom’s roses smelled lovely in the moonlight. The pool’s surface resembled a mirror, except when an occasional bug landed on it and caused tiny ripples.
I looked at the shadowy woods in the background. Strange how earlier that day I’d almost been tempted to hide amidst the trees rather than meet the Vadepallis. If I’d followed through on that impulse, I’d never have met the odd, intriguing character called Roger Vadepalli.
Some small night creature scrambled through the weeds growing underneath the deck. Laughing voices somewhere nearby reached me along with the splash of water—a pool party—a happy sound that eliminated some of the bad taste left in my mouth from Mr. Vadepalli’s tirade.
I secretly hoped Roger would seek me out and join me outside. But too many embarrassing things had been said at the dinner table for comfort between us. He was probably too mortified to talk to any of us anymore. I wasn’t sure what he was doing at the moment—watching the Telugu movie with the elders or sitting all by his lonesome somewhere and licking his wounded ego.
So what were his thoughts about us? I wondered. While returning from the movie theater he hadn’t really said anything of substance. He hadn’t mentioned meeting again or made any suggestions about staying in touch.
After having spent half a day with me, he’d probably reached a decision. I was likely not his type. Besides, I’d shown him only the ornery and sardonic side of myself while he’d been polite and affable.
I stayed outside for as long as I could without insulting our guests. As a host I couldn’t neglect my visitors, even if they were sure to reject me with a careless phone call in the near future. Besides, it was beginning to get a bit chilly to stay outside for too long.
When I went back inside, it was a relief to hear the Vadepallis laughing about something. The idea of watching a movie had obviously been scrapped. Things appeared to be on an even keel once again, and I breathed more freely.
I found Roger in the living room, reading the latest issue of Time magazine. He looked up when I walked in and smiled that crooked smile that made him both an angel and devil rolled into one sexy package.
I smiled back but didn’t sit down. From what the elders were saying, it sounded like they were getting ready to leave soon, like the evening was definitely coming to an end.
Whatever had transpired while I sat on the deck was probably for the best. The elders emerged from the family room into the foyer. Roger and I joined them. The Vadepallis were going back to their hotel.
Good-byes were exchanged all around. Mom and Mrs. Vadepalli hugged briefly, but the rest of us shook hands. Nice and efficient. No strings attached.
Roger held my hand with unexpected warmth. “Thanks for everything, Soorya. I enjoyed my visit.”
Liar! He’d probably disliked every minute of it. Nonetheless I mumbled something appropriate.
Mom and Dad went outside to their car to give them a proper send-off while I stood uncertainly on the porch. I heard Mom expressing regret that they had turned down her invitation to spend the night at our house. Then the car’s engine cranked up and they drove away, with Roger at the wheel.
I turned around and went back inside. Yet another bride viewing was now behind me. This one was unusual, wacky actually. I should have felt relief that it was finally over. Instead I felt an odd sense of restlessness. Roger was the only man who’d left an impression on my mind.
Noticing the light on in Pamma’s room on the first floor, I walked in, wondering if something was wrong. She should have been asleep long before this.
“Pamma?” The bedspread was turned down but her bed was empty. Her bathroom door was closed. Had she fallen or passed out in there? I panicked. But in the next instant she came out and my breath eased. “Are you all right?” I yelled, not sure if she was wearing her hearing aid.
She motioned to me to pipe down, meaning her hearing aid was working. “Just using the bathroom, baby.” Carefully lowering herself to the bed, she took off her glasses and placed them on the nightstand. Then she patted the spot beside her, inviting me to sit down. “Everything good?” she asked me, her tired eyes trying to focus on me. She used to be nearly as tall as I in her younger days, so her eyes were level with mine.
I nodded. “Everything’s good.” I hoped she wouldn’t bring up the Vadepallis. Frankly, I didn’t know how I felt about them. But of course she had to talk about them after the enjoyable day she’d had with them.
“Very good family, no, Vadepalli?” Pamma patted my cheek, eased her legs over the bed, and stretched out. “You know what is another good thing?”
“What?”
“Venki’s aunt’s sister-in-law is from my village in Andhra.”
“That’s nice, Pamma,” I said. Finding some distant link to her village back in her homeland had to be a thrill for Pamma. Ever since she’d come to live with us some sixteen years ago, after my grandfather’s death, she’d looked like a lost soul. Despite all the attention and luxuries Mom and Dad gave her, she missed India. But my father was her only son, and although she had two daughters in India and one in Arizona, and all of them well-off, it wasn’t customary to live with a daughter.
The son was always the one who provided for elderly parents. So poor dear Pamma was stuck here in a foreign land, where the weather was too cold, the food too bland, the culture alien, and the streets depressingly empty. But she rarely complained.
I pulled the cover sheet and blanket up to her chest. “Good night, Pamma.” I didn’t think she heard me. She was already pulling out her hearing aid and setting it on the nightstand, next to the glasses and the ceramic bowl that held her dentures floating in some kind of frothy cleaning solution. Turning out the bedside light, I left her room and went upstairs.
As I got ready for bed that night, I tried to imagine a Broadway sign in lights: MUMBAI TO MANHATTAN—WRITTEN, PRODUCED, AND DIRECTED BY ROGER VADEPALLI.
Chapter 6
The next morning, I sat at my computer for hours and worked on my briefs. I’d never worked so long and so hard on a Sunday morning, but after the strange Saturday I’d had, I needed work to keep my mind occupied.
At noon, I padded downstairs to eat lunch with Pamma and my parents. Mom and Dad were in a pensive mood. I had the feeling they were digesting the Vadepallis’ visit, just like I was.
Pamma appeared cheerful nonetheless. She couldn’t stop talking about Venki’s aunt’s sister-in-law. Her voice and the clicking of her teeth were the only distinct sounds at the kitchen table. This was perhaps the most exciting thing in Pamma’s life in over a decade and the most emotionally exhausting, too. After lunch she went back to her ro
om for a long nap.
Since the afternoon was pleasantly hot, I changed into a bathing suit and indulged in a leisurely swim. Dad joined me in the pool for a while and we competed with each other, doing laps. It was a game we’d played since I was a little girl, splashing each other and going crazy.
Dad always lost the race, whether by design or lack of skill I’d never know, but it was always fun to tease him about it.
Exhausted, we flopped onto the poolside chairs under the shade of the dogwood trees and Mom treated us to cold sodas. Dad, as usual, claimed he was starving, so she brought him cheese and crackers, cautioning him not to overeat. Naturally Dad polished off the last crumb and went looking for more.
At about four o’clock, Amy called on my cell phone, wanting to know all about the latest bride viewing. “So, how did it go?” she asked.
“Okay, I guess,” I answered in my usual indifferent fashion. By now Amy knew that these things had become routine in our household. “Although—”
“What?” I could hear the alertness creeping into her voice.
“This one’s different.”
Amy chuckled. “So he asked for a Bud Light instead of Indian tea?”
“I’m serious. He’s charming but he’s . . .” Now that I had to describe him, I wasn’t quite sure what to call him. “I’d say crafty.”
“How?”
“He lied to me about his name—told me it’s Roger when it’s really Rajesh. And he’s very handsome in an offbeat sort of way.”
“No shit!” Amy sounded delighted. “An Indian man called Roger? And he’s handsome?” All these years, when I’d shown her pictures of the guys who’d come to meet me, she’d been entirely disappointed. They were nerdy guys with impressive degrees from well-known universities, lucrative jobs or businesses, little or no sense of humor, and solid, Telugu backgrounds. Adjectives like handsome, good-looking, or even personable hadn’t factored in at any time.
“Yeah, go figure that. Mom found a cute one this time. He’s even taller than I am. And talk about great eyes and a terrific physique.”
The Full Moon Bride Page 6
