The Full Moon Bride

by Shobhan Bantwal

  He was making it impossible to say no. And I so badly wanted to say yes. Besides, I hadn’t been to the Ganesh Temple in ages. “All right, you twisted my arm.”

  “Excellent!” He looked genuinely pleased, making me speculate again about his real motive for inviting me.

  When our train finally put in an appearance, I sighed in relief. Although Roger had kindly carried my briefcase and was still holding it along with his own, my high-heels-clad feet were protesting. I gladly plopped into an empty seat with Roger beside me.

  Despite his stop being elsewhere, Roger insisted on going with me to Penn Station, then waiting till my connecting train arrived and seeing me off. “It’s late and I want to make sure you get home safely,” he announced when I told him I was capable of taking care of myself.

  I didn’t complain. It was nice to know the unconventional Roger was so old-fashioned and chivalrous. In fact, no man other than Dad had ever shown me such consideration.

  Roger never failed to surprise me. But it made him that much more enticing. That much more dangerous.

  Chapter 17

  Friday started out cloudy, and it got cloudier and colder as the day wore on. It was after seven when I hung up the phone and got up from my chair to stretch and look outside my office window. It was dark and raining.

  I had informed Mom that morning that I was going to be very late returning home because I was going with a friend to the temple and eating a prasadam dinner.

  Surprisingly Mom had neither expressed surprise nor pestered me for the friend’s name, probably because she was on a long-distance call and too busy gossiping with my aunt in India to pay attention to me.

  She and my aunt had been discussing some distant cousin’s failed marriage—an anomaly in our community, and particularly in our family. And horror of horrors, the cousin’s husband was cheating on her—overtly.

  Mildly curious, I’d stood in the kitchen for a minute to eavesdrop.

  Mom had looked distressed as she’d twirled the telephone cord around her finger. “She even knows about his dirty affairs?” Mom had groaned. “Poor thing must be so humiliated.”

  After another minute of listening to my aunt, Mom’s eyes had opened wide. “He flaunts them in front of everyone? Is he suffering from some type of midlife crisis or what?”

  From the look on Mom’s face I’d figured the conversation was likely to continue for a while. Disgraceful affairs were not meant to happen in a decent family, and certainly not in rural Andhra. I had also noticed Pamma wasn’t around. She was likely to be kept in the dark about this particular scandal. She was too old and delicate for such news.

  Glad that I’d been saved the third degree, I had waved cheerily at Mom and headed out to work.

  I studied the wet pavement now and the sea of umbrellas outside my window. Walking in the rain on a cold fall evening wasn’t exactly inviting and I wondered if I should call Roger and cancel our appointment. But the idea of spending time with him was tempting.

  Besides, the thought of a tasty temple dinner had become more and more appealing as the evening wore on and my belly began to rumble. I’d been on the phone most of the past hour and I needed a break from legal matters. So I called Roger.

  “I’d nearly given up on hearing from you,” he grumbled.

  “Sorry, I was on a long conference call.” I checked my watch. “Are we still on, or am I too late?”

  “We’re definitely on. Satish and I are on our way right now. It’ll take us about fifteen minutes to get to the station near your office. Can you meet us there?”

  “Okay.” I fixed my hair and makeup with great care, then put on my coat, grabbed my umbrella, and started out.

  I found Roger and Satish waiting for me at the entrance to the subway station. They were both dressed in jeans, pullover sweaters, and hooded parkas, making me feel overdressed in my wool skirt, turtleneck sweater, trench coat, and designer pumps.

  Those two looked like college students while I could be mistaken for their staid and sensible older sister. On second thought, I decided that was a good thing. Maybe the crowd at the puja would think Roger and I were siblings—or cousins.

  “Glad you made it despite the weather, Soorya.” Satish gave me a long, admiring look. “My uncle and aunt are looking forward to meeting you and Rajesh.”

  Warm blood seeped into my face at his scrutiny. “Hope it’s not an imposition.”

  Satish promptly dismissed my concern. “Not at all. They perform this puja once a year and they invite a huge crowd. It seems like every year the invitees list gets longer.”

  “What kind of puja?”

  “Satyanarayana puja.”

  “Then I’m glad I’m going.” Satyanarayana was another name for the Hindu god Vishnu, the preserver of the universe. The puja was considered highly propitious, and no good Hindu would deliberately try to avoid attending one of those—or the sacred meal.

  “I twisted her arm into going,” Roger chimed in, placing a proprietary hand on my back, albeit for a minor second. This time I was almost sure he was making a subtle statement.

  The short train ride was taken up with me listening to the two men talk about the day’s rehearsal. It seemed like things hadn’t gone all that well.

  “Problems at work?” I asked Roger.

  “Ryan is out sick with the flu—and it looks like Larry, another cast member, is coming down with it, too,” Roger replied, looking worried.

  “Did you notice Felicia sniffling? She may be next,” said Satish. “I can’t afford to get sick and take time off from rehearsal or my other job, man.”

  Roger nodded. “Neither can I. Looks like the flu epidemic is making its rounds early this year.” But being an optimist, he added, “Maybe it’s better that way if it means by the time the show opens it’ll have come and gone.”

  The guys tried to include me in the conversation, but I preferred to let them talk. It was nice to see the two men getting along so well. Satish seemed like a decent guy. Roger could use some male friends for a change—stable and working friends. He had entirely too many females surrounding him.

  The temple was mobbed as usual. Unlike churches, Hindu temples didn’t have set timetables for services, so people went in and out at their leisure. Friday evening was a popular time for worshippers to congregate at the temple.

  To add to that, it was purnima, a full moon. There it was again, a full moon, and Roger and I were together. For whatever reason, it seemed our fates were set to intersect during a full moon.

  I stood on Bowne Street outside the shrine for a moment. Ignoring the raindrops falling on my face, I lifted my gaze to admire the soaring gopuram, the entry tower—the elaborately hand-carved pyramid, the equivalent of a church steeple, rising against the dark, sodden sky. Too bad that moon was completely concealed by clouds.

  Builders and artisans from Andhra and other parts of southern India had been brought in over three decades ago to design and build the project as prescribed by the ancient Hindu principles of temple architecture.

  The structure looked exactly like any South Indian house of worship. Inside, too, the atmosphere was authentic, with its smooth granite floors, towering ceilings and columns, and carved altars to seat the idols of the gods and goddesses. Every idol had been created by trained sculptors from India.

  In the foyer, we left our shoes in the designated area. One did not enter a temple with shoes on, since footwear was traditionally made of animal hide. The Hindu principle of nonviolence toward animals was the basis for the practice.

  Also, there was the matter of trailing in dirt from the outside and tainting the clean and sacred atmosphere of the temple. I left my dripping umbrella beside my shoes.

  As we entered the sanctum, we were at once greeted by the combined odors of incense, sandalwood paste, roses, and chrysanthemums, and the sound of a priest reciting Sanskrit shlokas from the scriptures.

  It was like stepping into another world, one far removed from the typical urban America
n street scene outside. Here the atmosphere was a riot of sounds, scents, flavors, and colors of India.

  Women wearing colorful silk saris and the younger females in either the loose-fitting, two-piece salwar-kameez outfits or long skirts and tops like I was dressed in were scattered about. A few of the men wore a sadra and matching pants but most wore slacks or jeans and shirts.

  The fact that everyone had to sit on the floor made it necessary for women to wear something loose and long in the interests of comfort and modesty. The kids, too, wore outfits that were a hodgepodge of East and West.

  The temple’s presiding deity was Ganesh, an impressive granite idol decked out in silk garments, fresh flower and fruit garlands, and gold jewelry. He was mounted on an elaborate throne in the inner chamber. Flanking the main deity were other Hindu gods and goddesses housed in their respective alcoves—a typical temple setup, spread out over a single, large room.

  The three of us prayed to Ganesh first, and then paid our respects to the other deities. Most big gatherings were held in the community halls located in the basement, so we took the stairs to the puja hall.

  Satish wasn’t kidding when he’d mentioned the size of the gathering. What looked like over a hundred people were seated on the floor of one of the rooms. Half a dozen kids ranging in age from toddler to perhaps eight or ten were running around in the hallway, playing catch. We had to maneuver our way to avoid bumping into them.

  The puja was taking place at the far end of the room. A picture of Lord Satyanarayana was mounted on a low table, surrounded by oil lamps, fresh flowers, and smoking incense sticks.

  A few devout individuals sat with rapt attention in the front rows but most people were toward the back, huddled in small groups, carrying on whispered conversations, entirely oblivious to what was going on a few feet away.

  I turned to Satish and Roger with an amused smile. “Typical Indian socio-religious scene, isn’t it?”

  “Is it any surprise that Hindu religious events become mainly social gatherings,” Roger said, “when the ceremonies are in Sanskrit and they’re so long?”

  A Brahmin priest dressed in the traditional white cotton dhoti was officiating at the puja. Beside him sat a middle-aged couple, our hosts. Satish’s uncle was a heavyset, dark-skinned man with a bald spot on the back of his head, wearing a cream silk sadra.

  The aunt was an equally plump woman dressed in a yellow Kanjivaram silk sari with a maroon border. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun adorned with a string of fresh jasmine. She wore the traditional diamond cluster earrings and heavy gold jewelry around her neck and wrists.

  Trays piled with cut flowers along with a variety of sweets, fruit, and nuts were placed before the deity. All of it was offered to the Lord to please Him so He would shower the worshippers with health, wealth, peace, and prosperity. The more people the hosts invited to the puja, the more blessed they were.

  We found a spot in the back of the long room and sat on the floor. Despite our lateness, several minutes after our arrival, the rituals still continued, with no end in sight. The priest’s chanting was so monotonous that I closed my eyes and let my mind drift.

  With my eyes shut, I could pick out the herbal scent of the incense sticks that were an integral part of Hindu ritualistic worship, the sharp fragrance of the tulsi leaves, and the mingled odors of various perfumes and colognes worn by the people around me.

  With the varied conversations buzzing in the background, the distant strains of wedding music coming from somewhere, the children’s laughter, and the priest’s monotone chanting, I felt very much at home in this South Indian temple buried in the heart of Flushing, New York. One’s ethnic roots were probably too deep to disintegrate entirely, no matter where one planted them.

  It brought back memories of my childhood, of visits to India, the ancestral home in Andhra, and the pujas I’d attended. Back then I’d sat amidst my parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents, dressed in my latest long silk Indian skirt and blouse with the accompanying jewelry and the jasmine strings tucked in my braids.

  I used to love the red bindi on my forehead, especially one of the fancy kinds that came in a variety of shapes and colors and encrusted with glitter and sequins. Less than halfway through the puja I’d start to fidget and whine and wonder when the service would be over. Eventually, bored out of my mind, I’d fall asleep in Mom or Dad’s lap.

  Tonight’s nostalgic ambience, too, nearly had me dozing off. And my legs, not used to sitting on a hard floor, were beginning to go numb. I nudged Roger and whispered, “I think I’ll go stretch my legs a little.”

  “Good idea. I’ll go with you.” He looked like he was about to nod off, too.

  We both gestured to Satish and dodged our way out through the rambunctious kids still at play in the hallway.

  I went in search of the ladies’ room. When I returned, I found Roger standing outside another event room a couple of doors down. He seemed engrossed in observing something. When he saw me, he signaled to me to join him.

  Curious, I went to stand beside him and realized there was a wedding ceremony taking place. So this was where the wedding music was coming from—poignantly sweet notes played on a shehnai, an instrument similar to an oboe. The bride and groom were poised to exchange flower garlands.

  “They’re about to become man and wife,” Roger informed me.

  “No shit, Sherlock,” I teased him.

  “Shh, watch your language! This is a temple,” he reprimanded me.

  I gave him a defiant grin. Not having attended a traditional Hindu wedding in a while, I observed the ceremony, fascinated. In ancient times, the bride and groom typically saw each other for the first time at this phase of the ceremony.

  Then they would place the garlands around each other’s necks and accept one another in marriage, for better or for worse. Family and friends would throw rice and flower petals at them to bless them with fertility and an abundance of good wishes.

  It made me wonder about the perils of that kind of marriage, where one had no choice but to live with the luck of the draw. What if the groom turned out to be mean and abusive? What if he turned out to be like the guy my mom and aunt were discussing that morning—a philanderer?

  My slight shudder must have been obvious because Roger looked at me strangely. “What?”

  I whispered in his ear, “I was just imagining what it was like in the days when the bride and groom met for the first time while exchanging garlands.”

  “What about it?”

  “What if the groom was an asshole?”

  Roger’s brow rose. “What if the bride was a bitch?”

  “You have a point,” I conceded, chuckling, and Roger shushed me again.

  After that we observed the wedding in silence. The bride and groom took the seven steps with their accompanying vows, and walked the ceremonial circles around a small sandalwood fire burning in a metal grate. It represented Agni, the fire god, the ultimate witness to the bridal couple taking their sacred oath, thus making the union permanent.

  As I studied the bride’s traditional red silk sari with gold accents and the groom looking regal in his long, white, embroidered shervani and turban-style headdress, for a few brief moments I let myself indulge in a daydream. What if that were Roger and me in the marriage mandap, ready to exchange garlands and rings and promises of lifelong commitment?

  Roger would no doubt look fabulous in one of those elegant groom outfits. I could look rather pretty, too, in all my bridal finery and makeup.

  But that fantasy wasn’t likely to become reality. Even though my views on his line of work had softened to a great extent, he hadn’t bothered to bring up the subject of marriage—not since that first day. At the moment, it looked like we were merely friends.

  Well then, I’d have to settle for friendship.

  Roger glanced at me. “Shouldn’t we go back? Seems rude to stay away so long.”

  I looked at my watch. “You’re right.”

  We we
nt back to the puja. The ceremony was coming to an end. We heard everyone singing and the brass bell clanging.

  The aarti or the waving of lamps in a circular, clockwise motion before God had just begun. It signaled the last ritual when everyone rose to their feet and sang the prescribed hymns together. After that the guests stood in a line and took turns going up to the altar to pay their respects to the Lord.

  Satish, Roger, and I went through the motions like everybody else in the crowd and received our blessings from the priest: a spoonful of teertham—holy water—placed in our palm and a Dixie cup with a sweet, rich dessert called kesari—made of cream of wheat, sugar, and clarified butter.

  I ate every last morsel of the kesari, savoring its richness. So what if it didn’t fit into my diet? I’d be riddled with bad luck if I didn’t eat it.

  When the rest of the guests proceeded to the dining hall for dinner and the room emptied out, Satish pulled Roger and me aside and introduced us to the hosts. “Soorya, Rajesh, meet my uncle and aunt, Nagraj and Saroja Varadan.”

  Both Roger and I greeted the Varadans with palms joined in an old-fashioned namaste. They seemed pleased that their nephew had brought his friends to the occasion. “Welcome,” said his uncle, beaming, while his wife smiled in agreement. “We are honored that our Satish has brought you to our humble gathering.” He patted Roger’s shoulder. “A pleasure to meet my nephew’s friends.”

  “Thank you for inviting us, sir,” Roger said with genuine warmth, always the cordial guest.

  Meanwhile Mrs. Varadan studied Roger and me, the dark eyes behind the glasses taking in every detail. I had a vague suspicion that she was jumping to certain conclusions—that Roger and I were a couple. My earlier fears were coming true. I quickly decided to put an end to that. “My parents and Rajesh’s are good friends,” I explained.

  “I see.” Saroja’s head bobbed up and down.

  I wasn’t entirely sure she was convinced. In her mind young couples didn’t come to the temple together for nothing—but I had to leave it at that. She applied the customary vermillion dot and yellow turmeric on my forehead and offered me a flower—given to married and unmarried women, but not to widows.