The Full Moon Bride

by Shobhan Bantwal

  There had been other instances like that one, where I’d shot my mouth off and insulted my parents and grandmother. I had seen Mom shedding tears over my hurtful words and Dad consoling her. “She’s only going through a phase, Viju. She’ll come around soon.”

  I had heard Pamma complain that this American culture was ruining me. “Who will marry a girl who is behaving like this? Why she is making her skin look more black when she is already having dark color? Everyone will say she is not suitable for a Telugu boy.”

  Once again, Dad, the peacemaker, had tried to put Pamma’s troubled mind at ease. “She’s a typical teenager, Amma. They all do that in this country before they settle down. Just wait and see.”

  I hadn’t experienced much guilt at what had occurred during those tempestuous arguments, not until I was nearly twenty years old. It was a shameful way to treat a warm and caring family. Appreciation for what I had with my parents and grandma had begun to sink in much later, after a year or two of college, after I’d had a chance to see some of the real world, the dysfunction that plagued so many families, the poverty that forced some students to work two jobs to put themselves through college, the bleakness that existed outside my comfortable home.

  Furthermore, some of my closest friends had been hit hard. Amy’s parents had gone through a bitter divorce during our sophomore year, leaving Amy to envy me. Jen’s mother had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and eventually ended up in a wheelchair. My roommate’s father had died, leaving the family with a failing business and such staggering debts that she had to quit college and work as a clerk at the age of nineteen.

  Every one of those incidents had served as a tough lesson to me. I had it good.

  Eventually, realizing how blessed I was, I had come to love and appreciate my parents. Pamma was an added blessing. She, too, in many ways, had been a pain in the rear in my teenage days, when she’d made me say Sanskrit prayers each evening before dinner, or wash my feet when I came in barefoot through the door after playing outdoors, or apologize to Mom for insulting her cooking or her clothes.

  My worst nightmare was when Pamma forced me to apply all kinds of homemade potions on my face and body to make me fairer. She was obsessed with making my skin lighter. Lately it was those fairness creams that were all the rage in India that she insisted on giving me, but at least they came in plastic tubes and smelled pleasant. I even made an effort to use the Fair and Fabulous cream.

  I still argued with my parents and Pamma over various things, but essentially I’d come to see their point of view to a large extent. I had come to a phase in my life when I was proud of my Indian-ness, my sweet little mom, my big and smart and somewhat famous dad, and even my deaf grandmother. Where would I be without them?

  Forcing my mind back to the present, I looked at the bedside clock. Time to go. I shrugged into my coat, picked up my purse, and announced to the girls that the limo would arrive in fifteen minutes.

  Slowly they all emerged from the various rooms, and one by one we went downstairs, like a parade of beauty pageant contestants, with me in the lead, and Amy, the lady of the hour, bringing up the rear.

  We all had our coats buttoned up, so nobody could see above our knees, although most of us were clad in decent enough dresses. But I was glad Amy was wearing a calf-length coat. It covered her black minidress with sequined spaghetti straps, practically no back to speak of, and a front that left half her breasts spilling over like ripe mangoes.

  Mom stood at the foot of the staircase and clapped her hands, eyes aglow behind her glasses. “Oh my, how lovely you girls look!”

  Perhaps hearing her excited words, Dad ventured out of the family room and stood with his arms crossed. “Well now, isn’t this a sight for sore eyes! You girls better be careful, or someone might kidnap you or something.”

  I gave Dad a friendly punch in the arm. “Get the ransom ready.”

  Dad took the joke with a chuckle, went back to the family room, and promptly came out with his camcorder, dragging Pamma out at the same time to watch the procession of beauties.

  Pamma ground her dentures and announced, “All of you are looking very beautiful.” She turned serious after that. “The bride might get the evil eye, no?” Then she instructed Mom to do something about that evil eye in whispered Telugu.

  “Amy, stay where you are, I’ll be right back,” said Mom and hurried to the kitchen.

  Amy looked at me, one perfectly tweezed eyebrow raised, so I explained, “Some old-fashioned ritual. She’ll wave a pinch of salt and a chili pepper in front of your face, then throw it in the flames on the stove. It’s supposed to ward off the evil eye.” Dad grinned at Amy and I winked at her. “Just stand there and look pretty until she’s done.”

  Mom came out with the salt and chili and waved it before Amy three times in clockwise circles and then returned to the kitchen to dispose of it.

  Dad had his camcorder recording that and the rest of us. He made us go back upstairs and come down the steps once again, very slowly, then smile and gather in the living room—smile and stand by the front door—and smile again so he could add to his happy memories.

  For the next three decades I’d probably be subjected to viewing a DVD of myself descending the stairs in high heels and a black coat and a happy smile on my face.

  While we posed for the last group shot, Pamma cautioned us, “All of you come home before it gets too much dark outside, okay?”

  We all nodded obediently. There was no point in reminding her that it had turned dark hours ago. We’d be returning home closer to sunrise.

  The doorbell rang. Our limo had arrived.

  Chapter 22

  The French restaurant was a small and pleasant but modestly priced eatery only a block from the strip club. Since we were splurging on Amy’s shower gift and the luxury of a limousine, we’d decided to keep the dinner relatively affordable.

  A small bearded man opened the restaurant’s door and welcomed us in with a gracious bow, making it look as authentic French as it could be in the middle of Manhattan.

  Since the manager had been warned that ours would be a chattering, noisy group of young women celebrating a special occasion, she’d reserved for us a table in a remote corner with muted lighting.

  There would be plenty of drinking later at the club, so we decided to skip alcohol and go straight to the food. I drooled over much of the rich fare listed on the menu before I settled on a dish made of zucchini, cauliflower, and mushrooms cooked in white wine. It was their only vegetarian entrée.

  Everyone else ordered seafood, meat, or poultry laden with butter, cream, wine, and cheese—heavenly dishes that I could only dream of.

  We were having a fantastic time until halfway through the dinner. Just as I was popping a piece of zucchini into my mouth I noticed a couple being shown to a table across the room.

  Oh no! Roger and a young blond woman were just getting seated. Was he following me, or what? Wherever I went lately, there was Roger—even in this little French restaurant where I’d least expected him. Was there some kind of conspiracy going on here, with fate bringing him and me together constantly? Why else would he be everywhere I was?

  “Of all the damned places!” I didn’t realize I’d said that aloud until my friends looked at me curiously and then turned their heads to look at what had me swearing. Then one by one they all turned back to stare at me.

  Amy was the first to speak. “Soorya, what’s the matter?”

  I blinked and took several sips of water. The zucchini was nearly choking me since I’d swallowed the chunk without chewing it. Once I felt it sliding down my throat I coughed and shook my head. “Nothing.”

  Gretchen threw me a knowing look. “Is it that couple that just walked in?”

  I pretended to be inordinately interested in the medley of vegetables on my plate. “I sort of know that guy . . . a little.”

  Megana glanced at me and quietly went back to eating. Being a fellow Indian-American, she’d probably guesse
d something out of the ordinary was going on.

  She was the same age as I and her parents had been harassing her about getting married, too. Megana and I often traded stories about the guys we met through our respective parents’ matchmaking efforts. Sometimes we laughed. At other times we groaned or sighed.

  “An old boyfriend?” Sue asked, then turned around and studied Roger again. “It seems he’s moved on.”

  Once the curious looks were over, we went back to eating and chatting, but my cheerful evening was spoiled, and I couldn’t even pinpoint the exact reason. So Roger was having French food with a pretty blonde. So what was it to me? Nothing, I told myself. Absolutely nothing. But no matter how many times I repeated that in my mind, the urge to march across the room and tear into the blond woman was clawing at me.

  The thoughts swirling in my brain were vaguely familiar. Then it came to me—it was the same emotion I’d experienced when Roger was flirting with Carrie on the day I’d attended the rehearsals for Mumbai to Manhattan.

  Good Lord, I was jealous! But I couldn’t be. I’d never thought of myself as the jealous kind, but here I was, thinking violent thoughts against a woman I’d never seen before. I’d always prided myself on not having a single sadistic bone in my body, and now Roger was making me a crazed, evil person. I hated myself for feeling this way.

  Jen, who’d been watching me thoughtfully, nudged me with her elbow. “You feeling all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I assured her. “A piece of zucchini went down the wrong way.” With a forced smile I tried to concentrate on the topic of conversation at our table—Amy’s wedding and honeymoon. I plunged into the discussion wholeheartedly. The heck with Roger. I was here to enjoy the party.

  Despite my resolve not to let Roger’s presence bother me, my eyes went to his table frequently. He was wearing a maroon dress shirt and khakis today, a change from his trademark jeans and sweatshirt. His hair was neatly brushed and his jaw looked smooth, like he’d shaved recently.

  So he’d tried to look nice for this woman he was taking out to dinner tonight, and despite his lack of money he was trying to impress her. She must mean a lot to him if he had gone to that much trouble. I wondered where and when he’d met her. Only a few weeks ago he’d claimed he had no friends in this city. From the way he was getting along with that woman, it seemed like he was acquiring new friends rapidly.

  He sat at an angle with mostly his back visible to me, but the woman sat facing me and I noticed her smiling at Roger often, laughing a few times, a throaty sound that carried across the room. She seemed to have a habit of flipping her hair back from her face every now and then. It was probably a gesture men considered sexy and adorable. To me it was an attention-seeking mechanism.

  Although I couldn’t see much of Roger’s face, I could tell he was talking a lot. I could see his expressive hands moving, his head thrown back in laughter. It was a good thing he hadn’t noticed me. I wasn’t in a mood to talk to Roger tonight, not after I’d seen him having a pleasant time with an attractive woman.

  A thought struck me then. She could very well be the woman who had financed his play.

  The restaurant was crowded and the service was slow, so even after our plates were cleared away, our check hadn’t arrived. While we waited, Roger rose to his feet and turned around, started to walk across the room.

  I hadn’t realized the restrooms weren’t too far from where we sat. Hoping the lighting was too dim for him to notice me, I turned to the group and pretended to listen to something someone was saying.

  My luck ran out soon enough. A shadow fell across our table and there stood Roger, beaming at me. “Soorya, what a pleasant surprise to see you.”

  My cheeks warmed instantly. I looked up at him and quirked an eyebrow. “Oh, hello, Roger!” I wasn’t sure if my attempt at looking startled had fooled him, but he looked like . . . well, he looked like Roger—friendly, relaxed, happy. “Fancy running into you here.”

  “Colette suggested this place,” he said, inclining his head toward his table. “I must say it’s nice. The food’s very good.”

  With all eyes at our table focused on him, I couldn’t avoid introducing him. After I’d mentioned all my friends’ names, I said, “This is Roger Vadepalli.”

  He nodded at each of the women in turn before saying, “Ladies, my name is Rajesh, but Soorya prefers to call me Roger.” He grinned in a charmingly self-deprecating way. “But it’s entirely my fault, because I lied to her about my name the first time we met.” With a good-natured shrug he added, “Now she won’t let me forget it.”

  When he put on an expression of mock distress, they all went, “Aww!” He’d done it again. Seven faces were smiling back at him in sympathy.

  “So, is this a special occasion? You ladies look very lovely.” Roger gazed at them in frank admiration.

  And boy, did it work. In roughly one minute my friends finished telling him about the bachelorette party and Amy’s approaching wedding. Roger wished Amy good luck and all of us an enjoyable evening. Then he ambled away.

  All eyes turned to me. They all started to speak at once. What a great guy. Isn’t he cute? So friendly. How come you don’t like him?

  I held up my hand. “All right.”

  Jen turned her wide baby blues on me. “What’s your problem? He seems like a nice guy.”

  “So why don’t you like him?” Sue demanded.

  I sighed. “I like him just fine, but he’s . . . different, and if I were you, I wouldn’t fall for that laid-back charm.” The check arrived and one of the girls calculated how much each of us owed. We put our money down, and with a sense of relief I got up and pushed my chair in. “Time to go to the club.”

  Amy got in the last word. “You’ve got the hots for him and he’s here with another woman. It bothers you, doesn’t it?”

  “Of course not! What Roger does is none of my business.” My face felt hotter than ever. I marched to the coat stand and yanked my coat off the hanger, nearly ripping off the fur collar in the process.

  The rest got to their feet and started putting on their coats. I heard at least two voices say, “But his name is Rajesh.”

  Amy came up to me and whispered in my ear, “It’s the guy you met recently, isn’t it?”

  I nodded and put my coat on. One look at my face and she’d guessed my secret. I was tempted to tell Amy to mind her own business, but managed to keep my mouth shut. It wasn’t worth spoiling her evening just because mine wasn’t going well.

  We walked the single block to the club, a bevy of laughing young women wearing fancy high heels clicking on the sidewalk. It was a cold night but not cold enough to keep the crowds indoors, so there were enough people looking at us curiously.

  The chilly air served to cool my temper and warm my feelings toward Amy once again. None of this was her fault.

  Being a Saturday night, the strip club was already packed to capacity. Women of all ages, colors, sizes, and ethnicities were there, drinking, laughing, talking. A variety of perfumes mingling with the bitter odor of beer hung in the air.

  Although the entertainment was exuberant and exciting, with a bunch of hunks gyrating to keep the women screaming, stomping, and whistling, my thoughts kept wandering to Roger and Colette. Had he gone to her place after dinner, or had he taken her to his apartment? Were his long hands all over her creamy white body?

  I knew my mind was traveling to disturbing places, but I couldn’t help it. I wanted Roger next to me. I wanted his hands all over me. Did he have a sprinkling of dark hair over his chest just like he did on his arms? Was he a good kisser?

  Where were all these erotic thoughts coming from? All those twisting and undulating men on stage were driving my libido just a little bit nuts. Nuts? I was even beginning to dream up silly puns. What was happening to my mind?

  Amy was so right. I had the hots for Roger and I couldn’t stand to see him with someone else, and yet, I didn’t want him for myself, either. He was still bad husband material.
So what did that make me? The proverbial dog in the manger.

  After a drink or two, we all went slightly crazy over the hunks. I had to admit they had beautiful, sculpted bodies that made my mouth water. I even tucked several dollar bills into one or two sweaty crotches.

  I watched Amy living it up—her last wild party before she turned into a staid and sensible wife. Of course, the Amy I knew could never turn into a staid and sensible anything. But seeing her laugh so much was the only good thing about the evening. Tonight she looked like a Barbie doll in a cocktail dress, her sequined straps barely holding the tiny outfit in place.

  This celebration was all for Amy, so I was glad she was having so much fun.

  Recalling Mom’s earlier concerns about seminaked men, I smiled to myself. I wondered how Mom and Pamma would’ve reacted if I’d brought them to a place like this. There were a few older women in the crowd and some of them were having a rip roaring good time.

  Mom would have been agape, her enormous eyes unblinking, while Pamma would probably have labeled all this “bad-bad, dirty things” and yanked off her hearing aid and eyeglasses.

  I stuck to two glasses of white wine and watched my friends savor a variety of high-calorie cocktails. Fortunately nobody was an irresponsible drinker, so everyone remained relatively sober.

  Once it was past the midnight hour, I couldn’t wait for the party to end. A headache was beginning to bloom like a tight band around my head, and all I wanted to do was go home to bed.

  Some two hours later, when it was all over and the limo dropped us back home, I was relieved to note that all my friends looked alert enough to drive. I was in no mood to have a sleepover. I stood on the stoop and waved as one by one they climbed into their respective cars and drove away.

  “Drive carefully,” I reminded them.

  Letting myself inside the house, I disarmed the security system, then reset it after locking the door behind me. My head was throbbing. I dragged myself upstairs for aspirin and my bed.