The Full Moon Bride

by Shobhan Bantwal

  Finding it hard to unwind, I booted up my computer instead of going to bed, and checked my e-mail messages. There was one from Lou: If you’re not doing anything on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, would you like to meet me somewhere? Lou.

  Was it nearly Thanksgiving already? I glanced at the calendar by my desk. Thanksgiving was less than two weeks away. Did I want a rendezvous with Lou? Was he asking me out on a date?

  I hesitated, not sure if I wanted a rerun of what had happened in the woods the last time I’d seen Lou, when he’d made it clear that he found me desirable. But then the image of Roger and the pretty Colette popped into my mind. I quickly typed a reply: Sounds good. What time and where?

  I wasn’t sure if I was setting myself up for a load of grief. If I thought Roger wouldn’t fit into my life, Lou was even more of a misfit. Having an affair with Lou was like playing with fire. However, I’d always been a goody two-shoes, mostly because fate had dictated it, while I’d observed my friends and acquaintances living on the edge. I hadn’t been offered the chance to do it.

  Finally I had a man who was attractive and sexy. But was I ready to start seeing a man seriously and perhaps get my first taste of sex? Ready to start a torrid affair? Willing to lie naked beside Lou, with his big shoulders and hard body? Could I picture giving up my virginity to a man still half in love with his dead wife? A man who could be using me to satisfy no more than a physical need?

  Moreover, was I willing to face my parents’ shocked outrage and the possibility of hurting their sensibilities? Someday in the future I’d have to separate myself from them and be my own person, but that was always with the understanding that it would happen after I acquired a husband and home of my own, or at least a career that required me to move out of state.

  Nevertheless, could I honestly go against my conservative culture to chase after what I considered superficial fun and entertainment, just because everyone else was doing it?

  And deep down, the real reason was my need to lash out at Roger. He hadn’t exactly led me on, but his behavior after the temple visit had sparked something in me, a certain something I couldn’t put my finger on. Was it hope? Infatuation? Love?

  Was it a brief, tantalizing glimpse of the future, including two brown-eyed kids, or was it simply my imagination inspired by witnessing a sentimental wedding followed by the talk at the coffee shop and the tender way Roger had touched me at the subway station?

  In all honesty, Roger had done or said nothing to hurt me. If anything, he’d been kind and attentive and warm, so I had no right to feel hurt or betrayed. And yet I was.

  So was I ready for an all-out affair with Lou? I didn’t know. I really and truly didn’t know.

  What I knew for certain was that it was daunting.

  Chapter 23

  Almost every year, since I was a toddler, we’d had a Thanksgiving feast at our house. Having lived in America for more than half their lives, my parents had blended comfortably into American culture, slowly absorbing Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, and other holidays into their own customs.

  Most of the non-Hindu holidays in our home were a combination of East and West—a little masala or spice mixture added to good old-fashioned American food—like tandoori paste rubbed over the Thanksgiving turkey and chopped green chili peppers generously mixed in with the potatoes. Our Christmas tree topper, instead of the traditional angel or star, was an image of the goddess Lakshmi, dressed in a red sari.

  A week before Thanksgiving, at the dinner table, Mom suddenly announced, “You know what? This year we should invite Rajesh over for the holiday dinner.” Dad thought it was a brilliant idea. When I showed little enthusiasm, Mom frowned at me. “Where is your holiday spirit, dear? Poor Rajesh is all alone in a big city. Can’t you be a little kind?”

  After she’d succeeded in making me feel rotten, she called him right away. Being Roger, he promptly accepted the invitation, and must have said something ridiculously gracious, because Mom looked delighted as she hung up the phone. “Such a nice boy.”

  A cousin named Krishna, a recent immigrant to the U.S., was also going to be one of the invitees. He lived and worked in Maryland and he’d been coming over for Thanksgiving and Christmas every year for the past five years, ever since he’d come to America as a contract worker with some IT company. His mother was Dad’s cousin. Now Krishna was waiting to acquire a green card with his employer’s help, so he could make this country his permanent home.

  I tolerated Krishna because he was family, but I didn’t particularly like him. He was pompous, full of himself, and somewhat greedy. He was always looking for freebies.

  Mom and Pamma assured me it was Krishna’s Indian-ness and that it would wear off eventually, that it was natural for him to want what he hadn’t had while growing up in Andhra.

  Whenever he visited us, he took home leftovers, pots, pans, dishes, and flatware that Mom donated to him, and all the gifts my parents and Pamma insisted on giving him. And yet, he never once bothered to thank my family. He took everything like it was his birthright, and that’s the thing that bothered me.

  Apparently expressing gratitude was not part of old-fashioned Hindu culture. And I didn’t like that part one bit.

  Cousin Krishna must have asked Mom if he could bring a guest this year, because Dad and I heard her say, “You’re welcome to bring him, Krishna.” A second later, after some hesitation, she added, “Girlfriend? Sure . . . please bring her.”

  Intrigued, Dad and I looked at each other. His heavy eyebrows climbed up. When a frowning Mom hung up the phone, Dad was the first to ask, “Krishna has a girlfriend?”

  “Looks that way.” Mom was still frowning. “When he asked if he could bring her, I couldn’t say no.”

  “Of course not,” agreed Dad, always the gracious host, just like Mom. Nobody had brought a girlfriend or boyfriend to our home before, so it was only natural for my parents to dissect the subject. “What’s her name?”

  Mom chewed on her lower lip. “He didn’t say, and I didn’t want to ask. A girlfriend is . . . well . . . kind of awkward.” From the way Mom was hemming and hawing, it sounded like Krishna was suffering from a serious sexually transmitted disease instead of merely being involved with a woman.

  “Is there something wrong with a guy having a girlfriend?” I asked. This was an ideal opportunity to bring up the delicate subject since I’d made that date with Lou.

  “Nothing, if she is a nice Indian girl,” replied Mom.

  “What if she’s not?”

  Dad clucked his tongue. “Then Krishna’s in a shitload of trouble.” That earned Dad a fierce look from Mom, but he seemed too worried about the imminent trouble to pay attention to Mom.

  “Why, Dad?” I asked, more curious than ever.

  “Ah, princess, you don’t know Krishna’s mother, Shantha. She’s looking for a good Telugu girl with a big dowry for her only son. And Shantha’s husband, Raju, is even worse. He’s been dreaming about dowry since the day Krishna was born.”

  “That’s disgusting.” I’d always found the dowry system revolting, but my own family indulging in it was doubly so. Thank God, my dad had not accepted any dowry from my mom’s family.

  Dad had apparently been working as a medical resident in the U.S. for two years by the time he’d been ready for marriage, and his ideas had changed. He didn’t want a dowry. All he’d wanted was a nice, educated woman who could speak English and would fit into his life and American culture.

  I respected my father for going against tradition and doing what was right.

  Dad chuckled at my response. “Disgusting, yes, but it’s all part and parcel of being a Telugu, my dear.”

  “But you’re Telugu, and you didn’t demand a dowry from Mom’s parents.”

  Mom rolled her eyes, an uncharacteristic gesture for her. “And thank the Lord for that, or I wouldn’t be sitting here today. My parents were lower middle class. They would never be able to afford the kind of dowry the Giris would have commanded.
Your dad’s father was a landowner and well-known doctor with a big practice and a huge house. My father was only a clerk in a government agency.”

  “So how come Krishna’s parents are so different?” How could cousins, practically raised in the same household, be so diverse in their philosophies?

  “Different personalities, princess,” Dad replied patiently. “Besides, you don’t even know the half of it. Do you remember when Krishna first came to the U.S., and spent a month with us?”

  “I most certainly remember,” I said with a groan. At the time, Krishna was a typical FOB, as in fresh off the boat, with his tight pants, shiny silk shirts, hair puffed up with some kind of glossy gel, and his cloying cologne that made my allergies go berserk. He was covered in that scent, so much so that it announced his presence seconds before he entered a room.

  He used to strut around our house like the lord of the manor and expected my mom to wait on him hand and foot. Most of the time he’d treated Pamma like a batty old woman unworthy of his attention. But what had bothered me most was Krishna’s habit of staring at me with those dark, deep-set eyes, all the while fingering his mustache. His silent, contemplative gaze and sly vigilance had given me the creeps.

  “Shantha and Raju were hoping Krishna would marry you,” said Dad.

  “What!” I squeaked.

  “It’s true, dear. That way he would not only get a hefty dowry, but also have a guaranteed green card and future inheritance.”

  “I can’t believe it.” I felt like someone had dealt a blow to my gut. Marry my cousin? No wonder Krishna had walked around like he owned our house, and everyone in it. And that look in his eyes—all the while he’d been mulling over being my husband, having control over my inheritance, maybe visualizing me in his bed.

  It was sickening. Did he still think of me that way? “What did you guys have to say to that?” I demanded of Mom and Dad, the revulsion still scorching my insides.

  Mom patted the air with her hands. “Shh, calm down, dear. Your dad and I don’t believe in that sort of thing. That was in the old days, when family money stayed within the family and inbreeding was considered normal. Of course we said no to Shantha and Raju’s idea.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” I murmured. But the disbelief remained. I’d never be able to look at Krishna the same way again. “Can you imagine Krishna for a husband? It’s even yuckier than Uncle Srinath marrying a eunuch to keep the money within the family.”

  Dad roared with laughter. “I agree.”

  Mom looked horrified. “Stop it, you two! She is not a eunuch. The poor woman had some hormone problems. After the facial hair was removed, she looked very nice, quite feminine.”

  “Okay, she’s a hermaphrodite, then.” Dad snickered.

  Mom turned a ferocious frown on him, although her version of ferocious couldn’t scare a newborn babe.

  Recalling the tail end of Krishna’s month-long stay with us, I grinned. “Is that why he left in a such a huff, because you turned him down? I’d wondered about that.”

  “Yes,” Dad confirmed. “He and his parents were furious with us. They didn’t speak to us for months afterward.”

  Mom looked sad. “That boy was so angry, he didn’t return our calls for a long time.”

  “Are they still mad, or are they talking to you now?” I inquired.

  Dad nodded. “The temper tantrum dissolved eventually when they realized we were still of some use to them. They’re after your mom to find a good, wealthy girl for Krishna, preferably an American citizen with a high-paying job.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “So, Mom, have you found a rich Telugu girl for our Krishna yet?”

  Mom gave a rueful sigh. “I’m trying, believe me. But no girl is good enough for Shantha and Raju’s boy. So far they have turned down every girl I have suggested. Some of them are really good and smart girls, too. What a shame.” She got to her feet and started clearing the table. “And now Krishna has a girlfriend.”

  I chuckled some more at Mom’s expression. It looked like Krishna’s affliction had been upgraded from sexually transmitted disease to bubonic plague.

  Chapter 24

  On Thanksgiving Day, I woke up early to help Mom with the preparations. She could whip up an Indian meal in a jiffy and with no help, but she seemed a little unsure of herself when it came to non-Indian food. I generally pitched in, especially because Pamma stayed away from the kitchen. As a strict vegetarian, the sight and smell of a turkey seemed to nauseate her.

  By noon Mom and I had everything under control. The turkey was turning to a nice shade of russet with the added red tint of the tandoori spices. The two vegetable dishes were well on their way, and the salad and Jell-O mold were ready and chilling in the refrigerator. Mom had made a mango cheesecake and pumpkin pie for dessert the previous day.

  While I put the finishing touches to the gravy, Mom cleaned the kitchen. In less than twenty minutes she had the place back to its gleaming neatness. Fresh flowers sat in a lovely antique silver vase on the dining table. The pumpkin colored tablecloth and plump cinnamon-scented candles in silver holders gave the place a nice, old-fashioned Thanksgiving aura.

  I tasted the spicy vegetable dip that I’d made earlier. “Mmm, pretty good, even if I say so myself,” I said, and tasted a little more.

  Mom sprinkled fried onions over the green bean casserole and slid it back into the oven before giving me a dubious look. “Good job with the dip, but it’s about time you learned some Indian cooking.”

  “Why, sure.” I arranged the baby carrots and celery sticks around the bowl of dip. “If I put my mind to it, I bet I could easily cook up a gourmet Telugu meal.”

  “Learn how to make some simple lemon rice and sambar first. Then maybe you can dream big,” Mom quipped.

  The doorbell rang. Our first guest had arrived. I heard Dad opening the door. Mom and I both went out to greet the guest—or guests.

  It was Krishna and . . . oh my . . . a Caucasian woman. Mom and I briefly exchanged baffled looks. Despite all our speculation about her the other day, for some reason we’d assumed Krishna’s girlfriend would be Indian, or at least Asian—perhaps because Krishna was so Indian in his ways.

  My lips twitched at the look on Dad’s face. I’d never seen one like that before, like he was suddenly suffering from hemorrhoids. After the moment of astonishment passed, he broke into a polite smile and welcomed them.

  What a contrast they were, Krishna and his girlfriend. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with skin that looked like polished ebony. She was short, white as whole milk, with golden brown eyes and blond hair teased into a halo. She was pretty as a doll and looked older than Krishna.

  Krishna cracked a smile, his brilliant white teeth gleaming against his dark lips. His hairstyle looked different this year—the stiff, gelled look was gone. Instead he had longish hair that rivaled Roger’s careless tresses. The heavy mustache was still there, the macho symbol that gave him the look of a Telugu movie villain.

  He made the introductions. “This is Carol Stanton, my girlfriend. Carol, meet my uncle and aunt, Dr. and Mrs. Giri.” He gestured toward me. “Soorya, their daughter.”

  Carol shook hands with each of us. “Welcome to our home, Carol,” said Dad, and took their coats. I noticed Carol was chubby, which made me warm up to her instantly. She wore black pants and a black pullover sweater with an embroidered pumpkin on it.

  “Thanks for having me over,” Carol said in a shy voice. “I’ve heard so much about all of you.” She handed a white cardboard bakery box to Mom. “This is from Kris and me. I hope you like chocolate cake.”

  “Thank you so much. We love chocolate cake,” Mom lied with a sweet smile. “It is very kind of you and . . . Kris.”

  Truthfully, I’d give up my law degree for a slice of rich chocolate cake, but my diet got in the way. Dad didn’t like chocolate. Pamma didn’t eat anything with eggs in it. And Mom, with her dislike for sweets, barely tolerated it. And yet she held the box like it housed t
he family jewels.

  But then that was Mom—she’d never hurt anyone’s feelings.

  Ushering the guests into the living room, Mom requested them to take a seat while she put the cake away and informed Pamma that it was time to emerge from her room. Meanwhile I asked Krishna and Carol what they’d like to drink. Krishna asked for scotch and soda and Carol asked for red wine. Dad offered to take care of the drinks, so I went into the kitchen to bring out the appetizers.

  Mom pounced on me the second I walked in. “She’s American. Did you see that?” she whispered to me.

  “Yes, Mom. It’s hard to miss.” I grinned. “By the way, we’re American citizens, too.”

  “But not in the same way.” She bit her lip. “Oh my goodness, what will I tell Shantha and Raju?’

  “Tell them the truth.”

  “How? They will curse me out. They will think your dad and I didn’t do our duty in looking out for their son.”

  I couldn’t help snorting. “Mom, Krishna’s an adult. He’s not your responsibility. If he has a girlfriend, it’s his business. Besides, Carol seems very nice.”

  “Nice yes, but rather old for him, right? She must be at least in her late thirties?” Mom placed the cake in the fridge. “I better inform Pamma that her great-nephew is here. I don’t know how to tell her about this scandal. She’s going to have a seizure when she meets Carol.”

  “Scandal, eh?” I picked up the appetizer trays and headed toward the living room. “Then you better prepare her thoroughly before you bring her out,” I advised with a wink.

  I could sympathize with Mom and Dad, but this was turning out to be quite amusing.

  At least Krishna wouldn’t stare at me in that creepy, lascivious way anymore. He had Carol. And wasn’t it ironic that he’d found someone who was the complete opposite of me—short, fair-skinned, gentle, and sweet. Oh well, like Pamma always said, the Lord’s ways were strange and one’s karma dictated everything.