by Sonali Dev
Virat threw his head back and laughed. “Bastard, you’re sighing. I swear, Chintu, you’re such a chick.”
“Shut up, Bhai. That was a man-sigh.”
“Is that like one of those ‘man purses’ you carry?” His brother pointed his all-Indian Old Monk rum at the Louis Vuitton messenger bag leaning against a plush silk pillow next to Samir.
Samir shrugged. Given that he was a brand ambassador for Louis Vuitton, he could hardly carry anything else. It was the only modeling gig he did anymore. The money was fantastic and he liked the rustic flavor of the campaign. Truth was he had never enjoyed modeling. Too static for him. But thanks to his half-American genes and the white skin that had made his childhood hell, assignments had fallen in his lap far too easily to turn away. India’s post-colonial obsession with white skin was alive and well. And modeling had led him to the camera so he couldn’t begrudge it. Even after ten years, bringing a film alive from behind the lens still gave him his best hard-on.
Virat shook his head as if Samir was a lost cause. “Seriously, you drink that fancy shit, you color-coordinate your closet, and you actually fucking know the names of things you wear. Did I teach you nothing?”
Actually, Virat had taught Samir everything he knew. His brother was just two years older, but he’d been a father to Samir, their real father having had the indecency to die without either one of them ever knowing him. The bastard.
“You tried, Bhai. But who can be like you?” Samir raised his glass to his brother. “You are, after all, ‘The Destroyer.’ ” They said that last word together, deepening their voices like they had done as boys, and took long sips from their glasses.
“The holy triumvirate,” their mother had called them—the creator, the keeper, and the destroyer. Their mother was the creator, of course. The boys had fought for the title of destroyer. Virat had gone to the National Defense Academy at sixteen and become a fighter pilot in the Indian Air Force and Samir was writing and directing Bollywood films. There was no longer a fight about who was “The Destroyer.”
“You boys don’t look anywhere near done.” Rima, Virat’s wife, returned from her third ladies’ room visit of the evening.
The brothers stood, weaving a little, and grabbed each other’s arms to steady themselves.
“Are you tired? Do we need to leave?” Virat’s rugged, big-man face softened to goop. He rubbed his wife’s shoulder. Her belly was starting to round out just the slightest bit and the angles of her face had lost some of their sharpness, but the rest of her was as slender and graceful as ever.
Rima ran her fingers through her husband’s hair and they shared one of their moments. The kind of moment that made Samir feel like a rudderless ship with no land in sight. Not that he was looking for what they had. Neha was on location for a shoot and he was actually relieved that he didn’t have to share his time with his family with his girlfriend.
Rima turned to Samir, went up on her toes, and ruffled his hair. Virat might still call him Chintu, which meant “tiny” in Hindi, but at a couple inches over six feet Samir had a good half foot on his brother.
“We don’t need to leave.” Rima gave them one of her angelic smiles. “But I am tired, so I am going home. You two try to save some liver for later?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll take you home. Bhai and I can finish up there. The party’s winding down anyway.” Samir reached for the jacket he had slung over the couch.
“Yeah, we’re not staying here without you, baby,” Virat said before wrapping his arms around Rima and breaking into a seriously tuneless rendition of “I Don’t Want to Live Without You.” Usually Samir wouldn’t mind anyone murdering that particular Foreigner song, but there were still a few journos hanging around at a nearby table and the thought of Virat and Rima’s private moment mocked in some bitchy film magazine column made Samir positively sick.
Rima, genius that she was, stroked Virat’s lips with her thumb, silencing him. Samir loved the woman. He mouthed a thank-you and got another angel’s smile in return. “No. You boys continue. I’ll send the driver back.” She tapped Virat’s chest with one finger and gave Samir a meaningful look. “Samir, he’s definitely not getting behind a wheel like this, you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” both brothers said in unison.
Samir watched Virat follow Rima with his eyes as she let the hostess air-kiss both cheeks and walk her out. “I’m a chick, Bhai? You should see how you look at her.”
“A real man isn’t afraid of love, Chintu.” A line of dialog from Samir’s biggest Bollywood blockbuster. And Virat pulled it off in an almost perfect impersonation of the hero’s theatric baritone.
Samir laughed. “Hear! Hear!” He downed the rest of his scotch in one gulp.
“But seriously, isn’t she the most beautiful woman in the world?”
“Undoubtedly, and you’re the luckiest bastard.”
“Hear! Hear!” Virat downed the rest of his drink too.
A waiter promptly brought them two new glasses. Samir signaled him to stop after this one.
“I don’t deserve her but I love her so damn much.” Virat raised a hand when Samir tried to interrupt. “No, I don’t. I’m a lying bastard, Chintu. You know I am.”
“No, you’re not. Where is this coming from, Bhai?” Samir picked up his drink. But something in Virat’s expression made him put it down again.
“You don’t think my wife needs to know I was already married once?”
Seriously, where was this coming from? It had been twenty years since their mother had taken them and fled their village home in the middle of the night. After that none of them had ever mentioned that abomination of a marriage their grandfather had forced Bhai into. It was easy to forget that their grandfather’s hand had marked more than just Samir’s back.
Samir gave his brother a hard look. “You were not married. That was not a marriage. You were twelve years old, Bhai. In case you’ve forgotten, underage marriage is illegal in India. And if that’s not enough Baiji had it annulled a long time ago.”
Virat pulled his wallet out of his pocket. The leather bulged over tightly stretched seams. With so much shit stuffed in there how did Virat ever find anything? Samir’s own wallet was, like the rest of him, impeccable. Two credit cards, a driver’s license, a black-and-white picture of himself squeezed between Virat and Baiji at a village fair before they moved to the city, and a wad of crisp notes.
After a few moments of fumbling, Virat pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Samir. It was a letter handwritten in Hindi.
“Read it.” Virat signaled the waiter for another drink. Samir caught the waiter’s eye and signaled him to water down the peg before he started reading.
Dear Mr. Viratji,
Namaste.
This is the first letter I am writing directly to you. I hope you will forgive my boldness. Although I have never communicated with you, as is appropriate in our great culture, I was in constant contact with your grandparents through their living days—may the gods rest their souls. Your grandfather was a stalwart among men. As your grandparents must have informed you, like any good daughter-in-law should, I took care of them over the course of the twenty years that we have been married. The entire village is witness that I am the best daughter-in-law in all of Balpur.
While I consider it my most humble duty to take care of your family—our family—I think it is time that you give me the opportunity to take care of you also. I have recently completed my graduation in sociology and I have been groomed by my grandmother to be the perfect officer’s wife. I know that when you come for me, you will not be disappointed. There are those in Balpur who believe I am something of a beauty. But I never say that because I have been taught modesty.
Your grandfather promised my grandmother every day for the past five years that you would come and take me home and every year we have waited patiently. Now that your grandfather is gone, I am at a loss as to what to do. If you are the man your grandfather
boasted of, I know that my wait is now coming to an end. As you know, my grandmother—who has raised me with the very best values—is my only remaining support and she makes herself sick with worry.
And one last thing before I take your leave. I have personally seen to the upkeep of our family haveli for the past three years. The old house is now in need of more serious repairs than I alone can handle.
My grandmother sends her blessings. I lie prostrate at your feet. Please come and take your bride home.
Yours,
Malvika Virat Rathod.
Samir looked up. The letter hung limp from his fingers. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
They both burst out laughing.
“I lie prostrate at your feet?” Laughter clenched and unclenched Samir’s belly, but he couldn’t believe he was laughing. This was sick.
“But I never say that because I’ve been taught modesty.” Virat laughed so hard he choked on the words.
“Shit, Bhai, what are we going to do? The village girl thinks you’re still married to her. How the fuck did this happen?”
Virat’s laughter dried up. “It has to be our grandfather. The bastard clearly lied to Baiji when she petitioned to annul the marriage. Evidently, he never submitted the papers. I did talk to a lawyer and basically, even though underage marriage is illegal for a bride under eighteen and a groom under twenty-one, the fact that the marriage took place in the village of Balpur complicates things. Thanks to the Village Panch Council laws, the village council gets to decide whether marriage vows that were performed under their jurisdiction are valid or not. And it seems like the Panch Council has deemed this marriage legal. Which means, Rima and I—” He slumped into the couch.
“That’s crap, Bhai. How can a marriage you were forced into at twelve be legal?”
Virat stared at his drink, the usual self-assured sparkle in his dark eyes dull with despondence. “The lawyer says that if we can get the girl to sign papers saying the marriage hasn’t been consummated, and that it happened without her consent, then the marriage is considered void. Our grandfather is actually punishable by law for doing this. To think we could’ve sent the old bastard to jail.”
“Fuck, there’s a missed opportunity.” Samir raised his glass and finally took another sip. “To the old bastard. May he rot in hell.”
Virat drank to that. “I’m still screwed, Chintu. I need to take care of this before the baby comes. I want no legal doubt about my child’s legitimacy or about Rima’s rights as my wife. What if I go out on a sortie and my plane goes down and I never come back?”
The words kicked Samir in the gut. His buzz disappeared. “Shut up, Bhai. I’ll hook you up with my lawyer. Peston will eat these people for lunch if they give us trouble.” Something about the mention of the haveli, their ancestral home, in the letter had made discomfort jab at him. The property was worth a few million rupees, at least. These rural types sounded all innocent but they could be really devious.
Not that he would think twice before crushing anyone who threatened his brother and sister-in-law in any way. No amount of deviousness was going to do the village girl any good if she dared to mess with a Rathod. Malvika Virat Rathod indeed.
3
Mili was dying—a slow painful death by drowning in soap suds. She’d been scrubbing dishes for four hours straight. She felt like one of those cartoon characters, with only the top of their heads visible behind a mountain of dirty pots and pans, from those Chandamama comics she used to inhale as a child. Over the past three months she had done battle with so much grime, so much greasy muck, she might as well be a scouring pad herself. A sharp-edged warrior against a world of sticky stir-fry grease.
She plucked one long-stemmed ladle out of the water-filled sink and spun around, slashing the air as if it were a sword in her yellow rubber-clad hands, and found herself staring right into the face of her bug-eyed boss, the illustrious owner of Panda Kong, Eastern Michigan University’s only on-campus Chinese restaurant, where Ridhi and she spent four evenings every week. Of course he would make his entry at this precise moment. Because Mili could never ever do anything remotely mental without being caught.
Egghead contorted his bitter-medicine face even more than usual and threw her some eye darts. She tried smiling at him in a fashion that suggested flailing utensils while scrubbing them gave them that extra shine. But he turned away, unamused, and left the already freezing kitchen ten degrees cooler with his disapproval. She stuck out her tongue at his retreating head and did a little shoulder wiggle to shake off the chill.
“LOL!” Mili’s roommate, Ridhi, squeezed past Egghead into the kitchen, another tower of dishes teetering precariously in her arms. Ridhi thought all conversation was essentially an exercise in text messaging. “OMG. Did you see his face?” She dumped the dishes into the sink Mili had just about emptied.
“You mean the expression that told me exactly how desperately he wants someone to answer the Help Wanted sign on the door so he can get rid of the crazy Indian girl?”
“No way. Egghead would never let you go. He’d handcuff himself to you if he could. You work too hard. If anything, he’s wondering how to take that sign down so he can get you to do even more work.”
Mili groaned from the depths of her soul.
Ridhi grinned. “Girl, how will you ever keep a secret for me with that expressive face?”
Mili’s heartbeat sped up. She turned on the hand spray and started to hose the muck off a giant wok. “Did you hear from him?”
Ridhi’s face got instantly dopey. One mention of “him” and Mili could picture the sweeping romantic Bollywood number swirling inside Ridhi’s head—dancing choruses and all. Ridhi lived on planet Bollywood along with her friends Action, Emotion, and Romance.
“Well.” Ridhi threw one surreptitious glance over her shoulder as if Daddyji’s spies might be hiding in the Panda Kong kitchen at eleven p.m. “Ravi is totally freaked out after I told him Daddy was trying to set me up with Mehra Uncle’s doctor son. He doesn’t want to take any chances. He thinks we should—”
Egghead decided to demonstrate Mili’s impeccable timing once again and walked in just as Mili put the pot down and turned to Ridhi for the rest of the drama.
“I lock up outside. You think dishes get done sometime tonight?” he snapped with complete disregard for the Mt. Everest of gleaming dishes on the draining board, not to mention the fact that he was interrupting a conversation.
Ridhi glowered at him. Mili picked up a pan and directed her anger at it instead.
For all the glamorous fantasies Mili had harbored about America, none had involved being buried in dirty dishes in a foul-smelling kitchen or being sucked into a supporting role in a full-on film-style elopement.
When she had first met Ridhi, Mili had wondered how she was ever going to carry out a conversation with her. Ridhi had spoken only in monosyllables. But the disadvantage of starting in the spring semester was that the campus was as isolated as a crematorium at midnight and Mili desperately needed a roommate. And a deathly silent one who looked ready to throw herself off a bridge was better than none at all. There was no way Mili could afford the five-hundred-dollar rent out of the six hundred dollars she made as a grad assistant. The eight dollars an hour she made for scrubbing the life out of these pans was reserved strictly for sending home to Naani.
Suddenly, after two weeks of skulking around the apartment while Mili attempted desperately to push food and cheery conversation in her direction, Mili’s sad-sack roomie had magically blossomed into Ms. Bubbly herself thanks to a phone call from the hero of her story—Ravi. They’d met last year when Ridhi had been a freshman and Ravi a grad student heading up the computer lab. He’d made every one of Ridhi’s bells gong in unison like a temple at worship time. But even though Ravi was Indian he came from South India, while Ridhi’s family hailed from the North Indian state of Punjab. Ridhi’s father took such pride in his Punjabi heritage that the idea of his daughter associating herse
lf with a South Indian boy had quite literally given him a heart attack.
Lying in his ICU bed, plugged into life support, he had made Ridhi promise she would stop her “rebellion” and free herself from the influence of “that South Indian boy” and marry a good Punjabi boy like a good Punjabi girl. It was your classic movie plot—from three decades ago.
“Daddy’s stuck in the seventies,” Ridhi had told Mili. “That’s when he first came to America. He refuses to believe the world has moved forward. If he saw the clothes my cousins in India wear or the stuff they do with their boyfriends he’d have so many heart attacks he’d have to rent space in the ICU.”
It hadn’t taken Ridhi long to realize that all the ICU promises in the world couldn’t keep her away from her hero, and Ravi and she were planning to ride off into the sunset together. Only Ridhi’s family was very well connected. Her uncle worked for the Immigration people and all manner of threats to deport, dismember, and generally destroy Ravi had been freely tossed about in full-on film-villain fashion.
Mili was terrified but Ridhi was “so overplaying the victim,” and here they were, walking to their apartment, leaving a sparkling Panda Kong in their wake while Ridhi filled Mili in on her grand elopement plan.
“So Ravi’s accepted the job offer,” Ridhi said, leaving out the details like Mili had begged her to. “He can support us now. And I refuse to let Daddy keep us apart for a moment longer.” She threw another glance over her shoulder, scanning the night, and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Ravi’s going to pick me up and we’ll drive to—”
