Monsoon Memories

by Renita D'Silva

  But when it came right down to it, could she brave being disowned by her mother, bringing disgrace to her family for Tariq? No. Not after what happened with the note… ‘You are the eldest. You are required to set an example. The eyes of the whole village are on you. If you step one toe out of line, you are not only ruining your future but hers as well.’ Her mother had yelled that horrible evening, her eyes flashing, one finger pointing at Anita. ‘Look at her. Do you want to destroy her? Think, Shirin, think,’ her voice softening suddenly, ‘with your head, not your heart.’ Her hand reaching out, gently caressing Shirin’s shorn head, her bare neck. Had there been tears flashing in her mother’s eyes?

  What would her mother do if she found out about Tariq now? No. Shirin was so careful. Her college was far enough away. Deepak and Anita were away at college in different states. And her mother was preoccupied with fixing her marriage.

  The passion from the romantic novels is not for me. I will learn to love the man who marries me, duty-bound, until duty becomes truth. And one day, when my children are old enough, I will let them choose, will vicariously participate in their passion as they fall in love. No arranged marriages, no forced humiliations for my children, she told herself every night, as she prayed for a good proposal to come, for a suitor to say yes to marrying her, so the worry could be wiped off her mother’s face, so she could see her mother’s rare open-mouthed smile again.

  And then one day Aunt Winnie—one of the many ‘aunts’ who weren’t related—arrived with news of a prospective groom. She knew someone who knew someone who had heard about this family—Mangalorean Catholics settled in Bangalore, own business, two sons—who were looking for a well-brought-up Mangalorean Catholic girl for their younger son. He was called Vinod.

  ‘The older son. Where’s his wife from?’ Jacinta asked as she heaped rice and two fat pieces of fried pomfret onto Aunt Winnie’s plate.

  ‘He’s not married.’

  ‘He’s not? Why?’ Jacinta sounded shocked.

  Aunt Winnie prised the fish off the bone and divided the rice into several little mounds, topping each with a piece of fish. ‘He doesn’t want to, it seems. Some love affair gone wrong when he was younger, after which he swore never to get married. And now, the younger son is of marriageable age and the parents are not prepared to wait for Prem to change his mind any longer.’ She squidged each mound into a ball and popped one in her mouth, closing her eyes as she chewed. ‘Hmm. This is nice,’ she said, ‘If you ever want rid of Madhu, I’ll take her.’

  ‘Can’t the parents put their foot down, insist on him getting married?’

  Aunt Winnie gaped, mid-chew. ‘Jacinta, he’s thirty-five!’

  ‘So? If it was Deepak, I’d…’ Jacinta paused, brow crinkling. ‘I don’t know, Winnie, I’m not sure about this family…’

  Aunt Winnie put the last ball of fish and rice into her mouth, munched, spat out a stray pin-bone. She poured the tumbler of water onto her plate, washing her hand. Shirin watched the fish bones swim in the dirty yellow water. Aunt Winnie looked over at Shirin and Jacinta’s eyes followed. Shirin blushed as the two women surveyed her, top to bottom, taking in her many imperfections. ‘It’s not like you have a choice, Jessie,’ Aunt Winnie said at last.

  Jacinta chose a light-pink sari with a sky-blue border. ‘Pink suits you, Shirin. It makes you look less dusky.’ As with all the previous suitors’ visits, Madhu cooked all day, concocting pakoras and sweetmeats, the lovely aromas making Shirin hungry despite the butterflies in her stomach. At five o’clock, Nagappa’s son announced breathlessly, ‘They are here. They have come in a huge Ambassador car!’

  At least they were punctual, unlike many of the other families who had come to see her.

  Right on cue, the dogs started barking. Shirin, face pressed against the window bars, sneaked a peek. Vinod was tall, with a kind face, Shirin thought. The stool she was standing on, on her tiptoes, wobbled, the end of her sari caught on her feet and she almost lost her balance on the window bars, but managed to right herself, just in time to see Jacinta, looking gorgeous in a vermilion sari, graciously welcoming Vinod’s parents. And Vinod was looking right at her, at Shirin. He grinned. Shirin blushed and looked away. The stool wobbled again and this time she jumped down quickly and righted her sari, with trembling fingers that wouldn’t do her bidding. Vinod’s face filled her mind—his kind eyes, and that smile. Had he liked her, or had she ruined it already?

  She heard Jacinta say, ‘She’s in her room,’ and then call out, ‘Shirin!’ in a high-pitched tingle of a voice quite unlike her usual firm one. Shirin took a deep breath and stepped out, head down, praying she wouldn’t trip.

  Afterwards, she went over it again and again in her head. She had managed to offer everyone tea without spilling any, though her hands were shaking as she handed Vinod his tumbler and she was sure he noticed. She thought she’d suitably answered his parents’ many questions. She was too shy to meet Vinod’s eyes again.

  A couple of weeks went by, with Jacinta on tenterhooks the whole time. Then, one evening, when they were reciting the rosary before supper, the dogs started barking furiously outside. Jacinta stopped praying and waited—something she never normally did. Rosary time was sacred. No distractions, however urgent, were entertained. There was a knock on the door. They all looked at each other. Nobody visited this late at night unless it was bad news. Before Jacinta could open the door, they heard Aunt Winnie’s familiar voice, ‘It’s only me. I am sorry I came so late, but I just heard.’

  Jacinta opened the door, steady and calm as usual, only her eyes betraying her anxiety. Before the door was fully open, Aunt Winnie had managed to squeeze her substantial girth inside, and was dancing around the room, clapping her hands and squealing like a schoolgirl. ‘They said yes, Jacinta, they said yes! There’s going to be a wedding here soon. All your worries are over. Shirin is getting married.’

  It was when Shirin heard her name that it hit her, and she had to sit down as she was suddenly finding it hard to breathe, as if it was she who had been dancing around the room and not Aunt Winnie. Vinod, the man with the kind eyes and the nice smile, had said yes.

  Her mother was saying, ‘He’s not the most handsome of men…’

  ‘What do you mean, Jacinta? First you worry that she will never get married and then when someone agrees, you find fault. Does it matter? They live in Bangalore. They have their own business. And with Shirin...’

  Shirin knew Aunt Winnie had been about to say, ‘…you can’t be picky; it’s not as if she has had twenty offers for her hand.’ She was grateful Aunt Winnie stopped when she did. Some of the other aunts wouldn’t have.

  ‘And his brother. I would have liked to have seen him.’

  ‘He had to stay behind, look after the business. With a family-run business, everyone can’t just traipse away leaving it unattended, you know. Anyway, you will have plenty of opportunity to see him. They have invited you over next week.’

  ‘What? Really? It’s happening so fast.’ And her mother smiled. One of those rare open-mouthed smiles Shirin treasured.

  Had she heard right? Was she going to Bangalore next week to Vinod’s house? She would diet all week, eat nothing. She would not have any supper after rosary even though Madhu had made chicken sukka and spicy fried squid because her Da, Anita and Deepak were all home for the holidays. She still couldn’t believe it. She, dumpy, dark-complexioned Shirin, was no longer destined to be an Old Maid. She was getting married...

  * * *

  Over the years, living in the UK, Shirin had learnt many things. When they first met her, most people asked, ‘Where are you from originally?’ Her accent was a dead giveaway.

  Once they got to know her a bit, the women always asked, ‘How did you and your husband meet?’

  Shirin learnt to say, ‘Through mutual friends’—the answer she gave Jane every year when she a
sked the same question of her at the Christmas table, after the champagne toast and pulling of the crackers, in front of all the guests.

  Every year Jane waited, hoping Shirin would say more; reveal what she had said the first time, when she didn’t know any better. ‘We had an arranged marriage.’ Afterwards, there was silence. Silverware had stopped clinking. People had stared at her, the paper hats on their heads clashing with their party clothes. The woman on Shirin’s left had broken the silence, reaching across and touching Shirin lightly on the arm. ‘Oh, my darling. We’re so sorry for you.’

  She had sneaked a glance at Vinod sitting at the other end of the table. He’d given her a little smile.

  ‘We’re happy together,’ she’d said with more conviction than she felt. Happiness, of a sort. Achieved at great cost.

  * * *

  Shirin dreamt of the third suitor who had come to see her. He asked question after question. ‘You have big hips. Do they run in the family?’ ‘Do you wear contact lenses?’ ‘What is that scar on your knee?’ The suitor was short, squat and he stank. The sour, rank stench of alcohol. He loomed above her, shouting out the questions, not waiting for her answers. She clapped her hands on her ears; she shook her head from side to side. He kept on going. She woke up screaming, ‘Stop. Please Stop.’ And she was in Vinod’s arms, being enveloped by his familiar smell: sweat and a hint of musk. ‘Shh... Shonu. It’s okay.’ And she thought, as she faded into sleep, The right suitor picked me. The Eyes pounced from behind closed eyelids. ‘Boo.’ It was a long night.

  There was no email from Anita the next morning. She told herself she hadn’t been expecting it. She told herself it was okay. She told herself it had been a bad idea to try and contact them anyway. She thought of Vinod, homesick but staying here, with her. She called her counsellor and booked an appointment—she got one for the next day; there had been a cancellation. She thought of her. Reena. And the ache that was always there ballooned, all-consuming.

  Running. Bare feet flying on blistering tarmac. Horns blaring. The damning screech of brakes. Chaos. Waking up in hospital groggy, haunted by Eyes. My baby. Where’s my baby?

  And as Rob approached her desk with news of a major issue that needed immediate attention, she made up her mind. I’ll call Deepak. I need to see her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Navarathna Super Deluxe

  ‘Mum, I don’t want to have an arranged marriage,’ Reena announced the next morning at breakfast. She had spent the previous night tossing and turning, nightmares about having her picture taken, her CV bandied about and her parents worrying about getting her married haranguing her. And, she figured, if she prepared her parents now, they wouldn’t disown her later, if she ended up choosing someone they didn’t like. Stop thinking like that. For one, you don’t know for sure if that’s what happened. And, two, your mum—a quick glance at Preeti who was adding bruised cardamom pods and thumb-sized pieces of cinnamon bark and ginger to the pot of tea boiling on the stove—is not like Mai, obsessed with status. Your mum has refused to employ a servant despite repeated barbs from Mrs. Gupta and her posh—or so she thinks—friends. She will stand up to your dad if he insists on arranging your marriage.

  Her dad had already left for work. Aunt Anita was reading the celebrity news supplement of the Bangalore Times while munching on a piece of toast. On hearing Reena’s statement, she stopped mid-crunch and stared. Reena refused to catch her eye.

  Preeti laughed, set Reena’s glass of milk next to her plate and cupped her face in her hands. ‘What’s brought this on, eh?’ She bent down and kissed the tip of Reena’s nose. ‘Do you like some boy, is that it?’

  ‘No,’ Reena said, pulling away, disgusted.

  ‘You have many years to go yet before even thinking of marriage, Rinu. And anyway, your dad and I had an arranged marriage. And it’s worked out fine. See.’

  ‘But I don’t want to.’ She still would not meet Aunt Anita’s eye.

  ‘Okay, okay, baba. But you have to finish your studies first, get into a good college. Then, you think of marriage, yes?’

  ‘Oh, Mum!’ Why had she ever brought this up?

  ‘It is some boy, I am sure,’ she heard her mother whisper to Aunt Anita as she washed her hands and went to find her satchel. Her mother had never caught on that her ‘whisper’ was louder than her normal talking voice. ‘My baby has a crush. She’s growing up!’

  Aunt Anita murmured something in reply.

  ‘Bye, Mum, Bye, Aunt Anita,’ Reena said, lugging her bag behind her.

  ‘Wait. I’ll walk you to the bus.’ Aunt Anita stood, the newspaper rustling as she tossed it aside.

  Oh, God, thought Reena, I should have kept my mouth shut. Even though this was a great opportunity to pursue Plan D, she did not want to talk to Aunt Anita right now. She knew her aunt had twigged onto the real reason for her making that statement at breakfast, and she did not want her confiscating the letters before she had had a chance to read all of them and copy out the bits she thought relevant. She thundered down the stairs, Aunt Anita keeping pace with difficulty.

  ‘I didn’t have any idea her letters would affect you so, Reena,’ her aunt said when she finally caught up with her, panting. ‘How many have you read?’

  ‘I read the second one last night. I just...’

  ‘Will you be okay reading the others?’

  This is what she had been afraid of. ‘I’ll be fine.’ Why hadn’t she just kept mum? ‘I won’t read them late at night, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s what you were doing yesterday? What about your maths test?’

  ‘There isn’t any.’

  A slow smile spread across Aunt Anita’s face. ‘Devious. Hmm...’ In the next instant, she was serious. ‘Reena, arranged marriages are not all bad. Your parents love you. They will make sure they choose someone right for you...’

  Reena let out an exasperated snort. ‘Aunty, I...’

  But Aunt Anita was no longer looking at her. Her gaze was fixed in the distance, somewhere beyond the banyan tree. Reena spotted her school bus turning off the main road into the street leading to her block of flats. ‘My bus...’ she began.

  ‘I had a love marriage.’ Aunt Anita’s voice was soft. ‘And look where it got me.’

  Reena couldn’t resist asking, ‘Why did they shun Shirin and not you?’

  Pain fled Aunt Anita’s eyes, to be replaced by incomprehension. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I assumed, from the letters, that she eloped…’

  A bark of startled laughter escaped Aunt Anita’s open mouth. ‘Shirin would never have run away to get married. Not her.’

  First rule of detection: Don’t jump to conclusions. ‘Then what…’

  ‘Your bus, Reena.’

  Second rule: Don’t push it. Wait for the right time and then pounce. The right time is not when the subject being interrogated spies the perfect getaway—the bus taking detective to school. Not for the first time, this detective wishes she wasn’t constrained by the constant unbearable trials of childhood, school being the worst.

  IMPORTANT UPDATE: Shirin did not run away. But did she still marry someone unsuitable? Tariq? Aunt Anita very cleverly did not say. Perhaps next letter provides clue? Read it this evening. [An explanatory note—This detective is writing this during her Kannada lesson, this notebook fitting comfortably inside the gigantic Kannada textbook. This detective didn’t dare bring the letters to school, though she was sorely tempted because a) Aunt Anita asked her particularly to take care of them and b) what if nosy Naina found them?]

  * * *

  She knew from the cheer that rocked the bus that Aunt Anita was waiting for her, even before she looked out the window. Aunt Anita stood at the bottom of the steps, her arms open wide. An invitation. Reena stepped into them. Aunt Anita twirled as if they were a couple in a ballroom. Th
e boys hooted and cheered.

  ‘Have you made up with Uncle Uttam?’ Reena asked.

  For a brief moment Aunt Anita’s face fell. Then she resumed her dancing, Reena still cocooned in her arms. Even though she was flushed with embarrassment, Reena had to admit it felt nice.

  ‘Why are you so happy, Aunt Anu?’ she couldn’t help but ask.

  ‘Oh, just an email I received,’ Aunt Anita’s voice: too casual. As though if she said anything more it would explode with joy.