by Abha Dawesar
I pulled out some clothes and put them on. I knew my father would have preferred that I wear a traditional salwar kameez, so I wore a pair of trousers. My parents were already waiting for me in the drawing room. We all walked to the door, but I lingered a moment and gave Rani a quick kiss before catching up with my parents at the front gate. The Dhingras lived nearby, so we walked to their house.
The sagai was being held under a red tent that had been pitched in the park in front of their house. There was a red dhurrie rolled out from their house all the way across the lane to the entrance of the tent. Musicians in shiny gold achkans played the shahnai and tabla. The ceremony was conducted with as much splendor as a marriage since the boy and girl would soon leave for the States. To qualify for the fiancée visa Priyanka could not marry till she reached America. The boy and girl exchanged garlands, as if in a real wedding. Seeing the bride and groom take seven turns around the sacred fire was always my favorite moment in weddings, but the Dhingras said that there would be no pheras .
Priyanka was in the middle of the tent with her fiancé. She seemed beautiful, or at least she had been made up to seem so. One couldn’t really see her too well under the kilograms of jewelry around her neck and the heavy chunnat on her head. The boy was in a suit and had a squint and a double chin.
As soon as we walked into the tent, Mr. Dhingra, who was standing at the entrance, shook hands with my father and said “namaste” to my mom. He absentmindedly patted my head.
Since my father often discussed office politics at home, I knew who his real friends were, the ones he played cards with each week. They were standing together in a circle off to one side. He made his way over to them. My mother knew the wives of his colleagues. The ladies sat on red chairs on another side of the tent, and my mother made her way over to them. I followed her. The women wore heavy gold jewelry and rich gold-embroidered saris. My mother congratulated Priyanka’s mother.
“Beta, come with me. Let me introduce you to my niece so that you don’t get bored with the grown-ups,” Priyanka’s mother said, her hand resting on my shoulder. She grabbed my hand in hers, and we started walking to the house. We walked past the shahnai player who was blowing air with all his might into the tube of the shahnai. Hideous laughter leaked out of the house from the drawing room, where children of assorted sizes sat in a circle. I was introduced to a pudgy, dumb-looking girl in a parrot green frock and pointy pink shoes.
“We’re going to play. You can join us,” the girl declared.
I didn’t know how to respond; it would be insulting to refuse. From the looks of it she was the leader. She had a purse with a thin strap that hung over her shoulder.
“What class are you in?” I asked.
“Class IV,” she said.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Eleven,” she said, giving me a dirty look. She was two years too old for her class.
“I have a boyfriend. Do you have a boyfriend?” she asked me. Her mouth had curled up into a mean expression. She was dumb and bratty. Lord help her, I thought.
“No,” I said.
“Okay, let’s all play something,” she said, turning around and addressing the room full of kids. She clapped her hands. Two boys who must have been Jeet’s age jumped up and down and clapped their hands after her. I couldn’t imagine them walking around saying “Hello, World!” in that way that made your heart melt down all the way to your feet. There was nothing charming about these boys. It was clear to me from looking around the room that all children were not the same. I had missed the proceedings for a few seconds but heard many girls, all in pink or green frocks, clapping. A lot of them were wearing lipstick and rouge. They were all acting self-important and girlie with their little purses and their shiny hair clips. I slinked out of the room and walked back to the tent.
I gravitated toward my mother. As I neared the group I could hear them talking about their daughters and the spectacular success they had had in the arranged marriage market.
“His company has sponsored him for a green card, and she’ll be able to join him as soon as he gets it because he’s going to list her on the application as well,” one lady said.
“I hope my second daughter does well. The elder one is in Houston. My son-in-law works for IBM. I want the second one to settle in America, too,” another said.
I walked past where they sat to a set of empty chairs in a corner. I wondered if I would ever get married and have children. I tried imagining what it would be like. I could easily imagine coming home from work and Sheela opening the door to welcome me. I could also imagine having a little son like Jeet walking from room to room, picking up objects and asking questions. I would earn a lot of money, and Sheela would take care of the house. She’d press my feet when I got home. I’d be working on a top secret nuclear physics project. Or on sending Indians to Mars. I’d have girls after me, but I’d be devoted to Sheela, who would be the perfect wife. Somehow the role didn’t suit Sheela much. The Sheela I was daydreaming about was not the same Sheela I knew. I imagined being married to Vidur. He’d be easy enough to pass time with. Nothing beyond that was imaginable with him, however.
Even though I had a burning ambition to be successful, I hadn’t addressed exactly how I was going to go about it. What was I going to do after school? How did one become a genius?
Some men walked toward my chair and stood in a little circle not far from me. They were talking so loudly that I was forced to listen. Mr. Chawla, a self-proclaimed patriot, was arguing with the others, “So what if it’s less developed? India at least is our own country. We are of this soil, this water.”
“Yogi Chawla, when your son grows up you’ll want him to go abroad and get the best education, too. Look at us, we don’t even have twenty-four-hour water supply or electricity.”
“It’s our country. If we don’t change it, who will?” he asked.
I knew from my father’s stories that none of them had been abroad, but they were discussing foren countries and gushing about incinerator technology. At least Yogi Chawla was not a hypocrite like the rest. He was my father’s favorite colleague.
“Look, they’re going to pass the Mandal Commission recommendations. Then what will happen? When seventy percent of the seats in colleges are reserved for scheduled castes and tribes, where will our sons go?” someone else said.
Yogi Chawla grunted. The papers had editorials about the Mandal report, and I wanted to hear his answer. A caste war was now raging, with several lower castes claiming compensation for centuries of oppression and the brahmins claiming reverse discrimination.
“There is no way Parliament will pass it,” was all Chawla said.
A new discussion started on the India-Pakistan cricket test series. They got excited and loud as they discussed the prospects for India in the game. It was too noisy for me. I stood up from my chair and walked back toward the women. At every party I felt suspended between the clump of men and the clump of women. A perpetual fence-sitter.
“I thought you were with the children,” my mother said, coming up to me.
“The oldest was eleven,” I said.
“I didn’t think it was necessary for you to come tonight. But you know Papa.”
“Can you please try to voice your opinion next time?” I said with an edge to my voice.
“Sorry, I will,” she said, touching my hand.
“It’s not even quiet enough for me to think on my own here,” I grumbled.
“Come, I’ll talk to you,” she said, taking me by the hand as we walked away from the ladies.
“This girl Priyanka hasn’t done a thing. A man chose her on a four-day bride-seeking mission, and just because he’s in America they think the girl has done well for herself,” I said.
“You’re right. You don’t need to go to America to be successful.” She emphasized the “you,” then added, “You can be a woman and start your own company here. You can become the most successful woman in the world.”
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��What if I want to go to America?” I asked, suddenly feeling rebellious.
“Well, you don’t need to get married to go.”
“Maybe I can get a scholarship and go right after school,” I said.
“You’re too young to leave just yet. In fact, even if you study at IIT, we would prefer you to study in Delhi so that you can stay at home,” my mother said. My parents had obviously discussed this together, but they had never discussed my future with me.
I would definitely take the IIT exam, but I wasn’t really sure I wanted to be an engineer. Everyone was doing engineering. I knew I would learn a lot of things in an engineering college, but what was it really going to teach me about life, death, or love?
“Mom, how do you make small talk with these ladies?” I asked, pointing my head toward the group we had just left. They had just burst into laughter.
“People gossip because their lives are dull.”
“Don’t you hate it?”
“One gets used to it,” she said sadly.
“I don’t want to get used to it. I don’t want to accept boredom or chatter. Ever.”
“Don’t. The world is changing. You won’t have to accept anything. I was thinking maybe we should invite your friend Tripta Adhikari to dinner.” There was something strained, emphatic, whenever she said India’s name, as if she were rolling a ball in her mouth.
“Okay, let’s call Tripta,” I said.
“Good. Ask her to come on Tuesday.”
“I’ll call her.”
“What do you think of her?” my mom asked.
“Huh?”
“She’s your friend. Tell me more about her.”
“She seems like a nice person,” I said. I could feel my back and shoulders getting tense.
“She’s divorced and sexy. Are you intrigued by her?”
“I guess so.” I hadn’t thought in such a cut-and-dried fashion about India, but my mother had summed it up well.
“What does she do?”
I didn’t know what India did. Despite our escapades I had no idea if she worked, where she worked, or when she worked.
“I don’t know her well, Mom. I don’t know what she does.”
My mother smiled.
“What do you talk about?”
“We just talk about school.”
My father came to us. Many of his colleagues were leaving, and he was ready to go. We thanked the girl’s parents, congratulated the young couple again, and left the tent.
“So that was fun, Anamika, wasn’t it?” my father said on the walk back home.
“No, Papa, it wasn’t.”
“Don’t be stubborn now. You had fun.”
“Rajan, you had fun because they were your friends. The children were younger than eleven. She had no one to speak to. Really, we shouldn’t force her to come with us. She has board exams coming up,” my mom said.
He looked at us disbelievingly.
“Okay. As you say, but you had a good time, right?” he asked her.
“Not particularly, but I’m used to such outings.”
We walked silently for a few minutes.
Then I asked, “What did Rani eat for dinner?” My voice had a tinny quality. It sounded as if it was coming from somewhere else.
“Leftovers,” my mother replied.
When we got home I said a hasty good night to my parents and went to my room. Rani was asleep on her thin mattress on the stone floor. She had put my night suit on my bed. I changed into it and lay on my bed, waiting for the light in my parents’ room to go off. They slept with their bedroom door open. After the house was dark I closed my door and bolted it. I whispered, “Rani.” But she didn’t wake up. So I took my pillow, threw it on the floor next to her, and lay down. I snuggled into her arms. She stirred and hugged me, and we fell asleep. We slept like that every night, her legs and mine coiled like braids. Sometimes we would turn our backs on each other, but I would extend my arm behind me and let my hand rest on her ass. I dreamt of the word sagai. It was spelled out in Hindi in lotus flowers on a large pond.
X
Freelance
In the morning I woke up before Rani. I listened to her steady breathing for a few minutes, then got up and went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. My parents were still asleep. Then I tiptoed to the living room and called India. Her voice was husky.
“Sorry I woke you up,” I said. “My mom asked me to invite you for dinner tomorrow.”
“That’ll be nice,” she said without hesitation.
“I have to go. I’ll come over this afternoon.”
She made a kissing sound to say good-bye. I hung up and went back to the kitchen to make tea. I could hear activity in my mother’s room and in mine. Rani’s bangles jingled as she folded the mattress and sheet.
“You’re up early,” my mother said, coming into the kitchen.
“Just woke up early,” I said. Rani had joined us in the kitchen. She looked her best when she had just woken up. Her eyelids were still heavy with sleep and her lips slightly swollen.
“Rani, could you make some parathas for breakfast?” my mother asked. Rani nodded.
“I am not going to yoga today. Shall we go to your room and have chai?” my mother asked.
“Yes,” I said. I wished I could invite Rani to join us as well. Once we were both in my room, my mother closed the door purposefully and sat on my bed. She ran her hand on the bed and said, “Wow! You already made your bed today! What’s going on?”
There was a twinkle in her eye. She couldn’t possibly know that I had slept on the floor. My heart jumped, but I just reminded myself not to be too paranoid.
“Nothing,” I said with a shrug.
“Are you getting tired of having Rani in your room?”
“No.”
“Papa thinks you’re only doing this because you feel bad for her. He thinks it will distract you from your studies.”
“Mom, that’s not true at all,” I said.
“He said you meant to study when you got back yesterday, but instead you went to sleep because you probably found her asleep and didn’t want to wake her up.”
“No, I was tired. The heavy food made me sleepy.”
“Sweetheart, don’t get too attached to her,” my mother said, cupping her palm around my face. I looked down. “She is after all just a servant,” she added.
I felt my ears getting hot. I nodded. My hands started trembling. I had to place my cup of tea on the bed because I could not grip it firmly anymore. I tried to think of something to say. I reached out for my official school diary. I opened its gray blue Rexene cover and flipped through a few pages.
“Mom, we’re going to have more intensive Sports Day practice. I have to stay back today.” I wanted to go and see India in the afternoon.
“What should I tell Rani? She’s been wanting to go to the jhuggi to talk to her husband.”
“Her husband?” I said, my voice small.
“He’s apologized a few times. He sent their neighbor’s wife to say that he hasn’t been drinking.”
“Oh!” I said, picking up the teacup again and bringing it to my mouth to cover the nudity of my face. I held it up at a tilt and sipped only a drop. It felt like a solid substance in my throat. Rani hadn’t told me anything about wanting to see her husband.
“She can go today,” I said.
“I’ll tell her she needn’t come home till dinnertime, then.”
I looked at the alarm clock on my bedside table and got up to dress. My mother left the room and closed the door behind her.
All day at school I could think of nothing but Rani going back to see her husband. I floated through my tests, as if someone else were taking them. I could take no enjoyment in Vidur’s company. Or even Sheela’s. On the walk to India’s house that afternoon I felt anxious. Would she bring up the matter of terminating our affair? I could imagine Rani going back to the jhuggi and India deciding I was too young for her. Life had been too good to be true these past few
weeks. I should have known it was going to end. Utopia was no stable state.
The weather was very hot and the rays of the sun so fierce that the air and the sky glinted a brilliant white. I couldn’t see anything unless I shaded my eyes with my hand. I eventually had to stop under the shade of a gulmohar tree on the short walk to India’s house and pull out a book. I chose the lightest and longest notebook in my bag, my chemistry lab register, and held it over my head as I walked the remaining distance. I remembered India’s face in full detail as I neared her house. Thinking of her I felt very strong, as if I could move mountains for her, lie on train tracks, leap in front of moving trucks to save her life. I didn’t feel guilty about Sheela or Rani or anything else. I loved her completely and absolutely. The feeling was so intense and certain that it astounded even me. She opened the door almost as soon as I had rung the bell.
“It’s so hot, I was afraid you’d get heatstroke,” she said, kissing me on the cheek.
“I almost did.”
“There’s been no electricity all day today. It’s quite hot inside, too.”
“It’s so cool compared to the outside it doesn’t matter. Where’s Jeet?” I asked.
“He’s back with his dad. Yesterday was an exception,” she said. I wondered if she was sad.
“What do you do?” I asked, letting my schoolbag drop on her sofa and laying my register on the coffee table.
“What do you mean?”
“My mother asked me, and I didn’t know what you did for a living.”
“I’m a designer. I design layouts for advertisements and things like that,” she said.
“Where do you work?”
“Here. I freelance,” she said.
Freelance, I repeated to myself. It sounded so exotic. A free spirit. Freedom. I wanted to freelance. I decided I would freelance when I grew up.
