“There,” she said with a satisfied glint in her eyes. “This boy is perfect, Priya. Even you can’t find anything wrong with him.”
“Wanna bet?” I felt like asking.
Sowmya came giggling inside Ammamma and Thatha’s bedroom where I was getting ready.
“They are here. Drove in a Mercedes,” she said with a big smile, unable to contain her joy at seeing me about to be fixed up with some loser who looked good on paper.
“They are very well off,” Ma explained, arranging Ammamma’s sapphires to her liking on my neck. “I wish you had worn the yellow sari. This is . . .” she clicked her tongue and then sighed.
“You look very nice, Priya,” Sowmya said and I smiled uneasily. I felt like a trussed up turkey with a timer that could go off at any time now.
I heard the voices of the guests from the hall in the next room—I closed my eyes and silently apologized to Nick. “I’ll make this up to you,” I promised him fervently, but I had no clue how I would go about doing so.
“If you both want to just talk a little, go sit on the swing in the veranda,” Ma instructed. “And don’t swing your legs like a junglee when you sit there. Be ladylike.”
“Do you want to tell me how to walk as well? Maybe you would like to continue giving me instructions after my marriage to make sure my husband doesn’t leave me?” I demanded sarcastically.
“With your attitude I may just have to,” Ma replied promptly. She was after all my mother, and my sarcasm had been inherited from her so my abilities were therefore diluted.
“You bring the ladoos, Priya, and—” Sowmya began and I raised both my hands in protest.
“I’ll go there and sit and talk like a normal human being but if you want me to demurely carry food around for them while they look me up like I’m cattle for sale, you’re both very mistaken,” I said in a soft, ominous voice. I realized that even at this late stage, I wanted them to protest, say something that would make it justifiable for me to walk away from this. Because if this didn’t happen there would be nothing I would not have to tell Nick about.
“Okay,” Ma sighed. “Sowmya, you just put the ladoos and bajjis on the center table along with tea. This maharani here can just sit there like a big lazy blob.”
I refused to be paraded around like meat for sale, so I casually walked into the hall as if I didn’t know who was there and why.
This time, I had to admit, Ma had pulled out all the stops. The boy—the man—was very handsome and if I were single, I would’ve probably agreed to an arranged marriage to this hunk without even speaking with him. Where were these handsome men when I was going to college in India? But as things were, he didn’t compare to the hunk I was already engaged to.
“My daughter, Priya,” my father introduced me. “Priya, this is Adarsh, Mr. Sarma, and his wife.”
“Namaskaram,” I said, folding my hands. “Hi,” I said to Adarsh. He smiled back. He had a dimple on his right cheek. Nick had a dimple on his left.
“How are you finding everything?” Mr. Sarma asked conversationally once I was seated by Ma in a lighted spot where everyone could see me, my sari, and all my jewelry to the best advantage. “It has been seven years, I hear, since you came back to India.”
“Everything is the same . . . but not the same,” I said enigmatically.
“Our son Adarsh feels the same way,” Mr. Sarma said enthusiastically, and smiled broadly. “He says how nothing has changed and then he says that everything has changed. Looks like both of you cannot make up your mind.”
“Have you ever thought about moving to Tek-saas?” Mrs. Sarma asked.
“I like living in San Francisco,” I replied, now very uneasy with this whole bride-seeing business. I avoided looking at Ma who was glaring at me and smiling at our guests alternately. Telling them that I was not ready to move was an obvious sign of reluctance on my part.
“Adarsh is planning to move to the Bay Area,” Mrs. Sarma said. “We have lots of family there and he is starting a business, too.”
“Actually . . . I’m not,” Adarsh corrected his mother uncomfortably. “I’m joining a friend’s start up . . . or, rather I’m thinking about it.”
“Really, what does your friend’s company do?” I asked.
“They make—” Adarsh began.
“Oh, all this business gup-shup,” Ma interrupted. “Why don’t you kids sit outside on the veranda and talk while we old people eat some ladoos and bajjis.”
Oh, what I wouldn’t give for Ma to be just, just a teeny-weeny bit subtle.
“What, no ladoos and bajjis for us?” Adarsh asked mischievously.
“Of course.” Ma flushed and held up a plate of bajjis .
Adarsh picked up a bajji and we both sauntered out to the veranda. I sat down on the swing and he sat across from me on a chair eating his bajji.
“I just got back from Dallas yesterday evening,” Adarsh said. “So maybe I’m jet-lagged, but you don’t seem all that eager to be married.”
The bluntness of his question, imparted in a casual manner, instantly put me at ease. “I didn’t come back home for seven years to avoid this,” I said frankly.
“I know the feeling. I’d managed to stay away for almost six years . . . but now, my grandmother’s health is failing, so I thought, what the hell, how bad can it be,” he said with a shrug. “My friends who got married like this seem happy enough.”
“Doesn’t it seem a little barbaric to come and see a bunch of girls while you’re in India and pick one to marry?” I asked.
Adarsh shrugged again. “Not really . . . Well, it did early on, but now, the girls looks at the guys, too, you know. It works both ways.”
“You’re right,” I conceded, now fidgeting with Ammamma’s sapphire necklace.
We both fell silent. This was awkward. Did this happen with everyone who sat through one of these bride-seeing ceremonies? Or did things change for a veteran like Sowmya?
“I want it all,” he said suddenly. “The wife, the children, the house . . . you know what I’m saying?”
“Well, I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but the fact that you’re here is a good indication that you’re looking for a wife,” I responded, smiling at his enthusiastic honesty. He was as unsure as I was about what needed to be said to know if the person you were speaking with for just a few minutes would be the person you’d want to spend the rest of your life with.
He grinned. “I could be here under parental duress. I just want to make sure you want the things I want.”
“I want a husband and children and that house in suburbia. . . . well, maybe not suburbia,” I said. It was not a lie. I did want those things. I just wanted those things with Nick.
“I’m glad,” Adarsh said. “I don’t know much about you and you don’t know much about me. And in another ten minutes my mother or your mother will come and interrupt us because it’s still not right for us to be talking so freely for too long.”
“My mother will come out of curiosity, not out of some sense or propriety,” I corrected him.
He smiled again and the dimple on his cheek deepened. Telugu film star, Venkatesh, had nothing on Adarsh Sarma, son of the eminent Rice Sarma. Any girl in her right mind would grab this guy, hope that he would grab her as well, but I was contemplating whether or not to tell him about Nick.
“I’d like to be honest with you,” he said. “It’s important to be honest I feel because we have to make a rather large decision based on a very short conversation.
“I was dating a Chinese woman two years ago. We broke up after a three-year relationship. That was when I realized that I wanted to marry someone from India.”
This was an unusual boy . . . man. I had never heard of anyone discussing ex-girlfriends at a pelli-chupulu. It was simply not done and even though it gave me an opening to talk about Nick, I was reluctant. India was still a man’s world and it was still okay for Adarsh to talk about his ex but taboo for me to mention my current or ex. In any case, I didn’t
have the guts.
“How did a bad relationship with a Chinese woman convince you that Indian women were the right variety for you?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t use the word variety,” he said, visibly flinching at my description. “I’m just doing what you’re doing, looking for a life partner who’ll make me happy and will make my family happy. With my ex-girlfriend it was great, we got along well, but Chinese New Year never started to mean anything to me and she never figured out Ugadi,” he said. “Can you understand that?”
Actually, I couldn’t. Nick and I hadn’t had any problems on that front. I celebrated Christmas and Thanksgiving with him and he celebrated Diwali and Ganesh Chaturthi with me. But we were hardly religious and all festivals on either side were about good food, spending time with friends and family, and alcohol.
“It appears that you’re looking for someone traditional,” I said, and rose from the swing. “I’m not traditional.”
He shook his head and gestured me to sit down. “Not traditional, just Indian.”
“I’m not very Indian either,” I told him evenly, still standing. “Don’t be fooled by the sari and the bindi and the jewelry. I work hard and I play hard. I’m not even going to remember when Ugadi is unless someone will tell me. I drink an occasional glass of wine and I’m known to smoke a cigar to bring in the New Year . . . I—”
He lifted his hand, a big grin on his face. “I’m not looking for some gaonwali. I’m not interested in some village-type; I’m looking for a peer. It doesn’t bother me if you want to drink a glass or two of wine, or even a bottle on occasion, I really don’t give a damn. I simply want someone I can share Hindi movies with, be Indian with. Someone who understands the jokes, you know?”
Now I did understand what he was saying. I had lost count of the times I’d translate something to Nick and he’d sit there with a wrinkle on his forehead, unable to comprehend the Indianness of what I was telling him. But I needed more from a relationship than the understanding of a joke or an Indian cliché. I needed so much more. I needed Nick.
“Priya Ma,” Nanna came outside then, obviously at the urging of my mother, “why don’t you offer our guest a cup of chai?”
“Of course,” I said, and looked at Adarsh. The meeting as such was over. Now we’d have to make a decision based on this small conversation. A decision of a lifetime!
“How much sugar would you like?” I asked him.
“I don’t drink tea,” Adarsh replied.
“Coffee?” I asked.
“No thanks, I’m fine,” he said. “It was nice talking to you,” he added.
I smiled at him before walking away.
Even before I entered the kitchen, Ma descended upon me. “So what did he say? What did you say? You didn’t make any pitchi-pitchi remarks, did you?”
“No, Ma, I didn’t make any insane remarks,” I muttered, and sat down on a dining chair instead of going inside the kitchen. My heart was racing at a hundred miles a second. I had gone through with this demeaning ceremony. I, who was already spoken for, had talked to another man who considered himself a potential husband to me. I had insulted Nick, our relationship, myself, and, ultimately, even Adarsh.
“So . . . how did it go?” Sowmya asked.
“Okay,” I said, as tears threatened to fall like little hard pebbles of hail.
“Do you like him?” she asked.
“Of course she likes him,” Ma said. “What’s not to like?”
“Radha,” my father called out from the living room. “They’re leaving. Come here, will you?”
I joined my mother to bid our guests farewell. Adarsh smiled at me, and his parents grinned knowingly at mine when they saw their son smile at who they thought was their future daughter-in-law.
TO: NICHOLAS COLLINS
FROM: PRIYA RAO
SUBJECT: I’M SO SORRY!
NICK, I AM SO SO SO SO SO SORRY!
I TOLD YOU I WOULDN’T GO THROUGH WITH THE BRIDE-SEEING CEREMONY BUT I DID. I SAT THROUGH THE DAMN THING AND EVEN TALKED TO THE HUSBAND-NOT-TO-BE. THIS DOESN’T MEAN ANYTHING. I HOPE YOU UNDERSTAND THAT. I COULDN’T BACK OUT. MY PARENTS . . . THATHA, EVERYONE . . . LORD, I’M SORRY.
I’M SO SCARED THAT NOW YOU WON’T LOVE ME ANYMORE AND THAT NOW WHEN I TELL MY PARENTS ABOUT YOU, THEY WON’T LOVE ME ANYMORE. I FEEL VERY LONELY, VERY CONFUSED, AND VERY ANGRY.
I’M REALLY SORRY THAT I COULDN’T FIND A WAY TO EXTRICATE MYSELF FROM THIS. I’M GOING TO TELL THEM ABOUT YOU TONIGHT, RIGHT AFTER DINNER. I PROMISE.
I DO LOVE YOU.
PRIYA
TO: PRIYA RAO
FROM: SYSTEM ADMINISTRATOR
SUBJECT: UNDELIVERABLE: I AM SO SORRY!
YOUR MESSAGE
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: I’M SO SORRY!
SENT: SATURDAY 14:02:21 -0800
DID NOT REACH THE FOLLOWING RECIPIENT(S):
[email protected] ON SATURDAY
14:02:21 -0800
ERROR: RECIPIENT SERVER NOT RESPONDING.
Number 65 and the Consequences of Confessions and Lies
Sowmya looked into the mirror, the blue-bordered sari that I had worn just that afternoon draped over her shoulder. “Do you think I will look as nice as you did?” she asked.
“You’ll look better,” I said.
“You think he’ll like me the way Adarsh liked you?” she asked, her eyes glittering behind her thick glasses. “Maybe I shouldn’t wear my glasses, huh?”
“Wear them, don’t wear them, it doesn’t matter,” I told her. “And Adarsh does not like me. There’s nothing to like,” I added.
Sowmya put the sari down and picked up the sapphire jewelry I had also worn to parade in front of Adarsh and his parents. “Amma said that she will give these to me when I get married. If this boy likes me, you and I can have a double wedding. What do you think?”
She was trying so hard to make Nick disappear that I couldn’t take offense, but I couldn’t let it slide either. Guilt sat steadily in my throat like the taste of the bitter soft stone of a raw mango; no matter what I ate or drank after biting the soft stone, its taste stayed with me.
“I’m not going to marry Adarsh, Sowmya,” I said quietly.
She sighed and put the jewelry away and turned from the mirror in Ammamma’s room to face me. “You can’t marry a foreigner, Priya,” she told me calmly as she picked up the blue sari again. “You just can’t. They will all disown you. You will have to choose.”
I shrugged. “It’s no contest, Sowmya,” I said with certainty. “I will always pick Nick.”
As soon as I said it, I wondered. If push came to shove, which it would when I told my parents and Thatha about Nick, would I just walk out and fly away to the United States to be Nick’s wife? What about the daughter, granddaughter, cousin, niece inside me? Would I happily sacrifice all those identities to be Nick’s wife? I knew I would, I was sure I would, but it would be a sacrifice, and a big one. And did relationships based upon sacrifices truly work?
Maybe in a few years I would miss my family and they still wouldn’t want me; would that make me resent Nick? No, I told myself confidently, nothing would make me resent Nick. He was everything I wanted in a man, a husband, a friend. He was it. If he were Indian instead of American, or even better, if he were a Telugu Brahmin, my parents and grandparents would’ve jumped at the idea of our marriage and would’ve paid for a lavish wedding, inviting everyone they knew.
None of that would happen now. My wedding would be an almost clandestine affair that’d take place far away from India and its mores in the United States, which my family would believe to be more suited for our unholy matrimony. There wouldn’t be hundreds of Ma’s and Nanna’s and Thatha’s friends and my family, there would be Nick and his family and our friends. Would it matter that I would be without my family, the family, which had been part of my weekends by phone for the
past seven years?
Every weekend I would call home, or if my parents were at Thatha’s house, I’d call there and we’d talk. I looked forward to calling my family on Saturday nights, sometimes on Friday nights if Nick and I were home. Would I miss that large telephone bill at the end of the month?
Ma walked into Ammamma’s room and threw her hands up in exasperation. “You also want to wear that hideous sari, Sowmya?” she asked. “She looked like someone’s grandma; you will look like her grandma’s grandma. Wear that yellow sari with the red border.”
Sowmya’s face fell. “But, Akka, I like the blue—”
“Wear that red border one,” Ma said forcefully. “Or do you want to go through another sixty-five of these?”
“Ma!” I cried out at her rudeness, but Ma just waved a hand and said, “Hush, what do you know? You just got here, maharani , and you are lucky that Rice Sarma’s son was in India at the same time. Sowmya doesn’t have those benefits.”
Sowmya pushed her sliding glasses up her nose.
“Ma,” I protested again, now embarrassed, and Ma shushed me again.
“Mahadevan Uncle called your father. Looks like they will make a proposal by tomorrow morning,” Ma said, gleeful triumph in her eyes coupled with a challenge for me to refuse this prize stud she’d found me.
I looked at her with wide eyes. “What proposal?”
“Farming proposal!” Ma said indignantly. “Marriage proposal, Priya. That is what we do. We see a family and the boy and then they make a marriage proposal and we accept.”
“Whoa . . . who said anything about accepting?” I demanded.
Sowmya raised both her hands. “Akka, they’ll be here soon and I need Priya to help me get ready. Neelima left with Anand, and they won’t be back until tomorrow, so I really need Priya.”
Ma looked at me and then at Sowmya. “I told you, Priya, no nakhras, your father might tolerate that nonsense, but I will take my slipper and beat the living daylights out of you if you continue to misbehave.”
The Mango Season Page 14
