by Liz Tuccillo
But here I was, sitting in front of this woman, a woman who had allowed me into her home, who was about to talk to me about her marriage just to help me with my book, who was now holding out a glass of water for me to take.
“You must be thirsty; it’s very hot today.”
I took the glass and watched her watch me not drink from it. Not wanting her to think that I thought her water, and thereby her home, was dirty, I took a sip.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.” I imagined the germs and the parasites now swimming down my throat and into my intestines.
“Amrita told me that you are writing a book about love and being single all over the world?” Ananda asked.
I nodded my head politely. “I am. It’s been a very interesting experience.”
Ananda and Amrita sat on a sofa together, with me in the armchair across from them. One of Ananda’s daughters, around five years old, came and sat on her lap. She had short black hair with a little pink plastic clip pushing her bangs back.
“So, Amrita said that you decided to go with an arranged marriage, instead of a love match?”
Ananda nodded her head. She seemed excited to speak. “Yes. I had just finished my master’s in psychology. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do next, but I was thinking about going to get my doctorate. I had been dating on my own, like Amrita.”
I looked at the two of them. I had found Amrita to be very attractive, but now seeing her with her sister, I saw that Ananda was probably the one who was considered the prettiest. She was more petite than her sister, and her delicate features made her seem a bit more regal.
“I wasn’t like Amrita. When my parents would tell us every now and then that they had a boy they wanted us to meet, Amrita would always refuse.” She put a hand on Amrita’s shoulder. “I would at least humor them.”
Amrita shrugged her shoulders, a bit regretfully, it seemed to me. She jumped in to help with the story. “So one day, my parents said they wanted her to meet someone. So this man came with his family to our home. The families talked for a bit…”
“And then we went on the terrace to chat. He seemed nice. After twenty minutes he asked what I thought. I said, ‘Okay, why not?’ So we came downstairs and told our parents that we would get married.”
They both started laughing at the memory of it. Ananda continued. “My parents were shocked. You should have seen their faces. They thought this was going to be another boy I just sent away.”
Amrita added, “When she called me and told me, I thought she was playing a joke on me. It took her a half hour just to convince me that she was serious…”
I was so confused. “But…I don’t understand…was it love at first sight? Were you just tired of dating?”
Ananda shrugged. “I don’t know. He seemed nice.”
I looked at her, with her five-year-old snuggled beside her. I didn’t know how to ask this politely, but here I was and there they were, so…
“And so…it worked out? You’re happy?”
“Yes!”
Amrita decided to elaborate for her sister. “She’s very happy. He’s a very good man. It’s one of the reasons I’m letting my parents help now. Because it worked so well for her. I always thought it was just a fluke, that she just got lucky. But now, I don’t know. Maybe my parents and the horoscopes do know best. Maybe if I meet someone whom I have no expectations about whatsoever, there’s more of a chance it will work out.”
Ananda smiled. “Tonight, she’s meeting two men, one after the other. It’s different than when my parents got married. Amrita would never be forced to marry someone she didn’t want to marry. We get to decide.”
I thought about all the women I knew in New York and around the world, who might want to rethink the whole idea of letting people get involved in their love lives. Maybe one way to deal with looking for your mate after a certain age is to put an APB out on him. Maybe it was time to notify the authorities, set up roadblocks, and send out a search party.
“How long did you date before you married?” I asked.
“Two months,” Ananda said. “We saw each other once or twice a week.”
At this point, it seemed like just as valid a way of doing things as dating someone for five years and then finding out he can’t commit. Or going to Bali with a married man and pretending he’s not married. It’s so crazy it just might work.
Amrita drove me back to the hotel. Through the slums and the huts and the sewage and the shoeless children. Again Amrita noticed my discomfort at it all. She tried to make me feel better. “They’re not unhappy, these people, you know?”
I looked at her, not sure what she could possibly mean.
“This is what they know, this is their lives. They’re happy. They don’t have the same expectations as you or I.”
I looked out my window and saw a toddler, a gorgeous tan child, about two years old, standing by the street in the dirt in front of his little “hut.” He was adorable in a little pair of pink shorts and a white t-shirt. Finally, a sweet sight. And just as I was taking in this adorable sight, a waterfall of pee gushed down his legs, completely soaking his shorts and forming a puddle right around his bare feet. I watched him as he just stood there, unfazed. My stomach immediately tied up in a knot. It was clear he was not going to be cleaned up any time soon. And at that, the car moved on.
After I wished Amrita good luck with her two dates that night, I went to my room and took a shower and then went to sleep.
After my nap, I decided to get dressed up and go to a trendy restaurant suggested by Time Out Mumbai called Indigo, right down the block. As I walked in, I saw what must be considered the beautiful people of Mumbai. The men were in jackets and jeans and pressed shirts; the women in dresses and heels. I think I even spied a few gay Indian men, which somehow comforted me and made me feel at home. I took the stairs to the top floor, which opened up onto a roof-garden restaurant with an enclosed lounge area off to the side.
I went into the lounge and straight to the bar. I ordered a white wine and I sat down near three done-up Indian ladies in their thirties who were all smoking and drinking and talking very loudly in English. As the bartender served me my drink, I remembered an image from the drive back to the hotel: an Indian family who lived outside under a highway; three of the children were running around in the dirt, playing, while the mother sat there with their belongings in a little circle around her. Then my mind flashed to the little boy peeing on himself. I shook my head, trying to dislodge the image.
“I was just remembering a little boy I saw today. On the street. It was very upsetting.”
The bartender nodded. “You know, these people. They’re not unhappy.”
That old chestnut again. “You mean they like living in the dirt and banging on tin for a living?”
“It’s what they know. It’s their life. Yes, they’re happy.”
I sipped my wine and nodded at him politely. Clearly, I just didn’t get it.
To the right of me, these three women were discussing something of the utmost importance. And, being me, I decided to start more assertive eavesdropping. It seemed that one of them was having problems with someone she was dating. He didn’t want to see her as much as she wanted to see him. She was telling her friends that she liked him, so it seemed crazy just to break up with him, but at the same time she hated not getting to see him. She was very agitated, waving her arms around, running her fingers through her hair. Her friends were trying to help, asking questions and giving suggestions.
I almost fell asleep right there at the bar. I mean, really. I didn’t come all the way to Asia, by way of Europe, South America, and Australia, just to hear this shit. Congratulations, Mumbai ladies. I’m so happy that you have worked hard for your independence and your singleness. You’ve gone against tradition and your family and you are going out and getting jobs and living in your own apartments and having drinks at bars and taking men home with you. Now that you aren’t being forced to marry men you don’t love and
have children you don’t want, this is how you are rewarded: you get to sit in bars just like the rest of the women all over the world and complain about some guy not liking you enough. Welcome to the party. Isn’t it fun?!
If I were being ambitious and inquisitive I would have asked them if they would ever go back to the way it was. I would have asked them if they would ever consider marrying someone their parents set them up with when they were a bit older. I should have asked them if they felt it’s worth it to refuse to settle, even though it might mean they stay single for a long, long time. But I didn’t because I couldn’t care less about them and their stupid dating problems. I just cared about me and my stupid dating problems. I paid for my drink and left the lounge. I walked down the stairs—and with each step downward, so went my mood.
As I headed back to my hotel, I was deeply depressed. I decided that I felt cheated. Great, that’s all I was given. A couple of weeks of love. That was it for me. And now I have to go back out there and look for it again. But this time he has to be someone whom I like just as much as Thomas, but is also completely available to me. Yeah. That’s going to happen soon.
The next morning I decided to stay in bed. You can do that when you’re all the way across the world and you’re depressed and there’s no one that’s calling trying to cheer you up. I stayed in bed until one in the afternoon. I hadn’t done that since I was a teenager and it felt great. Then the phone rang and it was Amrita. I asked her how her fix-ups went last night.
“Well, they really weren’t my type. But they were nice. My mother and father have two more for me tonight.”
“Wow, they’ve been busy,” I said, trying to seem interested. Which I wasn’t. I pulled the covers to my chin and tucked myself tight into my bed.
“Yes, they have. It will be very interesting to see who comes tonight,” she said, brightly.
I rolled over to my right side, while moving the phone to my left ear. “You sound a little excited about this.”
Amrita laughed. “I have to say, I am. It’s really nice to have someone else worrying about my love life for a while. It’s a great relief, actually.”
I thought about this idea for a moment and I liked it: handing the crisis that is your singlehood over to other people and make it their problem. I wondered how I could stay in India, get adopted into a family, and make them take care of all this shit for me.
“Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to come tonight to watch. For your book.”
I rolled onto my back and rested my arm on my forehead. “Well, actually. I was planning on going to that ashram today at some point…”
“You can do that tomorrow. Tonight you’ll get to see me meet these men. It will be like those reality shows you Americans enjoy so much. Very voyeuristic.”
“But isn’t this a private thing between families?”
“Yes, but no matter. I’ll tell them you’re visiting from New York, and had nowhere else to go. It’ll be fine.”
As it was already one in the afternoon and I hadn’t gotten out of bed, I realized the odds of me finding my way to this ashram today were slim. So I agreed to go. After all, it would be great research for my book.
Just then the hotel phone rang again. It was Alice. I had sent her my travel info because that’s what one does when they don’t have a husband or a boyfriend looking out for them. Can you tell? I was a little bitter.
“Julie, hey, how are you?”
She sounded distressed, so I lied. “I’m good, how are you?”
I heard Alice take a deep breath. Then, “I don’t think I can go through with this, you know? The marriage. Iceland. I don’t think I can.”
“Why not?” I asked, even though I knew the reason.
“Because I’m not in love with Jim. I love him, I’m so fond of him, but I’m not in love with him. I’m not.”
Now, this is the part of the story where the best friend tells her of course you shouldn’t marry a man you don’t love. Of course you shouldn’t settle. Of course there will be someone better out there for you. But I was in Mumbai, for God’s sake. I couldn’t be held responsible for what I did or said.
“Alice, listen to me. Listen to me. You marry him, do you understand me? Marry him.”
There was a long silence on the other end.
“Really?”
“Yes, really. This whole falling-in-love thing is bullshit, it’s an illusion, it doesn’t mean anything, and it doesn’t last. Are you and Jim compatible?”
“Yes.”
“Do you two respect each other? Do you like to take care of each other?”
“Yes.”
“Then marry him. We have been brainwashed to have these high expectations. Marry him and love him and make a family and have a good life. The rest is just a lie.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Go through with it. You’ll regret it later if you don’t.”
And with that I hung up the phone and went back to sleep for a while.
Amrita picked me up at my hotel to bring me to her parents’ house. She was dressed in a long, gold Indian tunic, over a thin pair of black cotton pants. She was wearing red lipstick and a little mascara. She looked quite beautiful.
“I could have taken a cab. You shouldn’t have to worry about driving me on a night when you might be meeting your husband,” I joked.
Amrita shook her head. “The cabdrivers will rip you off if you don’t know where you’re going.”
And then we were at it again—driving through frickin’ Mumbai. Getting another glimpse of its house of horrors. At one point, we stopped at a red light, and I heard a loud crack on the window of my car. I looked over and saw a young girl at my window. She had banged her head against it to get my attention. She was around seven years old and was holding a baby in her arms. Then she took one of her hands and brought it up to her mouth, over and over again. I looked over at Amrita, my mouth open, tears forming in my eyes. She was unmoved. She drove on.
After a few moments in silence, I tried to form a question, anything to try and understand things. I asked her, “Do these children go to school?”
Amrita bobbled her head. “Some do, but most don’t. These people are mostly Muslims, so they don’t really believe in education. They want their children to start businesses.”
“You mean like selling peanuts on the street?” I asked, a little sarcastically. I really wasn’t getting it.
Amrita nodded her head. “Yes, like that.” We drove the rest of the way in silence.
We arrived at another large high-rise, this one so tall and pristine it looked like it had been built and painted the day before. We drove past tennis courts and an outdoor swimming pool. In the lobby, a uniformed man waited to let us in.
Amrita’s parents politely greeted me at the door and invited me in. Amrita’s mother, Mrs. Ramani, was dressed in a traditional blue and white sari, with a long-sleeved cotton t-shirt underneath it. Mr. Ramani wore simple trousers and a button-down shirt. There were also three other older women sitting in the living room, with another older man. They were introduced to me as Amrita’s grandmother, uncle, and two aunts. I was invited to sit down on a sofa next to Amrita’s grandmother. Amrita’s mother brought me a glass of water. Like hell I was going to offend anyone right now, so I took a nice sip and set it down on the coaster next to me.
Amrita sat down and they all started speaking in Hindi, and from what I could tell from the gestures, one of the aunts was complimenting Amrita on how she looked. Then the father started talking for a bit, and everyone was listening very intently.
“He’s telling us about the first man that I’m going to meet. He’s an engineer who works for the city, something to do with the gas and the oil lines. Our horoscopes are very compatible, and he has no problem with the fact that I work.”
“And her age. He does not need a young wife,” her father added.
Everyone nodded their heads gratefully.
“He lived in the States for two years. He
’s very modern,” Amrita’s father told me.
I felt extremely awkward being there, in the middle of all this. I didn’t know where I should be when the man and his family arrived.
“Would you like me to go outside or to another room when they come…?”
Amrita’s mother looked at her husband. The husband thought for a moment. In that moment’s pause, I jumped in with “You know, when the family gets here, I’ll just go outside and get some air. So you can have your privacy.”
The mother and father looked at each other. The father bobbled in agreement. “You can go in the other room with Amrita, while we talk.”
The doorbell rang and Amrita’s mother went to the door. Amrita nervously waved for me to get up and we scurried into a nearby bedroom like two teenage girls.
We waited there, sitting on the bed cross-legged.
“What are they talking about?” I asked.
“The parents have to make sure they like each other. This is very important. They both must feel we come from good families.”
“And what makes a family seem like a good family?”
“Well, first, these men are all from the Brahmin caste, like my family, so that already is very helpful.”
“Does the caste system really matter anymore?”
“Not as much as before, but with things like marriages it does.”
“Really?” I thought the whole system was long gone.
“In a way, yes. The Brahmins, my caste, were the priests and teachers, the intellectuals. Then you have the people who were the farmers. Then the people who were the laborers. It’s very similar to your country, with the blue-collar and the white-collar workers, but here it comes from a long tradition, and we’ve given them names.”
“But what about the untouchables. Is that what those people are? The ones on the street?” I asked Amrita.
“Yes.”
“So they are born poor and they’re going to die poor, with no hope of advancing themselves?”
