by Liz Tuccillo
Amrita bobbled her head. “The government is starting to help them, but this is what they know.”
I didn’t want to get into a political argument with her while she was backstage before her big date, but still, it was a hard topic for me to comprehend. Amrita could sense my disapproval.
“You tourists, you come to Mumbai and you see the poverty and you take your photographs. You go home and you think you’ve seen Mumbai. But that’s not all Mumbai is. That’s not all that India is.” She sounded defensive. I thought I should change the subject.
“So, what else do the families talk about together?”
“They want to know if the father has a good job, if the other siblings are responsible and have good jobs. Mostly, they want to know if they are all well educated. That’s very important.”
After an hour, Mrs. Ramani knocked and walked in.
“You can meet him now,” she said, with a timid smile on her face. “His family is very nice.”
Amrita looked at me, gave a little shrug of “here goes nothing,” and walked out the door. I sat back on her childhood bed. I was exhausted. I sat there for a few minutes staring at the wall in front of me. Just as I started to drift off, the door opened again and Mrs. Ramani came in.
“His family has left. She is going out for a walk with him. Come out and sit with us.”
I quickly jumped up, trying not to look as if I had just fallen asleep in their home.
“Thank you. That would be nice.”
I sat down on the sofa. Amrita’s family was still all assembled. We were just awkwardly staring at one another, so I decided to jump right in with my so-called “research.”
“I find it interesting how important a role astrology plays in marriages here in India.”
Mr. Ramani bobbled his head emphatically. “It is everything. We saw matches online, from very good families, from our community, with good jobs. But the horoscopes were not compatible. So it could not be.”
Mrs. Ramani bobbled in agreement.
“We don’t have that in America. It’s a very odd concept to me,” I said.
Mr. Ramani got up and started to walk around the living room, explaining it all to me like a schoolteacher.
“It’s very simple. A marriage must be composed of three things: you must be emotionally compatible, intellectually compatible, and physically compatible. If you don’t have all three, a marriage will not work.”
I was surprised by the “physically compatible” part. I had assumed that the sex life of the couple was the least of anyone’s concerns.
“Relationships start out very fast, with a burst, a lot of attraction, but it does not last. This is because they were not compatible. The horoscopes can tell you if they will be truly compatible. Who can predict that? Not the couple. Not the family. But the horoscope can.”
As he was talking, I became more and more intrigued. If this was true, then it meant that these people had figured out years ago something that still perplexed us stupid Americans. How do you know if your relationship will last? If you were to go solely by the incredibly low divorce rate in India (1 percent), one could assume that they might be on to something. Of course, there are many more factors at work, such as how different their expectations are when they go into a marriage, as opposed to ours. I decided to continue my probing.
“If you don’t mind me asking, where does romance come into this?”
Mr. Ramani kept pacing around the room. What appeared at first to be his enthusiasm for teaching me about Indian culture now seemed to me to be nothing more than a case of nerves. It dawned on me, as I watched him yank his hands in and out of his pockets and walk around the room, that he was simply a nervous father waiting for his daughter to come home from her date.
“Romance. What is romance? Romance means nothing,” he said, as his lips curled upward in distaste.
Mrs. Ramani seemed to agree. “This is a very Western idea. With Indian marriages, you don’t think about romance. You think about taking care of each other. I take care of him,” she said as she pointed toward Mr. Ramani, “and he takes care of me.” She put her hand to her heart. I smiled agreeably. The image of Thomas taking care of me when I was having my panic attack on the plane quickly flashed in my mind. It felt like a tear through my flesh.
Mr. Ramani continued. “These men you see, who try to be romantic. They say ‘Honey baby this, honey baby that.’ If he can say ‘honey baby’ to you, that means he can say ‘honey baby’ to the next girl. These words don’t mean anything.”
I thought about Thomas. How he called me “my darling.” Until his other darling came halfway across the world to take her darling back.
Mr. Ramani glanced at the clock. Amrita had been gone almost an hour.
Mrs. Ramani asked, “So, how old are you?”
“I’m thirty-eight.”
“And you aren’t married?” The two aunts perked up at this question, looking at me and waiting for my answer.
“No, no, I’m not.” My glass of water was still on the coffee table and I nervously took a sip.
The grandmother seemed to understand what I had just said, but she spoke Hindi to Amrita’s father. He translated the question she had for me. “Why are you still unmarried?” Ah, that question again. I considered which response I should use this time. After a few seconds, I just went with the obvious. “I guess I haven’t met the right guy yet,” I said.
Mr. Ramani translated, and the grandmother looked at me sadly. One of the aunts spoke up in English. “Isn’t your family looking for someone for you?”
They all looked at me intently. I shook my head. “No, we really don’t do that in the States. We don’t get our families involved like that.”
“But don’t they want you to get married?” Mrs. Ramani asked, the unmistakable tone of worry having crept into her voice.
I am much more comfortable when I do the inquiring. I took another sip of water. “They do, very much. But I guess they think I’m happy the way I am.”
Now the uncle spoke up. “This cannot be,” he said. “The human being is designed for many things. Loneliness is not one of them.”
I swallowed hard. I tried to nod in agreement. My stomach tightened into a little knot again.
Mrs. Ramani leaned into me, and said, as a statement of fact, “We are not meant to go through this life alone.”
I tried to force out a smile, but the blood started draining out of my face. I looked at all of them staring at me. And, being the good emotional wreck that I was, tears started rolling down my face.
“May I use your bathroom?” I asked, my voice shaky. Everyone looked at one another, not sure what to do.
Mrs. Ramani stood up. “Yes, yes, of course, please come with me.”
I sobbed for a few moments in the Ramanis’ toilet, as quietly as I could. After about five minutes, I heard Amrita’s voice and what sounded like a lot of commotion. Bored with my own drama, I blew my nose, splashed water on my face (which, may I remind you, never works), and went out. Just as I got to the living room, Mr. Ramani turned to me smiling, and said, “We have a match! They are going to be married!”
Amrita was beaming. His parents were smiling and hugging their son. Her now-betrothed, a tall man with very thick black hair combed away from his face, and a thick black mustache, looked like he was about to start dancing a jig. I just stood there with puffy eyes watching the whole scene unfold before me like a Merchant-Ivory film.
When the hugging and kissing started to slow down, Amrita came over to me. She took my hand and walked a few feet away from everyone else. “He was so nice. We just talked and talked. We have so much in common. He’s really funny and smart! I’m so lucky! I can’t believe I’m going to get married!” She hugged me, laughing. “I would never have met this man on my own. Ever!”
I couldn’t help but marvel at the speed of all this. In New York, if you like the guy a lot—you go on a second date. Here, you plan the engagement ceremony. But if you consider how trul
y miraculous it is to meet anyone you want to go on a second date with, maybe they have the right idea. Maybe wanting to go on a second date with someone is proof that you might as well just get engaged, give it a shot, and nail that shit down.
Mr. Ramani had taken out a bottle of champagne that he was saving for just this occasion, and Amrita’s mother was handing out glasses. Both families were absolutely ecstatic. The reason was obvious: these two lost souls who were floating around for years, unmoored, loose strands in the fabric of society, who were not designed for loneliness, had now found their place. They were now a couple within two families, that would start their own family. In this one decision, in this one hour, they had given themselves a place in the world, neatly carved out, ready to go.
Besides the fact that I was intruding on an extremely private moment, I also realized that if I didn’t get away from all this matrimonial glee I was going to hurl myself out a window. I asked Amrita to call me a cab, and I left as soon as I could.
And then another car ride. Luckily it was again night, so most of the children who were normally playing and begging in the streets were now sleeping on blankets or cots along the side of the road with their families. It was bedtime in Mumbai. Still, there were some older children out, and as we came to a stoplight, one little girl, her right arm amputated below her elbow, used the truncated limb to bang on the window, her left hand putting fingers to her mouth.
The cabdriver looked at the girl and back at me. “Don’t give them money. It’s all an act. It’s all organized crime.”
I looked out the window. That was a really great act she had going there, impersonating a poor child from India who had only half a right arm.
“Why doesn’t the government help them? Why are they being left on the streets?”
The cabdriver just bobbled his head. The perfect answer for what is I’m sure a complicated question. The little girl was still banging the car with her stump.
For just a moment, I imagined what this must look like. Me, this white American woman, all dressed up, staring at this child, and refusing to open the window, refusing to help. I looked at the child, this dirty girl with matted, long black hair. This was her place in the world. This was her caste. She lived on the streets and she probably would do so her entire life.
“Fuck that,” I said quite loudly, and I opened my purse and took out my wallet. I opened the car window and I gave her five dollars. And I did that very same thing to the next four children who came begging to the car during that drive. The cabdriver shook his head in disapproval, and in my mind, I told him that he could kiss my ass. Because here’s what. I hate to be a cliché, but the poverty in Mumbai is really appalling. The quality of life for these people is nightmarish. The fact that no one seems to care was even more outrageous. I was the American tourist who could only see Mumbai for its poverty. I was the American tourist who would go back to New York and say, “Mumbai, oh my God, the poverty. It’s awful.” That would be me. Guilty as charged.
By the time I got to the hotel, my stomach was feeling a bit upset. But ever since I arrived in Mumbai, due to the spicy food, the air that smells like burning rubber, and the overall misery, my stomach had been in a general state of displeasure anyway. So I didn’t think much of it. I walked into the hotel elevator and breathed a sigh of relief. I’m telling you, those car rides in Mumbai could suck the light out of the sun.
As I rode the elevator to my room, the images of those children popped into my head again. They wouldn’t go away. It was like a horror movie that played in a loop, that I was unable to turn off.
I took a shower, hoping that would somehow soothe my stomach and clean off the car ride. I thought about how concerned these families were for one another, concerned with getting everyone married off, making a family, becoming part of the larger society. And here were these people, these families, just outside on the street, who would never be allowed into this society for the entirety of their lives. And these other families, the families in the houses and apartment complexes with the champagne and the education, these families didn’t care one bit about those others.
As the water hit my face, I tried to tell myself that this is such a complicated issue, something that I couldn’t begin to understand in just a few days. But all I could think of was the emptiness in those children’s eyes. Their robotic waves as I drove on, as if they were merely shells of flesh, impersonating children.
By the time I got out of the shower, I felt nauseous. I went to the bathroom and discovered I had diarrhea. And that, folks, was the rest of my night: bathroom runs and sweating, all the while having images of small dark figures sleeping on the streets, standing in their huts, begging for food. I was sick and alone in Mumbai.
I slept till noon the next day. Then, I stayed there. I couldn’t bear the thought of going outside one more time. I needed a Time Out Mumbai.
Then I thought about Amrita’s mother. She was right. We aren’t meant to go through life alone. It is against our human nature. Single people should be pitied. We are living with a glaring deficiency in our lives. We are being denied love. And let’s face it, it’s kind of true, all you need is love. I have everything but that, and my life feels very empty.
I realized how pathetic I sounded, even to myself. But I didn’t care. For me, when I am feeling sorry for myself, which is often, I like to just really indulge in it, to really push myself to feel as badly as I can. Call the cops if you want to shut it down; otherwise this pity party is going to go on all night.
But here I was, in India. Where literally the streets were teeming with people in the worst cases of need. Children with no homes, no food, no clothes, no hands. Could I really sit there and cry because I didn’t have a boyfriend?
I hoped the answer was no, but I wasn’t sure. I got on some clothes and went down to the tiny concierge desk. There was a beautiful woman with thick dark eyeliner working the desk. My hair was disheveled and my eyes were puffy. I can’t imagine what she must have thought of me.
“Excuse me,” I asked, my voice rough from not having spoken all day. “I was wondering if you knew of any organization I could volunteer for. You know, to help.”
The woman at the desk looked very confused. This was not the sort of request she was used to.
“I’m sorry, what do you mean?”
“I’m just wondering, if I could spend a few days helping, you know, the people here. On the streets.”
I assume she thought I was a madwoman. She smiled politely and said, “Just one moment, I’ll ask my colleague.” There was a door that led to some back room, it seemed, and she disappeared behind it, for ten minutes. Finally, she came back.
“I’m sorry, but we really don’t have any kind of recommendations like that for you. I’m sorry.”
“Really, there’s no place I could go to just volunteer for a bit?” I asked again.
The woman bobbled her head. “I’m sorry, no. It’s not possible.”
Just then, a young woman who worked at the front desk, around twenty, interrupted.
“Excuse me, are you interested in volunteering somewhere?”
I nodded and said, “Yes.”
Her eyes lit up. “Three of my friends and I get together on Saturday nights and we go to the outdoor festivals. We buy food for the kids who are standing around and we take them on the rides. We’re going tonight.”
“Can I join you?”
She bobbled her head. “Of course, I will meet you here in the lobby at six. You can come in my car.”
I almost smiled. “Thank you so much.”
“It’s no problem.” And then she stuck out her hand. “I’m Hamida, by the way.”
“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Julie.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Julie.”
That night, I stood in a sea of what seemed to be the entire population of India. We were at an outdoor festival for some important Muslim Baba (spiritual leader) in Mumbai. There were crowds of teenagers, there were families, th
ere were couples, all shouting and laughing. There were about a half dozen big Ferris wheels, all lit up, which made the entire scene feel like one big dusty circus. Indian music came out of the loudspeakers, as well as a man’s voice talking nonstop in Hindi. It was absolute chaos.
I was standing with Hamida and her friends Jaya and Kavita, who were sisters. They were both very modern-looking young women, with nice jeans and cute designer tops. Jaya and Kavita were born in London and their father was a businessman who had come back here for work. Never having seen that kind of poverty before coming to Mumbai, they were appalled. They had met Hamida at the fancy private school in Mumbai that they attended, and they all decided to do something to help.
So this was what they did. They would go to fairs and find children who were running around unescorted or who were out begging for money, and offer to take them on rides and buy them food. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
Of course, since I was there, the white lady, it was like bees to honey. In a matter of moments, five children came up to me altogether, with their hands to their lips. I looked at Hamida and her friends, waiting for them to take charge. Hamida started speaking to them in Hindi. They suddenly got very quiet, as if they didn’t understand what she was saying and were slightly afraid.
“This happens all the time,” Jaya whispered to me. “They’re confused. They never heard of someone asking if they want to go on the rides.”
Hamida kept talking to them, pointing to the stands of food and the Ferris wheels.
The children seemed truly puzzled. Kavita started talking to them as well. I could tell it was difficult to get them to switch gears from beggars to children—like someone asking a puppet to realize it’s actually a little boy. Finally, after much cajoling, the women were able to walk the children over to a stand that was selling ice cream. They bought all the children ice cream and gave them the cones one by one. The children started licking away at them happily. Soon enough, they were smiling, and we were able to get them on a Ferris wheel. We piled them on it, making sure there was an adult with each group of kids. As the Ferris wheel turned round and round, the children began smiling and laughing. They pointed out to the horizon, amazed at what they could see up there. They screamed and waved at each other from the different seats they were on.
