A Good Indian Wife: A Novel

by Anne Cherian

  Leila was happy that she could write of Sanjay’s invitation. Tonight we are having dinner at the house of Suneel’s friend, an Indian doctor.

  The end of the letter was specially for Indy: I miss our evening walks and have started taking short ones around the neighborhood. The hill is good exercise and when I am standing at the top I can see the ocean and know that everyone I love is on the other side.

  The walks were her way of absorbing their neighborhood—and America. She let go of the aerogram and heard it drop. In about a week their postman, wiry, Prince Charles–eared Doreswamy, would ride by on his rickety cycle, ring the bell, and hand it to Amma. Unless Indy rushed to the gate first.

  Leila took another route back to the condo, an address she knew by heart, along with the long phone number. These small remembrances were her victories, tangible proof that she was settling into wife-life. She already had a daily routine and woke with Neel. She had fantasized that their mornings would be a mixture of American romance and Indian food. But so far the dosa tava and branched idli maker remained in their original boxes. Neel never kissed her “Good morning” like the husbands in films. He didn’t even want coffee or tea, showering quickly and leaving. When she offered to make him a hot lunch, he refused, saying, “I usually grab something from the cafeteria. It’s much easier.” He didn’t want her to cook for him. He wanted her to take this time to adjust to America.

  It wasn’t just the outside world—the sharp needles of the fir trees, the sloping roofs of houses, the expansive celadon sea jaunty with sailing craft—that thrilled and excited her. She also began using gadgets she hadn’t known existed. Housework was hard work back home. Everything—laundry, floors, grinding, cleaning the pots and pans that got black from the kerosene stove—was done by hand. The first time she used the vacuum cleaner, it began making a clanking sound. If only she could run over to the neighbors and ask for help. But their doors were firmly shut, like those in hotels. So she waited till Neel returned. “I think I broke it,” she blurted as soon as he opened the door. Afterwards she laughed in relief when Neel showed her the penny that had been sucked into the rectangular box.

  The washer/dryer gave her particular pleasure, and not just because the clothes washed themselves, unlike at home, where Heera pounded their sarees on the floor of the bathroom and then hung them to dry on a line in the garden. Leila’s fingers trembled every time she touched Neel’s underwear. The tiny bits of white material were erotic. She loved to fold them neatly as they came out of the dryer, warm and fresh-smelling. The triangles with their wide elastic bands and slit openings affirmed that she was married and had a right to know that Neel wore size 34.

  Sometimes she still caught herself trying to turn on the light switches the Indian way, downward. But she no longer looked for the familiar blades of the ceiling fan. San Francisco had air-conditioned weather. Even the wood floors were cold, so she drank endless cups of hot tea and wore socks.

  But mostly her days were long hours spent waiting for Neel to return home. And she often spent the evenings like she spent her days, alone. He told her that the work ethic in America was very different from India. No afternoon siestas, and few early evenings.

  He tried to help, buying a guidebook on San Francisco and suggesting she follow its day trips to Fisherman’s Wharf, Alcatraz, Muir Woods. She imagined a forest tall with trees, the ground covered with mushrooms. Every Rice-A-Roni ad on TV made her want to ride a cable car. But nothing in her upbringing had prepared her to sightsee alone. Appa always accompanied Amma, and girls never walked anywhere unescorted. It was considered too daring, an invitation for ruffians to yell bad words and make obscene gestures. So she kept waiting for Neel to show her their new city.

  Then yesterday he had called at noon to say he would be back past midnight. And suddenly the seconds and minutes and hours were like the face of the clock she was staring at, predictable and slow-moving. On the spur of the moment, she picked up the guidebook. All these days she had stood on various hills and looked over at the bluffs of Marin, the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge, marveling that she was in San Francisco, that she didn’t need to get permission to go out, that these sights belonged to her as much as to anyone else in the city.

  She decided to walk to Union Square, where Neel had taken her to shop on their only outing together. She knew it would please him. He wanted her to be more American and women in America went everywhere alone. According to the TV, they even took holidays by themselves.

  Union Square itself was a scruffy grass patch hemmed in by buildings. She was surrounded by the skins and smells of America, amidst people who looked as if they belonged on the pages of magazines, with coordinated clothes and shoes and handbags. Even the very old women resembled faded fashion sketches. She was glad she had worn her new salwar kameez.

  Glad, until she noticed that people were staring at her. It wasn’t like home, where bold young men let their eyes linger over a few parts of the female body. Here even the young girls seemed to be looking at her. Was it her outfit? She was the only one wearing bright red silk. The tailor had made the pants too long and they hung over her shoes. The black border of the kameez was complemented by the dupatta around her neck. She had started the walk wearing the dupatta Indian-style, draped across her shoulders, the two ends lifting lightly off her back with every step. But the wind kept whipping it in different directions, so she twisted it around her neck, bringing both ends to the front, her hands holding them in place.

  “That’s a beautiful costume.” A gray-haired woman touched Leila’s shoulder. “My daughter and I are wondering, is it a sarai?”

  The light turned green and a crowd of people carried her across, separating her from the duo. Leila was amused at the woman’s mispronunciation. She had also never thought of her clothes as a costume. When they reached the other side, the daughter spoke before Leila could respond. “It’s silk, isn’t it? Such gorgeous material.”

  “Yes, it’s a salwar kameez, not a saree.”

  “Well, we just wanted you to know it’s beautiful. And so are you.”

  After that, Leila didn’t look away from people’s eyes. They weren’t judging her; their glances were curious and admiring. Amma would be unhappy that she didn’t wear sarees every day, but the weather was too cold, even for thick silk ones. Salwar kameezes were the next best things to the pants she planned to add to her wardrobe, and more suitable for walking.

  She stopped in at Gump’s, not knowing what to expect from such a funny-sounding name, and, like Alice, fell into enchantment with the glassware. “Hand-blown,” the labels said, and she imagined an old man blowing see-through perfection somewhere in Sweden. Every country was within grasp in America. Furniture from Japan and Indonesia, baubles from France, delicate crystal from Italy. On a shelf by itself was a bud vase, tall and slim, with the words How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. The vase was as exquisite as the line of poetry. She wanted to buy it for Neel, but she didn’t have the money.

  She also didn’t have the right feelings for him. She loved him because she was married to him and couples were supposed to love each other. But she didn’t love him the way girls loved their husbands and lovers in romance novels.

  Yet Neel never seemed to be far from her thoughts, more so in Union Square. The place symbolized her new life; it was to the Macy’s here that Neel had taken her shopping. That was a week ago, but she remembered every moment, playing it over and over again, like the ads on TV.

  He’d called unexpectedly and given her ten minutes to get ready. She quickly drew on kajal, combed her hair, changed into a new yellow saree, and was waiting downstairs when the car pulled up.

  She had never seen such a luxurious shop. The different levels reminded Leila of tiered wedding cakes, each one beautifully presented and decorated. The small tables slippery with silky, lacy underwear, glass counters aromatic with perfumes in small and giant bottles, hats hanging on pegs, hangers draped with ready-to-wear clothes that filled her eyes
with so much color she thought she was going blind, all were bewildering and seductive. But there was no time to browse. They only had an hour, Neel’s lunchtime. He was giving it up for her.

  Her head moving like the windshield wipers of his car, she followed as he strode through the labyrinth of clothes.

  His question, “What do you want?” was as inviting—and confusing—as the different TV channels. Leila chose a brown pants suit, knowing that the color would look good on her. The smooth material followed the shape of her body. She felt as powerful as the Gods and Goddesses who transformed themselves in a moment.

  She kept staring at herself, wondering what Amma would make of her reflection. But even Amma would not be able to say anything to the son-in-law who was buying this outfit. Neel. He was waiting to see the new girl in the mirror. She parted the curtains of the changing room and sauntered out like a model. This was how she had walked on stage to receive the crown when she won the beauty queen title in college. He didn’t say anything, just looked at her for a long time.

  “We’ll take it,” he told the sales lady. Leila was relieved and pleased. He also bought her a pair of closed shoes. When she stepped into the soft black leather her toes felt warm, as if his fingers were clasping her foot.

  Leila had worn those shoes to post the letter. She looked down at them, still mystified by her hidden toes. She had only worn slippers in India. And tonight, for the dinner at Sanjay’s house, Neel had asked her to wear the new pants suit. She wanted to look beautiful and make him proud in front of his friends. Neel had not said much about them, only that Sanjay Bannerji was an Indian doctor married to Oona, an American woman. Leila had never met a mixed couple.

  She hurried to the flat, laying out the pants suit that still smelled of the shop, still bore the touch of his hand. Neel had warned her that unlike Indians, Americans don’t expect their guests to be late. She would miss the comfort of Indian Stretchable Time, miss the freedom to arrive two hours past the invitation and still be considered polite.

  She brushed her hair and felt it light and soft around her face. Neel had asked her to loosen her hair that day in the shop. Her forehead looked bare without the pottu, but it didn’t suit a Western outfit. A special outfit, a special night.

  Tonight wasn’t going to be like Ooty when she hadn’t even known if Neel planned to follow tradition. She had been thinking of this evening for days. She dabbed perfume on her wrists and sprayed some between her breasts. The brief brush of cold hardened her nipples as she imagined what awaited her after the dinner.

  THIRTEEN

  “WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME YOU were taking her to Sanjay’s tonight?” Caroline demanded.

  “It’s not important.” Neel played it down. “Just an obligation.” It was absurd of Caroline to be upset over something he himself didn’t want to do.

  The reception area was unexpectedly deserted, but they kept their voices low from habit.

  “What do you mean, an obligation?”

  “Sanjay felt obliged to invite us and I felt obliged to accept.” Neel looked down at the patient’s chart.

  Caroline persisted, determined to reestablish her rights. “Why on earth would he feel obligated to invite you and—her?” Caroline didn’t want to know “her” name.

  “It’s an Indian tradition. Inviting couples.” He wished someone would come by and interrupt them.

  “You mean newlyweds, don’t you?” she sneered. “Gosh, I had no idea you were so into following Indian traditions. Aside from having—what did you call it?—an arranged marriage.”

  Caroline knew Neel liked the distance between himself and India. When he first came to the hospital, all the single women had tried for him. One by one they moved on, but not before discussing the mysterious Dr. Sarath. Juanita was sure he hadn’t responded to her because she was too reminiscent of Indian women. Dark-haired Fiona, who had had a similar experience with a Middle Eastern intern, was convinced the doctor wanted a blonde decorating his arm. When Caroline finally got him to go out with her, she sensed what had drawn him in, getting confirmation after the concert they attended on his birthday.

  She had surprised him with tickets to an Ali Akbar Khan concert. His mother only listened to South Indian classical music and Neel had never heard of Khan, who belonged to the North Indian school. Expecting to be bored, he was surprised to find himself enjoying every moment of the performance, but during the interval had felt out of place in the motley group of expatriates and wide-eyed Indian wannabees. Halfway around the world, he was surrounded by sarees (the Indians wearing the over-bright ones, the Caucasians looking like slightly better versions of Hare Krishna singers) and ornate slippers patently wrong for San Francisco’s chilly evening air. His discomfort must have been obvious, because Caroline never suggested another Indian event.

  Yet he had started out being very proud of India. In his first weeks at Stanford he had actually liked it when people praised his English. But he quickly grew tired of the compliment and of the ridiculous questions people kept asking him. India was very hot, wasn’t it? They forgot about the Himalayas and the monsoons. Aren’t all Indians vegetarians? They were shocked that he ate steak. Do Indians meditate every morning? They clearly didn’t believe him when Neel said he had never done so. And then there were the embarrassing questions about the population problem, the bride burnings, and arranged marriages.

  Indians think all Americans are rich and drive new cars, he told his roommate, who had come to Stanford on a scholarship and, like Neel, had to budget his money carefully. But Steven just shook his head, laughing that anyone would believe poverty could escape an entire nation and its people. So one day, after two blond girls asked Neel if anyone kept count of the dead bodies floating down the river in Benares, he created his “I’m just from there, I don’t know all the answers” persona.

  He had thought briefly of resurrecting India’s past glory, when this fat finger of land, jutting into the sea, had given birth to men and ideas still looked upon with wonder. But Americans couldn’t even pronounce the two great epics, the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. No one really cared that Panini had written the first grammar, and the decimal point was too small to brag about.

  He also didn’t like it that he had to dig into history to find the patriotic feelings that welled up so readily in Americans. He often thought that he had either been born in the wrong country or the wrong century. Tattappa always said, “Born right after Independence, you are a virry lucky boy.” But Neel thought that was precisely when India began producing more men than ideas. The men of ideas left the country in an ongoing exodus the media referred to as “the brain drain.” He had been among them. If a man is his passport, Neel Sarath was no longer Indian.

  Sanjay continued to ask him to join the various Indian associations that kept springing up in nearby Silicon Valley, children of the brain drain. But after living in America almost a third of his life, Neel didn’t want to become part of an India club, where some members would embrace him just because he was an Iyengar. He enjoyed meeting the diverse nationalities in the Bay Area, the women who spoke their minds, the men who sought out new sports to excel in. It had been that easy accessibility, as well as the sense of limitless possibility, that made him sign up for tennis, scuba classes, flying lessons. In the past few years he had grown so accustomed to being with whites that sometimes the brown face in the mirror surprised him.

  “Anyway,” he sidestepped Caroline’s reference to his arranged marriage, “you know I can’t take you to dinner.”

  “Don’t think I’m good enough for your doctor friends?” Caroline raised her voice. “Let me tell—”

  Neel interrupted her, “What I meant was, Sanjay’s wife only cooks Indian food.” He didn’t want another fight about why they didn’t socialize together.

  Caroline vehemently disliked Indian food. The few times they went out she invariably chose a French restaurant, ordering in French, which pleased the waiter—and impressed Neel.

  “Bu
t isn’t he married to an American?” Caroline dug through her purse.

  “Yes, Oona is from Maine.” He felt the sickly familiar embrace of jealousy. Sanjay, that short, belly-bulging Bengali Babu, had managed to attract an elegant, tall Stanford graduate who came from East Coast money. Her parents owned a vacation home in Aspen, and though Sanjay went there every winter, he was not interested in learning how to ski. Neel, who had saved up to take advantage of Stanford’s outdoor programs, loved the challenge of black diamond slopes, but didn’t have the luxury of talking about “the family cabin.”

  “You don’t even like Indian food!” Caroline said.

  He never suggested going to Indian restaurants with Caroline, preferring the anonymity of Western restaurants. She didn’t know that he did in fact miss the flavors of spicy chicken curry, cool raita sprinkled with roasted cumin seed powder, green cabbage speckled with chilies and coconut.

  Oona cooked Indian food not because it was fashionable to experiment with exotic cuisine, but because she genuinely wanted to learn everything about her husband’s world. She was almost more traditional than an Indian bride. How would Oona react to Caroline, who considered herself French? Neel often wondered.

  Having unwittingly compared the two women, Neel was overcome by the deficiencies he invariably associated with Caroline. “Oona is a good cook,” he defended the other blonde. “She went to a lot of trouble to learn, using cookbooks and attending classes. I’m sure the dinner will be excellent.” Sanjay was lucky because his home life was both foreign and familiar. In the early days of his marriage, Sanjay had made some noises about their differences. He never denied that he had gained a wonderful wife. He just said that in a love marriage like his, he had also lost something—the range of shared experiences one could build upon. Neel thought that Oona was busy correcting that loss.