A Good Indian Wife: A Novel

by Anne Cherian

  “I don’t think this music belongs in the restaurant. That singer sounds as if he’s in pain,” Neel complained.

  “He is. He’s singing about losing the woman he loves.”

  “I’m afraid it all sounds the same to me. Just like the films. Predictable. Boring.”

  “I bet you haven’t seen a Hindi film since you came to America,” Leila challenged, irritated by his attitude. “They’ve changed, you know. They still make the Bollywood masala films, but there are very good art ones, too.” Janni had taken her to see one of them. Why was she thinking of Janni here, in another country, sitting at a restaurant with her husband? Was it because Janni, too, had given her up?

  “I’ll have to take your word for it. I myself prefer French films.”

  The word “French” leapt out at her. Leila recalled the scene at the hotel in Reno. Neel bending down over the blond head. The silk scarf. Neel pronouncing Caroline’s name the French way. Was he taking her out to dinner to tell her about the secretary?

  “I didn’t know you speak French,” she bit out the words.

  “I don’t. But I can still appreciate the translation.”

  “I suppose some people prefer secondhand experience to immediate gratification.” Her words were still bitter.

  “Does it really matter?” Neel was taken aback by her tone. “You like one thing, I like another. I like chicken, you don’t.”

  “I don’t know if I don’t like it. I’ve never eaten chicken.”

  “Would you like to try?”

  “Why not?” Leila felt reckless.

  “Really? Just like that, you are going to eat chicken?”

  “Isn’t that how you began eating it? One day, like any other day, you just gave up being a vegetarian.” Just like he had given up his name, his upbringing, his word when he married her.

  They were still not talking when the waiter brought their order: Tandoori chicken, chicken tikka masala, saag paneer, alloo gobi, raita, naan, and rice.

  “Some champagne,” Neel ordered. It wasn’t like her to be waspish. Or was she moody because it was the wrong time of the month? He knew so little about her. Yet when he made the dinner reservations he’d assumed she would be grateful, and that they would have an easy time together.

  When the champagne arrived, Neel raised his glass. “To celebrate the new you,” he toasted Leila, and was relieved to see her smile.

  Leila took a sip and then looked down at her plate. “It’s quite tasty,” she pushed aside her chicken piece, “but I don’t really like the idea of eating flesh. And I don’t know why they have to give it names like breast, thigh, legs.”

  “When you put it that way, it sounds cannibalistic. Let’s pretend you never said that. Words, begone!” Neel moved his hand in a circle like a magician. “Now, where were we?”

  “In Katmandu,” Leila responded, a little dizzy from the champagne and his playfulness. “I just climbed Mount Everest and you were begging for my autograph.” It was a game she had devised with Indy. A fun and easy passing of the time that also helped them learn geography.

  “No way. I had just returned from climbing Nanga Parbat. Everest might be higher, but I went up the naked mountain.” He stressed the last two words.

  The phallic symbol, the gloriously naked mountain, rose between them, and Leila grew hot. She saw them in bed, Neel reaching for her, his hands like butterfly wings all over her body. They had done some of the things she had yearned for in India—seen movies and walked in the park, though he hadn’t held her hand. But he had slipped back into his old ways and now, when she was preparing to give him up, he was being flirtatious.

  “Here,” Leila pretended to autograph her napkin and handed it to him.

  Neel tucked it into his pocket. “I didn’t know that the girl who poured out the coffee so seriously that morning could be so bubbly.”

  “Never judge a girl by her face,” Leila mandated. He had known all along, then, that she had served coffee, not tea, the day he came to see her. “I don’t think I’m bubbly,” she continued. “It’s such a vacant word. I’d rather you thought I had a bone of whimsy. Like this one,” she pointed to her elbow.

  Neel touched her arm. “Did you inherit it or get it some other way?”

  Leila’s heart beat faster. She loved the touch of his hand. “Some other way. Like I tell people who compliment my accent, I bought it in India. Cheap.”

  “This doesn’t look cheap to me.” His hand stroked the knobbly triangle.

  “It was on sale. Two for the price of one,” she babbled on, undone by his caress. “Like the Sunday-Monday saree,” she continued, unaccountably glad that she hadn’t cut that one to pieces.

  “And what am I to make of a woman who wears such a tricky saree?”

  “You can’t make me into anything,” Leila intentionally misunderstood his meaning. “I’m already formed.”

  “Except for the lines in your right hand,” Neel reminded her.

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Every Indian is born knowing that. It is the epitome of contrary Indian philosophy. It allows you to have control over karma.”

  They were the last customers. Neel pointed to a yawning waiter and said, “I guess we should leave before they throw us out.”

  “I want some rat shit before we go,” Leila said the words deliberately.

  “I beg your pardon? Did I hear you say rat shit?”

  Leila’s giggles were laced with champagne. “It’s those pastel-colored anise seeds. That’s what we call them. I saw some in a bowl when we walked in.”

  “Well, if you want rat shit, you must have it.” Neel spooned some on to her palm.

  They left the restaurant and walked along slowly, past the cafés and shops.

  Leila saw the lump of humanity on the pavement as they turned the corner. It still amazed her that America, too, had beggars. But unlike in India they were clothed, even shod, and spoke English. She felt sorry for this man, who was stretched out behind a placard that read ANYTHING HELPS. GOD BLESS YOU.

  God had blessed her. She was taking a late night stroll with her husband, their bodies so close that their arms occasionally brushed each other. Every part of her was alive to his slightest movement and she knew that tonight he would reach for her in bed. She wanted to share some of that blessing. She opened her purse and gave the grizzled man a five-dollar bill.

  “Thank you, beautiful lady. Good night, good night.”

  She was glowing, pleased at her good deed, when Neel said, “You shouldn’t have done that. He’ll only spend it on beer. Or cigarettes.”

  “How do you know that?” Leila looked back. The man had not moved.

  “Because they’re all losers. They don’t want to do an honest day’s work. They hang around here, preying on people’s consciences, and then hurry to the nearest liquor store to feed their habit.”

  “Maybe that’s all he has to live for.”

  “Oh, come on. He can do better than that. He can clean himself up, become a waiter, something, instead of just sitting around all day.”

  “Maybe he is doing the best he can. And it can’t be easy, to sit and wait for charity. You’ve never been disappointed in life, have you? I’m glad I made him a little happy.”

  “Sorry. Forget I said that. You’re right. I don’t know a thing about him.”

  “Except that he has less than you.” Leila would not give up.

  “Peace offering?” Neel handed her the car keys.

  “Peace accepted, but you can keep the offering. Driving here was enough for me,” she confessed.

  “Ah, now the truth will out. I may not know everything about you, but I do know you have never driven across the Golden Gate Bridge. Let’s correct that.”

  THIRTY

  “BEAUTIFUL DAY, ISN’T IT?” Oona said brightly. “Back east it’s freezing this time of year and here all we need is a light sweater.”

  Leila looked up at the blue sky. Americans followed the daily forecast
with as much obsession as Indian farmers awaiting the monsoons. She had noticed that the temperature was making repeated appearances in her letters home, but she still couldn’t make it a topic of face-to-face conversation.

  “You look different,” Oona said.

  “Probably fatter because, unlike you, I feel the cold. Wool pants and a parka,” Leila pointed out.

  “It’s not the clothes. It’s your face.”

  Leila knew that some women glowed when they were pregnant. From an excess of blood in their faces, she remembered reading. Did making love have a similar effect? “I’m tired,” she said. How could Neel, up so late at night, function well at the hospital?

  “Neel keeping you busy?” Oona laughed at the look on Leila’s face. “Don’t bother answering. That was a Sanjay question. You don’t mind going to Union Square?” she asked, her voice serious again.

  Leila didn’t care where they went. She was still so new that everything was stimulating. She loved the sheer variety in America. It wasn’t just the cars that Sanjay had talked about at dinner. The skin colors, too, ranged from a dead white to a dark that could melt into midnight. The perfumes changed with every passerby; even the dogs could be waist-high or tiny enough to fit in a pocket. She was finally beginning to understand those books that spoke of America as the land where dreams come true. It felt like a country that took in everyone and allowed them to live a life of their own.

  “Well, are you ready for my surprise?” Oona asked.

  “If I were ready, it wouldn’t be a surprise.” Leila said logically. She had never seen Oona this happy.

  “You make a good point, Mrs. Sarath.” Oona laughed. “We need to go into Macy’s.”

  Leila took a deep breath as they walked in, taking in the racks of clothes, the decided steps of people who knew what they wanted and where they were going, their hair and tailored outfits just so. It still thrilled her that she could walk in wearing one outfit and leave in another. No long discussions with the tailor, no return for repeated fittings. Just a quick look in the mirror, and if the image was pleasing, a credit card followed by a signature.

  Oona stopped in front of two female mannequins and whispered, “I know it’s way too early, but I thought I’d buy a few things today.”

  Leila looked at the bright-colored pants and loose, striped sweaters. The outfits weren’t particularly nice, but then she was still learning about Western fashion.

  “You don’t understand, do you? This is the maternity section. I’m pregnant.”

  “Congratulations.” Leila smiled. She tried to stifle the pain of her own situation, tried to hold on to the fact she, too, had a husband and could become pregnant.

  But there was the rub. Her marriage was filled with a roster of unanswered questions, the niggling feeling that things weren’t quite right. The Oonas of the world exuded a confidence that came from limited failures. Their cheerful smiles were the result of men who called them “the love of my life” and first-attempt pregnancies. Even though Leila had the longed-for “Mrs.” label, she still could not duck away when jealousy tapped her shoulder.

  “That is such good news,” she continued now, wanting to feel nothing but happiness for Oona. Why was it that another’s good fortune only made her more aware of her own unstable life?

  “I wanted to get something to prove that I’m pregnant until I begin to show.”

  “When are you going to have the baby?”

  “In about seven months. Sanjay says it’s unfair of me to hold our baby hostage for so long. He’s already begun talking to it. Though I think he’s a little shy about it, because he does it in Bengali.” Sanjay had also told her they would have to perform special poojas, and Oona had felt estranged and frustrated. No matter how hard she tried, inevitably there was some tradition that escaped her—a gesture, habit, that ineffable understanding that gives life to what it means to be an Indian.

  At the café, Oona ordered milk without even looking at the menu. Pregnancy had filled her with both delight and conversation. Sanjay’s parents were thrilled and his mother wanted to come for the birth. “I really, really, hope she comes,” Oona wiped away a milky mustache. Her own mother had promised them a crib. Her sister was sending a stuffed bear, which Sanjay wanted to exchange for a cardinal because they were from Stanford, not UC Berkeley. Her godmother planned to begin knitting immediately…

  Leila didn’t know she had fainted until she heard Oona’s voice, thin and faraway. “Should we get a doctor? Her husband is a doctor.”

  She opened her eyes to see Oona and the waiter staring down at her, their faces at waist-level. For a second she was disoriented and then it all came flooding back: the café, Oona’s pregnancy, her own struggles against jealousy and sadness. That was why she had fainted. Her body could only take so much emotion before falling apart.

  She sat back up on the chair and smiled at the concerned faces. Oona looked whiter than usual, as if aware she was responsible for Leila’s fainting spell.

  “Would you like some tea?” the waiter asked.

  She didn’t want tea. She felt cold and queasy, not sick, but not entirely well either. Once seated again, she could not move. Her legs were so heavy it was an effort just to bring them around in front. Pair bhari ho gaya—the phrase appeared in front of her like a wagging finger. Heera used to say that every time she got pregnant, “My legs have gone heavy.” As a young girl, Leila used to be amazed that a body part could get heavy one day, just like that, and would look curiously at Heera’s hairy legs. When she was older, she giggled at the hidden implication, but it wasn’t until now that she understood it. She was pregnant.

  Was she going to be like Amma, who never suffered from morning sickness? Amma had fainted once with each pregnancy. She said the brief fainting spell confirmed the impending birth as surely as if a goddess had told her so.

  “Leila, are you all right? Shall I take you to the hospital?” Oona thought Leila looked sicker by the minute.

  “No, thank you. I’m all right, really. I just need to lie down.” Leila was wondering how she hadn’t noticed the skipped period.

  Oona was doubtful the whole drive back.

  “You should have let me call Neel. Your poor husband is going to be very, very upset.”

  “I just fainted. It’s happened before in India,” Leila lied.

  “Really? That makes me feel a little better, but I’m still going to call Neel.”

  As soon as they entered the house, Oona picked up the phone, and Leila could do nothing but listen.

  Oona smiled at Leila. “Your husband was remarkably calm. He asked me to make sure you stay in bed till he gets here. So let’s get you to the bedroom. He’s leaving right away, and I don’t think he’ll be too happy to find you standing up.”

  Leila felt unexpectedly warmed by Neel’s reaction. It was nice to have people look after her. When she was sick, Amma used to let her eat rasam and rice in bed, while Indy and Kila hovered around, hushed and curious. ET never left her side, her tail curved around a body that fitted its furself against her. “Furrson and person purr-fectly content,” Leila used to say. Oona tucked her under the covers, and Leila even forgot to be ashamed of the meager furniture in the bedroom.

  “Now, is there anything you’d like me to get for you? Tea? I’d offer chicken soup, except I know you’re a vegetarian.”

  Tea had caffeine and was bad for the baby. She would have to stop drinking her daily cup. Thank God she had given up fasting once a week. “I’m fine, thank you. I’m really okay.”

  She placed a hand on her middle and smiled at Oona. There was no need to be jealous.

  “Do you want a girl or a boy?” she asked Oona.

  “I just want a baby. Healthy and happy will do for me.”

  “And Sanjay?”

  “He surprised me. I thought all Indian men wanted boys. To carry on their names and all. But no, my husband wants a girl.”

  Leila wondered if Neel would have a preference.

  �
�I guess Sanjay wants a baby that looks like you.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. He wants a girl so he can name her ‘India.’ He’s getting a kick out of imagining introducing her as ‘My daughter, Miss India.’”

  The talk of babies still swirled around the room when Leila heard the front door open. She felt her secret was spread across her face. Would Neel guess? She hadn’t thought of how she would tell him the good news. They were going to be a family. Under all that anger and hurt, that careless attitude, had hidden the hope first ignited when she put on the green saree.

  “How are you?”

  She had anticipated a furrowed face, but Neel’s voice was even, his eyes normal. “I’m fine. Oona was just worried. I told her it’s happened before. When I don’t eat. I didn’t eat anything this morning.” Another lie.

  He adjusted the bedspread and then checked her pulse. “Can I get you something now?”

  She shook her head. “I think I’ll just stay here for a while.”

  “Okay. But I think you should take some fluids once you are up to it. A sandwich in a little while would be good.” Neel turned to Oona. “She’s going to be all right. Thanks for alerting me. I can’t have you all thinking I look after my wife so badly that she faints.”

  Leila curled her toes and clenched her hands into fists. She hated it when Neel was American suave. As always, he had managed to transform a strained moment into one that showed him in a good light. Just like in Reno. Oona was smiling and telling him he was a wonderful husband.

  Leila didn’t say anything. She listened as Neel went on smoothly, “All seems well, so I’ll head back to the hospital.” Oona’s call had interrupted a conversation with a French intern that Neel wanted to finish. Jacques Olivier had recently found out that Caroline spoke French and approached Neel. “You are seeing her, yes? A little excitement on the side?” When the intern saw the look on Neel’s face, he backpedaled, “Okay, sorry, my mistake. But perhaps you can tell me if she is available.” It made Neel feel more than a little paranoid that people were watching him. First the couple outside Caroline’s apartment and now Jacques at the hospital. He had to set him straight.