by Anne Cherian
“Don’t try to make me think your cousin is anything but a fool.” Vic went back to Rajesh-the-irritant. “He will simply take everyone to the bar, and, while they are getting drinks, he will make sure to have another, until he gets so drunk he won’t even know his own name.”
“You are a big one to talk about drinking. What is that?” Priya indicated the empty glass on the dressing table.
“That’s because of you and your son,” Vic said, pointing his finger at her. “At the last minute, when I am preparing to go down and meet our guests, you make a stupid demand, and what, you think I will smile and be happy?”
“You are happy because you have your big, fat computer company, and you ride your motorbike like a young boy,” Priya said. “I want Nikhil to be happy.”
Vic opened his mouth, but Priya held up her palm and said, “Just make sure you don’t drink too much tonight. I don’t want another—”
“I know, I know,” Vic grumbled. She was never going to let him forget the DUI. He had done so much for her, given her jewels and silk sarees, and yet she could not forget his one misstep.
The DUI had turned her into a nag. Vic had hoped she would forget about it in a few weeks, but when she continued to hover and question, he became sly and secretive. He started filling his water glass with vodka. He had always kept a few vodka bottles in the dining-room credenza, but now he made sure there were four. He hid the one he was pouring from behind the others, so they always looked full. Unless Priya really checked, she would never know that he was still drinking.
He didn’t feel bad doing it because he thought she was overreacting to his DUI. As he told her, the DUI was an isolated mistake. He let her believe that by mistake he meant that he should give up drinking—except for the very occasional glass at home, or with businessmen who might think less of him if he refused to join them in a toast. She had been thrilled, relieved that he wasn’t going to drink anymore with his biking buddies. He never told her that the mistake he was referring to was that on the day of the DUI he had deviated from his usual one glass of whiskey and ordered beer. The Frenchmen scorned American beer, but they grudgingly allowed that cold beer on a hot day wasn’t too bad. It had been a very hot day, and the helmet had made his head feel like it was inside a sauna. That fateful evening he had decided to join the men in three rounds of beer. It hadn’t affected him at all. The Breathalyzer had been his undoing. Afterward, he wondered whether he was being punished for not being himself.
Priya picked him up from the police station and lectured him the whole way home. She had watched her own father drink away their money, and she didn’t want a husband to do the same thing. “When my parents were searching for a husband for me, I told my mother that I did not care how he looked, or what kind of job he had. I just did not want him to drink.”
Vic recalled that when he brought her home from the airport, she had walked around the apartment he had been renting, touching the TV, the dishwasher, things she had only seen in films. The only question she had posed was about the bottles of liquor in the cabinet. He had told her that every home here had them, whether people drink or not.
“It is the same as the lawn,” he said, pointing to the green patch outside the building. “Every house has a lawn, but I have never seen anyone sit on the grass to enjoy it. It is like that with these bottles.”
They had had their first fight when she showed him that the bottle of Chivas Regal that used to be half full was now closer to empty. She refused to believe that it had always been that way.
“Don’t tell me that my eyes are wrong. I dust it every week,” she said. “I want to know why you are drinking.”
After that, he became open about needing one glass every night. He told her it relaxed him, that he never went beyond the single finger of whiskey. But slowly the one glass grew into two, and nowadays he needed three. She had tried, over the years, to stop him, but he laughed at her. “I’m the head of this house,” he informed her, “and if I need to drink, I will.”
The DUI had put new words into her mouth. She knew he didn’t care about what she thought and wanted, but how would his workers react to the news? They might refuse to get in the car with him.
“I would never get into a car with someone who drinks,” she asserted.
And the Indian community? He was on numerous boards, headed all sorts of committees. How could he represent them with a DUI on his record? She didn’t want to live the rest of her life being referred to as the wife of a drunk. She insisted he throw away every single bottle in the house.
Vic had let her carry on, until she came up with the stupid idea of discarding the bottles. In the end, he promised there would not be another DUI.
“I never want to go through that experience again,” he said, and he meant it.
She, however, had to allow him to keep all the bottles. Throwing them away was just like burning dollar bills. He would continue to drink when the occasion demanded. If he ever called her up from the police station again, then she could do whatever she wanted with the bottles in the house.
Shortly after that, he had started drinking vodka. He missed his Chivas Regal but had recently begun thinking that the Russians might be right. There was great merit to vodka, and not simply because it masqueraded as water. When he told that to the Frenchmen one evening, Pierre had said, “Firewater, that’s what it is,” and Vic had to agree that there was nothing like vodka for keeping a person warm on a cold night.
Vic looked at the empty glass in his hand. He had brought it upstairs with him when he came to change his clothes. “You don’t have to worry about my drinking,” Vic said as he left the room. “I need a clear head this evening because I am in charge of this party. I arranged everything for this evening, so now you don’t need to start acting as if you are in charge.”
LALI WAS SO grateful, so full of love for Jonathan, that she didn’t get annoyed when he hurried her out of the bathroom. She needed a few more minutes to get ready, but because all she could think of was how he had never belittled her, never made her feel bad about herself, she immediately said, “Coming!” and closed her makeup case.
Until this afternoon, she had simply accepted his spontaneous “I’ll come with you to the party,” hadn’t considered that he was giving up time with his colleagues. She suddenly found herself feeling bad when his panel ran late, and he had to skip the next one he had hoped to hear. But he didn’t complain, just changed his clothes and, as if the party meant a lot to him, worried that they were going to be late.
“You look lovely, again,” Jonathan said, as they walked to the car. “Given the occasion, I thought you might wear a saree.”
He used to enjoy seeing her in sarees, but she hadn’t worn one in years. Her blouses got tight, it was too difficult to have new ones stitched, and draping the sarees proved to be problematic as well, so she had packed them away in the suitcase that had accompanied her on her first trip across the ocean to Los Angeles.
“Mrs. Feinstein decided to wear a dress.” Lali smiled up at the man who had changed her name, changed her life. This evening her only connection to her heritage was the pashmina shawl, though because it wasn’t embroidered, it could have come from anywhere.
“You’ve told me things about your friends over the years,” Jonathan said. “But I don’t remember much. Since I’ll be meeting them shortly, how about a quick refresher course?”
“Now you know how I felt when we attended your twentieth high school reunion,” she teased, before giving him the salient details of the Gang of Four. “Vic was an adjacent member,” Lali said, “and because Frances and Jay were going steady, something only very bold Indians did back then, they were the stars.”
“So Vic’s wife and I will be the odd ones out,” Jonathan said.
“Technically, you are the oddest,” Lali said honestly. “You’re the only American.”
“Oh, come on,” Jonathan exclaimed. “Your friends have lived their adult lives in the States. I’m sure the
y’re very American.”
“Not at an Indian party,” Lali started, then stopped. She had already told him about the mean side of Indians at parties, and if she wanted him to have a good time, she needed to concentrate on the pleasant parts. “The good thing is, they’ll like you just because you’re married to me. And they will want to know everything about you, so be forewarned. You will have to answer a million questions.”
For all Jonathan’s anxiety about traffic and being late, they arrived at Vic’s house at six fifteen, and, as Lali had suspected, the only people on the lawn were as white as Jonathan.
The lone exception was a man named Rajesh, who was using his family connection to sell insurance.
Lali tried to rush them past Rajesh, but because Jonathan didn’t have an Indian filter, he engaged with the man. Rajesh had just started telling them about “the best of the best life insurance policy” when Vic, thank God, joined them and ordered the man to stop bothering the guests.
“My wife’s cousin,” Vic said, as if that explained the man’s behavior. Vic was extremely appreciative that they had come, and he kept thanking them for making the long trip. Lali couldn’t bring herself to tell him about the Santa Barbara conference and was relieved that Jonathan did not puncture Vic’s happiness.
“Is Frances here?” Lali asked.
“Not so far,” Vic said. “They did not come for Nikhil’s high school party, but this time they sent a positive response, so maybe we will see them.”
“It’s really nice that you are doing this,” Lali said. “Our first chance to get together since UCLA.”
“No problem, no problem. You must be hungry after your travels. Please have something to eat,” Vic said. “I told the restaurant not to make anything spicy, so you will be able to enjoy the food,” he told Jonathan.
“I love your outfit,” Lali told Vic. It was an unexpected reprieve from the shabby kurtas he used to wear all the time. “You even got the right shoes.” His glasses were as thick as ever, but the frames suited his face much better than the ones he had worn at UCLA.
“All from the Internet,” Vic said, waving away her praise. “You are also looking very fine. I used to think you were a little skinny when you were a student, but now you are nicely filled out.”
Lali laughed to cover up her embarrassment. Vic was the only person she knew who could turn a compliment into an insult without being aware of it.
“You look the same, except that your hair is gray,” she said.
“In India we are saying that is the result of too much gray matter in the head, but in America, it is because of all the worries.”
“Vic, you promised not to talk about worries tonight,” a woman said as she joined them. “I’m Priya, Vic’s wife. You must be one of Vic’s old friends.”
“Not an old friend,” Lali clarified. “A friend from the old days.”
“Actually, you are one of my oldest friends,” Vic insisted. “Of course your hair—”
“Vic, I think the caterer is looking for you.” Priya interrupted him.
“It’s really nice to meet you.” Lali was curious about the woman Vic had married. Shortly after she moved to San Francisco, Frances had written her that Vic had gone home and returned with a wife. He hadn’t informed them he was going to India, and they only knew he had gotten married when he invited them to meet his wife shortly after she joined him.
Lali had been envious when she heard the news. Jay and Frances were married, and then Vic had bypassed the uncertainty of dating and had wed someone, while she was stuck by herself in San Francisco.
She often wished that she, too, could have taken advantage of that useful ancient tradition. Her American office mates dismissed arranged marriages as primitive, the most egregious instance of parents taking away their children’s independence. “How can a mother decide which man will make her daughter happy?” someone had challenged Lali. She had shrugged. It was no use trying to explain something to a person whose mind was already made up. In India, girls did not have to worry about attracting a boy. Their parents made the arrangements and it was rare to see a single girl. All Lali knew was that if she hadn’t been so stupid with Aakash, her parents would have been able to find her a husband who was an engineer or lawyer, and she would then live a very comfortable life. Vic’s parents had found him a pretty girl who looked like she could handle Vic, and America.
“So you’re the woman who has been putting up with Vic all this time,” Lali said, then wished she hadn’t been so forthright. What if this Priya hadn’t adjusted to American humor?
“I keep telling Vic I deserve a medal,” Priya laughed. “He gets me lovely jewelry, so I guess I’m doing okay.” She lifted her arm and jingled a dozen bracelets.
“These are beautiful,” Lali said, bending to get a closer look, reassured that she hadn’t insulted Priya. “I’ve never seen bangles like this before.”
“It’s a design from my village,” Priya explained.
“In Kerala, where I come from, no one likes to tamper with the gold, so it’s always yellow, yellow, yellow. I think the black inset with the band of gold on either side is stunning.”
“Thank you. Oh, I can see Vic waving to me. I guess the caterer is doing something wrong,” she said, and walked away quickly.
Lali and Jonathan didn’t know any of the other guests, which added to the togetherness she was already feeling. They went to the long buffet tables, and though Jonathan recognized pakoras and samosas, he had never seen so many different chutneys. Lali explained that the green ones were mint and cilantro, the brown was tamarind, and the red was tomato. They filled their plates and accepted a drink from a waiter. By the time they had found an empty table, they were holding hands, and Lali was feeling warm from the wine as well as the closeness she felt toward her husband. She barely remembered last night’s fight, or this morning’s silent ride to the airport. It was as if she had never gone to see Aakash.
She popped an oily pakora into her mouth. She didn’t care if she put on weight.
“You weren’t kidding when you said that Vic would invite everyone he knows,” Jonathan said, looking at the press of people.
“I told you,” Lali said confidently. As she watched for Frances, she saw cars draw up, deposit passengers, and then take off to park elsewhere in the neighborhood. The men were stiff in suits, with gold cuff links, and many wore Rolex watches. The smell of aftershave was overpowering. She didn’t know why Indian men in general were so attached to aftershave. She was just glad that Jonathan smelled like himself, not like something out of a bottle.
She had not seen this many sarees in years. The lawn was bright with yellow, orange, pink, and everywhere there was the glint of gold, either in the saree itself or in long earrings, wide bracelets, and thick necklaces. The Hindi music in the background, the warmth in the air, transported her back to India.
Lali was amused that the women invariably gave her a second look after they saw Jonathan. She herself was curious about the few other Indians who had white husbands. Were they delighted with themselves or, like her, had they married because they had fallen in love? A few, after giving them the once-over, stopped to chat.
It was always the same questions: Which part of India do you come from? How long have you been in America? Do you have any children? No one asked how they knew Vic. That, apparently, wasn’t a significant part of their lives.
An older man who had introduced himself as Thomas considered her name and, perusing her face, stated, “You are from Kerala.”
“I grew up in Cochin,” Lali admitted.
“You are wearing a crooked gold cross on your chain, so you must be a Jacobite Syrian Christian.”
“My father gave me this cross on my sixteenth birthday,” Lali acknowledged. She hadn’t given it much thought until she came to the United States, and people commented on the yellow color of the 22-carat gold she had taken for granted. A few asked about the cross, but Jonathan had been the one most fascinated by what he
called her X. She had explained that it wasn’t a letter in the English alphabet but a symbol of how Jacobite Syrian Christians had kept their faith when others tried to convert them.
Her father had told her the story when he had given her the cross. Centuries ago, Portuguese Jesuits tried to convert Jacobite Syrian Christians to Catholicism. The Christians resisted, and about twenty-five thousand held onto a rope tied to an ancient Assyrian cross, pledging never to surrender to the Archbishop of Goa. This tilted the horizontal bar of the cross, and from then on, Jacobite Syrian Christians have worn the crooked cross as a mark of their faith. She never took off her gold chain, and she was surprised it hadn’t been hidden by the turquoise necklace.
“And what is your premarriage surname?” Thomas asked.
“Chacko.”
“You are saying that your family hails from Cochin?”
“They’ve been there for generations,” Lali said.
The family tharavad, or home, was only eighty years old, but Chacko family members had been in the area for centuries. She had cousins three and four times removed, which had been great fun when she was young. But ever since she moved to America, it had also made going home very expensive. Her father always asked her to bring something small for everyone, and then, instead of spending all her time at home, she had to visit uncles, great-aunts, and the newly born babies of cousins. On one trip she had attended four weddings.
“Cochin used to be having many Jews. They are even having one of their places of worship there. The name Chacko is coming from Jacob, which is coming from Yacob. Yacob is a Jewish name. Was your family Jewish before becoming Jacobite Syrian Christian?”
“No.” Lali hadn’t known there was any tie between Jews and Jacobite Syrian Christians. Her father was very proud of being a Jacobite Syrian Christian and claimed that they were the top tier of all Christians in Kerala. Any Jacobite Syrian who “married out” could not have a ceremony in the church unless the partner converted. When Lali wanted to baptize Aaron out of nostalgia more than anything else, the priest she contacted told her that it wasn’t possible because Jonathan wasn’t a Jacobite. In that sense, Jacobites were the opposite of matrilineal Jews.