“Mom.”
The voice from behind startles me. I swing around to face it and am struck by a sudden dizziness. The floor beneath my feet is rippling treacherously, preparing to dissolve.
“Do you feel OK?” Dinesh’s hands grip my upper arms. His fingers are strong and confident with youth. “Mom, are you drunk?”
I can’t focus too well on his face, but I hear the shock in his voice and beneath it a surprisingly prim note of disapproval. It makes him sound almost … motherly. I want to laugh. But then he sniffs, and his face changes, its features wavering as though seen through water. “What’s with all the fumes in the garage? Mom, what were you doing?”
His voice shakes a little on the last word. I notice with surprise that he’s wearing a blue pajama outfit that I bought him sometime back. Along with his tousled hair, it makes him look unexpectedly young. Afraid of what I might say.
I want to respond with something positive and significant, perhaps something about how I love him too much to abandon him no matter how enticing suicide might seem. I want to hold him tight like I used to when he was little and there had been a thunderstorm. But all I can manage is to whisper, “I think I’m going to throw up.”
“Whoa, wait till I get you to the bathroom,” Dinesh says. He wedges a shoulder into my armpit and half drags, half carries me to the sink—so dexterously that I wonder if he’s done it before, and for whom. He holds my head while I bend over the sink, retching, and when I’m done, he wipes my face carefully with a wet towel. Even after he finishes, I keep my eyes tightly shut.
“Be back in a minute,” he says. He shuts the bathroom door—an act of kindness, I think—behind him.
In the mirror my face is blotched, my eyes swollen. I stare into them, feeling like a complete failure. I’ve lost my husband and betrayed my friend, and now to top it all I’ve vomited all over the sink in my son’s presence. I think of how hard I always tried to be the perfect wife and mother, like the heroines of mythology I grew up on—patient, faithful Sita, selfless Kunti. For the first time it strikes me that perhaps Mahesh had a similar image in his head. Perhaps he fled from us because he wanted a last chance to be the virile Arjun, the mighty Bhim. And for a moment I feel a sadness for him, because he’s going to realize it too, soon enough—perhaps one morning when he wakes up in bed next to Jessica, or as he throws her a sidelong glance while maneuvering the Mazda into a parking spot—that the perfect life is only an illusion.
Dinesh is back, with a red plastic tumbler which he fills with water. “Drink this,” he says in a tone I myself might have used when he was a sick child. I raise the tumbler obediently to my mouth. The water is warm and tastes of toothpaste. Even without looking at him, I can feel him watching me, waiting for some kind of explanation. I can feel, too, the fear still rising from him, can almost see it, like the waves of heat that shimmer off summer pavements at noon. But I can’t think of a single thing to say. So I stand there under the loud, accusing whirr of the bathroom fan, staring at the worry line gouging Dinesh’s brow (he’s got that from me), running my finger along the edge of the empty plastic tumbler.
Slowly an image takes shape somewhere behind the stinging in my eyes. It is so disconnected from what’s going on that I think I’m hallucinating from all the carbon monoxide. It’s a fired clay bowl, of all things, simple and unadorned, its glaze the muted brown of fallen leaves. For a moment I’m confused, then I recall that I saw a slide of it in my spring Art Appreciation class, I’ve forgotten the time period and the potter’s name, though I know he was someone old and famous. I turn the bowl around and around in my mind till I come upon what I’m looking for, a small snag on the paper-thin lip, and I hear again the teacher’s nasal New York accent telling us that this was the master potter’s signature, a flaw he left in all his later works, believing that it made them more human and therefore more precious.
“Mom!” Dinesh’s voice breaks through my thoughts. There’s an anxious edge to his voice. I realize he’s been asking me something for a while.
“Sony,” I say.
“I said, how did your evening go?”
I pause for a moment, tempted. Then I say, grimacing, “I made a mess of things.” I’m surprised by the lightness the admission brings. In the rush of it, I daringly add, “I’ll tell you about it if you want. I could make us some hot pista milk. …” I reach out to draw him to me, a little afraid that he will pull away, will say, Nah, Mom, I got stuff to do. But he lowers his head so that his bristly hair tickles my cheek and gives me a quick, awkward hug.
“Sounds OK to me.” He is smiling now, just a little. “Hey, Mom, you haven’t made pista milk in a long time.”
Later I stand over the stove, stirring the blended pistachios into the simmering milk, watching with wonder as it thickens beautifully. I know there will be other fights, other hurtful words we’ll fling at each other, perhaps even tonight. Other times when I sit in the car, listening to the engine’s seductive purr. Still, I take from the living-room cabinet two of the Rosenthal crystal glasses Mahesh gave me for our tenth anniversary, and when the creamy milk cools, pour it into them.
Tomorrow I’ll start a letter to Mrinal.
The glasses glitter like hope. We raise them to each other solemnly, my son and I, and drink to our precious, imperfect fives.
GLOSSARY
The words below are from different Indian languages (mostly Bengali and Hindi). Some words, such as “bearer-boy” are Indianized British expressions from colonial times.
adivasi member of indigenous tribe (the word itself means original people)
almirah large closet
alu Potato
amchur powdery mix made from ground mangoes, black salt, and other spices
amreekan American
apsara celestial nymph (from Indian mythology)
arre bhai hey brother, a customary expression Among men
ata custard apple
ayah Nanny
babu master, gentleman; common appellation for Bengali men
baisakhi violent April thunderstorm
banja Barren
bearer-boy young servant employed for running errands
bhadralok people of good family
bhai brother, a term often used between male friends
bhaiya brother, a more informal term
bharta spicy dish made from roasted egg-plant
bhaviji sister-in-law; ji at the end of a word indicates respect
bindi dot worn on forehead by many Indian women; a red one usually signifies that the woman is married
biriyani fried rice dish seasoned with onions, raisins, and spices; can be prepared with vegetables, meat, or chicken
boudi older brother’s wife
bride-viewing the process, involving a meeting of the potential bride and groom in the bride’s home, by which marriages are arranged
brinjal eggplant
bustee slums
chachaji uncle (father’s brother)
chai tea
champa sweet-smelling gold-colored flower
chand-ke-tukde epithet of admiration, literally, piece of moon
chapatis Indian wheat bread similar to tortillas
chappals sandals
charak a fair held at a particular time of year
choli close-fitting blouse worn with sari
chula wood- or coal-burning stove
churidar narrow pants worn by women (and sometimes men) under a long tunic (kurta)
dacoit bandit
dain mythical witch who devours human flesh
dal lentil soup
darwan desh Gatekeeper country, a term often used by expatriate Indians in referring to India
dhakai fine handloomed sari made in Bangladesh
dhania coriander
dhoti piece of cloth tied around the waist and reaching to ground; worn by men
didi older sister
dupatta long scarf worn with tunic (kameez or kurta)
filmi pertaining
to films
firingi genji foreigner, westerner man’s undershirt
ghazal poetic song (from the Muslim tradition)
ghu-ghu brown bird, similar to dove
girgiti lizard
gulabjamun dessert of fried dough balls soaked in syrup
hasnahana hing sweet-smelling flower asafetida
jadu magic
jhi-jhi cricket-like insect that makes a buzzing noise
kachuri stuffed balls of dough, spicy, rolled out and deep-fried
kadam tree with fragrant ball-like blossoms that flower during the monsoons
kajal black paste used as eyeliner
kala admi dark-skinned man
kalia spicy curry dish (usually fish) particular to Bengal
kameez close-fitting tunic worn over pants by women
karela bitter melon
kaun hai who’s there
kheer dessert made of thickened milk
khush-khush fragrant grass out of which thick window-coverings are made. These are sprayed with water in summer to keep out the heat
kokil black songbird
kul sour fruit used for making pickles
kulfi ice cream
kumkum red paste or powder used for a dot on a woman’s forehead
kurta long loose tunic worn over pants by both men and women
lauki large green squash
lichu litchi
mali gardener
maharajah king
malmal soft cotton fabric
mandi bazaar
mashi aunt (mother’s sister)
memsaab lady of the house, a respectful term used mostly by servants
michil procession
momphali peanuts
neem tree with bitter medicinal leaves
nimbu-pani lemonade
paan betel leaf
pakora spicy snack made of vegetables dipped in batter and deep-fried
palloo the end of the sari that falls over the shoulder, sometimes spelled pallav
panipuri popular roadside snack made of crisp deep-fried puffs filled with potatoes and a spicy sauce
papad crisp lentil wafers
paratha Indian wheat bread rolled out and panfried
patisapta complicated dessert of stuffed lentil crepes in syrup
peepul large tree with heart-shaped leaves
phul gobi cauliflower
pista pistachios
pista kulfi pistachio ice cream
prasad food offered as part of a prayer ceremony
puja prayer ceremony
pulao Indian fried rice, generally vegetarian
puri Indian wheat bread, rolled out and deep-fried
qurma highly spiced dish made with vegetables or meat
raga Indian melody
rajah king
rasogollah dessert made of curdled milk balls cooked in sugar syrup
rogan josh spicy lamb curry
sahibi westernized
salwaar-kameez set of long tunic and loose pants worn by Indian women
samosa a snack made from wheat dough, rolled out, stuffed, and deep-fried
sandesh dessert made from sugar and curdled milk
sari long piece of fabric worn by Indian women
shapla water plant
shiuli small white flower that gows in Bengal in the winter
shona term of endearment used for children, literally, gold
singara same as samosa
sitar Indian stringed musical instrument similar to guitar
surma eyeliner
tabla classical Indian drums
tulsi basil plant, considered sacred in India
veranda balcony
wallah a suffix denoting possession or belonging; e.g., union-wallahs: men belonging to a union
yaksha mythical demon, male, guardian of household or treasure
yakshini female of yaksha
zamindar landowner
zari gold thread
CHITRA BANERJEE DIVAKARUNI
ARRANGED
MARRIAGE
Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni is the bestselling author of the novels The Mistress of Spices, Sister of My Heart, and The Vine of Desire; the story collection The Unknown Errors of Our Lives; and four collections of prize-winning poetry. Her work has appeared in The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly, Ms., The Best American Short Stories 1999, and other publications. Born in India, she now lives in the San Francisco area. The dedicated Web site for the author is www.ckitradivakaruni.com.
First Anchor Books Trade Paperback Edition, June 1996
Copyright © 1995 by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Anchor Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
ANCHOR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
“The Bats” has appeared previously in Zyzzyva (Spring 1993).
“Clothes” has appeared previously in the anthology
Home to Stay (Greenfield Review Press, 1990).
The Library of Congress has cataloged the Anchor hardcover edition of this work as follows:
Divakaruni, Chitra Banerjee, 1956–
Arranged marriage: stories / by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni. —
1st Anchor Books ed.
p. cm.
1. East Indian Americans—Social life and customs—Fiction. 2. Women immigrants—United States—Social life and customs—Fiction. 3. India—Social life and customs—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3554.I86A 1995
813′.54—dc20 94-37210
CIP
eISBN: 978-0-307-47678-4
www.anchorbooks.com
v3.0
Arranged Marriage: Stories Page 25