by Leah Franqui
“So you agree. You must come home,” Vinod said expectantly.
“Oh,” Swati said. “No. I can’t do that.”
“But you just said the Veda was very nice.”
“It is very nice. But what does that have to do with anything?” she said, the distance, the short time away from him, already making her bold. There was silence on the line.
“What has made you so unhappy?” he asked, pleading.
“I am not unhappy.”
“So then—”
“But I can be happier. We can be happier.”
“Tell me how,” he said, eager.
“Apart,” Swati said. Silence again, and then the call ended.
It had gone on like that ever since. Every day or so she would get a call, or a WhatsApp message, with religious texts, parables, myths, and stories, all underlining the necessity of being married and staying married. There was not a single thought about their marriage or them as people. It was the very principle Vinod argued, and so Swati agreed, always, to the principle, and said no to the practice. Thus far, Vinod didn’t really seem to understand the difference.
Meanwhile, living in Mumbai meant living in a minefield of things she couldn’t talk about and questions she couldn’t ask, peppered with the frustrations of living with someone, Rachel, who didn’t understand that at all.
Swati had grown up knowing for a fact that it was disrespectful for children to question their parents. Opinions were only valuable if they came from a proven and valuable source, a source that had stood the test of time. This was why it was important for the young to listen to the old, because they had earned the right to an opinion, with all the living they had done.
Why was not a word that had much use in Swati’s household, neither the one she had grown up in nor the one she had married into. It was not necessary to ask, when the reasons were known to all. Why did you do badly at school? You didn’t try hard enough and you were lazy. Why did so-and-so run away with so-and-so instead of agreeing to the good match her parents had arranged for her? Because she was a bad girl with no morals. Why did sir’s business fail? Because he didn’t run it properly or well. There was no room for moral ambiguity and no need to pick apart the whys and wherefores when everyone knew them all anyway. Why was for people with no sense.
When they spoke, in the mornings over tea, or at night over dinner, Swati and Dhruv avoided any serious or difficult conversation, anything tinged with the slightest hint of conflict, as Rachel watched them, her eyes big like a cat’s. Their conversations circled around food, and the weather, and household objects, what they should and shouldn’t buy, what she thought they needed for the kitchen, the living room, the bedrooms, as though they had been living together like this their whole lives.
Swati could feel Rachel’s disbelief, her absolute confusion and dismay during these conversations, as if it were another person in the room. She could feel the tension vibrating through her daughter-in-law, the way she and Dhruv were locked in some kind of argument themselves, silent, threatening to erupt at any time, and all because of Swati. In these moments, she resented Rachel, because an Indian girl would have understood that this was the way things were, wouldn’t she have? There would be no explosion coming if Dhruv had just married the kind of person they had thought he would.
But apart from all that, apart from Rachel’s making trouble, Swati realized quickly and with profound joy, during each and every call from Vinod, that she did not, in fact, miss him. She had thought that being without a husband might be a desolate thing. Having a husband was so important, so very vital, she knew, and she had felt so sad in the past for women she had met, wonderful women, who for some reason had not been able to get married. Kolkata was small, in many ways, and sometimes women had trouble finding a husband for themselves within their community, someone to meet the exacting standards of their family and their own needs. But it was tragic, when that happened. She had mourned for such women, cried for them, saddened by their deep sadness. Yet here she was, husband-less, in that lonely state she had pitied, and she felt nothing.
Thinking back, in her day-to-day life, she and Vinod had spent very little time together, and the time they had spent was enwrapped in routine and ritual. Most of the time together was spent with her serving him. They woke and it was time for his tea, his puja, his breakfast, his bath, his departure. Then she supervised the preparation of his tiffin, packed it, sent it. In the afternoon, it was time for his tea, his supper, his plans. Her life was marked by his motions as a priest’s was by his prayers. No wonder he misses me, she thought wryly. Who wouldn’t miss their devotee? And no wonder I don’t miss him. What servant misses their master?
What she did miss, however, was the way her household ran. It was incomprehensible to her, the way Rachel did everything in their home. Yes, a girl came, one that Rachel was much too gentle with, a Maharashtrian woman with a smiling face and a wiry body, who swept and dusted and cleaned clothing at an efficient lightning pace. Everyone in Mumbai worked so quickly, which was a good thing, something Swati admired, but she had had someone living with her, at least one servant if not two, her entire life. Now if she wanted a glass of water, or if she wanted her sheets changed, or if she wanted anything, really, she had to sort it out herself. Who could live this way? Why should anyone want to?
Within a week, she had put her foot down. She spoke to the maid and made sure she understood that she had to come twice a day. It was the way things were done, and she was firm with the woman, who seemed to Swati to be rather relieved to be spoken to in a way that she was used to, rather than the sickly-sweet way Rachel spoke to her. The maid, Deeti, confided that Rachel madam was really very nice, but rather confusing, because she spoke another language and did too much of Deeti’s work.
When Deeti had returned on the first day, Rachel had been confused, but Swati had explained that this would be the normal thing. Rachel had looked unhappy, and that night had brought it up with Dhruv, but Swati had made it clear that with three people, the apartment would be cleaner and more comfortable with twice-daily cleanings, and Dhruv had agreed. Rachel was upset and had insisted that they increase Deeti’s salary.
“But she hasn’t asked for that,” Swati had pointed out, reasonably.
“Isn’t that sort of the point?” Rachel said, as if that meant anything.
“Everyone will hate us. When one maid makes more they all want to make more,” Dhruv had said.
“Good,” Rachel said, crossing her arms.
“Trying to start a revolution?” Dhruv had said. “Save India from herself? How very white savior of you!” But he had been smiling, and Rachel had smiled, too, in a strained way.
“Just because other people want to pay less doesn’t mean we should,” Rachel said. And so they started paying the maid more, which was ridiculous to Swati, but it wasn’t her money. Nor was it Rachel’s. How could she spend Dhruv’s money that way, but she wouldn’t pay for a cook?
Food was something that had become a daily horror for her. She had to make it, or ask Rachel to cook for her, which made her uncomfortable, forcing her daughter-in-law to cook all these things that Rachel herself didn’t want to eat. Sometimes, yes, Rachel would eat the meal with her, but most days Rachel declared it too boring for her to have the same thing day after day, and so Swati would ask for less and less, to make the work easier, and end up with a meal so simple and unsatisfying she herself was unhappy with it.
She knew she would have to just hire someone. Once someone came, Rachel would see the benefit. Surely it would make her happy to have things cooked for her every day? Swati, who had never lived any other way, couldn’t imagine otherwise. It was like having the maid come twice a day. Rachel hadn’t wanted it, but the apartment was so clean now. It was clearly better this way. Anyone could see that. Verbally convincing Rachel was a waste of time, but she would be sure to be convinced by the result.
Of course, having someone live with them would be best, and Swati would propo
se that soon, but she knew Rachel would revolt, so she would have to pick her moment. The girl was just so strange about everything. Sometimes, to Swati’s horror, when Dhruv was home and Swati asked Rachel for something, Rachel would ask Dhruv for it! This embarrassed Swati so deeply, so thoroughly, but Dhruv did it, each time, with a smile. Once, when Swati had sputtered in protest, Rachel had told her it was good for her son to do some work for once, and they had smiled at each other, so tender, so knowing of each other, and it had made Swati uncomfortable both because Rachel had asked her husband and because it felt strange to be so close to people who were so open with their affection. To know one of them was her own son. Where had he learned to be this way? She liked it, but she feared it, and she worried that it wasn’t at all correct behavior for a husband and a wife.
But isn’t that why you left Vinod? Because correct behavior no longer feels like the way to live your life? Aren’t you tired of serving? Don’t you want to be served in some way? a voice in her head whispered. Still. There should be limits. Shouldn’t there?
Sometimes, when Rachel looked at her, clearly unhappy about a way in which Swati was making her life better, Swati wanted to slap her. But wasn’t that always the way of it, with children? You made their lives better and they were angry at you for it. Swati knew she was doing the right thing. She was teaching Rachel how to live in India. And someday, when Rachel had the perfect life in Mumbai, she would thank her for it.
But first, Swati needed a cook.
Eight
Sometimes, just as Rachel woke up, when the fan blew cooler air across her body and the world outside was somehow magically quiet, she almost thought she was in New York and not India. She forgot, for a split second, that she was miles away, and smiled at the thought of a bagel, fresh, covered in sesame seeds and bursting with schmeer. But then something would remind her. The call of banana sellers, the thousand honks of cars and rickshaws and buses and motorcycles, a faint trill of bicycle bells, or the loud chattering of the many murders of crows perched in the palm trees, sinister visitors in tropical havens. Most mornings this made her a little rueful, and a little sad. But this morning, as she woke up alone, Dhruv already gone for work, she felt different. It was a little spark inside of her. She wasn’t sure, but she thought it might be anger.
She could hear her mother-in-law bustling around the kitchen, using every pot and pan to make a single cup of tea. Every ting and bang made Rachel stiffer, vibrating against that spark of rage like a gong. On the other side of her door was a woman who was laying siege to her kitchen, invading all of Rachel’s space, and there was nothing Rachel could do about it. And the very reason Rachel was experiencing any of this was gone. She looked at the empty spot on the bed next to her and felt that spark again.
Swati made tea for Rachel daily, despite the fact that Rachel refused it, daily. She drank coffee. But when she talked to Dhruv about it, she sounded spiteful. He teased her, but he sounded a bit resigned, like someone in a movie, like all those jokes about wives and mothers-in-law, and Rachel didn’t want to be that person. Talking about the tea, telling Dhruv about it, she felt her face growing hot with unhappiness, a pinched feeling at the bridge of her nose making her feel like an old housewife, a nag.
Rachel knew, though, that the tea was an assertion. A conscious ignoring of her actual preference in favor of what Swati thought she ought to prefer. A reminder that Rachel needed to do more, change more, sink into India in a deeper way.
With each day, Rachel loathed that cup of tea more.
Rachel stared up at the ceiling, thinking about her conversation with Dhruv the night before.
It had been two weeks since Swati came to stay, and she had already disrupted Rachel’s life so completely that Rachel thought of the lonely time before Swati had come as positively idyllic.
The night before, after Swati had gone to bed, still in Rachel and Dhruv’s room, which was clearly never going to be their room again, Rachel had turned to Dhruv. Before she could even speak, he put up his hands in surrender.
“I know.”
“She’s having the maid come twice a day. Twice.”
“I’m sorry—”
“And you said she could! You said you agreed with her! Dhruv, it’s bad enough that the maid comes once a day—”
“Oh, yeah, it’s terrible to have a clean house. That sounds like a real pain in the ass for you,” Dhruv said, speaking sharply.
“That isn’t what I’m saying.”
“Then what are you saying?” His tone was dripping with condescension.
“I’m saying this isn’t what we agreed on. It’s an imposition, having someone here all the time, and it’s unnecessary. I can clean my own house!”
“I’m not having this argument with you again. It’s tedious,” Dhruv said. Rachel reared back, upset. “I’m exhausted by all this. I want to make you both happy, but it’s hard.”
Rachel felt lost. She and Dhruv never fought. You haven’t been together long enough to fight, a friend had sniffed derisively when she had told them about her conflict-free relationship, but Rachel hadn’t listened. She had thought not fighting was a good thing and was ill prepared for it now. She didn’t know how to fight with Dhruv; she found it easier not to conflict with him at all.
“You shouldn’t have to make us both happy, Dhruv. Right?”
He was silent. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He did look tired, but nothing else. Even his moment of anger had been moderated. He was a closed book, reserved where she was open. It was why she had married him, for the wonder of those rare moments when his face was totally open to her, when she could see what was inside. And because he was always so certain of things, so sure of what life should be like. He didn’t worry about things like she did; his way was always clear. She had hoped that by being with him, hers would be, too.
They had met at a bar in the East Village, a place Rachel found after a terrible gallery show that a friend from college had curated. She had tried to form an opinion about the pieces, large-scale polished-stone slabs framed in cracked driftwood, but every time she was almost arriving at one, she felt someone looking at her in judgment. Rachel fled to the safety of a nearby bar.
She was enjoying her solitude when a tall, lean Indian man with an expressionless face walked over and sat next to her, informing her that one shouldn’t have to drink alone. Rachel had not been charmed, but rather offended, and asked him, point-blank, who he was to tell her what to do. He was taken aback, she later learned, although his face had remained the same, a slight smile turning up the corners of his lips, a hawk nose curving above, dark eyes under bushy eyebrows. He wasn’t a conventionally handsome man, but she was drawn to him, to the very blankness of his face.
She was determined to ignore him, but her unfortunate habit of expressing herself got the better of her. She wished desperately that she could be a quiet person who was interesting because of how quiet, how mysterious, she was, the way he was. Instead, she asked him about his evening, and he told her he had been lonely, in his apartment, and had come out to be close to other people’s body heat, a confession that charmed Rachel. It was a warm night in May, and when she pointed that out, he had smiled self-consciously and said that he loved to be warm. He made her feel his forehead, which did feel a little feverish, and said that he was made of hot bricks, or so his mother had said. It was so intimate, and odd, to feel a man’s forehead in a bar, and the heat from his skin flooded Rachel’s body.
The truth was, she was seduced by his determination, by the fact that he had sat next to her, by the very fact that he had told her what to do. It had thrilled her, a little, although she knew it shouldn’t have. He bought her a second drink, and she said she didn’t want it, but she did, and drank it anyway. It was like he knew the things she wanted and was determined to give them to her. There was something so appealing in that, something she knew she couldn’t tell anyone she knew about but that she felt, deep inside of her.
When she told hi
m about her night, he said he had never been to a gallery show. He had never even been to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and Rachel, warm and buzzing from that second glass of wine, told him he had to go. It was a sin, she said, not to see it. He told her he had been raised going to Catholic school and couldn’t afford any more sinning, and demanded, sweetly, that she take him to the Met, and she found herself mesmerized, and saying yes to him, although it hadn’t been a question at all.
The next Saturday, as they dodged crowds of tourists taking photos of masterpieces with their phones, she watched his face as he looked at painting after painting with the same expression he had worn since she met him on the steps outside the building: nothing. Blankness. Her heart began to sink. The man who had seemed so interesting and alluring in the warmth and dark light of the bar now looked lifeless, and she had just decided that she wouldn’t be seeing him again when they stopped in front of Vermeer’s Young Woman with a Water Pitcher. Looking at the delicate painting, the rich tapestry in one corner, the open light streaming through the window and illuminating the young woman’s face as she concentrated, a moment caught forever, as precise and clean as a photograph but so much deeper, so much more, he looked stunned. His mouth moved slightly, and his eyes widened, and suddenly, his whole face opened up for her, like a pair of shutters being flung back to let in the morning sun.
“I like this one,” he said, nodding, certain, authoritative. “It’s so simple, but the light. I love the light. Have you seen this one before?”
She had. And so she didn’t need to look at it, she could just look at him, catch a brief glimpse into his open face, before it closed again.
And now she stood, months later, with him in a foreign country, a place she lived in because of him, asking him to help her understand why his mother was living with them, why she had come in and was systematically working to dislodge Rachel’s already tenuous hold on her new life.