“You’ll bring him to India for a Bengali wedding, of course,” Auntie says.
“When the time comes.” No matter how long we’ve lived in America, we must return to India for this rite of passage.
I slip into the house to the bathroom. I lean my elbows on the sink and focus on breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I can’t afford to have a panic attack here, in a Kolkata bathroom with a concrete floor and old-fashioned toilet with a chain hanging down.
I gaze into the mirror, at the black kohl smudged beneath my eyes. My hair, cut to my shoulders, is frizzy in the humidity.
“Lina, Lina, on the wall,” I say to my reflection, then let out a crazy giggle. “Who’s the biggest liar of them all?”
Two
I pull myself together and return to the courtyard in time to witness the sindoor daan. Durga’s handsome groom applies the symbol of marriage to her hair part: a red stain of henna called the sindoor. If she’s a good Hindu woman, she’ll wear this symbol until her death.
Durga has a sindoor now. Ah well, who wants to wear henna on her scalp all the time and endure Americans asking, Why do you have blood in your hair? Did you cut your head?
I’m happy for her. May she and her groom, Amit, live a long and blissful life, have many tall, fair-skinned children— all of whom will be married off before the age of twenty—and live happily ever after.
The bride and groom rise to take the traditional seven steps together.
Auntie returns to my side. “Ah, the saptapadi!” she whispers in my ear. Her breath emits the odor of garlic. “Step one pays homage to the Almighty, the next is a promise of cooperation, the third a promise of discipline. The fourth is a promise to discover joy, the fifth is for the sake of children, the sixth is for family prosperity, and the seventh is for the blessing of mutual company.”
“Why don’t they just dance as they do in Hindi movies?” I say. I like the promise to discover joy, but I’d gladly discard the other six steps. The wedding ceremony ends, and the bride and groom kneel to touch the feet of their elders.
There’s a rush as relatives and friends gather to bestow their blessings. I weave through the crowd and hug Durga, who exudes the scents of sweat and jasmine perfume.
“Congratulations, sweetie. Long life together and much happiness.” I hold her warm hands in mine.
Tears brighten her eyes. “Thank you, Didi, and now you’re the one who should be congratulated. Finally engaged. I thought you were too scared!” She kisses my cheeks. She has always called me Didi, “elder sister.”
I’m in such trouble now. “I’m not marrying Pee-wee—I mean, Nikhil Ghose. Just so we have that straight, right?”
“Of course you’re not. But he must be devastated, nah? You have a mystery man!”
“News travels fast in India.” I was in the bathroom for all of five minutes.
“Everyone knows. Congratulations.” Amit shakes my hand with his large one. Close up, he looks even more like Johnny Depp with a permanent tan.
“Thanks, I think.”
“You and your fiancé must visit us in our new house!” Durga says.
“When I’m ready for the boondocks.”
She and Amit live in a protected suburb of Los Angeles, where lawns unfold like perfect green napkins. “Why don’t you move to San Francisco, near me?”
“Is the city any place to raise children, Lina? What with gangs and burglaries—”
“I’ve never had a problem. I have a view of Coit Tower and the city lights. I can even go out on the roof.” I don’t go on the roof too often these days. Roofs are romantic places made for two.
“When you marry, you may have to move,” Durga says. “Children need playgrounds, not views. You can’t have them falling off the roof.”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead.” My skin prickles with irritation. I don’t have a real man, and already she’s talking about children.
“The time is coming sooner than you think, nah?” Amit winks as we’re carried along on a current of guests heading inside for the reception.
In the dining room on the first floor, Auntie has spread a feast on long tables—rice and dahl, curry and potatoes, and sweet roshogollas for dessert. I hide in the crowd, but Ma finds me in a heartbeat. She’s slim, with a moon-shaped face and frizzy hair like mine. She looks truly Indian in her traditional green sari, the bindi on her forehead; you’d never know she wears jeans to the university in Santa Barbara, where she teaches mechanical engineering.
“My little girl is leaving. The full impact is just now hitting, nah?” She presses a hand to her chest as if damming a torrent of tears.
“You can visit them in boondockville.”
Ma shakes her head. “What’s your mother supposed to feel when her daughter is married? Is she not supposed to shed tears of joy and grief?”
“I’m sorry. It’s been a trying day. All the festivities. I hope this goes off well, or people will accuse me of setting up a bad match.”
“Finally, you’ve found a good match for yourself too.” Ma touches my cheek. “Ah, Lina. After Nathu, I never thought—”
“Ma—” I take her hand from my cheek and hold her cool fingers in mine. I want to tell her I lied. I want to explain, but the words won’t come.
“How could you keep this from your mother? Auntie Kiki and Uncle Gula came and gave congratulations, and I was pretending to know all about your fiancé. Lucky I’m a good actress.”
A skill I inherited. “I was planning to tell you, Ma.” I step away and grab a roshogolla from the table.
“Baba’s indigestion has returned, you know. Ulcer last winter, and he never fully recovered. This news will make him well.”
“I’m glad.” I nod and smile as relatives go by, but my stomach turns upside down. Baba’s health problems worry me.
“We’re so happy for you.” Ma’s eyes shine with concentrated joy, and I don’t have the heart to undo my lie. “What’s his name?”
“It’s a secret for the moment.”
“A secret? Why? What does his father do? Does he come from a good family? Does he make enough money to support you?”
“He makes loads of money—”
“Good. You’ll tell all.”
“Not now, Ma. Later. We must entertain the guests.”
“Then soon, nah?” She leaves me with fake answers on my tongue and flits off to join my father, a half-balding man talking to the groom’s father.
I can handle Baba from a distance. He resembles any other Indian father-of-the-bride, puffing with pride. And I can handle him at his office, where he wears a white coat and stethoscope, jots prescriptions, and orders the nurses around. When he tries to order me around, my fingers curl into fists and my jaw clenches. His bushy brows gather like a storm, the tightness in his lips saying I’ve failed him.
I wonder what he thinks of me now. What would he do if he knew the truth? He would disown me; tell everyone he never had a daughter named Lina.
I turn away and find myself trapped among a group of aunts peppering me with questions. I deflect the nosiness with my best vague lies. My stomach churns. I escape to the room where the younger set congregates. Someone cranks up a Bollywood pop song, a high-pitched Hindi soprano over a repetitive synthetic backbeat. Women slip off their sandals and drag their husbands onto the dance floor. Kali dances with a handsome man with long hair tied back in a ponytail. I wonder if this is her Dev. Bellies gyrate, and Pee-wee cuts through the crowd toward me, a piece of mint leaf wedged between his two front teeth.
Didn’t he get the message? I’m off-limits, taken, spoken for, practically hitched.
“One dance?” he asks in his nasal voice. “You’ll not have another chance to be a swinger.”
“I’m … feeling too sick to swing.” I try not to stare at the green leaf in his teeth.
“Come, come. You’ll change your mind about your fiancé when you dance with me.” He grabs my hands, but I yank them away and rush outside
into the courtyard.
I should dance with Pee-wee, try to make the best of the festivities, for Durga’s sake. I should celebrate my sister’s marriage, only I don’t belong. Why? Because my own fiancé died two years ago, left me with unfinished dreams and half-formed wishes? Anger wells in my throat. I stride away from the house, away from the laughter.
Only the servants are here, clearing cups and crumbs from the ground. Flaming torches flicker around the courtyard, sending fingers of shadow across the grass.
I cross my arms over my chest, hunch against the dampness, and hurry out to the lane. My lies pursue me like chattering ghosts. I’ll lose myself along the street between houses. I need time to think.
Threads of distant music drift out into the night. I’m light-years from my family. I glance back at Auntie’s mansion, its window-eyes gazing out with indifference.
Then I turn and leave it all behind. The farther I go, the quieter the night becomes. The occasional bird rustles and twitters in the shrubbery. Pollution bathes the sky in surreal orange. Hard to believe that a city with over a hundred thousand people per square mile can snap into silence at nightfall. Anything could wait around the bend—a monkey, a cobra, a python.
Or a man.
I bump into him as he strides around the corner.
Three
“Excuse me,” I say.
He’s tall, maybe one of the wedding guests. He wears a dhoti punjabi and holds a scruffy gray kitten in the crook of his elbow. I tilt my head back to look up into his face, and I gape like an idiot.
His shoulders are broad, his lips full, his eyelashes long. The hint of a beard shadows his jaw. His eyes glint, almost menacing. Omigod, I’ve been flipping through too many romance novels.
He resembles the Hindu god Krishna, trickster and renowned lover. A thin scar forms an upside-down halfmoon on his left cheek. A battle scar. I imagine him mounting a black stallion, drawing his sword, racing off to combat. What am I thinking? Nobody fights with swords these days. We’re not in Middle Earth. He probably nicked himself shaving. Okay, instead, he throws me over his shoulder and carries me off to his lair, only we’re ten thousand years past all that, too.
His gaze sweeps over me. I’m an escaped prisoner in the spotlight. “Are you lost, ma’am? What are you doing wandering from the party by yourself?” His voice is deep, with a cultured accent.
“You were at the wedding too? At Kiki’s?”
He nods, skewering me with his gaze. “I’m a friend of a friend of the groom. Six degrees of separation.”
“I see. I came out to see the stars at twilight, but I can’t see anything through the smog.” I smooth down my hair.
“This is not the best viewing time. Wait until after astronomical twilight.”
“You’re an astronomer?” He’s not carrying binoculars or a telescope. Only a kitten.
“My family sells granite overseas. India is the number-one stone exporter in the world.”
“I didn’t know—”
“But I have a special interest in the stars. Did you know there are three different moments of twilight? Civil twilight, nautical twilight, and astronomical twilight.”
And I’ve spent my life thinking the sun rose and set in its predictable, cyclical way. “Which one is happening now?”
“The beginning of nautical twilight. General outlines are still visible, but the horizon is indistinct.”
“Fascinating!” I bite my lip. I might’ve drawn blood. “Is that your kitten?”
“I found her in a tree. I’ll take her home and give her some food. Shall we walk?” He offers his free arm. “I’m Raja Prasad, and you are—”
“Lina Ray. The bride is my sister.” The name Raja means “king” in Sanskrit. He acts more like the formal Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice .
I’m Elizabeth Bennet taking his arm, although I look nothing like her. I’m a sun-browned version in a billowing sari.
I catch a whiff of exotic aftershave, wildness hidden beneath Raja’s civilized exterior. I walk fast to keep up with his long, easy strides.
“Ah, you’re Durga’s sister. You live in the States, then?”
“We traveled a lot for my mother’s job. She’s a professor. We all live in different parts of California now.”
“I’ve been to San Francisco, Seattle, New York, Los Angeles. Beautiful country. My younger brother will finish his MBA at Berkeley this year.”
“My alma mater. I live in San Francisco.”
“Then he must look you up.” Raja raises an eyebrow.
I feel his gaze on my profile. I hope there’s no snot hanging from my nose, but I’m afraid to wipe. I don’t have a tissue, and my eyes still water from the dust and smog. I’m casual, cool. I won’t trip over my sari. “Yes, of course. I’ll give you my number. I mean, I’ll have my father give the number to your brother. You know.”
“Of course. You live alone in the city?”
“For now, yes. I have a good job there.”
“What type of business?”
“I work for Lakshmi Matchmakers.”
“Lakshmi, the goddess of love?” His eyebrows rise. “You’re a matchmaker? You don’t strike me as the type.”
“What do you mean, ‘the type’?”
“Matchmakers socialize. But you’re out here walking alone—”
“Matchmaking is different in America. More … anonymous. Much can be done over the Internet.”
“How did you choose such a profession?”
“I fell into it. In university, I learned about measurement and personality profiles, and then I realized I was able to predict who would end up together in my dormitory.”
“Remarkable. The parents trust you?”
“Why wouldn’t they? I’m usually right. I measure body language; the way couples talk to each other. I have a sharp eye for detail. Quite mathematical, really.”
“Ah, so you’re a scientist.”
“You could say that. I’m not your typical matchmaker.”
“How do you know when the match is right?”
“I find two people who fit each other’s requirements. Age, interests, family background. If they’re Indian. Not all my clients are. Then I get a sense of whether the couple has a rapport. They should laugh together. Laughter’s important.”
“That doesn’t sound mathematical.”
“I start with the math, then I resort to intuition.” I want to tell him about the silvery threads, but this would sound silly even to me. You see, a shimmering filament sprouts from a man’s chest and reaches out to latch on to the woman. Then I know the two are meant for each other.
“So you agree that in the end, love cannot be quantified?”
The kitten has fallen asleep in Raja Prasad’s arms, one paw extended. “No, I suppose not, but … Sometimes it’s love at first sight. Sometimes there’s just the promise of love.”
He studies me with intensity, as if he’s holding a magnifying glass between us. “What about you? Do you have a promise of love?”
I stumble over my sari, but regain my balance before falling on my face. I guess he hasn’t heard about my phantom engagement. “I’m, uh … holding out for my dream man. Or maybe I’ll never get married. I don’t know. What about you? Are you married?”
“I would not be walking with you here if I were. Although I’m considering prospects.”
“You’re looking for a wife?”
“She must be an excellent cook, hardworking, willing to care for children and my mother.”
Children? His mother? Next, he’ll want a slave to serve his entire extended family. I imagine I’m Cinderella scrubbing the floor while his evil mother yells at me. She’s the size of a Sherman tank, with twenty rolls of fat on her belly. How would I care for her? I can barely care for myself. On busy days, I forget to eat breakfast.
I smile while I tuck my heart away for safekeeping. Oh, horror. How could I have thought this man could be perfect?
“What about your father?�
� I ask. “Doesn’t he take care of the family?”
“He died some years back.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I look at the ground. Why am I tongue-tied?
“Thank you. So, you see, my wife must be willing to shoulder many responsibilities with grace.”
“What if her shoulders are weak? Maybe she doesn’t lift weights.”
He chuckles. “Perhaps she also has a sense of humor.”
“She’ll need one.” Raja might be dashing on the outside, but on the inside, he’s sexist.
I hold fast to the image of my ideal fiancé. He’ll rub my shoulders after my long day at work. He’ll make dinner. He knows my cooking skill extends to heating up organic cheese enchiladas in the microwave. He loves me all the same, nurtures me, nourishes me, but this Raja Prasad—
“But you know,” he says, “perhaps the only thing I really want is a best friend, a lover, someone with whom to share my life.”
“No, what you want is a Stepford Wife.” I clamp a hand over my mouth. Why did I say that?
“Perhaps. We’ll see.”
“I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding the perfect woman.”
Kali’s melodic voice breaks through the night. She’s calling me from the house.
I disengage my hand from Raja’s elbow. “I should be getting back.”
“Wait. I have something for you.” He digs into his pocket and produces a black stone the size of a robin’s egg. “This type of granite is called Star Galaxy.”
“You needn’t—”
“Consider it a reminder of India.” He gazes into my eyes as if to say, Consider it a reminder of me.
“That’s very kind, but I have nothing to give you.” I take the stone, flecked with white spots. It feels warm and smooth in the palm of my hand. I catch another whiff of his cologne, and a flicker of awareness passes through me.
“You’ve already given me your friendship,” he says. “And your candor. Honesty is of great value to me.”
“Thank you.” Ha! Me, honest? If only he knew.
“If you decide to return to India, bring the stone back to its home by the sea. Now I must take the cat to the car. Good evening.”
Imaginary Men Page 2