Americans only care about one thing, thought Monisha. She shrugged her shoulders. “That’s not such a big deal.”
“He could always read the Kama Sutra,” joked Tina. The girls giggled when they remembered how they’d found the book on Professor Bastikar’s desk, and seen the portly Maharajas contorting themselves.
The laughter stopped abruptly.
“I just can’t imagine marrying someone who I don’t love,” said Tina.
“It works differently over there,” said Monisha.
“Yes, but you’re over here. And you have been for twenty-seven years!”
Tina’s rising voice prompted angry stares from onlookers. A suited man rose up from behind his book, like a jack-in-the box. She softened her tone. “I know you learned Indian dances and Hindi, but you know how to ski and skate too.”
Monisha let out a deep sigh. Her joyous bit of news was turning into a heated debate. Tina would now have to be given the explanation she had learned by rote at her mother’s knee.
“I know it seems strange, but the Indian way is scientific. It’s a law of the universe. Things that start off big get smaller with time, and things that start off small can grow. Love is the same.”
Tina shot her a quizzical stare and sipped her coffee.
Monisha continued. “Couples here fall head over heels in love, they get married… It all starts off big and falls away gradually. There, you meet your husband and the love grows. Bit by bit.”
There was another stunned silence. Tina fumbled for the right words.
“I get the theory, but don’t you want to try before you buy? Especially for such a big decision.”
It was getting late. The argument had to end somewhere. Monisha looked at her watch and rose from her chair. “Arranged marriages have been around for thousands of years,” she said. “They’ve stood the test of time.”
Tina stared glumly at her coffee, then swigged it down. Despite the explanations, she was none the wiser. Running off to marry a complete stranger made absolutely no sense. Then again, she’d seen couples tie the knot after years of dating and get divorced. It wasn’t science. Whichever way you did it, you made an educated guess and hoped for the best.
Monisha said her goodbyes with a saccharin-sweet hug. It didn’t really matter what Tina thought. When law school was finished, she could end up anywhere.
Outside, the chilling wind blew ferociously and brought with it a clattering of hailstones. Monisha walked swiftly to her car, shaking off the icy pellets as she went.
Friends come and go, like the weather, she told herself.
Marriage and family were forever.
3
Whether it was two in the morning or two in the afternoon, Mumbai airport was jam-packed and chaotic. Scores of people piled in and out of aircrafts, across travellators, and up and down escalators: impeccable air stewardesses in single file, with their noses pointed in the air. Scruffy bandit-types claiming odd-looking parcels from baggage belts. Scraggly haired women, their wailing children and pock-marked husbands, all carried in the crush of the immigration queue.
Monisha pushed and jabbed her way into the cool arrivals hall. One giant lunge through the revolving doors and she was finally out into the spicy, sweat-filled air. Amidst the sound of spluttering machines, jingly Bollywood tunes and cries of “Taxi, taxi,” she heard someone call her name. Frantically, she scanned the crowd.
Behind a group of begging children stood Aunt Romila, waving an outstretched hand and grinning. Monisha scurried towards her. Out of nowhere, a coolie swooped in and grabbed the suitcases. As the ladies strolled across the busy pavement to the waiting jeep, he trailed behind them.
“To Sitara Road,” she said to her driver. “Remember my niece from America? She’s a doctor now.”
He nodded approvingly.
Monisha scrambled in. No doubt they’d start discussing their ailments soon. Her stomach whirred as they hit the bumps in the road. Ugh! In just twenty minutes, the travelling would be over and the real journey would begin. She watched the men through the tinted glass, picking out suited ones from shabby workers. A man clutching a briefcase caught her eye. Then another, dressed in a tailored suit, reading a paper. Any one of them could be standing in front of her tomorrow. Thump! Thump!
The jeep screeched to a halt in front of the ramshackle, old house. There it stood, jutting out from the edge of Sitara Road, their holiday home: too ugly for fashionable Juhu. Overgrown creepers hid its paint-chipped windows, and on the rusted-iron side gates, in bold black letters, was a message for hungry realtors: ‘THIS HOUSE IS NOT FOR SALE’.
Its sprawling courtyard and lop-sided rooms had been the childhood abode of Leela Bastikar, her sister Romila, and her brothers Rohit and Shyam. Over the years, the interior had been redecorated dramatically. Nowadays, the house was mainly used by the Bastikars on their visits to Mumbai. And it was to here that Mrs Bastikar had shifted for the past month to undertake her matchmaking duties.
As the weighty, wooden front door creaked open, the emerald and grey swirls on the marble floor sprang into view. Monisha stepped in and removed her shoes. Her eyes wandered round the room in search of her favourite piece of furniture, the ten-seater dining table, made of the darkest mahogany. When she saw it, her heart skipped a beat! There it lay, buried under piles of newspapers opened at the matrimonial columns. Her mother had probably spent hours trawling through them.
In the lounge room, a man with slickly oiled hair and a handlebar moustache sat slouched in an armchair. When he saw her, he rose and placed one palm against the other, in the traditional namaste greeting. She reciprocated, hoping that he wasn’t a prospective bridegroom.
Suddenly, Leela Bastikar flew out of the kitchen, in a whirlwind of pink chiffon.
“How are you, Monisha?” she asked, and without waiting for an answer she waved the flat of her hand excitedly in front of the gentleman. “This is Mr Shastri, the astrologer. With his kind help, from hundreds, we have made a list of twenty. And, of these, eight have agreed to visit.”
The aroma of ginger tea filled the air; a new male helper brought over a tray with four cups. Monisha eased herself onto the couch. So, this was how millions of men, became hundreds, she thought. And hundreds became eight. Eight! Her heart soared into a gallop rhythm. How was she going to do this in a month?
She’d only managed half a cup before she was whisked off to the beauty parlour down the road. Here her swollen feet were descaled, and her arms and legs waxed until they were red raw. Her overgrown eyebrows were threaded into neat arcs and her skin scrubbed with knobbly turmeric, until it lightened. All throughout the painful grooming process, she winced and groaned.
“You have to look your best, young lady,” said her aunt. “The first boy is an ear, nose and throat specialist. And quite wealthy, I hear.”
That night, Monisha dreamed of stunning mansions, twin sinks and garden parties. When the morning came, she was jittery. She sifted through a pile of outfits. Which one would impress the most? It had to be white. Pure, virginal white.
She chose a white salwar suit embroidered with fine gold detail. She lightened her face with more turmeric and carefully applied her makeup. After breakfast, she was instructed by her mother to stay put in her room. There she waited, staring at film magazines, listening for the hum of a car’s engine. When she heard it, her heart stopped.
A moment later, the front door opened. Then came a cacophony of sounds. Shoes slapping against the marble floor. Voices. An older man’s first. Her mother’s. An older woman’s. Her aunt’s. Marathi. English. Broken English. Marathi. Hindi. Leather sofas squelching. Then spoons, glasses and cups clinking.
Finally, the sound of her own name echoed from the stairwell.
She took a deep breath and descended as gracefully as she could, pretending not to notice the grey-haired man and woman sitting on the sofa.
“Namaste,” said Monisha. As she bent her head and folded her palms, she noticed the gentleman’s Ralph Lauren shirt.
Dr and Mrs Shirke rose in unison and returned her greeting. They studied her closely and curled their lips into tentative smiles. Instantly, she felt as if something was wrong. Then came overwhelming dread. They didn’t like what they saw. They didn’t like her.
Dr Shirke forced himself to speak. “So, are you all set for residency?”
Monisha met his gaze briefly. “I guess so.” She glanced down at the marble floor and followed its elaborate swirls. What was wrong with her?
Dr Shirke turned directly towards her mother, and launched into a monologue about the impact of globalisation on Mumbai and the death of small business. Small businesses were apparently the back bone of India. Monisha was only half listening. After ten minutes, he looked up at the clock and glanced sideways at his wife, who nodded submissively.
“So sorry, Mrs Bastikar,” he shook his head. Monisha froze.
“But we have to make our way now. We are going to a lunch party and… with the traffic.”
Leela Bastikar nodded enthusiastically.
“Of course! Peak hour, rush hour, Saturday afternoon – traffic all the time.”
Once more, the couple rose in unison. Mrs Bastikar escorted them to the door, where they stopped to put on their shoes. “You have our number,” she said.
“Yes,” replied Dr Shirke. He turned back towards Monisha. “Best of luck… with everything.”
An eerie silence descended across the room.
“What was that all about?” asked Monisha, feeling a mixture of rejection and relief when they’d gone. “And where was their son?”
Aunt Romila called for another pot of tea. “Usually the boy’s parents come to see the girl first and if they like her, they arrange another meeting.”
“They seemed nice,” said Leela Bastikar.
Her sister shook her head vehemently. “Just a rich family with high expectations. Didn’t you notice they were both fair skinned and that he was short?”
“So, I was too dark and too tall for them,” said Monisha. It made sense now, the disappointment in their faces.
Aunt Romila sipped her tea quietly. It was a while before she spoke.
“Don’t be upset, Monisha. You have to be prepared for this… Besides, you might do the same to someone else.”
“Tomorrow is another day,” said Leela Bastikar, shrugging her shoulders.
All afternoon Monisha sulked in front of the television. Dinner came and went; she excused herself after a few mouthfuls. When she saw the freshly ironed salwar suit in her room, ready for the next day, she tossed it on the floor. All along she’d assumed that she would be the one making the choices. How utterly stupid of her. She had completely forgotten to consider that a man would have to like her too.
And, in India, before anything else, she would have to get past his parents.
4
Two days later came promising news. The next young bachelor from Mrs Bastikar’s shortlist had been orphaned at the age of eight. That meant no parents! His sister would be accompanying him instead.
On the day of his arrival, there was pandemonium. The helper was sent back and forth to the market in search of the best Darjeeling tea. The marble floor was scrubbed and polished so often that Aunt Romila slipped. Monisha had stayed in her room all morning, trying on outfits that were too tight or too loose. But, after what seemed like hours of preparation, everything happened in a split-second. The doorbell rang, Aunt Romila called her name and she bolted out, without her slippers.
From the top of the stairs she could see a scruffy-looking man with mullet-style hair. Tall, thin and dark skinned, he wore an oversized, checked jacket and white running shoes. First, he slid down the sofa. Then, rather annoyingly, he began tapping it with his fingers.
Monisha made her way down and greeted her guests. The man’s sister began the conversation with a nervous jumble of words, about the weather, the traffic and the swirly marble floor. It was a while before anyone else could get a word in.
Between mouthfuls of samosas and sips of Darjeeling tea, the woman spoke about the loss of her parents and her struggle to raise her brother alone. She’d fought tooth and nail to get him educated. Now, to her credit, he’d become a doctor and passed the US exams. Unfortunately, this meant he might leave her. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
Monisha listened sympathetically. She imagined being married to the young man. First, they’d have to visit the hairdresser, then the menswear department. On the plus side, there would be no in-laws, apart from his over-protective sister.
Suddenly, her trail of thoughts was interrupted when she felt something rustling against her palm. It was a CV.
His exam scores were abysmal. Utterly, utterly abysmal.
But Monisha didn’t want to make him feel like the Shirkes had made her feel; she hid her dismay and smiled sweetly. Ask him something, she told herself. Anything!
Except to do with exams. Or residency, which he’d never make.
“What do you like doing in your spare time?”
“I like danthing”.
Heavens above, he had a lisp as well! Danthing? Her list was expanding. A new hairstyle, a new wardrobe, an exam re-sit and speech therapy. This was going to be impossible!
She gulped down a samosa. Perhaps he’d just mispronounced the word. She could ask him another question to check. It would have to be work-related. She was running out of ideas.
“Have you applied for jobs?”
“I didn’t get into residenthy this time round.”
There was a deathly silence. Leela Bastikar broke it by offering everyone another round of tea. They all declined. “Monisha will be starting at St Anthony’s when she goes back.”
“In Boston,” she added.
Monisha stared down at her feet and then at the swirly marble floor. How did her mother manage to choose such awkward moments?
The man’s sister clambered up from the couch. “He’ll be applying again,” she said, fidgeting with her handbag.
Monisha shook the young man’s hand. A confusing current of emotions hit her at once. Did she want to see him again? There were positives: no in-laws and he was teetotal. But his prospects were limited. His lisp too audible. She felt sorry for him, but that couldn’t be a sound basis for a marriage.
“Best of luck,” she blurted.
Her stomach churned when she realised she’d delivered the same parting words as Mr Shirke, with the same hint of smugness and finality.
An uncomfortable silence lingered as the sibling pair made their way to the door with heads bowed low.
“It’s all so cruel,” said Monisha when they’d gone. “He must feel awful.”
“Don’t waste your sympathy, Monisha,” warned Aunt Romila as she rushed off to pay her obligatory weekly visit to her in-laws. “Young doctors like him get snapped up in an instant.”
At midday, the hallway phone began ringing. Someone was calling to cancel a meeting and they didn’t wish to rebook. Mrs Bastikar looked a little nervous. Half an hour later, it happened again. Another cancellation. She held the corner of her sari and wiped the sweat off her brow. Time was passing, and the number of suitors was rapidly diminishing.
Ten minutes later, the phone rang once more. Leela Bastikar clutched her chest and traipsed towards it, heavy hearted. Within seconds her face broke out into an enormous smile. “Someone is coming this afternoon!” she screeched at the top of her lungs. “The uncle of the boy from Connecticut.”
The helper raised his eyebrows and mumbled something about not having an appointment. Monisha voiced her own concerns. How would they manage without Aunt Romil
a?
Leela Bastikar waved them off, then struggled up the stairs. There was no time, she said, groaning as her knees cracked. No time to lose! They were four suitors down and right now she absolutely had to change her sari.
Her guest was a Mr Sunil Vanjare, the paternal uncle of the strongest contender so far, Rajesh Vanjare, a radiologist from Connecticut. The Vanjare family lived in Pune, a couple of hours away by train. Sunil Vanjare had business in Mumbai, so he promised his brother, the father of Rajesh, that he’d call in on the Bastikars.
When the doorbell rang, Monisha jumped up. She’d been under strict orders to remain upstairs in her room. But, there, she felt excluded. She needed a hideout, from where she could at least listen in. After hunting around, she found a bulky wooden chest, which she managed to drag onto the landing, to crouch behind.
Sunil Vanjare arrived at the door at quarter past three. He wore a starched cotton dhoti and carried a hand-carved walking stick. And he seemed a delightful old man as he described every minute of his journey over, in a warm melodic voice.
He told Mrs Bastikar that the Vanjares were a highly traditional family and that he was its current head, which is why his brother had asked him to pay them a visit. He was always choosing brides for relatives and writing advertisements in matrimonial columns, but weddings were becoming a chore. Last year he’d been to twelve. Nothing annoyed him more than having to come back and forth to Mumbai to collect his rent money from the bank. Why the matter couldn’t be dealt with in Pune he did not know. Banks were a complete nuisance, he complained.
When he saw Leela Bastikar glance up at the clock, Sunil Vanjare changed the topic. “Rajesh is a perfect gentleman. Ever since he was born, he has brought us nothing but joy! He could have chosen to study in Delhi or Bangalore, but he preferred to be near us, so he stayed in Pune.”
Mrs Bastikar smiled and called for tea.
“There is nothing in the world like Darjeeling tea,” said Sunil Vanjare, as the helper placed a tray of coconut sweets and a freshly made pot in front of him. “I can’t imagine drinking it out of a bag.”
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