Maple and Spice

by Moushmi Biswas

  Leela Bastikar frowned. “Marriage is about compromise,” she said before turning towards her daughter. “We won’t give you up to the Kulkarnis for the entire day, Monisha, maybe from three till seven.”

  Monisha did the sums in her head. Two hours alone with her in-laws and two with Shailesh present. Give or take. Ugh! It seemed an awfully long time.

  But Aunt Romila thought it was a perfectly good suggestion. That way, they’d get to finish the shopping and squeeze in an afternoon nap.

  “While you natter with your mother-in-law!” added Riya, slapping Monisha on the thigh.

  Monisha put on a brave face and rubbed her thigh. Riya’s slaps always hurt, but her mouth hurt more than her hand.

  “Anyway, Shailesh wants me to learn some of her recipes,” she said sheepishly.

  Suddenly a spoon shook, rattled and spun onto the floor. A cup clunked noisily against a saucer. Her mother shot her the most fearsome glare. “You already know how to cook, Monisha… I TAUGHT YOU.”

  A deathly silence followed, interrupted only by the slurping of tea. Professor Bastikar cleared his throat. “Oh Leela, just think when Swanker marries, he may want to eat some things that you make.”

  Leela Bastikar frowned so deeply that the lines on her forehead appeared in triplicate. She rose swiftly, leaving her omelette untouched. Within seconds she’d reached the staircase. She struggled up, one step at a time, until her voice reverberated from the landing.

  “MAKE SURE HE HAS YOU HOME FOR DINNER.”

  As everyone else left the table, the helpers carried on past, pretending not to have heard a thing.

  For the next four hours Aunt Romila’s jeep trundled merrily between bumpy roads and air-conditioned shopping malls. The ladies giggled as Riya paraded round with lacy lingerie slipped over her clothes. “Am I gorgeous, Shailesh? Don’t you just want to eat me?” she repeated as she twirled.

  Monisha watched with awe as thick bundles of cash were handed over to shop assistants in return for bags piled with a ridiculous amount of clothing. There was beachwear, travel-wear, honeymoon-wear, day salwar suits and night saris. How could a bride need so much?

  “Enjoy it while you can,” said Aunt Romila. “Before the thorns begin to prick.”

  At precisely half past two, the jeep thudded to a halt in front of the gleaming white house. Her mother, Aunt Romila and Riya jumped out, clutching bags and boxes. A pain shot through her. It had already started. Any minute now, the drab, grey walls. Prick. Ayesha’s blank face. Prick. Mrs Kulkarni’s widow’s sari. Prick. The potted roses studding the courtyard disappeared in a blur of pink and red tears.

  It was Ayesha who answered the door, puffy-eyed, having just woken. In the reception room, sari blouses were stacked high on a chair. Loose threads dangled everywhere. A sewing machine clattered in the background. “I’ll take over mother,” she said, nodding a quick hello and picking up a few blouses.

  The clattering stopped. Mrs Kulkarni hobbled towards them.

  “You couldn’t have come sooner? I’ve spent all morning roasting and grinding spices”

  Monisha turned her head and rolled her eyes. Yikes! Ayesha had caught her. Her cheeks began to burn.

  “She won’t have all morning to roast and grind spices mother, she’s a doctor.”

  Mrs Kulkarni pouted.

  “But it’s for the mutton curry… his favourite.”

  Monisha walked briskly towards the kitchen. It was too late. Ayesha’s eyebrows were raised. Surely she’d tell Shailesh! Her mother’s voice rang out. Marriage is compromise. She took a deep breath and lowered her head. C-o-m-p-r-o-m-i-s-e.

  “Your mother is right. I must learn to make it.”

  Job done. Mrs Kulkarni grinned from ear to ear. Ayesha busied herself with the sari blouses. The baby snored contentedly.

  Monisha jotted down the list of ingredients as Mrs Kulkarni called them out: green cardamom; nutmeg one-quarter; cinnamon stalks times four; roasted cumin seeds; whole coriander seeds; whole black pepper; and seven large cloves of garlic. She flinched and added room freshener, breath freshener and perfume to her list.

  For the next hour, they marinated and basted in silence. The vegetable curries were less trouble. No onions or garlic to rouse the senses, for Hindu widows were forbidden from eating such ingredients. The scent of spices wafted through the tiny kitchen into the room where Ayesha sewed, and onto the blouses. Monisha tiptoed across so as not to wake the baby.

  “Are these for yourselves?” she asked.

  “Heavens no! We have to earn our keep,” replied Ayesha, with a mouthful of pins.

  “Does it pay?”

  Ayesha immediately stopped pinning and looked up. Blouses and repairs didn’t, but proper sewing did. And she’d learn one day. Her eyes shone with hope. For once.

  “In the States, a lot of people take night classes,” said Monisha.

  Ayesha’s half-smile disappeared and the blankness returned. She began gathering up the unfinished garments and stuffing them into a sack. As she opened the shutters, a stream of light shot through the window. Swirls of dust particles bobbed and danced.

  Seema began to scream. Ayesha was going to make tea, Monisha offered to do it instead. On a shelf in the kitchen, she found a jar filled with loose tea leaves. She tossed three spoonfuls into a pan of boiling water and waited for the delicate aroma to fill the air, like when the helper made tea at Sitara Road. But it was a horrible, woody smell that blasted through her nostrils. She screwed up her face.

  A voice came from behind, loud and booming.

  “Busy in the kitchen already. What have you made?”

  It was Shailesh. Mrs Kulkarni handed him a glass of iced lime water.

  “Only tea,” she said, smiling. Disappointment was etched across his face.

  The baby toddled towards him excitedly. Ayesha switched on the TV. Shailesh climbed onto the bed holding the child. He motioned for Monisha to sit. But, before she could, Mrs Kulkarni and Ayesha clambered up.

  Trumpets blasted the news theme. A chilly breeze drifted in. Monisha squeezed herself into a corner and began watching. But the language was more complicated than in Hindi class; she couldn’t follow a word. And the comedy show afterwards went completely over her head. Actors yelled at one other in absurd, falsetto voices while the Kulkarnis wobbled about in fits of laughter.

  Aargh! Monisha winced in pain. Leg cramp. She scrambled up and made for the door, taking deep breaths and rubbing her leg. The tightness went.

  Shailesh walked over to her side.

  “Are you okay?”, he asked.

  No, she wasn’t okay. How could she be? She’d waited almost a year to marry this man. Thoughts pricked away at her flesh. He’d been so taken with her when they’d first met. Prick. But now, with Ayesha and Seema in tow, she didn’t matter as much. Prick. And to the Kulkarni women she was just an interloper. Prick. An intruder who threatened to take away their king. Prick. She fought back tears.

  “I have to get home.”

  Home. Where was that? Twenty-three Adam Court, Burlington or the apartment she shared with Miss OB-GYN and Mr Anaesthesiology, who were never there? Or Sitara Road, Juhu, with Riya’s thigh slapping and Aunt Romila’s snide comments.

  Shailesh took her hand. “Come. I’ll take you. Why don’t we grab a drink first?”

  A lone tear trickled down her face. She lowered her head further, so he wouldn’t see.

  “And some time alone,” he whispered. His breath felt hot on her neck.

  Mrs Kulkarni rose from the bed, glanced at Monisha’s lowered head and then shifted her eyes towards her son.

  “What’s wrong?” she enquired.

  Shailesh dropped Monisha’s hand like a hot potato.

  “Just cramp,” he replied, before dashing off to find a jacket.

  Minutes later they were soaring down Swami
Vivekananda Road on his motorbike. The word ‘BAR’ flashed before them, then a string of lights strewn round a tree. They stopped. The place stank of urine.

  He ushered her to the back and ordered a beer. They found a quiet corner. He pulled his chair closer towards hers. The old Shailesh returned. She felt her knees weakening. She took a deep breath in and held her nose.

  “I hoped we would build our own life, Shailesh.”

  He stared into the distance and took a sip.

  “We will, in time.”

  “But Ayesha?”

  He told her she wanted to open her own business, right here in Mumbai. Monisha tried to suppress a smile. Perhaps things were not going to be quite so bad after all.

  13

  It was the morning before the wedding, and the gifts from the groom’s family were due any minute. Mrs Bastikar, Aunt Romila and Riya stood in the doorway, together with the wives and daughters of Uncle Rohit and Uncle Shyam. Excitement loomed all round. Eventually a car strewn with marigolds pulled up outside the gates. The women shrieked, and Riya let out an ear-piercing wolf whistle.

  The groom’s messenger, a cousin of Shailesh’s, solemnly stepped out of the car. He greeted his audience with a namaste, then proceeded towards the car boot. Intimidated by all the attention, he fumbled with the lock. On the third attempt, it opened, and he pulled out several gift baskets. One by one he carried them into the house. After he finished, the women swarmed round him. He declined their offers of food and drink, and fought his way back towards the door.

  Leela Bastikar had not stopped smiling all morning, but when she discovered the photographer and videographer deeply engrossed in the cricket, she exploded with rage. “I HAVEN’T HIRED YOU TO WATCH TELEVISION!” she hissed as she marched the two men out of the sitting room.

  On her way, she noticed Shailesh’s cousin standing red-faced in the hallway. Instantly her sugary voice returned. “Would you mind bringing in the gifts again, dear boy?” she asked him. “For the cameramen?”

  The groom’s messenger reluctantly delivered the encore. When it was over he hurried back towards his car and ordered the driver to put his foot down. They sped off.

  Monisha had witnessed all the commotion from behind the wooden chest on the landing. Now there was complete calm. All the women in the room quietly hovered over the baskets while the videographer filmed them. When she heard her name being called, she checked herself in the mirror and scurried down to open her gifts, with her pulse racing.

  The first basket contained a jewellery box. Monisha eased off the cellophane. The velvet cover felt soft in her hands. Thwack, she opened the case. It contained a thin rope chain. Gold, at least. Aunt Romila briefly surveyed the baskets herself.

  “That looks like it for jewellery”, she remarked. “No earrings or bangles.”

  “Well, it would be silly for him to send it all by car,” retorted Mrs Bastikar.

  Monisha nodded. Perhaps Shailesh was being cautious. Either that or there was no more jewellery. The thought nagged her a little, but she shrugged it off and moved on to the other gifts.

  The next two baskets were labelled ‘Aunts’ and ‘Cousins’. Monisha pulled off the wrapping paper. Several silk saris tumbled onto the floor: blue, green, pink, red and mustard. Uncle Shyam’s wife picked one up and ran her fingers through it. She screwed up her nose.

  “Cheap,” she said, “feels like a sack.”

  Monisha frowned. Images flickered through her mind: Ayesha, leaving her precious baby and wandering through shopping malls; buying gifts for her brother’s wedding, when her own marriage had just ended. So painfully awkward. She glared at Uncle Shyam’s wife.

  Aunt Romila hastily passed her over another basket. This time the tag said ‘Bride – lunch reception’. She tore open the cellophane. The women gasped when they caught sight of the sari. Monisha lowered her head to avoid their faces.

  “What an awful colour combination!” screeched Uncle Rohit’s wife. “Purple and bright green? What was Ayesha thinking?”

  “It’s obvious,” said Riya, slapping her on the thigh. “She was thinking about an aubergine… in a forest!”

  Uproarious laughter followed. Grunting and snorting echoed throughout the hallway. Monisha flushed with embarrassment. Anger surged through her body, and burned hot on her neck and face. She scrambled up off the floor.

  “OH, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!”

  Monisha made for the stairs, kicking away crumpled bits of cellophane as she went. Soon she was safely in her bedroom, sitting on her bed.

  Mrs Bastikar shot off behind her. Knee pains and hip pains were instantly forgotten. With adrenaline-charged footsteps she climbed the stairs. Within seconds she’d made it into the bedroom.

  “You’re taking things far too seriously, Monisha,” she said, between breaths and after she’d pulled the door shut softly. “They’re all joking with you.”

  The ceiling fan whirled wildly above them. Monisha sat hugging her pillow. Tears choked her throat.

  “They’re not joking, Mother. They’re laughing at me!”

  Mrs Bastikar shook her head. “Nonsense! This is all just fun. My cousins did exactly the same to me when I opened your father’s gifts.”

  Monisha heaved a deep sigh. What was Ayesha thinking? Was purple and green a deliberate choice to make her look bad? Surely not.

  There was a loud knock at the door. It was Aunt Romila, asking to be let in.

  “NO!” cried Monisha.

  “I’ve told Riya off!” her aunt pleaded. “She’s grounded.”

  Monisha turned towards her mother in protest. Riya’s groundings did absolutely nothing to control what came out of her spiteful tongue. She didn’t want to see Aunt Romila now, and she didn’t want to open any more gifts.

  “And I don’t want to look like an aubergine in a forest at the lunch reception!”, she howled.

  Which was precisely why she needed Aunt Romila, her mother explained. For when it came to arranging weddings, Aunt Romila had more experience than anyone.

  Monisha groaned as she rose to unlock the door. Aunt Romila crept in and found herself a corner on the bed. Leela Bastikar explained the dilemma.

  Aunt Romila listened attentively. It was simple; Monisha had to tell her in-laws that she didn’t want to wear the sari, without hurting their feelings. She paused to think. Perhaps she could say that everything else was lovely, but this one particular sari didn’t suit her colouring. Would they mind if she chose another?

  “Shall I ring them now?” asked Monisha, feeling slightly relieved.

  Aunt Romila cringed and shook her head. This sort of thing was always done better in person. She’d have to ask the driver if he was free to take her over.

  Monisha raced out of the door.

  “But have your lunch before you leave,” called her mother. “AND YOU MUST BE BACK BEFORE DUSK BECAUSE—”

  “BECAUSE IT’S BAD LUCK, I KNOW!” shouted Monisha from the bottom of the stairs.

  Aunt Romila rose from the bed and examined her sister quizzically.

  “Do you think Shailesh is making much money?”

  Leela Bastikar hurriedly straightened out the bedding and picked up loose threads and pieces of cellophane off the floor.

  “I think he was doing well, until Ayesha and Seema turned up.”

  Aunt Romila nodded, as if she were in a trance. “Perhaps”, she added, after some time.

  In the sitting room, the rest of the baskets were opened gradually. Small things only. A tan leather handbag and matching coin purse. Pink lipstick and blusher. Gold sandals. Inexpensive, but tasteful.

  The scent of rose petals and chicken biryani filled the air. The ladies made their way to the mahogany dining table. All was forgiven as they wolfed down their festive lunch. There were claps and cheers, and clay pots of pistachio ice cream. Then, a helper came over and whi
spered in Monisha’s ear. Her heart began to beat faster.

  Aunt Romila’s driver tooted the horn four times. Monisha rose and washed her hands. She bid everyone goodbye. Aunt Romila and Mrs Bastikar watched from the doorway as she walked over to the jeep, with slow, hesitant footsteps. There was still one hurdle to cross.

  14

  As soon as Monisha set foot in the flat, Mrs Kulkarni welcomed her with smiles and open arms. Ayesha and Seema came running over to greet her. Her heart fluttered wildly, then butterflies became pangs of guilt. Surely she could have compromised on one sari!

  “Did you get all our presents?” asked Ayesha. Excitement shone in her eyes.

  Monisha avoided her gaze and nodded.

  “So, did they like them?”

  “Yes,” she replied feebly.

  Outside an engine purred. A couple of men chattered away, their voices muffled. She peered out of the window. It was the car strewn with marigolds. The groom’s messenger climbed out first. Then Shailesh. Swoosh! The fluttering began again.

  Seconds later, he burst through the door. His forehead oozed with sweat. His face glowed bright orange. He shot her an incandescent stare, then turned to his mother.

  “They didn’t like the presents,” he announced.

  The driver had overheard. Monisha gulped and sank into her chair. Shailesh ignored her.

  She stood up sharply, her head almost clipping the photograph of Mr Kulkarni. “They were joking, Shailesh! It’s all fun and games.”

  Mrs Kulkarni nodded, then rushed off to the kitchen. She returned with a tray of iced lime water. Shailesh took a glass and sipped thoughtfully.

  “Then why are you here?”

  Monisha tried to remember what Aunt Romila had told her to say, but her heart was pounding too fast. She could pretend she was just passing. But brides wouldn’t generally cross town to make visits the day before a wedding. Or would they? She took a deep breath, and tried to explain that the purple-and-green sari didn’t suit her. But when she saw Shailesh frowning the words came out jumbled.