“You have to do a puja, a big puja,” the Brahmin says. “And to ensure that your mother’s soul rests in peace, you must give a golden mango to fifty noble Brahmins.”
The king thinks it is a wonderful idea and decides to do accordingly, only he thinks fifty to be a small number and invites every Brahmin in his kingdom.
“Every Brahmin got a golden mango?” I would ask Thatha the same question each time. “How many gold mangoes would that be, Thatha?”
“Hundreds,” Thatha would say and then would come to the part I loved the most.
Tenali Rama, seeing his Lord and Master being swindled, decides to teach the Brahmins a lesson. After the king’s puja, Raman shows up at the temple and asks the Brahmins to come home with him as his mother had also recently died of an unfulfilled wish. Expecting more goodies the Brahmins follow Raman to his house.
When they get there they find several branding irons resting in hot fire. “What is that for, Raman?” the court priest asks and Raman folds his hands and raises them over his head (Thatha would do the same with one hand while the other would hold me), “My mother died of rheumatism and her last wish had been to be branded at her knees to ease the pain. But I am no king, I can’t afford gold rods, so these will have to do.”
I would cover my mouth with shock. “Did Raman brand the Brahmins, Thatha?”
“No.” Thatha would laugh. “They all ran away, leaving their golden mangoes behind. Seeing them run, the king realizes that he was being conned and thanks Raman for showing him the truth.”
“Are all Brahmins cheats?” I asked once, and Thatha had shaken his head violently. “No, Priya Amma, this is just a story. Brahmins are honest and good people. Tenali Raman was also a Brahmin . . . and he is good, isn’t he?”
There were more stories, some about Raman, Jataka tales about Bodhisattva, stories about Jain and Buddha, about Lord Indra, The Mahabharata, The Ramayana . . . everything. Thatha had been my source of Indian history and mythology. He had been a great storyteller, just like his brother Kathalu-Thatha had been. But after I grew too old to sit on his lap, storytelling was replaced with discussions and now, finally, we had reached an impasse.
“I know I eventually have to go to Thatha’s house and face the music, I just don’t want to,” I said to Nate.
“Then come home with me,” he suggested. “Call and let them know you are at home. A good night’s sleep will put everything in perspective for everyone.”
“I don’t know where Nanna went and . . .” I shrugged.
Nate nodded and put his arm around me. He pulled my head against his shoulder and kissed me on my forehead.
“Why is it that you are so close to Thatha and I am not?” Nate asked.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly, and turned to look at him. Objectively speaking he was quite a handsome young man and a wonderfully sensitive one as well. He got that from Nanna.
“Lata thinks you’re aloof.”
“Lata is a ditz,” Nate said.
“She’s not that much of a ditz,” I said, remembering the conversation I’d had with Lata and Sowmya just that evening. “She’s actually quite a woman.”
“She is pregnant again,” Nate said in disgust. “Ma told us and . . . it’s just such a farce. The old man wants clean blood, and what the fuck does that mean, anyway?”
Unlike several boys his age, Nate’s vocabulary was not littered with obscenities, so the fact that he was using one clearly told me about his strong feelings regarding the matter.
“They’ll never give you their permission, if that’s what you are looking for,” he said, moving on to the topic I didn’t want to discuss. “And why does it matter, Priya?”
“I don’t know,” I told him honestly. “I need them in my life. I need you in my life. You’re family.”
“Need is a very strong word,” Nate reminded me.
“I know,” I said. “Oh, how I know.”
We sat in silence then and watched the cars pass by and for the first time since I had been back, I truly savored India. I had sat right here, on one of these benches seven years ago, watching cars pass by and the lights in Begumpet across Tankbund wink at me. I had sat here and wondered about my new life that awaited me in the United States, the land of opportunities. I couldn’t wait to leave, to get on that plane and fly away from my parents’ home and all the problems that came with it.
“Why don’t you want to leave India, Nate?” I asked since I had been so eager to find the new world.
“I like it here,” Nate said. “Why would I leave? Why did you leave?”
I wiped my sweaty hands on my salwar as I contemplated his question. “I left because everyone was leaving. All my classmates had written their GRE, some had married men in the U.S. and others were looking for a groom there. But I think the strongest reason was escape. I wanted to get away from here, from Ma and Nanna and Thatha and the whole family.”
“But you still want their approval?”
“Yes,” I said. “Ironic, isn’t it? I spent so much time trying to get away and now I’m scared that I won’t be allowed back in. They’ve always been my safety net. I have always been daughter, granddaughter, sister, niece just as I have been woman and fiancée. It is who I am. I can’t divorce the family any more than I can myself. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I think so,” Nate said. “I know it looks like I don’t care about them, that I’m aloof. The ditz is right. I am aloof. I don’t . . . You were always closer to them, Priya. I never thought I could compete. I never thought that Thatha would get close to me the way he was to you. Even with Nanna, I don’t have that closeness you do. I envy you . . . a lot.”
“Well, envy no more. I’m losing it all,” I said, a little flabbergasted that the nonchalant Nate was after all not all that nonchalant. How we had all misjudged him.
“No, you’re not.” Nate sighed. “They’ll never let go of you. Nanna loves you, he loves us both, I know that, but I know that he has this . . . this special relationship with you.”
I didn’t deny it. I had always known that Nanna and I had a closer bond. Maybe because I was the firstborn, maybe because I was a daughter, maybe because I was Priya.
“And how about Ma?”
“Ma will surprise you,” Nate said, and smiled. “She may nag, she may be a real pain in the ass, but when the chips are down, she’ll be there for both of us. No question about it.”
“I wish I was that confident,” I said. “She slapped me . . . twice in two days now.”
“That’s her way of showing love,” Nate said, and we both burst out laughing.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Nick earlier?” Nate asked. “You’ve been together for . . .”
“Three years and living together for two of them,” I supplied. “I didn’t want to tell anyone here. Frankly, I was scared what your reaction would be. An American, a foreigner! I . . . just didn’t want to say anything to anyone about him.”
“What’s he like?”
“He’s nice, a good guy. An accountant, how is that for stable and steady?” I said, and Nate grinned. “Accountant Nick! He is . . . he plays racquetball; it’s like squash. You’d like him. He hates Madonna, loves Julia Roberts, thinks Salma Hayek is sexy and would like to sleep with Halle Berry. He’s tall, dark, and handsome, at least I think so. He’s stubborn, hates long lines, does this crazy thing when he has the hiccups. Drives me nuts.”
“What does he do?” Nate asked.
“He drinks three sips of water from a tall glass and after each sip he holds the glass up and looks at the bottom of the glass. Apparently it stops the hiccups.”
“And does it?”
“That’s the weird part, it does,” I said smiling. “I miss him. He wanted to come. Said it would be a Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? moment. I told him it would be more a Guess Who’s Getting Lynched? moment.”
“It would definitely have been interesting,” Nate said, getting up from the bench. “You’ve got
to believe, Priya, that love conquers all. You should’ve brought him along. Let the old people deal with it head-on.”
“Oh, this is scary enough. That would’ve been worse and I don’t need to be scared any more.”
I got up and looked at the bench longingly. I would’ve been content to sit there all night with Nate, but it was time to go.
There was still no sign of my father when I got back. Thatha and Ammamma had already gone to sleep; their bedroom lights were turned off and their door was halfway closed.
Ma and Sowmya were lying on straw mats in the hall talking. When I came and sat beside Sowmya, Ma turned away.
“I’ll go and sleep up on the terrace,” I told Sowmya, and she asked me to wait a second.
“Akka, I will go up with Priya. Is that okay?” she asked.
“Fine,” Ma muttered and got up. “I will sleep in the veranda bedroom then and wait for Ashwin to get back. Where has he gone? All your fault, Priya.”
I watched her walk out of the living room with detachment. I knew she was angry but now she was ready to blame me for global warming and war as well. I couldn’t take her seriously when she was so excessive.
“Jayant and Lata went home?” I asked.
“Sleeping in the dining room bedroom,” Sowmya said, and we rolled up the mats, gathered the pillows, and got ready for bed.
It was a beautiful warm night, despite the mosquitoes being out in the millions. We lit a mosquito coil close to our mats and lay down facing each other, our cheeks pillowed against our folded hands.
“Where did you go?” Sowmya asked.
“Nate took me to meet his girlfriend and then we sat at Tankbund,” I told her.
“Is she nice-looking?”
“Yes, very cute. But North Indian,” I said. “Ma will hate her.”
“Abba, your Ma will hate anyone Nate marries, even if it is a girl she picks out herself,” Sowmya said.
“I wonder where Nanna went.” I sighed.
Sowmya sat up and looked at me. “I need your advice on something.”
“What?” I sat up, too.
“I want to talk to Vinay . . . all alone. How can we do it?”
“Why?”
“They said they would make a proposal. They need to look through the horoscopes or something before they—”
“When did this happen?” I asked.
“They called right after you left,” Sowmya said in exasperation. “Things have never come this far before so Nanna is very happy, ready to give anything to get rid of me. But . . . I want to talk to him and if he is not to my liking, I don’t want to marry him.”
I stared at her and blinked. “What?”
“What do you mean, what? Just because I am thirty years old doesn’t mean I will marry any man who comes my way. He is nice. He seems like a good person, but I want to talk to him,” she said, strong determination in her voice. “What do you think?”
“I think you definitely should talk to the man before you—”
“I have his phone number. I need for you to call him and set up a meeting for tomorrow,” Sowmya said, talking over me, as if she had it all planned. “We can meet at Minerva. And you will have to come along. I need you for support.”
I sat up and blew out some air. “If they find out . . .”
“You are already in trouble, this won’t make things any worse for you,” she said with unfailing logic. “So will you call him?”
“Sure,” I said. “First thing tomorrow morning.”
“Good. It is a Sunday so he will be at home,” Sowmya said, smiling. “I am going to change my life, Priya. I am going to change it. I am not just going to sit down and let them do what they want. . . . I am going to decide what I want to do.”
I was amazed. This was not the Sowmya I knew. But the Sowmya I knew was seven years in the past. This Sowmya had had experiences and epiphanies I didn’t even know about. This Sowmya was a revelation.
“What happened?”
“You,” she said sincerely. “You are like me, Priya. We come from the same background, same place, but you have a different life. I want to have a different life, too. I don’t mean I want to marry an American or anything, I just want to do the things I want to do.”
“Like?”
“Work. I got a job offer to be an assistant at this doctor’s office. She is a friend of mine and she needs help. Nanna said there was no way I could do it, but now, I think I will,” she said, her face lighting up with the new life she was dreaming up. “And I want to stop wearing saris. I want to only wear salwar kameez. This sari is so uncomfortable. And I want to go to America to see your house and see that country.”
“You are very welcome to visit,” I said, enjoying this new Sowmya.
“So you will call him, right?”
“Absolutely.”
Part Five
Leftovers
Perugannam (Curd Rice)
2 cups cooked rice
1 ½–2 cups thick curd (yogurt)
½ cup milk
salt to taste
½ cup fried peanuts
1 tablespoon finely chopped coriander leaves
Ingredients for the Seasoning
1 teaspoon oil
½ teaspoon mustard seeds
½ teaspoon Bengal gram (yellow dal)
½ teaspoon split black gram (black dal)
1 dry red chile, broken into bits
1 green chile, finely chopped
1-inch piece of ginger, finely chopped
5 curry leaves
In a wok, heat oil and when the oil is very hot, add the mustard seeds. Once the mustard seeds start to crackle, add the rest of the spices and fry until they are golden brown. Be careful not to burn the spices. Add the thick curd to the wok and stir until it liquefies and mixes well with the spices. Put all the rice inside as well and mix thoroughly so that it is completely coated with the yogurt and spice mixture. Garnish with peanuts and coriander. Serve warm or cold with lime or mango pickle.
Bridegrooms and Boyfriends
I woke up to the sound of metal crashing against cement. I sat up, zombielike, when there was another sharp crash. I looked around with blind, sleep-ridden eyes.
Who the f——?
Sowmya was still sleeping and from what I could make out from my wristwatch, which wasn’t much, considering I was still half-asleep, it was almost six in the morning.
I rose unsteadily and walked to the edge of the terrace and leaned over to investigate the noise and see if I could yell some sense into the noise-maker.
I smiled sleepily. How could I have forgotten?
Thatha was standing by the tulasi plant in his white panchi and looking like he belonged in the fifteenth century or some old-fashioned Telugu movie. His fingers were strumming the white thread that crossed his chest and hung loosely on his body, as if it were a guitar. Like every devout Brahmin, Thatha invoked the Gayatri mantram every morning to welcome the day. I watched him circle the holy tulasi plant and pour water into the cement pot with the offensive brass mug that had fallen on the cement floor and woken me up.
His deep voice boomed to me and even though I couldn’t hear the words, I could feel them, words that were forbidden to women. Sanskrit, sacred words from the Vedas, passed from generation to generation, secretly, to men, by men.
Om
Bhur bhuva swah
Tat savitur varnyam
Bhargo devasya dhimahi
Dhiyo yo nah prachodayat
Om
The words were Sanskrit, unadulterated by bad pronunciation or lack of knowledge. He knew what he was talking about, but I don’t think he really understood what the mantram stood for.
I knew; I had asked Nanna and he had explained to both Nate and me. The mantram stood for enlightenment. It was the way a Brahmin man could become a better person. It was to invoke the sun god and ask the light of the generous sun to enlighten the reader of the mantram, so that he could love all, wipe away hate, and start taking the journ
ey that would bring him closer to the supreme god.
“Why can’t girls say it? Why only boys?” I’d asked Nanna.
“I don’t care if you want to say it,” he said. “Do you want to wake up at six in the morning every day and say the mantram?”
Considering that waking up at seven-thirty in the morning to catch the school bus at eight-thirty was a trial, I shook my head and decided that maybe it was okay that Nate would have to be the one to wake up early, not me. As things turned out, Nate refused to have his thread ceremony done and was planning to never have it done.
“If I don’t feel like a Brahmin, then why should I follow this farce?” he asked my mother, who had then blistered his ear about tradition and culture. He responded to that by saying that just yesterday he’d had beef biriyani at an Irani Café in Mehndipatnam and didn’t care all that much about tradition and culture. Ma was so shocked she never brought the topic up again, mostly, we believed, out of fear that Nate would disclose the meat . . . no, no, that could even be overlooked, but the beef-eating incident to Thatha and the others. That couldn’t and wouldn’t be overlooked.
“Didn’t the boy know that the cow was sacred?” Ma had demanded of Nanna, whose job it had suddenly become to instruct Nate on how to be a good Brahmin.
“Maybe if you read the Gayatri mantram like my father does, your son will learn something,” Ma had told Nanna, who had turned a deaf ear to her demands and pleas in that regard.
But reading the mantram was just a formality. Thatha didn’t really believe in what it was telling him, to hate none and love all. He did what he did because it was expected of him, because his father before him had said the same mantram in the same way with the same passion and lack of understanding. If Thatha understood and abided by the mantram he would not have a problem accepting Nick or anyone else that I might want to marry.
This was a man whose life was steeped in ritual. Life and tradition lay alongside each other and bled into each other. Thatha didn’t question tradition but accepted it just the way he accepted waking up every morning at six to perform the Gayatri mantram.
The Mango Season Page 17