Arranged Marriage

by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

  Preeti’s Indian girlfriends were amazed at Deepak’s helpfulness. “I can’t believe it!” one exclaimed. “He actually knows where the kitchen is. That’s more than my brothers do.”

  “Did you see how he refilled her plate for her and brought her her drink?” said another. “And his talk—it’s always, Preeti-this and Preeti-that. Maybe I should let my mother arrange my marriage with her sister-in-law’s second cousin’s son in Delhi, like she’s been wanting to.”

  Even Cathy, who wasn’t easily impressed, pulled Preeti aside just before she left. “I must admit I had my doubts in the beginning, though I didn’t want to say anything—your mother was already being so negative. Just like her I thought he’d turn out to be terribly chauvinistic, like other men I’ve seen from the old countries. And of course I know how stubborn and closemouthed you are! But I think you’ve both adjusted wonderfully. At the risk of sounding clichéd, I’d say you’re a perfectly matched couple!”

  “What was Cathy saying?” Deepak asked later, after all the guests had left. They were at the sink, she washing, he drying.

  “She thinks we’re a perfectly matched couple!” Preeti’s face glowed with pleasure as she rinsed a set of mugs. Cathy’s comments meant a lot to her.

  “Funny, that’s what my friend Suresh said, too.”

  “Maybe they’re right!”

  “I think we should check it out—right now.” Deepak dropped the towel and reached for her with a grin. “The dishes can wait till tomorrow.”

  None of the guests had known, of course, about the matter of doors.

  Deepak liked to leave them open, and Preeti liked them closed.

  Deepak had laughed about it at first, early in the marriage.

  “Are the pots and pans from the kitchen going to come and watch us making love?” he would joke when she meticulously shut the bedroom door at night although there were just the two of them in the house. Or, “Do you think I’m going to come in and attack you?” when she locked the bathroom door behind her with an audible click. He himself always bathed with the door open, song and steam pouring out of the bathroom with equal abandon.

  But soon he realized that it was not a laughing matter with her. Preeti would shut the study door before settling down with her Ph.D. dissertation. When in the garden, she would make sure the gate was securely fastened as she weeded. If there had been a door to the kitchen, she would have closed it as she cooked.

  Deepak was puzzled by all this door shutting. He had grown up in a large family, and although they had been affluent enough to possess three bedrooms—one for Father, one for Mother and his two sisters, and the third for the three boys—they had never observed boundaries. They had constantly spilled into each others rooms, doors always left open for chance remarks and jokes.

  He asked Preeti about it one night just before bed, when she came out of the bathroom where she always went to change into her nightie. She wasn’t able to give him an answer.

  “I don’t know,” she said, her brow wrinkled, folding and refolding her jeans. “I guess I’m just a private person. It’s not like I’m shutting you out. I’ve just always done it this way. Maybe it has something to do with being an only child.” Her eyes searched his face unhappily. “I know it’s not what you’re used to. Does it bother you?”

  She seemed so troubled that Deepak felt a pang of guilt.

  “No, no, I don’t care, not at all,” he rushed to say, giving her shoulders a squeeze. And really, he didn’t mind, even though he didn’t quite understand. People were different. He knew that. And he was more than ready to accept the unique needs of this exotic creature—Indian and yet not Indian—who had by some mysterious fortune become his wife.

  So things went on smoothly—until Raj descended on them.

  “Tomorrow!” Preeti was distraught, although she tried to hide it in the face of Deepak’s obvious delight. Her mind raced over the list of things to be done—the guest bedroom dusted, the sheets washed, a special welcome dinner cooked (that would require a trip to the grocery and the Indian store), perhaps some flowers…. And her advisor was pressuring her to turn in the second chapter of her dissertation, which wasn’t going well.

  “Yes, tomorrow! His plane comes in at ten-thirty at night.” Deepak waved the telegram excitedly. “Imagine, it’s been five years since I’ve seen him! We used to be inseparable back home although he was so much younger. He was always in and out of our house, laughing and joking and playing pranks. You won’t believe some of the escapades we got into! I know you’ll just love him—everyone does. And see, he calls you bhaviji—sister-in-law—already.”

  At the airport Raj was a lanky whirlwind, rushing from the gate to throw his arms around Deepak, kissing him loudly on both cheeks, oblivious to American stares. Preeti found his strong Bombay accent hard to follow as he breathlessly regaled them with news of old acquaintances that had Deepak throwing back his head in loud laughter. She watched him, thinking that she’d never seen him laugh like that before.

  But the trouble really started after dinner.

  “What a marvelous meal, bhaviji! I can see why Deepak is getting a potbelly!” Raj belched in appreciation as he pushed back his chair. “I know I’ll sleep soundly tonight—my eyes are closing already. If you tell me where the bedsheets are, I’ll bring them over and start making my bed while you’re clearing the table.”

  “Thanks, Raj, but I made the bed already, upstairs in the guest room.”

  “The guest room? I’m not a guest, bhavi! I’m going to be with you for quite a while. You’d better save the guest bedroom for real guests. About six square feet of space—right here between the dining table and the sofa—is all I need. See, I’ll just move the chairs a bit, like this.”

  Seeing the look on Preeti’s face, Deepak tried to intervene.

  “Come on, Raju—why not use the guest bed for tonight since it’s made already? We can work out the long-term arrangements later.”

  “Aare bhai, you know how I hate all this formal-tormal business. I won’t be able to sleep up there! Don’t you remember what fun it was to spread a big sheet on the floor of the living room and spend the night, all us boys together, telling stories? Have you become an amreekan or what? Come along and help me carry the bedclothes down….”

  Preeti stood frozen as his singsong voice faded beyond the bend of the stairs; then she made her own way upstairs silently. When Deepak came to bed an hour later, she was waiting for him.

  “What! Not asleep yet? Don’t you have an early class to teach tomorrow?”

  “You have to leave for work early, too.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact I was thinking of taking a couple days off. You know—take Raju to San Francisco, maybe down to Carmel.”

  Preeti was surprised by the sudden surge of jealousy she felt. She tried to shake it off, to speak reasonably.

  “I really don’t think you should be neglecting your work—but that’s your own business.” She controlled her voice with an effort, not letting her displeasure color it. “What I do need to straighten out is this matter of sleeping downstairs. I need to use the dining area early in the morning, and I can’t do it with him sleeping there.” She shuddered silently as she pictured herself trying to enjoy her quiet morning tea and the newspaper with him sprawled on the floor nearby—snoring, in all probability. “By the way, just what did he mean by he’s going to be here for a long time?”

  “Well, he wants to stay here until he completes his Master’s—maybe a year and a half—and I told him that was fine with us….”

  “You what? Isn’t this my house, too? Don’t I get a say in who lives in it?”

  “Fine, then. Go ahead and tell him that you don’t want him here. Go ahead, wake him up and tell him tonight.”

  There was an edge to Deepak’s voice that Preeti hadn’t heard before. Staring at the stony line of his lips, she suddenly realized, frightened, that they were having their first serious quarrel. Her mother’s face, triumphant in its wo
efulness, rose in her mind.

  “You know that’s not what I’m saying.” She made her tone conciliatory. “I realize how much it means to you to have your old friend here, and I’ll do my best to make him welcome. I’m just not used to having a long-term houseguest around, and it makes things harder when he insists on sleeping on the living-room floor.” She offered him her most charming smile, desperately willing the stranger in his eyes—cold, defensive—to disappear.

  It worked. He smiled back and pulled her to him, her own dear Deepak again, promising to get Raj to use the guest room, gently biting the nape of her neck in that delicious way that always sent shivers up her spine. And as she snuggled against him with a deep sigh of pleasure, curving her body to fit his, Preeti promised herself to do her very best to accept Raj.

  It was harder than she had expected, though.

  The concept of doors did not exist in Raj’s universe, and he ignored their physical reality—so solid and reassuring to Preeti—whenever he could. He would burst into her closed study to tell her of the latest events in his computer lab, leaving the door ajar when he left. He would throw open the door to the garage where she did the laundry to offer help, usually just as she was folding her underwear. Even when she retreated to her little garden in search of privacy, there was no escape. From the porch, he gave solicitous advice on the drooping fuchsias.

  “A little more fertilizer, don’t you think, bhavi? Really, this bottled stuff is no good compared to the cow dung my family uses in their vegetable garden. I tell you, phul gobis THIS size.” He would hold up his hands to indicate a largeness impossible for cauliflowers, while behind him the swinging screen door afforded free entry to hordes of insects. Perhaps to set her an example, he left his own bedroom door wide open so that the honest rumble of his snores assaulted Preeti on her way to the bathroom every morning.

  “Cathy, Raj is driving me up the wall,” she told her friend when they met for coffee after class.

  “Tell him that!”

  “I can’t! Deepak would be terribly upset. It has to do with hospitality and losing face—I guess it’s a cultural thing.”

  “Well, have you discussed it with Deepak?”

  “I tried, once or twice. He doesn’t listen. It’s like he’s a different person nowadays—he’s even beginning to sound different.”

  “How?”

  “His accent—it’s a lot more Indian, like Raj’s.”

  “Preeti, you’ve got to talk to him.” Over the rim of her cup, Cathy’s eyes were wide with concern. “I haven’t ever seen you so depressed. There are craters, literally, under your eyes, and you look like you’ve lost weight. Surely if he knew how strongly Raj’s habits bothered you, he’d do something about them.”

  Cathy was right, Preeti thought on the way back as the BART train’s jogging rhythm soothed her into drowsiness. She needed to make more of an effort to communicate with Deepak. Maybe tonight. She was glad she had taken the time that morning, before she left for school, to fix a bharta, the grilled eggplant dish which was one of his favorites. When she got home, she’d make some pulao rice—the kind he liked, with lots of fried cashews—and after dinner when they went to bed she’d lay her head in the curve of his shoulder and hold him tight and tell him exactly how she felt. Maybe they’d even make love—it seemed like a terribly long time since they’d done that.

  But when she opened the door to the house, she was assaulted by a loud burst of filmi music. Deepak and Raj sat side by side on the family-room couch, watching an Indian movie where a plump man wearing a hat and a bemused expression was serenading a haughty young woman. Both men yelled with laughter as the woman swung around, snatched the hat off her admirers head, and stomped on it.

  “Vah, look at those flashing eyes!” Raj exclaimed. “I tell you, none of our modern girls can match Nutan for style!” Noticing Preeti, he waved a cheery hand. “Oh, bhavi, there you are! Come join us. Deepu-bhaiya and I rented a couple of our favorite movies from the Indian video store….”

  “Yes,” Deepak added, “that was a great idea of Raj’s. I never thought I’d have such a terrific time watching these old videos. They bring back some really fun memories.”

  “I bet they do! Bhavi, did you know your husband used to be a regular street-corner Romeo in his bachelor days? Yaar, remember that girl who used to five across from your house in Birla Mansions? How you used to sing chand-ke-tukde—that means piece of moon, bhavi—whenever she waited at the bus stop …?”

  “That’s enough, Raju! You’ll get me in trouble now,” Deepak said, but he looked rather pleased. “Preeti, come sit with us and I’ll explain the Hindi words to you.” He moved closer to Raj to make space on the couch, and Preeti noted with a twist of the heart how he casually let an arm fall over Raj’s shoulder.

  “I have to warm up dinner,” she said through stiff lips.

  “Oh, don’t bother!” Deepak said. “We stopped for samosas at that little restaurant next to the video store—what is it—”

  “Nusrat Cuisine,” Raj supplied helpfully. “We’re stuffed.”

  “We brought you back a few,” Deepak said. “They’re on the counter.”

  Preeti walked to the kitchen. Her body seemed heavy and unwieldy, as though she were moving in deep water. Emotions she didn’t want to examine churned through her, insidious currents waiting to pull her under. She picked up the brown bag printed with the restaurant’s logo and, without opening it, threw it in the trash can. She wanted to throw out the bharta, too, but with an effort she put it in the refrigerator.

  As she started up the steps, she heard Deepak call behind her, “Don’t you want to watch the movie?”

  “No. I have a lot of schoolwork to catch up on.” She knew she sounded ungracious. A party pooper, in Raj’s language.

  “Well, if you’re sure….”

  “Do you think you could come upstairs soon?” She tried to make her voice bright and pleasant. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll be up in a bit.”

  This cant be happening to me, Preeti told herself as she stared into the bedroom mirror. In the dim light her face looked sallow, unwell. She tried to remember her past successes—standing on a university stage in Ohio receiving her B.A. degree from the college president, knowing that she was one of a handful of students with solid A’s; opening an embossed envelope with trembling fingers to find that she’d been accepted at Berkeley; standing at a podium and hearing the roar of applause when she finished presenting a paper at a national conference. None of it seemed real. None of it seemed to have happened to the woman who looked back at her from the mirror, the skin of her face drawn tight over cheekbones that stuck out too sharply. All her life she had believed that she could do anything she set her mind to; it was what her mother had always said. Now as a sudden wave of giddiness struck her, she felt doubt for the first time. Then she drew her breath in fiercely. I wont let him ruin my life, she said. For a moment it wasn’t clear to her if it was Raj she was referring to, or Deepak.

  She changed into the lacy pink nightdress Deepak had bought her for their first anniversary. She sprayed perfume on her wrists and practiced, in the mirror, the words she would say. Think positive, she told herself. Losing your temper will achieve nothing.

  It was a couple of hours before Deepak opened the door of the bedroom. He was humming a Hindi song under his breath.

  “You still awake?” He sounded surprised.

  “Remember, I wanted to talk to you about something.” Calmly, calmly. But her voice trembled, thin and high. Accusing.

  “Sorry,” Deepak said, a little shamefaced. “The movie was so good—I forgot all about the time.” Then he gave a great yawn. “Maybe we can talk tomorrow?”

  “No! I have to tell you now.” Preeti spoke quickly, before she lost her nerve. “I can’t live with Raj in the house anymore. He’s driving me crazy. He’s …”

  “What d’you mean, he’s driving you crazy?” Deepak’s voice was
suddenly testy. “He’s only trying to be friendly, poor chap. I should think you’d be able to open up a bit more to him. After all, we’re the closest thing he has to family in this strange country.”

  “Even family members sometimes need time and space away from each other. In my family no one ever intruded….”

  “Well, maybe they should have,” Deepak interrupted in a hard tone that made Preeti stare at him. “Maybe then you’d be a little more flexible now.”

  After this, Preeti took to locking herself up in the bedroom with her work in the evenings while downstairs Deepak and Raj talked over the old days as the stereo blared out the Kishore Kumar songs they’d grown up on. Often she fell asleep over her books and woke to the sound of Deepak’s irritated knocks on the door.

  “I just don’t understand you nowadays!” he would exclaim with annoyance. “Why must you lock the bedroom door when you’re reading? Isn’t that being a bit paranoid? Maybe you should see someone about it.”

  Preeti would turn away in silence, thinking, It can’t be forever, he can’t stay with us forever, I can put up with it until he leaves, and then everything will be perfect again.

  And so things might have continued had it not been for one fateful afternoon.

  It was the end of the semester, and Preeti was lying on her bed, eyes closed. That morning her advisor had called her into his office to tell her that her dissertation lacked originality and depth. He suggested that she restructure the entire argument. His final comment kept resounding in her brain: “I don’t know what’s been wrong with you for the past few months—you’ve consistently produced second-rate work. And you used to be one of my sharpest students! I still remember that article on Marlowe, so innovative…. Maybe you need a break—a semester away from school?”

  “Not from school—it’s a semester away from home that I need,” she whispered now as the door banged downstairs and Raj’s eager voice floated up to her.