Dharmendra’s meddlesome sisters said she shouldn’t wear any dress at all, because it went against tradition. Dharmendra, high off the celebrations, paid them no attention, even when they threatened to leave if Arya put it on.
—When dey leff nohbody miss dem, my mother says. Who rheally miss dem? It was meh weddin day an I eh miss dem one ass.
Her mother did not come to the room. In fact, she stayed away most of the day, present only when she had to be. Rebecca had given Arya her blessing, had nudged her in Dharmendra’s direction, had lied for them, was beaten for them. She wanted her daughter to escape this life as much as Arya did, but once the hour of their parting dawned, the pain that came with it was swift. They both felt it.
Alone in the room, Arya slipped the dress over her head. A murmuring drum mixed with the plucking of a sitar filtered through the open window. The satin was cool and smooth against her skin. She fluffed the dress around her shoulders and then tucked a beaded clip of pearls into her curls. She glanced in the mirror. It was time to make her entrance.
Downstairs, friends and family congregated around wooden picnic tables and ate mounds of food with their fingertips. They cracked the spines of fig leaves and used them as plates. When they caught a glimpse of the bride at the top of the red staircase, they stopped and gazed. It was unheard of for an Indian woman at the end of an Indian wedding to don a white dress, the color traditionally worn at Indian funerals, the color of widowhood. Through doing this, Arya threw superstitions to the winds that whipped the sands on their islands, and declared herself free from their rules.
Arya held the railing as she walked halfway down the stairs in her white satin shoes. The chattering stopped when she was in full view of everyone. She turned around on the narrow ledge. Her sisters and their friends, married or not, gathered at the bottom of the staircase. Clasped in her hands was a bouquet of red and white carnations. She tossed it into the air behind her. It arced, the ribbons unlacing themselves and floating before landing into the hands of one of her sisters.
It was time to say goodbye. Faces bled into one another as tears swelled to the surface. Rebecca’s tears mixed with her daughter’s as they held on to one another, cheeks together. Her mother’s chest heaved against her own, and Arya opened her mouth to release a howl that perfectly matched the pitch of Rebecca’s. They would never again be a cushion for one another against her father. Once she left, everything would change. People pulled them apart until their fingertips gave way reluctantly.
—No werds di pass between we dis day, my mother says to me. Dat was it foh me and she.
Shiva too was sad as he gave away his daughter. Food, invitations, tents, fires, music, festivities. The family had indulged, and these memories would buoy them.
All the guests gathered on both sides of the staircase with rice in hand. They made a narrow path to the car for bride and groom. Dharmendra, waiting at the bottom of the stairs, eyed the grains in their hands and dashed to the car without waiting for his wife. Arya’s footsteps to the car were heavy. She looked back. Rice rained down on her. Tears sprang again. When she reached the car, the door was shut, and she opened it for herself. Dharmendra was grinning inside as she slipped in and arranged her gown.
—Krys . . . my mother’s words change over the years after my grandfather’s surgeries from is leff e leff meh to haul ass so e eh goh geh no rice on im to ah shoulda know den wah kinda husband e wuddah tun out toh be. Ah shouldah nevah marry no mahn dah goh run awhey an leff meh so.
Dharmendra’s grin faltered, but he picked it up again. One too excited, the other too nervous, they both ate nothing after the ceremony. They headed straight to the airport for their twelve-minute plane ride to Trinidad’s twin isle, Tobago.
DESPITE ARYA’S WHITE DRESS, the couple followed many wedding and early marital traditions. As was customary, they were wed on a Sunday and endured the smoky ceremony that dragged on for hours, the intense scent of incense seeping into their skin. Arya permitted all the little things to happen—Dharmendra not seeing her, the draping of her jewelry, orchestration of food.
The white dress was followed by the premeditated decision to leave for their honeymoon right after the wedding. They were newlyweds locked in one another’s gaze, and Arya was aware of each decision she made, never having had this much freedom in her life.
They both thought they would skip right over one of the most absurd practices they were expected to follow. Directly after the ceremony, the bride is taken home with the husband. A female elder, called a lookanny, is stationed in between the couple that night and every night until the Wednesday after the wedding, when the father then comes to collect his daughter and take her home. On the following Sunday, the husband can come back and get her. Most traditional Indian Trinidadians followed these rules punctiliously, never questioning why or how they came to be. It was simply the way it was done. By escaping to their honeymoon, Arya and Dharmendra thought they could skip the lookanny too.
—Not wit meh honeymoon waitin foh meh, chile, says my mother. Dese traditions and customs dat eh make ah lick ah sense. Yuh tink I wahn some strangah sleepin between me and meh husband?
They stayed in a hotel on the beach in Tobago, and in two decades of marriage to come, it would be their only vacation. Arya unwrapped a bathing suit from tissue paper. She had saved up to buy it from a local shop. A lascivious breeze swept through the open French doors of their hotel room and lifted her dress up around her. Dharmendra grabbed her around the midsection, threw her up in the air, and started kissing her everywhere. At first she giggled, but when his hands started reaching body parts previously untouched, she stiffened.
—Krys, my mother says, me eh know nutten bout sex. Nohbuddy tawk bout dem ting back een de day nah chile. Meh gone intoh marriage blind like ah bat. It hut. It hut so rheal bhad. Ah scream like someboddy was killin meh.
Arya’s screams were so intense, they drove a maid to unlock the door with her employee key only to discover a young couple tangled in bedsheets, hair disheveled and faces flushed.
—Dat was it, my mother tells me, one time and yuh conceive. Yuh faddah family din believe ah was a virgin when dey here ah pregnant so fass, buh if dey do de matts den dey goh see yuh come exactly nine monts latah from July toh April. Besides dat, who een dey right mine goh wahn geh pregnant so fass? Lun from meh mistakes, eh chile.
Dharmendra and Arya luxuriated in Tobago’s silky waters for an entire week. As a young girl from the bush who had barely set foot outside a twenty-minute radius of her farm, Arya was euphoric. They took a boat out to the Nylon Pool—a shallow area in the middle of the ocean and one of the main attractions in Tobago. They walked on white sand with goggles on, careful not to step off the sandbar, as neither of them could swim. Arya squealed when she looked into the water and found fish swimming all around them. Bits of coral and starfish littered the sand, and Dharmendra, the braver of the two, snatched them out of the water for a closer look.
They sailed on a glass-bottomed boat above the glittering Buccoo Reef. Arya pressed her face against the glass as fish darted just inches away from her. Schools of fish paraded past, and she, like a tourist, pointed in awe. Dharmendra had been here many times before and was content to lean back, crossing an ankle over a knee, his body lounging, while Arya babbled and squealed beside him. The pool at the hotel, the trek through the rainforest, their visit to Little Tobago—Arya absorbed it all.
Tobago, which is mostly rainforest, is home to some of the world’s most beautiful birds. As Dharmendra and Arya sipped rum and twisted pieces of roti into curry shrimp, hummingbirds flittered all around them. The gentle whizz of the birds’ wings as they hovered and dipped their long beaks into a flower’s nectar was music to Arya’s ears. On the last day there, Dharmendra took her to Bird Island, where one lone scarlet ibis caught her eye. There was an elegant curve to its beak that was both seductive and dangerous. Its legs seemed to be stuck in a pool of mud, and Arya, entranced, couldn’t take her eyes off it. The
scarlet ibis spread its majestic wings, tipped with feathers of the deepest black Arya had ever seen. With great flapping, the bird soared into the air, high and far above them.
On the day of their return, their families tried to salvage whatever they could of their traditions. Despite Arya’s reluctance, a lookanny was installed in their bed. On Wednesday her father came to collect her, and on Sunday Dharmendra brought her home.
—Meh eh know why we do all dat nah Krys, my mother says. Ah din even believe een any ah dat nonsense.
FOUNDATION
—AH DIN WANTAH END UP like Gramma, my mother says to me as she tucks the sheet around my grandfather, who is still in the hospital, his condition after the failed brain surgeries leaving us all in a state of uncertainty. Yuh know how she move een by Grampa muddah and all de tings she hah to put up with. Ah juss wanted to start diffrant.
Arya quit her job before her wedding and, as was the norm, returned with Dharmendra to live in his parents’ house, even though Arya had explicitly said she didn’t want to. They began their life together in a small bedroom at the back of the house. Arya fumed, and Dharmendra attempted to pacify her. Ah juss need ah lil moh time dahlin. We eh goh be hyah long Arya, not long atall. Lemme juss make it moh comfortable for we.
—Ah di feel like ah outsidah livin dey, my mother tells me, and ah din know what toh do wid mehself. E promise de house wuddah be done by de time we geh married boh meh feel as though e di plan dis all along. Geh meh een e muddah house and hope ah wuddah stay dey. Nah mahn!
There was one other daughter-in-law residing in the Sital residence, Dharmendra’s younger brother Vipin’s wife. Her name was Ivy, but she told everyone to call her Sugar.
—Sugah, yuh could believe dat? my mother says. Sugah. She di wahn everybody toh call ah grown oman Sugah. Huh!
Ivy had married Vipin one year earlier and had been living with the Sitals ever since. On moving into the house, Arya had hoped to forge some kind of connection with her, but those hopes were dashed when she walked into the living room one day to discover Ivy whispering with Dharmendra’s three sisters. They hushed one another upon her arrival, grinning and offering her a seat next to them.
Arya was reminded of why she shouldn’t have even tried. Months back, right after Dharmendra had proposed to her, his sisters invited her to a barbecue at their house. Arya had dolled herself up as usual with heels, tights, teased hair, and make-up. Glancing at herself in the mirror, she rubbed off some of the make-up and muted the lipstick, assuming his parents would be there as well. At the door, the youngest sister took her upstairs and into a room.
Ah tinkin it was ah bah-b-que, Arya started.
Doh worry yuhself wid dat. Tak ah seat, one of them said to her. The three sisters sat in a circle in front of her. Confused, Arya dropped into the chair.
We bring yuh here today, the youngest started, before the eldest one interrupted, We wantah know yuh intentions wid we bruddah. Allyuh been going ahrung a while now an ah tink is time toh hah dis conversation.
Arya flew out of the chair, sending her heavy pocketbook crashing to the floor. Excuse meh, she said, dat is de pretense allyuh bring meh undah hyah for? Meh intentions wid Dharmendra is mine and mine alone and frankly is none ah allyuh damn business. Arya steupsed at them, and they gasped. She grabbed her purse before exiting, her posture ramrod straight.
—Krys gyul, my mother tells me, ah was so furious boh wid mehself too tinkin dey was goin be nice toh meh. And den ah move een dere and ah tinkin Ivy and me goan get along but it moh uncomfortable dan anyting de way she stick up een dey behind so, grateful she eh de new one een de house anymoh.
So instead of taking the seat they offered her now that she lived there, Arya declined as gracefully as she could manage and said she’d rather take a walk. They scoffed at the thought of a walk, exclaiming the midafternoon heat was too much, and exchanged looks as Arya walked past them. But Arya eyed their flabby arms and fleshy hips and resolved to walk every day.
DHARMENDRA RETURNED HOME past midnight every day, only to wake up at five in the morning to start all over again—police work, the house, his parents’ rum shop, then home. He snuggled into bed next to Arya, the damp fragrance of Irish Spring soap and Brut clinging to him.
How de house goin? Arya asked him, unable to contain her excitement at the thought of moving into a large house in the city. Dharmendra was ecstatic too. Though tired, he told her of each day’s accomplishments, detailing for her the work he’d done on the land his father had blessed them with to start their life together.
But with no one to talk to and nothing to do, Arya wandered around Sangre Grande, hearing the sirens and cries at the hospital across the street, the roar of inebriated men in the rum shop, and smelling the stench of the open drains. The blaring sirens gave her such piercing headaches, she had to lie in bed all day. The smell of the drains, and of everything else, made her vomit. Arya knew she was pregnant.
The silence and loneliness were dizzying; the walls of their cramped room spun. Arya begged Dharmendra for them to move into their unfinished house in Chaguanas, about a forty-five-minute drive from his parents. He was reluctant, but Arya needled him day after day until he relented.
It eh ready, Arya, he warned her. But she didn’t care.
—E din wantah go nowhey gyul, my mother tells me, happy hwome dey wid everyting, comfortable no ass while I done give up everyting.
When they announced to his family they’d be packing everything up and moving in the next few days, everyone was surprised. A string of cautionary words followed them, No plumbin . . . No electricity . . . No furniture . . . No nutten . . . Allyuh crazy . . . Bettah off stayin right hyah.
Despite the dismal picture everyone had painted, despite her new home sounding very much like her old home, Arya wanted to go, wanted to get away from Sangre Grande, where there was nothing for her but loneliness and utter sadness. She wanted to get away and move into something she could help create each passing day, and at the end wipe her brow and say, Dis is mine.
It goh take a while toh move yuh know, Arya, Dharmendra said to her. He told her it would probably take a week or two, not the few days they had told everyone it would. His parents assured them they could stay as long as they wanted. But while Dharmendra was at work, Arya locked the bedroom door behind her and packed. When his mother called her for breakfast, for lunch, for dinner, Arya said she’d eaten and that she was okay. Their things fit into fewer boxes and bags than they both expected.
Dharmendra returned that night to find no clothes for him to change into and their entire room stripped from the bedsheets to the curtains.
Lewwe goh now, Arya pleaded. She picked up a box to take downstairs to his jeep, but he removed it from her hand, warning her to be careful. They had yet to tell his parents about their new grandchild.
Dharmendra’s mother was still awake in the living room, waiting for her husband to get home from work. She begged them not to go, told them it was the middle of the night, they could wait till the morning. Arya knew the morning would bring with it more and better excuses for them not to go; they had to leave now. Convinced his mother was right, but also because he was a bona fide mama’s boy, Dharmendra cocked his head to the side and lifted his shoulder, the universal language of let’s give in. Arya put her arms around her mother-in-law’s shoulders and promised they’d visit often. She hugged her and planted a kiss on the top of her graying head.
They made the drive to Chaguanas in just under half an hour. It was one of the busiest cities in Trinidad, and Dharmendra weaved in and out of back roads to get them there faster. They pulled into the driveway of Lot No. 22 Pepper Place in Montrose, Chaguanas. Arya clapped her hands and squealed.
She set her eyes on what was merely a skeleton of a house. There were no windows, no locks, no doors, no water, no electricity, yet Arya beamed as she strolled through the house with an oil lamp in hand. This place, crusted with mortar that had dried unevenly, Arya called hwome, the happiness in
her voice foreign to her own ears.
Dharmendra lugged their meager belongings from the car to the second floor of the house. Dis, he said throwing his arms out, is de mastah bedroom. It was an enormous space at the front of the second floor with a smaller room connected to it. Dah is de batroom. He caressed her belly and led her down the corridor where their child would have her own bedroom and bathroom too.
For now, they slept on a piece of tarpaulin, the cold of the concrete invading their bodies and making them sore by morning. But Arya dreamed just as her mother did—there was paint on the walls, furniture in the rooms, cabinets in the kitchen, dishes in the cabinets, and every single thing was chosen by her hand. She would make this house what she wanted it to be.
Dharmendra woke earlier than usual, for now his commute was longer. He cursed the stiffness of his bones but didn’t disturb Arya as he gathered himself together in the darkness and left. Arya didn’t stir until much later. When she awoke, she knew exactly where she was and smiled at the sun pouring through the window openings. Birds were calling and chattering outside, and people were doing the same.
Brushing her teeth proved to be a bit of a challenge with no water in the house, but in the backyard was a water tank. She filled a bucket and lugged it to the house, where she brushed her teeth and cleaned herself. Upstairs, she searched through boxes for clothes she could easily move around in. A foul smell assaulted her while digging through the box closest to the bathroom. Flies buzzed around an uncovered bucket of excrement and urine. Arya threw a ratty towel over the bucket and heaved it down the back steps, through the yard, and to the lip of the river. The contents sloshed over the sides, but Arya turned her mind to pleasant thoughts of the house and its big kitchen while she dumped the contents of the bucket into the river. The brackish water briefly turned a darker shade of brown.
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