The Reluctant Matchmaker

by Shobhan Bantwal

  Madhuri-pachi and Mom exchanged that wry look that often passed between the sisters. Yeah, right, like anyone in India ever knows or cares about how hard our lives are.

  After everyone was comfortably seated, Mom asked Akka and Madhuri-pachi, “What would you like to drink? We have soda, orange juice, and iced tea.”

  Madhuri-pachi asked for iced tea, but Akka cheerfully replied, “Can I have my usual, please?”

  Mom turned to Dad with a meaningful look. Akka’s usual was scotch and club soda. My folks drank very little alcohol, and that mostly at parties, so the booze was stored in the sideboard in the formal dining room. Dad made his way there with a tight expression.

  To add to Akka’s long list of misdemeanors, her liking for alcohol was a definite sore spot with Mom.

  “An old widow should be reading scriptures, eating vegetarian food, and knitting sweaters. Instead Akka insists on drinking liquor and eating meat,” Mom grumbled once in a while. “Sometimes I wonder if she was adopted or something. She’s so different from my father and their other siblings.”

  Akka had a taste for mutton curry—goat meat cooked in a fiery hot brown sauce, as well as grilled tandoori chicken, kebabs, and spicy fried fish. Although my parents and aunts and uncles had converted to non-vegetarianism for convenience after moving to the U.S., they still disapproved of elderly folks enjoying it.

  Madhuri-pachi generally turned up her nose at the mention of Akka. The old lady had been at Madhuri’s place for two whole weeks, and I could see my aunt was up to her dark eyeballs with Akka’s shenanigans. Akka traveled to the East Coast every year for a six-week visit.

  She had a married daughter, Kalpa, who lived near San Francisco, and Akka had come to live with Kalpa and her husband and their teenage son a few years ago, after she’d become a widow. Her annual visit to the East Coast was divided equally between our house and my two aunts’ homes.

  Mom and my aunts treated Akka’s visit with the kind of enthusiasm they reserved for the annual flu season. They tolerated it with their teeth clenched and some discreet eye-rolls. Of course, as gracious Indian hostesses brought up to honor and respect elders, they showed her all the hospitality they could afford.

  Both my uncles and my dad seemed to like Akka well enough, maybe because they didn’t spend as much time with her as their wives did.

  Akka’s stay with Madhuri-pachi was now over, and Madhuri had driven her down from Connecticut like a hot brick to be dropped in Mom’s lap. Besides, Thanksgiving was just a few days away, and it was convenient to have Akka spend it with her eldest niece’s family. Two weeks later, Akka would be dispatched to Shabari-pachi’s house in North Jersey.

  Everyone would wait for the day Akka could be hugged good-bye and put on a flight to San Francisco. They’d all have a year’s respite before Akka’s next trip.

  Last week, on hearing that Akka was coming to New Jersey for her usual stint, Mom and Shabari-pachi had groaned, “Here we go again.”

  Shabari had sighed. “I’m so stressed. I can’t understand why all our children admire Akka so much.”

  “What’s not to admire?” I’d asked cheerfully. “She’s such fun for an old lady.”

  Mom had given me a bland look. “Fun in your book, because she encourages all the silly things you kids do.”

  “What silly things?” I’d looked at Mom with my most innocent expression, despite knowing what she was referring to. Akka thought it was okay to have boyfriends, drink alcohol—after one turned twenty-one, of course—and wear trendy clothes.

  “Don’t give me that wide-eyed look, young lady,” Mom had warned me. “I don’t want Akka filling your head with nonsense.”

  I’d rolled my eyes at the naïve remark. “Mom, I don’t need a sweet old lady to tell me anything I don’t already know.”

  “In that case, try not to fill her head with more,” Mom had said. “I have enough on my mind right now with Maneel and his problems.”

  “Yes, Mom,” I’d said obediently.

  Mom had been tense ever since Maneel had told her about Naseem. Mom, Dad, and Maneel had an appointment to meet with Naseem’s parents the following weekend. Poor Mom was losing sleep. Dad was frowning more lately and had withdrawn into himself more than usual. They were both worried about Maneel’s future.

  Although I didn’t say it aloud, I was equally worried about Maneel’s future.

  Dad brought Akka her scotch, and the rest of us sipped our soft drinks along with Mom’s crispy fried piyava bajay. Onion fritters. Madhuri-pachi was going to stay overnight and then return to Connecticut the following morning. She looked like she was ready to leave now, except Mom wouldn’t let her drive a long distance alone after dark.

  Akka sipped her scotch and looked around. “So, what is going on with Maneel, Meena, and Mahesh? Any girlfriends, boyfriends?”

  Mom winced. Dad squirmed in his seat. I nearly let the cat out of the bag about Naseem, but decided to keep my mouth shut. If Mom and Dad wanted to share the “news,” it was their business. And Maneel’s.

  I was astonished when Mom glumly announced, “Maneel is involved with some entirely unsuitable girl.” Her tone seemed to suggest Maneel had lost one lobe of his brain.

  Akka sat up. “Really? Who’s the girl?”

  “Our Maneel is involved?” Madhuri-pachi turned to Mom with her brows raised in dismay. “But he’s such a sensible boy.”

  “I know,” said Mom. “We had so many eligible girls’ parents asking about a possible soireek.” Match. “Then he ... does this.”

  I’d heard enough. “Mom, that’s not fair,” I said in his defense. “You’re making it sound like Maneel is dating some mutant.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Mom said weakly.

  “Why don’t you tell them the good part? That she’s a successful lawyer and exceptionally attractive?”

  “There is that,” admitted Mom. “But still, she’s ... a Muslim.”

  Madhuri-pachi’s face couldn’t have been more expressive. “Ayyo Deva!” Oh God. “Where did he find her?”

  I sent my aunt a tolerant smile. “Where a lot of nice girls can be found: in a civilized office in New York.”

  To my surprise, Dad jumped in to support me. “The girl works for a well-known law firm.”

  Akka, who’d been sipping her scotch and listening with interest for the last minute or two, beamed. “How nice. A beautiful lawyer. I knew our Maneel had good taste.”

  Mom and Madhuri-pachi turned twin frowns on Akka. “But she’s a Muslim,” they said in perfect unison.

  “So what?” I protested. “Mom, I thought we went over this, and you and Dad had accepted the fact that Maneel wants to marry Naseem.”

  “There is a difference between accepting and being resigned to the fact, Meena,” explained Mom. To the others she said, “Ram and Maneel and I have an appointment with this girl’s parents next weekend.”

  “Appointment?” Madhuri-pachi looked lost.

  “You know ... to talk about things,” Mom explained. “Maneel says they are very strict and will hate the idea of their daughter’s getting involved with a Hindu boy.”

  “This is just like that old Hindi movie,” declared Akka. “I can’t recall the title.” She looked at Mom and Madhuri. “Don’t you girls remember that story? A Muslim girl and a Brahmin boy fall in love and both the families are ready to commit suicide rather than let the children get married.”

  “This is real life, Akka. Please don’t reduce it to the level of some silly Bollywood movie.” Mom looked thoroughly irked. The old lady had been here less than an hour, and she’d already managed to annoy Mom.

  Akka clucked impatiently. “But there is a brilliant solution to your problem in the way the movie ends.”

  This was interesting. I was getting into this like an ant crawling into a bowl of sugar. “A Bollywood answer to a real-life problem? Let’s hear it, Akka.”

  Akka put her glass on the coffee table for a moment. “In the movie, it is the gra
ndmother who saves the day. She reveals to the angry families that her sister had married outside their caste against everyone’s wishes in her youth and she had found everlasting happiness. They all realize that if an old lady could be so happy with an inter-caste marriage, then true love is all that counts, not religion or pride.”

  “So how did the movie end?” I asked.

  “Eventually they have a Brahmin priest and a mullah performing both religious ceremonies.” Her eyes turned wistful as she picked up her glass and took another sip of scotch. “Such a nice movie that was. A classic.”

  Dad shook his head. “Movies generally have happy endings, Akka. We need a practical solution.”

  “Arre, I’m telling you, Ramdas, there is a real solution. I should go to this meeting with you. Then I can tell them how I went against my parents’ wishes and married a man they thought was unsuitable. But we had a happy marriage, didn’t we? He was a good man, and so handsome. Look at our children—so clever and good-looking they are—and so successful. I will bring my photos to the meeting, so they can see for themselves.”

  Madhuri-pachi had a smirk on her face that said she was secretly enjoying this: the fact that her eldest sister was stuck with Akka’s misguided need to help the family. “Akka might have a point, Kaveri,” Madhuri said to Mom. I could see right through the tongue-in-cheek remark.

  Just then Maneel walked in. The hugging started all over again, with Akka pinching Maneel’s cheeks and embarrassing him. “My goodness, so tall and handsome you have become in the last year. Your mummy says you have a beautiful girlfriend and all.”

  Maneel gave Mom a dark, disapproving frown. “Mom couldn’t wait to fill you in on the gossip, huh?” he said, hugging Akka back.

  “This is not gossip, charda,” chided Akka. “This is a family issue. Your mummy and daddy are trying to find a way to talk to your girlfriend’s parents, and I’m trying to help.”

  “Is that right?” murmured Maneel, then he grabbed a napkin and a handful of bajay from the platter. He knew when to shut up and accept the inevitable. At times Akka was like a woman on speeding roller skates.

  I was probably the only one who’d been seriously pondering Akka’s suggestion. “I think Akka’s idea sounds promising,” I said after a while.

  Everyone gave me a get real look, but I persisted. “No, really, most old-fashioned cultures tend to respect the elderly, and we don’t have anyone older than Akka at the moment. Why not use that to our advantage? Why not use every trick in the book? If they get a chance to meet Akka, Naseem’s family might not dismiss the whole thing as romantic foolishness on the part of two young people.”

  Mom put on a skeptical scowl while Maneel brightened up. “Meena may be right,” he said.

  After prolonged arguing over the pros and cons of Akka’s presence at the important meeting, everyone eventually agreed that it might be worth trying. They had nothing to lose.

  And I felt so damn pleased that I was the one who’d more or less persuaded Mom and Dad to accept Akka’s offer.

  Akka had a goofy grin on her face. I wasn’t sure whether it was because she’d succeeded in convincing the family or a result of the drink she was sipping steadily. “See, I knew you all would see the wisdom of my words,” she said, and finished the last of her scotch. “Now, let’s discuss Thanksgiving. What are we going to cook on Thursday?”

  Chapter 19

  Akka was proved right. Mom didn’t want to admit it. Dad was somewhat willing to acknowledge it. But Maneel seemed ecstatic. Contrary to everyone’s expectations, it turned out that Akka put on a superb performance on the day of the big meeting.

  Naseem’s parents, Dr. and Mrs. Rasul, as expected, were stubbornly opposed to their beloved daughter’s marrying outside their Sunni Muslim community. Apparently they had an engineer picked out for her: the son of an immigrant Iraqi family like themselves. But Naseem had turned him down.

  As my family returned from the dreaded encounter and walked in the door, I eagerly ran down the stairs to find out Maneel’s fate. Fully expecting to see long, glum faces, I was astonished to see none.

  A beaming Maneel had his arm around Akka’s slim shoulders. “You deserve two glasses of scotch today. In fact, I’m going to buy you a bottle of the best single malt there is.”

  “Oh, you silly boy, don’t waste your money on me,” said Akka. “Go buy something for your pretty girlfriend instead.”

  Mom and Dad looked a little weary, but the battle scars I’d expected were curiously absent. “Thank God, that’s over,” said Mom as she took off her sandals in the foyer. “I don’t think I could stand any more drama for the day.”

  She had worn her most conservative, loose two-piece salwar-kameez outfit after debating whether a sari would be better. Dad had come up with the idea that a sari might overemphasize our Hindu-ness and antagonize the Rasuls even further. Apparently Naseem’s mother had also worn a two-piece outfit, proving Dad’s hunch was right.

  “Looks like things went well,” I said, hoping someone would share all the juicy details. They all seemed to be immersed in their own thoughts.

  “Not at first,” grumbled Dad. “That man nearly threw us out of the house. Some nerve. What the hell did he think—that we’re riffraff from some primitive corner of the world?” Dad very rarely vented his anger so openly, so I was both amazed and amused. He was wearing a starched cream shirt, gray dress pants, and a coordinated sports jacket. Nobody could’ve mistaken him for riffraff.

  “Well, we showed him, didn’t we?” said Mom, sinking onto the family room couch and propping her feet up on the coffee table. “When they heard I was a medical doctor and you have a PhD in engineering, they calmed down.”

  “Not right away, Mom,” reminded Maneel.

  “There was more crying and sighing before they calmed down,” corrected Akka.

  “Didn’t Naseem tell them anything about our family before you guys got there?” I asked, wondering why those people had thought my parents were heathens.

  Maneel looked embarrassed. “She was afraid they’d refuse to see us, so she told them only seconds before we arrived. She had no time to prepare them.”

  “That wasn’t fair to you.” I was disappointed in Naseem. How could she have let Maneel and my parents face the hostile Rasuls in that fashion? But then I could also see how she’d be terrified of her parents, especially if they were the kind who’d do something rash. “So how come you guys look like everything went okay?”

  “Thanks to Akka,” said Maneel, grinning at the old lady. She was dressed in an old-fashioned Dharmavaram silk sari in a dull shade of ecru. A matching woolen shawl was thrown around her shoulders. Her bun was worn lower to make it appear more conservative. Instead of her modern eyeglasses she wore a pair of horn-rimmed ones she’d pulled out of somewhere. No jewelry of any kind adorned her neck or ears. The idea had been to look as stern, widow-like, and grandmotherly as possible.

  “Exactly what did Akka do?”

  Akka sat down on the couch next to Mom. “I just told those Rasuls about the misery I went through when my mother and father disapproved of my choice of husbands and how unhappy everyone was and how unnecessary all the fuss had been in the end.”

  “She did a lot more than that,” chimed in Maneel. “She shed a few fake tears and told them how most parents eventually regret their selfishness if they don’t look out for their children’s happiness.” He threw Akka another grateful look. “You were fabulous.”

  “Oh, it was nothing,” said Akka modestly. “And let me tell you, the tears were not fake. I get very emotional when I think of those days, when I was afraid I would never see my family and that I would make my parents ill or something.”

  I was getting impatient with these little snippets of the episode when I wanted to hear a minute-by-minute account. “Tell me the whole thing, you guys—all the way from the start.” I looked at Maneel, all dressed up in a formal blue shirt, well-pressed black slacks, and shiny black shoes. He’d had a hairc
ut the previous day. He looked handsome, solid, professional. “Are you and Naseem getting married or not?”

  “I guess we are.” Maneel bent down to loosen the laces on his shoes, then took the shoes and socks off and parked his big feet on the coffee table, perpendicular to Mom’s. “But it wasn’t easy. Naseem’s dad yelled at her and called her an infidel. Her mom bawled and hinted at committing suicide because the family would be ruined.”

  Dad sat in his recliner. “Such dramatics. I have never seen a grown man beat his chest so much.”

  Mom blew out a tired breath. “And Mrs. Rasul’s wailing. I haven’t seen that except in movies.”

  Akka was quiet all this time, probably savoring her victory, so I said to her, “Just what did you say to them, Akka? It must’ve been compelling.”

  “Not much, dear. All I told them was that I have not regretted for one minute the decision I made at eighteen.”

  “Good for you,” I cheered on.

  “It was my father and mother who regretted their resistance to accepting my husband into the family. Of course, I didn’t tell the Rasuls that part,” said Akka. “But when my parents died, they went feeling very remorseful about the way they had treated my husband in the beginning.”

  “They did?” Mom said, suddenly turning alert. Obviously this was news to her.

  Akka nodded. “When my father suffered a paralytic stroke, it was my husband who served him, hand and foot.” She threw a pointed look at Mom. “Where were your big-shot papa and our other brothers and sisters when our ninety-year-old father had to be bathed and fed like a baby, and needed a bedpan? None of them came forward to take in a dying old man. It was my dear husband, God bless his soul, and I, who took care of him.”

  Mom looked puzzled. “How come Papa didn’t tell us that?”

  I watched everyone’s expression, intrigued by what appeared to be an ancient but rather dirty family secret coming to light. Maneel looked equally captivated. He and I exchanged a quick glance.

  A wry smile crossed Akka’s face. “That’s because your papa was embarrassed to admit his lack of sense of duty. As the eldest son, it was his responsibility. But he and the others didn’t want our father because he was a burden—he was bedridden and helpless. Our mother was too timid to ask any of her children for assistance, so my husband and I took both of them into our home. And my husband was only a professor, so all we had was a small, three-room house, while all the others had big houses and servants.”