by Manju Kapur
‘I’ll find it, don’t worry.’
Seven was the time agreed upon.
They emerged from the house looking conscious. Alka could see her brother liked the girl—lucky thing, a chance to marry at thirty, and live like a queen in Canada. Dangling from her hand was a bright Flughafen bag. Why hadn’t he consulted her? She would have told him don’t create unnecessary expectations, but her brother had always been foolishly generous. They must have given him a shopping list.
Mr Batra looked misty eyed. Her daughter was carrying a package. Ananda had brought something before he had even seen her. Truly living abroad had not changed the Indian in him. Old world values, respect for people.
She got up to leave. ‘Could you please call a taxi for us?’
‘Did you like him?’ she asked, as a few minutes later as the old Ambassador wheezed its way towards Jangpura. ‘He is not bad looking, sharp features, good height. Dark though. And glasses, I hope the number is not too high, these things are inherited.’
‘Yes, he looked well enough. I like that he doesn’t have a moustache—unlike every other Indian man. And colour doesn’t bother me.’
‘So?’
‘I only met him for an hour.’
‘But you don’t dislike him?’
‘No.’
‘What’s in the bag?’
The Frankfurt Flughafen package was handed over to the mother, who exclaimed excessively enough over the two items to increase Nina’s self-consciousness to uncomfortable levels.
Evening. ‘He’s coming to take me out in half an hour.’
The mother looked wounded at Nina’s day long secrecy, but distracted herself by observing that even the plainest silk sari could not dull the glow on the girl’s face. She must like the man whatever she might say.
They went to the Oberoi’s, as recommended by his sister, and Nina had to admit there was a certain pleasure in being picked up in a taxi, dining at a fancy place and not worrying about the bill.
Ananda talked mostly about Canada, his friend Gary, his dental practice, his years at Dalhousie. ‘Do you think you would like living there?’
‘I loved being abroad when my father was alive.’
‘You will love it again, I am sure.’
She blushed. He was being very specific.
‘And you know French?’
‘I did. It’s all forgotten now.’
‘You’ll soon pick it up. Canada is bilingual, you know.’
More specificity. Every word about Canada constituted a proposal. Thankfully it was indirect enough for no immediate answer to be necessary.
He dropped her home. As the taxi turned the bend into the entrance of Jangpura, Ananda leaned towards her and kissed her gently on the mouth. It was a small kiss, but it sealed the proposal and put the ball in Nina’s court.
That night Nina couldn’t sleep. It was clear he had come determined to marry, barring absolute hideousness on her part. But she hadn’t felt the spark of instant attraction. Was that so necessary in marriage? He was decent, considerate, thoughtful, everything his letters had suggested. Perhaps, given time, he would grow on her. Together they would walk the path of slowly growing respect, mutual dependence, create the habits that tied people together like a tree and a vine.
Two days of a suitor and already she was finding the whole thing complicated. Maybe she should just say yes. She wanted a family, she wanted children, she wanted to make her mother happy.
Millions of women married for such reasons. If only they had more than ten days, if only they had not met with the urgency of this decision upon them.
Next morning. The mother’s probing look, Nina’s evasive one.
‘Did you have a nice time last night?’ asked the mother as she brought the girl her tea.
‘Nice enough.’
The mother waited.
‘Where did you go,’ she asked tentatively.
‘The Oberoi.’
The mother’s lips trembled, ‘At last my girl is being taken to the kind of place she deserves.’
‘It was nice. First we went to the bar. He had a drink, I had a juice, then we went to the Chinese restaurant, though he said it wasn’t real Chinese. He insisted on eating only the things I ate. It was all very expensive.’
‘He earns in dollars.’
‘It’s still a lot of money for just one meal. If I was sure we were getting married it would be different. But I am not.’
The financial inequalities oppressed her, yet in an arranged marriage wasn’t improving one’s lot a consideration?
At four Ananda came over. ‘Sorry to come without warning but I took a chance. I should have fixed up last evening, I guess I wasn’t thinking.’
The mother was all smiles. ‘Come, come beta, we are not so formal here. It’s so nice to see you, we had such a lovely time at your sister’s yesterday. I must call and thank her properly.’
‘She was mentioning how wonderful it was to have you over,’ said the young man politely.
The formality of the sister out of the way, Ananda looked around the small place, and, turning to Nina, asked to be shown the colony.
They needed to be alone, though she had no idea what she would say; she was still in a hundred minds. Meeting him had not made decisions about her life easier.
‘Look,’ said Ananda, as they walked, attracting the curious eyes of neighbours sitting out to catch the last bits of winter sun, ‘My sister is pressing for a decision and I like you.’
She was silent. Thinking she wanted a romantic proposal he cleared his throat, ‘Will you marry me?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she faltered, alarmed.
‘How long do you think you will need? I’m going back in ten days. I am a dentist, I have patients, I can’t keep coming here.’
She detected the irritation in his tone, and fought her inclination to feel guilty.
‘For years she had been harassing me about marriage, and when she does get it right, the girl is not certain. Just my luck,’ said Ananda gloomily.
Nina’s heart softened. Poor guy, so dominated by his sister, she seemed quite horrible.
‘Well, my mother is pretty paranoid about my marriage too, but we must resist them.’
‘I have no desire to resist,’ said Ananda handsomely.
Nina smiled at him. He took her hand, and they continued their walk through the colony.
Another sleepless night for Nina.
Another morning with mother and daughter not talking about the issue at hand.
‘I’m going out for the day,’ announced Nina.
‘Oh? Where are you going?’
‘Zenobia is taking me to Dasaprakash for lunch. I need to have something else in my head besides marriage.’
‘Alright, beti,’ said the mother meekly.
So Mr Batra was alone when Ananda dropped by. He stayed for an hour, she gave him tea, they talked. There was none of Nina’s indecision about the mother, she was all suppliant and appealing. To her Ananda presented himself as an eligible, well-off professional, settled in a first world country, an honest, upright citizen, a man who understood about caring and sharing, someone Nina would never regret choosing.
Nina’s mother was so moved that she decided that Ananda was a replica of her late husband. There was that same dynamism, that same forward looking quality that had led him to emigrate, that same traditional streak that induced him to come home for a bride. A rare and unusual mix of Indian and Western. Who could ask for more?
Zenobia and Nina sat in the darkness of Dasaprakash lingering over dosas. ‘It’s just too rushed, Zen, I don’t even know him—though he seems quite keen. And that too after living in the West for seven years. How can I be sure there is nothing wrong with him?’
‘You can’t,’ said the friend sapiently.
‘Though he doesn’t seem a murderer or a rapist, nor could he have a wife tucked away somewhere. No parents putting pressure.’
‘Why has he been single so long?’
Were those enough reasons? Neither of them was sure. He was too unknown and giving up, they focused on the known. Nina—she wanted to settle down, she wanted children, she could continue in the same rut for years, longing and hoping. He had got her presents, showed a generous nature, was willing to like—to love. This could be her last chance. What were the odds of marrying after thirty? Did they know anybody who had managed to cross this Rubicon? And she did like him—as for romance, she had to live in the real world. It had come her way once and brought a few highs paid for by many lows. She had to remember that where God shut the door, he always opened a window. Ananda was the window, if later he morphed into a closed door she could divorce him. Risks were inevitable if one wanted change.
The friends decided Nina would ask for six months in which to give her answer. She couldn’t rush into marriage with someone she didn’t know. Ananda lived in the West, he was sure to understand that.
When Nina came home she was met by her mother’s freshly composed paean to Ananda. He had dropped by unexpectedly, had stayed to talk to her, so considerate, so thoughtful, so friendly. Smart, intelligent and sensitive, not like his sister. He spoke so sensibly of his life there, of what it would mean to a girl like Nina, how it would probably be easier for her than for most.
At last, at last, her daughter had a decent offer, thank God there was somebody to take her out of this little room and give her the life she deserved.
Nina looked at her mother. The thin face was sallow, the glasses on it were pale pink plastic, square and nondescript. The eyes behind them were large, brown and anxious.
‘I’m not sure, Ma, it is such a big step. And so far away. It means leaving everything, job, friends, you. If anything happens, I’ll be left with nothing.’
The mother ignored this nonsense. Of course, Nina would find new friends, a new job. One couldn’t stay in one place forever. ‘You like him?’ she asked.
‘Well, yes.’
‘Then beta, what is the problem?’
‘It’s not enough.’
‘Marriage is a question of adjustment.’
‘I feel nervous. So far away with a person I hardly know.’
Why did her daughter refuse to recognise that it was necessary to have a man to protect one from the vicissitudes of life? Somehow she had not managed to teach Nina the concepts of safety. She didn’t know of Nina’s struggle to resist her mother’s fears, didn’t know how afraid she was of their becoming her own.
Age and fear divided them. The mother was certain she saw the path to the daughter’s happiness as clearly as the road into Jangpura from the bus stop.
‘You can always divorce him,’ she said at last. Once the girl was married, experience and maturity would demand she make wise decisions.
‘Why marry then?’
‘Because the boy is good. As for your other objections, nothing will become clearer no matter how much you think.’
Zenobia’s very sentiments.
The evening of Ananda’s departure. They had just had tea, and were sitting on the front steps of B-26 Jangpura Extension, hidden from the road by the bulk of Mr Singh’s car. The door behind them was closed, Nina knew her mother would never open it; privacy was essential for the realisation of love and the mother’s ambitions for her daughter. The sun had set, and the last light of the day was fading. The streetlights flickered on. As it grew darker Nina and Ananda shifted closer to each other.
‘I will miss you,’ said Ananda.
He heard a faint sigh. Her head was on his shoulder, his arm around her, he could not see her face. Every time a car entered the lane, huge shadows were cast on the walls of the house. Then relative darkness for five seconds before another car appeared.
‘Does this go on all night? Don’t you get disturbed?’
‘We are used to it. Besides you may have noticed how dark and thick our curtains are.’
He said nothing. Seven years away and the country assaulted his senses like it might have done any foreigner’s.
He shifted down one step, pulling her with him, so that they were more completely hidden by the car. ‘I love you,’ he whispered. He was leaving the next day and already he felt desolate.
‘So soon?’ she murmured back.
‘I have always known my own mind.’
Again the sigh.
She was clothed in a thick sweater and a shawl, plus six yards of sari. His arm around her waist felt nothing but padding, and he slipped his hand under her sweater so he could feel her skin. She became very still, and he grew more conscious of her weight against him. There was some knit material loosely tucked into her petticoat.
‘What’s this?’ he asked, pulling gently at it.
‘In winter when it is very cold I often wear a vest instead of a blouse,’ she replied, not moving, waiting to see what he would do.
His yanking increased. ‘Just a second,’ she whispered, ‘you will pull my pleats out this way.’ She sucked in her stomach, freed the vest.
It was an invitation and he responded. His hand caressed her stomach, brushed against her breasts. More delight, she was not wearing a bra; beneath the outer volume of clothing she was very accessible.
‘I love you,’ he repeated, his heart beating, his body warm in the cold night.
She pressed herself closer. Gone was the awkwardness of words. With his free hand he turned her face towards him and nuzzled her lips. Her mouth opened, his tongue slipped in, to be met in eagerness by her own. His hand played fast and furious with her breasts, now no barriers between him and them. Involuntarily she opened her legs slightly; with alacrity he followed that invitation as well.
Nina’s body spoke its own language, coming to the fore in those insistent moments, treating as secondary her fears about distance and marriage. Her breathing told him this and he was satisfied. In his bones he felt this was the girl for him, and there by the wheels of Mr Singh’s Ambassador he did his best to make her feel the same.
‘Well, has she made up her mind yet?’ asked Alka sarcastically as he entered the house. ‘Or is she going to wait till the plane takes off.’
‘At least she is not looking for a meal ticket.’
This was ignored. ‘She is being mighty fussy. Where else will she get a man like you?’
‘Let it be. The girl has a right to ask for time.’
‘Already defending her,’ taunted the older sister. ‘You didn’t need time. Why does she?’
‘She is giving up more than I am, it’s not surprising that she should be cautious. I would feel the same in her place.’
Alka stared at him. So he was already under the girl’s spell. He looked happy, and she didn’t have the heart to puncture his joy. She just hoped this Nina would be worth that warms flushed look.
Six hours later when Ananda boarded the British Airways flight for London it was with a sense of loss. He was reminded unpleasantly of seven years ago when he had left, putting his youth and the deaths of his parents behind him. When would his life be sorted out, when would he have someone of his own? He was glad he had not told anybody in Halifax, should his hopes be dashed, the distress would only be his.
vii
No sooner did Ananda depart than Nina found her life empty. Two weeks and she had grown used to the pleasures of a romantic involvement. Away from him her own doubts seemed less substantial.
Now when his letters came, Mr Batra did not ask what was in them, Nina reacted so badly. It was useless explaining that she just wanted to know how he was, what was wrong with that?
Instead she frequently inquired, ‘What does Zenobia think?’
‘Nothing much.’
Mr Batra had spent many years fearing Zenobia’s influence over her daughter. Despite her parents’ efforts to ensure a respectable second marriage, she remained alone in her barsati, thinking independence worth the pain of loneliness.
‘You don’t know th
e kind of people they want her to marry,’ said Nina angrily, but was it possible there was no one suitable for the high and mighty Zenobia?
Nina usually did not take kindly to Mr Batra’s comments about Zenobia. Now she thought if only her mother knew how much Zen’s views and her own coincided, her dislike would vanish. But she would not give her that pleasure.
The months passed.
Each day brought Nina face to face with her problem, should she or shouldn’t she? She grew sick of her indecision. If she didn’t say yes, she might regret it all her life. Twenty years down the road she could see herself alone in B-26 Jangpura Extension, growing old with the landlord’s children, the spinster of the English Department, her body dry with longing for a child. Then Ananda promised her such a future, laced with choices, edged with beautiful snowflakes that glittered through the distance, promising at the very minimum change, novelty, excitement. To push her over the fence Zenobia and Mr Batra held out the tantalising option of divorce. She should not resign straightaway, she should just take leave. All doors open, escape routes planned. Now jump off the fence. Go, Nina, go.
She did jump, as they had hoped, known, predicted she would, jumped to join legions of women who crossed the seas to marry men living in unseen lands.
In the nineteenth century they departed from their northern homes in boatloads, voyaging to Australia, Asia and the Americas. They left behind countries that had offered neither men nor security, left behind hopeless futures and lonely presents. In the women of the homeland, the waiting men saw helpers, family makers and standard bearers.
In the twentieth century it was the Asian woman’s turn. The immigrant man needed a bride who would surround him with familiar traditions, habits and attitudes, whose reward was the prosperity of the West and a freedom often not available to her at home.
For his part the dentist had turned to his own kind after seven long years. His wife would share his money, body and success. She would know and appreciate the distance he had travelled, and he in turn would guide her on her journey. For what did immigrants want but a better life, not only for themselves, but for others whom they could assist and patronise. These thoughts fell into place only after he met Nina.