The Rearranged Life

by Annika Sharma

  “Have you started cramming for the exam on Wednesday?” James asks after class. “Do you want to study together?”

  “I started two weeks ago,” I tell him sheepishly.

  “Wow, now I feel like a moron.” He incorrectly perceives my paranoia as eagerness.

  “I’m really bad at chem. I need all the time I can get.” I stifle a laugh at his expression.

  “I’m kind of awesome, if you want me to help you out.” When I raise my eyebrows, he exhales. “Maybe that was cocky.”

  “Yeah, maybe a little.”

  “I have a 98, though. Let’s not pretend that isn’t something to be cocky about.”

  Freshmen are warned that this class is coming in three years and spend those six semesters dreading its arrival. He has every right to be proud.

  “I need to check my homework grade,” I mutter anyway.

  “Are you doubting my abilities?”

  “Me? Never!” I smirk. “Then again, how do I know you aren’t failing? What if you just landed me an F on that assignment too?”

  “Oh, you mean the one you cheated on?” He counters my insinuation about his idiocy with a jab at my moral high ground and I stick my tongue out, the only mature way to retort.

  We face off, our amusement concealed, until I realize I need to walk to the other side of campus for my next lecture.

  y run is shorter than usual the morning of the exam–three miles and only about a half-hour long including stretches. I need to get into my exam mindset. Sophia always makes fun of my methods. She thinks I approach tests with a military frame of mind. She’s probably right. When I get back to the apartment, I move aside some furniture in the living room and take thirty minutes to do some yoga. It is 6:30, and I have plenty of time to go through my routine before I head off to class.

  Yoga is one of the things that my mother instilled in me. When I was younger and bouncing off the walls, she would call me down to the basement to practice. I whined and made faces about wanting to be outside, running around and playing on the swings. Instead, she patiently taught me various poses. The memory is imbued with fondness.

  “Someday, kanna, I won’t be here. When I am not, you can do this and think of me.”

  “Amma, you will always be here.” In my seven-year old innocence, I couldn’t understand that every day I grew, she was getting older, too.

  She’d smile, charmed by my childhood-tinged lack of awareness, and continue to encourage me to stick it out. In my teens, I’d roll my eyes, but secretly enjoy the time with my mom when it wasn’t cool to do so. And she’d utilize those mornings to tell me Indian myths and inform me about the powers our long hours of contortions give one’s body.

  “Yoga allows you to control yourself, Nithya. It is important to realize God is taking care of you, and it is up to you to tailor your behavior to grow closer to him or her.”

  Now when I do yoga on my own, usually before tests, the control over my body and my mind washes over me. My mother pumps through my veins. And she was right: I feel closer to God, who I believe is out there.

  Meditating makes me hyper-aware of every small sound in the vicinity. The generators run behind our building, a low whirr always in the background, but amplified in the quiet of the early morning. Sophia rolls over in bed and eventually climbs out of it, the floorboards creaking even under her light 125-pound frame. She’s checking her e-mail now–the keystrokes so distinct, it’s as if she is clicking the keys next to my ear. Traffic on College Avenue, the early commuters making their way to work, echoes on the street. My heart, beating slowly and rhythmically as my measured breaths whoosh in and out, creates miniscule vibrations in my body. I have complete control and no control at all. It is an incredible feeling. A full breakfast before my walk to class caps my routine.

  “You have an hour to take this exam. If you have a hat, turn it backward, and if you have a question, just raise your hand. Good luck.”

  Exam packets make their way down the two aisles dividing the room. As James passes me the stack coming our way, we mouth “good luck” at the same time and stifle laughs. Staring at the test as if daring it to try and take me down, I silently say a quick prayer to Ganesha, the way my dad taught me when I was faced with my first spelling bee.

  He told me whenever I had a test in life, worshipping Lord Ganesha would help me pass with flying colors. Being a literal child, a habit developed of praying before every test. Now, here I am at twenty-one, still doing the same thing. I take a deep breath and open the packet. Here goes nothing.

  Forty-five minutes later, my answers have been checked twice and I am confident with what I’ve done. I have gone through each question slowly, using every test-taking strategy in my arsenal. James is penciling in the multiple-choice section on my left. A brief glance at the packet makes me consider triple checking, but my gut says I have done all I can. I shove my pencil and calculator into their special slots in my backpack and grab my exam packet and answer sheet. As I shuffle behind James to exit our aisle, a burst of bravery comes out of nowhere, and I give his shoulder a quick squeeze as reassurance he didn’t ask for. The grateful look he gives me makes me feel like it was worth it.

  I was afraid James would stay connected to that awful night forever, and I would never be able to think of him without reliving waking up in a stranger’s apartment full of fear. But no, only five short days, and it’s all James, and the way he doesn’t take things too seriously, and can laugh at my idiocy without it feeling like it’s at my expense. It’s impossible to feel as though the cheating and drugging have any bearing on how we interact now. We even have an inside joke already, and I’m filled with an unexplainable giddiness when he imitates my tigress look or whispers, “Did you get that or do I need to give you my notes again?” during lecture. I don’t see him as my savior. There is no ‘damsel in distress’ syndrome here. He intrigues me.

  “Do you want to grab a coffee?” He suggests casually after class on Friday morning.

  Is he asking me out? He’s out of your league, and you’re out of your mind, responds the voice in my head. I want to, but I have an essay for medical school waiting and all the packing to do for my out-of-state trip. Do the responsible thing, Nithya.

  “I wish I could, James. I’m leaving for Jersey in a few hours. My cousin’s wedding.”

  “It’s no big deal. Maybe next time,” he offers sweetly before we part ways.

  There won’t be a next time. Sejal’s opinion, that Indians shouldn’t date or marry outside our community, isn’t one I wholeheartedly agree with, but it’s also not uncommon. My friends would outwardly say they support me, but I’ve seen the whispers at intermarriages. I don’t hope to become the subject of them. And my family would be talked about, too. Other people can do what they want, but not me. No… I can never date James. There’s too much at stake.

  here are bright colors everywhere. People laugh loudly and conversations flow through the air like the fragrances of the thousands of flowers decorating the hall. Everywhere I look, sequins and rhinestones sparkle, sending facets of color shooting across the room. Music plays as a soundtrack to the scene and a melodious voice sings a ghazal for the one he adores. Women are wearing their saris. The men are in shalwars. A decorated horse loiters outside, surrounded by people dancing their way to the entrance.

  You would think I was at a circus… or maybe on an LSD trip. I am, in fact, at my cousin Mohini’s wedding. Painstakingly planned over the last six months, it hasn’t technically started yet–but the festivities have been in full swing for the last few hours and have barely begun. Indian weddings are always multiple day events. I came home on Friday afternoon, toting Sophia along as a last-minute addition, and we all drove to New Jersey, where Mohini’s family had a henna-decorating ceremony. I had intricate paisley designs painted onto my hands as Mohini sat like a maharani with two artists on either side diligently working on both of hers. Her designs didn’t just span her palms—they spiraled and curled their way up to her elb
ows, and her feet were decorated to mid-shin. Friday night included a welcome dinner at the hotel. Saturday morning, at 4:00 a.m., we all woke up for a pooja or worship for Mohini’s new life. Nakul, her groom, was busy with his own events in a different part of the hotel. Now, nearly at noon, we are welcoming the groom’s side to the venue officially, via an elaborate parade orchestrated by Mohini’s parents and relatives.

  “Nithya, Anisha, Sophia, what are you doing?” My mother’s voice sounds behind me as we dodge the stragglers to get a good seat in the ballroom.

  “Trying to ride the horse, Amma, can’t you tell?” Anisha, my little sister, is fluent in sarcasm. I suppose most teenagers are, but Anisha has mastered this art.

  Amma looks like she hardly hears her. Her eyes are elsewhere, taking in the details.

  “Oh, my gosh, I can’t believe Nakul rode a horse!” Sophia exclaims loudly enough for some neighboring aunties to look at us. Her excitement is exactly why I brought her along, and I shrug off the disapproving stares.

  Nakul did ride in on the white horse, decorated just as ostentatiously as the wedding hall. He parked the creature outside, looking stiff and distrusting of the animal as his family danced in a processional leading up to the doors. When he hopped off, I was practically blown away by the heaving sigh of relief that escaped him. He really was out of his element, the poor thing, dressed in an exquisitely embroidered sherwani, when I’ve only ever seen him in polos and khakis.

  “Do you want us to save you seats, Amma?” I point to the row we are about to enter.

  “No, kanna, it is okay. I wanted to check on you, that’s all. Your daddy and I will go help Krishna Mavayya and Neelam Atta with anything they need.” She perfunctorily pats me on the arm, frazzled. The bride’s father is her brother, and a state of frenzy is a prerequisite to being on the bride’s side of the wedding.

  Now that I think about it, Indian weddings are chaos no matter what side the guests are on. No one sits down, everybody talks throughout the ceremony, and the only people paying attention are the ones at the altar. The music sounds like the musicians each simultaneously play a tune of their own choosing. The food supply is endless, and so is the number of ceremonies.

  “So, now is the actual marriage, right?” Anisha verifies. She’s at an age where she’s paying attention. Until now, she used to goof off with friends in the hallways, dashing between servers and relatives, oblivious to the pomp and show.

  “It’s so pretty!” Sophia squeals. “Wait, how long is this going to go on?”

  “Yes, Anisha, I’ll explain as we go along, okay?” I anticipate her coming questions, then direct my attention to Sophia. “A while, Soph. Get comfortable.”

  Indian people don’t do things fast. Ever.

  Nakul stops just outside of the hall, and we turn in our seats, straining to see. He repeats mantras the priest recites for all to hear. Mohini’s brother (in this case, her cousin since she is an only child) interrupts his repetition, gently being pushed to do so by other members of the family.

  “Wait, that’s rude! Why’d he cut Nakul off?”

  “He’s supposed to interrupt, Anisha,” I explain, amused at her outrage. “Nakul is saying he is going to go on a pilgrimage and begin his bachelor days as a Brahmachari. Mohini’s brother is supposed to interrupt and ask him to marry Mohini first so he can fulfill his dharma.”

  “Is that like karma?” Sophia asks.

  “Not quite. Dharma is like your duty to the world. Like children, and monogamy, and providing for those with less than you have.”

  The priest loudly chants a few phrases.

  “He just said this is auspicious, so Nakul should say yes,” I tell the girls now, both of whom are enraptured as Nakul and his parents walk to the mandapam set up at the front of the hall.

  I wonder just how auspicious this union could be, considering Mohini’s cousin butchered the pronunciation of the ancient phrases so it sounded more like Martian than Sanskrit, but I guess the intention behind the statement matters more than the pronunciation itself.

  “How many aunties have asked you when your turn is?”

  “More than enough, kid,” I mutter, thinking of the white-haired ladies pinching my cheeks and telling me I would soon be a blushing bride, too. Fat chance, ladies, I have medical school to think about.

  “Oh, please, Nithya. Like you wouldn’t want all of this.” Sophia gestures to the elaborate décor.

  “I do, just not now! Let’s get through college first, okay?”

  “You should have told them you’re a lesbian.” Anisha’s face is gleeful.

  Sophia cracks up. I giggle too, picturing the shocked looks on the elders’ faces.

  “Anisha!” I try to scold her, but can’t control my laughter. After four hours of sleep, everything seems funnier than it is.

  The music swells. In India, a mela of a variety of traditional instruments plays classical music. Since we are in the United States, however, Mohini’s family decides to update the tradition, and a DJ stationed in the back of the temple hall controls a stereo system playing Mohini’s favorite Bollywood wedding song. We all stand, though it’s not our custom to do so… another American tradition appropriated by the Indians.

  “Nakul looks pretty calm for a guy who’s about to get married,” Sophia observes.

  She’s right. Nakul waits with his parents flanking his sides. He sits still, his back straight. The only sign of his nerves is in his bouncing toes. The mandapam forms a frame of flowers and long strands of crystals around the three of them, like a snapshot of their lives before they gain a new family member.

  “Why are they covering him up?” Anisha asks impatiently. She has noticed the priests and family members onstage pulling a cloth across Nakul’s view.

  “Because they have to wait until the right second to lift it. Astrologers figure out that stuff beforehand to make sure the marriage is auspicious.”

  “They can figure out if we’re meant to be by knowing I’m an Aries? That’s kind of romantic. Like destiny or something.” Sophia says contemplatively.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s a little more in-depth than figuring out you’re an Aries.” I grin and remember the maze of star charts that surrounded astrologers when a baby relative was born a few years ago.

  “She will be a doctor!” The astrologers had claimed, and her parents had looked proudly at the bundle of joy that would surely change lives someday. Maybe it’s written in the stars that all Indians do the same things. Or do we only assure ourselves that it is?

  Then, Mohini’s maternal uncles walk into the hall, a large basket in their arms. In it, sits Mohini like a child. The whispers grow around us; oohs and aahs fill the air at the audience’s first glance at the bride.

  “Doesn’t her dad give her away?” Sophia frowns.

  “Later,” I mouth back, my eyes following them past us.

  Mohini slowly climbs out of the basket, making sure not to trample on the end of her sari. Her parents join her and place her hands in Nakul’s, underneath the cloth. This is always magical to me, just like the anticipation building at an American wedding for the groom to set eyes on his beautiful bride. Everyone can see both of them, but they can’t see each other. Nakul is taking steadying breaths, and Mohini smiles from ear to ear. The aunties whisper excitedly about how they’ll react.

  The cloth is moved. Nakul’s face lights up when he finally sees Mohini–breathtaking in a red sari, the first of many outfit changes throughout the weekend. The glittering jewelry glints all over her body, and her delicate face is a snapshot of joy. When she and Nakul lock eyes, I am convinced they don’t see the hundreds of guests watching them. It is the two of them, in their own world, on the biggest day of their lives.

  “Are they giving her away?” Sophia whispers, and Anisha leans in to listen.

  I nod, surprisingly emotional, as Krishna Mavayya repeats after the priest. His jaw is taut as he tries to look unaffected, but his misty eyes betray him. He suddenly lets go of Moh
ini’s hands and the priest signals for her to step up next to Nakul for the rest of the ceremony as Krishna Mavayya moves out of his place.

  “It’s like she’s not ours anymore,” Anisha says quietly, and I’m taken aback by this astute observation by a sixteen year old.

  Then I remember what my dad told me at the last wedding we went to, and comfort fills my heart.

  “She’s still ours, Anisha. Nanna told me that when we give things away in charity, we say ‘na mama’, which means it’s not ours anymore. The only time we don’t say that is during the kanyadaanam when we give away a bride.”

  “That’s beautiful,” Sophia says in awe.

  The little Sejal in my head tells me this is antiquated, but I agree with Sophia. Giving away a daughter binds two families. There can’t be anything more beautiful than that.

  After the kanyadaanam, we watch Nakul tie a mangalsutra, the sacred necklace, around Mohini’s delicate neck. I suppose this is where ‘tying the knot’ comes from. Nakul leads her in seven circles around the holy fire, as they make promises binding them for life. Mohini looks down at the floor as she walks, the picture of a shy and inexperienced bride. Bollywood movies were dreamt up from scenes like these. Her parents watch with pride, and Nakul’s parents seem happy that they’ve gained a daughter. As Mohini and Nakul sit down on their seats again, her best friends pass out Hershey’s Kisses with Just Married written on the thin white tails. It’s official.

  “How much longer?” Anisha whines. It has been two hours now, and her patience is wearing thin.

  “Not long. Quiet,” I murmur, giving her my chocolate to appease her. Anisha is silenced, and it makes me that much more fond of her, because to me, she’s still a child.

  “It’s no wonder Amma and Nanna’s ceremony took three days. This was supposed to be the short version!” Anisha says incredulously, as we wait in line for the buffet lunch.

  “We haven’t seen you in a few hours! Did everything go smoothly behind the scenes?” I ask my parents as they finally appear in the cafeteria.