The Rearranged Life

by Annika Sharma

  “Everything was wonderful.” Nanna is as diplomatic as ever.

  “Neelam is too much,” my mother replies crossly. I expected her complaints. She and Neelam Atta have the world’s strangest love-hate relationship.

  “Everything is so beautiful. This must have taken some serious work.” Sophia turns the centerpiece for a view from all angles.

  “Sophia, honey, when your time comes, your wedding will be equally as lovely,” Amma says.

  Endearments like ‘honey’ might seem out of place for my mother, who thinks out loud in Telugu or Hindi, but she has a soft spot for Sophia, evident by her fussing over Sophia’s sari, a loaner from my closet.

  “Nithya, why didn’t you pin this blouse for her properly? It’s hanging off her.” Amma pulls a safety pin out of her purse and attempts to fold Sophia’s pallu over her shoulder.

  “Amma, it doesn’t fit because I have boobs. I did my best.”

  Anisha snickers next to me as Sophia sticks her tongue out.

  “I’m going to get more food.” Nanna, already embarrassed at the turn this conversation has taken, leaves his seat and stands at the back of the line.

  My mother gives me a disapproving look before she is distracted by an aunty I vaguely recognize from Philadelphia, a common friend of both Mohini’s family and our own.

  “Arrey, Priya, did you hear about Karishma’s wedding?” Aunty sits without an invitation in Nanna’s spot. Her eyes are wide with the prospect of gossip.

  “I did. She’s marrying an American.” My mother attempts a moral upper hand by sounding nonchalant. I know better than to believe Amma would take this lightly.

  “An American. Her poor parents! I saw them at the temple last weekend, and they could barely show their faces!”

  “Kids these days don’t think about their families and their reputation. It’s not like there are no Indian boys out there. We have five hundred million of them in the world!”

  “Karishma’s parents say they are happy, and it is God’s will, but of course they will say that. Who wants to admit their daughter could not find an Indian boy?”

  “She is a very smart girl, and a very good catch. The boy is very lucky.”

  “She might be a good catch, but she should have stuck to an Indian. What is the point of having your own culture if you just blend right in and marry the one you moved into? You marry your kind. You are no Indian if you don’t act like one!” Aunty passionately argues.

  My mother purses her lips and murmurs her agreement.

  “Her parents probably blame themselves. That is a very big burden.” Amma tries diplomacy, but the gossip flame is well lit now; her rationalization will go unheard.

  “Rumor has it,” Aunty starts, relishing this, “her parents threatened not to pay for the wedding or for her graduate school. They even threatened to disown her!”

  “I would also not pay for my child’s schooling if they did not marry someone I approved of.”

  “Really?” I can’t resist asking. She shoots me a look telling me to stay out of the grown up conversation. Like we haven’t been listening to this stuff since we were kids.

  “I would not either!” Aunty proclaims, ignoring me. “We are the ones who have brought our children up, have given them everything they have wanted, have paid for their education, and tried our best to raise them correctly. A child acting like this is betrayal.”

  “Her parents must feel very heartbroken,” Amma says, sympathetic.

  “Let’s be honest, Priya. Her parents failed. Karishma did what she wanted. Their family will never be the same. Oh, I see some friends over there. I will be back.” She swoops out of our circle as quickly she came in.

  I am thankful Sophia and Anisha, immersed in their own conversation the entire time, went to refill their drinks or the questions after this one would be endless.

  “Nithya, you should not have barged in like that. It does not look nice if you protest our ways. People will think you support Karishma,” Amma says quietly.

  “I don’t know if I agree with her, Amma, but it’s her life. She will deal with the consequences.”

  “You won’t understand, kanna. You are too young.” She brushes me off.

  “Would you really stop paying for school if I told you I was marrying someone different?” Her words still echo in my ears.

  “I would. But I will never have to hold this over your head. You are smarter than that.”

  “Oh,” I say lamely, picturing James for a fraction of a second, before Anisha and Sophia come back with their plates loaded with desserts.

  I haven’t had the opportunity to detangle my thoughts on intermarriages, but conversations like this remind me that arranged marriages will always be encouraged. Aunties don’t see love marriages as a path to happiness. It will always be selfish betrayal.

  o you want to have an arranged marriage too?” Anisha asks later as we lie in our beds for a catnap before the reception.

  The teens and twenty-something children of guests have lavishly been settled in their own hotel rooms separate from their parents, courtesy of Mohini’s family. I don’t mind giving Anisha her own bed since she kicks like a ninja. Sophia is next to me, already passed out.

  “Where did that come from?”

  “I was just wondering if you wanted a love marriage or an arranged match. Mohini’s is an arranged one, but she seemed so happy today. And with that conversation about Karishma…”

  I need to give her eavesdropping skills more credit. “I don’t know, Anisha. Love marriages seem like fun… but there is something easy about having your parents set you up. You don’t have to worry about whether someone is similar to you or if your life choices will blend together. It just works.” Which is why James isn’t an option.

  “Have you ever been in love?” she asks innocently, eliciting a heart-bursting wave of fondness. She sees me as a conqueror of the world since I left Philadelphia for Penn State. I wish I could live up to her expectations.

  “No, kiddo. I don’t know if that will ever happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’d be afraid to upset Amma and Nanna, I think.” I don’t add that no one has ever been interested anyway.

  “You always did listen to things they told us to do…”

  I am about to ask her whether that is a bad thing, but her eyelids are fluttering. If she doesn’t sleep now, she will be a mess at the reception, so I let her dream. I pull up my grades on my laptop and click the link to my chemistry homework.

  A ninety-eight.

  I mouth a silent thanks to James before shutting the screen and nestling into the covers. He’s a good friend. And I am Indian. That’s how it should be.

  The reception takes place at a different ballroom in the same hotel. The chandeliers drip with crystal. Black and white clad attendants carry platters of samosas, pakoras, tikkas, and all sorts of American finger foods. The unlimited appetizers fill our bellies before dinner. We have met numerous relatives we haven’t seen in years. At this point, the fact that Indian kids call all adults aunty and uncle is helpful because I am losing track of who is who.

  “Aditya?” My dad asks loudly, in disbelief. My mother, Anisha, and I turn in the direction he is facing, expecting to be met with another relative.

  “Venkata?” An equally amazed voice answers back.

  A handsome man in a suit stands next to his wife, who is wrapped in a regal maroon sari. Their children, a boy and girl around my age and Anisha’s age respectively, flank them. As if conducted by puppet strings, the adults all let out cries of excitement. Hugs are shared with enthusiastic commentaries about how great the others look. The four of us kids linger, waiting patiently for an introduction, but soon it becomes clear that we’re on our own. The boy reaches his hand out after a few minutes of awkward staring and introduces himself as Nishanth. His sister does the same, announcing herself in a crisp tone as Indrani.

  “Anisha, Nithya, and Sophia! Aditya Uncle and Madhu Aunty were graduate sch
ool friends of ours at UCLA. We did everything together! Nishanth, you were a toddler at the time… you have grown up!” my dad exclaims.

  Nishanth’s white smile is a contrast against his golden skin. Sophia gives me a nudge.

  “Your dad and mom were quite the partiers back then!” Uncle laughs.

  “You can feel free to tell us details anytime, Uncle!” Anisha’s eyes light up and so do mine, the prospect of getting some dirt on our parents’ wild days makes us positively giddy.

  “Don’t you put stories in their head, Aditya!” Nanna warns.

  We all find a line of adjacent seats against the wall, and Nishanth and I immediately chat up a storm, our friendship struck like a forest fire started by lightning.

  “So where do you go to school?” I ask.

  “I went to Michigan, but I’m in the middle of my MBA,” he hesitates before adding, “at Harvard.”

  “Wow, I’m impressed.” Most of the people I know, like Sejal, would have shouted it from the rooftops, so his humility is attractive. “Why did you want to get your MBA?”

  “To understand the ins and outs of risk-and-reward. Business takes intelligence and a certain disregard for how precarious it can be. I really like the rush of a calculated risk.” His eyes light up as he talks.

  “I don’t know if I could do that. I like knowing what I’m getting into!”

  “That’s the fun of it!” he insists. “You just go in and do everything you can, and you either succeed or fail. It’s a constant battle against yourself to beat your own record and to keep up with everyone around you.”

  “How long have you been a financial thrill seeker?”

  “As long as I can remember. I’m pretty sure I was sending out my toy soldiers on peaceful acquisitions of other countries. They negotiated a lot of takedowns,” he says merrily, and somehow, I can see him as a little brown boy telling his GI Joes about owning shares in his corporation. The delightful imagery prompts a grin.

  “You have a really pretty smile,” he says, bashful enough to be endearing.

  “Thank you.”

  Sophia gives an amused smile I catch out of the corner of my eye as she asks Indrani a question about her high school classes. I know she’s listening for flirty cues.

  “So tell me about yourself, I’ve been talking your ear off.”

  “What do you want to know?” A little mystery never hurt anyone.

  “Anything. Everything.” He gazes into my eyes. A few seconds pass, breathless, before I turn away, blushing.

  “I’m really bad at talking about myself. Um, okay, I like ice cream. It’s my favorite dessert. And, uh, well…”

  “Wow, you do stink at talking about yourself. Okay, twenty questions?”

  “That’s a better option.” My shoulders relax in relief.

  “We’ll start easy,” he says reassuringly. “What’s your major?”

  “Double major in Biology and Health Policy and Administration.”

  “Wow, very nice. Where do you want to be in ten years?”

  “A doctor. Maybe gynecology. Maybe neurology. I haven’t decided.”

  “Dream medical school?”

  “Columbia.”

  “You aim high.” He sounds as impressed as I was when he mentioned an Ivy.

  “I try. I hope I get in.” I cross my fingers.

  “A total overachiever, aren’t you?” He grins.

  “No… I don’t think so.” I squirm, uncomfortable with that label.

  “Have you ever failed at anything?” He raises his eyebrows, fully aware I’ll say no.

  I pretend to give this some thought. “Maybe, this conversation?”

  “She’s an overachiever,” Sophia cuts in from next to me.

  I try to protest, but Nishanth says, “Your best friend just confirmed. We can’t deny it now.”

  Sophia nudges me and points out the mandapam they have now turned into a sweetheart dinner table site for the couple.

  “Are Indian weddings always this rich?” Her wide eyes haven’t stopped soaking in all the colors and sounds.

  “It’s pretty standard. Horse. Twelve outfits. Flowers. Sometimes a cow.” Nishanth shrugs, deadpan.

  “A cow?” Anisha asks.

  “He’s kidding about the cow.” I clarify, and he chuckles.

  “I wish I could have one of these weddings. Hell, I’d settle for a reception like this,” Sophia says.

  “You can marry Nishanth and get one.” I put my chin up in the air. Who’s the one squirming now?

  “I’m pretty sure Nishanth’s got his eye on someone else,” Sophia mutters, giving me a meaningful look. He’s eyeballing a group of youngsters clearly contemplating mischief on the other side of the room, so I’m sure he didn’t catch it.

  “I’m pretty sure she’s right,” he murmurs back and proves me wrong.

  Sophia’s energy hits me in waves–she knew this was coming from a mile away. This conversation could have been a setup just to put the flirtation out in the open. I don’t know if I want to kill her or hug her.

  “Well, I’m off for another cocktail!” she chirps, her mission complete. “Indrani, Anisha, you want to come get drinks? And by that, I mean sodas,” she adds.

  The three of them stand up abruptly, and I’m left with Nishanth. What do I say? For someone who never shuts up in school, I have a spectacular inability to handle the unknown.

  “Wait, where did you say you went to school?” And just like that, problem solved.

  “Sophia and I go Penn State.”

  “Shit, I don’t know if we can be friends… Rival Big Ten schools and all that.” He makes a move to get up that reminds me of James, but I am not so passive this time.

  “Shut up and sit down.” I swat his arm. There’s less reservation with him than with James.

  “Commanding, aren’t we?”

  “You’d better get used to Michigan being run over by Penn State.” There’s a football game next month, that much I know.

  “Wow. Wow. I can’t believe you just went there. We’ve beaten you for years!”

  “Not this year.” My interest in football is next to nonexistent. I just like to win, and this boy brings out the competition.

  “Wanna bet?”

  “Whaddya got?”

  “Loser buys dinner the next time we meet,” he says with authority.

  “What makes you think there will be a next time?” Okay, Sophia was right. There is something.

  “Like I said… I like calculated risks.”

  “You’re on,” I tell him, and we shake on it.

  can’t believe how beautiful this place is!” I exclaim later, for what feels like the hundredth time. The lavish décor doesn’t cease to take my breath away. Reds, oranges, and yellows project onto the ballroom walls, reflected off the glimmering sequined tablecloths. A giant four-tiered wedding cake sits on a table in the middle of the dance floor, complete with an Indian bride and groom as cake toppers.

  “Looks like everything the Nanduris have to do with is beautiful,” he says smoothly. He’s flirting with me! James’ face flashes through my mind for only a second before it’s replaced again with Nishanth’s.

  We must beam at each other like we’re in our own world. When I glance away, my eyes settle on Indrani, Anisha, and Sophia, whose friendship is already cemented over pop stars and their latest antics. My parents, three tables away, immerse themselves in conversation with Nishanth’s parents, and when Amma and I make eye contact, her gaze shifts between Nishanth and I with a decided glint.

  “Do you think you would want a love marriage or do you think you’d go the Nakul route and get a semi-arranged one?”

  “You mean we have a choice?” I ask, playfully.

  “I guess that means you’ve been fed the arranged marriage stuff your whole life, too.” Nishanth chuckles. “But let’s say it was completely up to you.”

  “I’m not sure yet, to be honest. They are both wonderful in their own ways. How about you?”


  “Me neither.” He shrugs. “I was hoping you had a better answer.”

  “I wish! I think it’s kind of complicated for kids like us.”

  “I completely agree.” He throws his hands up in surrender. “We have to be as Indian as the people in India and as American as the Americans. We can’t win.”

  His dimples create valleys in his cheeks, and I would tell jokes all day to keep them there.

  Being asked the same question twice in a few hours makes me consider my answer more seriously. Anisha’s sleepy pronouncement replays in my mind. You always did follow the rules. Anisha and Nishanth may have asked me what I want out of curiosity, but having a choice was never part of the bargain.

  In the western world, arranged marriages are seen as ghastly or inhumane. In India, it’s the norm. In ancient days, women and men were married as business transactions. Betrothals during infanthood occurred to further interfamilial ties. Nowadays, the process has changed to something called semi-arranged. Basically, it’s the idea that the parents set you up on a blind date. For progressive families like mine, that means if your date tanks (like the time Mohini’s suitor stared at her cleavage all night), you can say it’s silly to continue onward, and the next match is brought up. There are so many factors to be considered in these pairings, it’s almost easier to allow parents to choose a potential mate and then test out whether the chemistry works. It is how Mohini and Nakul met. They dated for a full year after being set up.

  “Isn’t that weird? Having your parents choose someone for you?” I’d asked Mohini over a holiday reunion.

  “No.” She had smiled. “It’s easy. You don’t have to worry about someone being wrong for the family because that part is taken care of. Then it’s just you two, figuring out your compatibility.”

  “But compatibility and love are two different things, aren’t they?”

  “One can always grow into the other. You’ll see when your time comes, Nithya.” She spoke with the wisdom of a guru.

  I told myself it was because Mohini spent her younger years in India, but after seeing the wedding today, the two families interacting like they’ve been related the whole time, I wonder if she’s onto something.