The Rearranged Life

by Annika Sharma

  When I explain that the system is mostly designed to find people with backgrounds similar to ours, he makes a sound of understanding before finishing easily with, “Someone who isn’t like me.” Much too easily. Like it doesn’t matter.

  “So you’re going to end up with someone else.”

  I can talk until I’m blue in the face and explain all the pros and cons of the arranged marriage system, but the closing argument is the same: I will end up with someone else if I choose to follow our traditions. And if I do not, I risk losing the only family I’ve ever known. His eyes are on me, burning holes through me, waiting for an answer I can’t give him. If I say yes, then I am admitting he isn’t worth a fight. If I say no, then it sounds like my family has no weight in any of my decisions.

  “I don’t know. I’m supposed to. I’m not sure if I want to anymore.”

  For the first time in my life, I have serious doubts about the way my family has approached this for thousands of generations. I picture my ancestors, in villages in India conducting rituals and begging for alms as ascetic Brahmins are supposed to. I see them relinquishing the material possessions and focusing on living a simple life, determined to lead by example. I envision them teaching the warriors of millennia hence to master their skills, without ever actually lifting a weapon in battle. For thousands of years, this system has been in place. Generations of my family who have long left this earth and perhaps never expected me to be here did what was right for their elders and followed the rules. Were any of them ever in love with someone else? Did they ever question their decisions?

  It seems silly to wonder, but maybe I am the first… the first to ever call the system flawed, or to say, I am putting what I want first. The first to look at a green-eyed boy with white skin and think, This is what I want. Did my ancestors ever bank on that?

  “Where does this leave me?” Said boy crashes through my train of thought.

  “James, I don’t know,” I say in frustration. “Where do you want to be? If you want to walk away, I can’t blame you. If you want to stay, then this is something we have to face.”

  “It drives me crazy that someone who doesn’t know you the way I’ve figured you out is going to be with you.” He runs his hands through his hair.

  Until now, I didn’t acknowledge the intensity of my feelings toward James was reciprocated. I knew he was feeling a powerful connection with me. I didn’t need him to say it. I knew it by the way he looked at me the night of my first kiss. I knew from the way he put his arm out when we crossed the street to keep me from walking into traffic. I knew it because every cell in my body couldn’t be wrong. I didn’t want to believe it because if I did, I would never be able to say no. It was the same as the night he asked me out. When someone hands you an apple, the forbidden fruit, you always tell yourself you don’t want it to make it easier to do the right thing… but the truth is, everyone is tempted. This time, for once in my life, I gave into the temptation and here I am, having a say in whether we continue on or give up.

  “We’ll figure it out.” I say, unhelpfully. “What can I do?”

  “I need some space.”

  The words hang in the air between us. A chill enters the room and makes the peach fuzz on my arms stand up.

  “What the hell does that even mean? We sit next to each other in class and my best friend is dating yours. How exactly do you want to do that?” I don’t mean to snap. I don’t want to. But dealing with the unexpected has never been my forte.

  “Jesus, Nithya, I don’t know!” He throws his arms out. “I just need some time to think this over.”

  “You mean you want to think about whether you can be with me.”

  Saying the words aloud is like stabbing myself in the heart. I can absolutely see where James is coming from. Who would want to be with someone who has no choice about what to do? Who wants to risk falling in love with someone if they might end up belonging to someone else? I cannot blame James for wanting to protect himself. I have no right to be upset, yet the tears sting my eyes because I want him to take a chance on me.

  “I wasn’t expecting to be ambushed by this. I have to get my head around it.”

  “Fine, James. Do what you want.” My impetuous, childish, inexperienced alter ago sulks.

  “I just need time to figure this out.” Suddenly his tone is almost pleading.

  “I don’t want to lose you.” Now I’m the one who’s begging.

  “We’ll figure something out.” He rubs his hands over his eyes.

  I fervently wish a crystal ball would appear, but there will be no resolution tonight. We are both bogged down with the weight our decision carries.

  “Do you want to be with me?” Did I really just blurt it out?

  “Yes. Of course. I was expecting to be. I just don’t know if we can handle this. And we have to be honest with ourselves, it’s not ideal.”

  “I agree.” The stress of the last few months can attest to that.

  Every time my mom has called and I’ve omitted that I’m with James, my heart broke. I never want him or anyone else to believe he isn’t good enough to be seen with because it’s the furthest thing from the truth.

  “Fair enough. Let’s just take some time to think about it. We can still talk and sit next to each other, but let’s take the focus off us for awhile, just in case…” He leaves the sentence unfinished, but the words that belong there, in case we don’t work out, are blatantly obvious. “I should go.”

  “I guess you’re getting a head start on the space you wanted,” I murmur bitterly.

  His silence is a plea to let it go. I open the door for him and offer to walk him downstairs, but he gives me a real James smile.

  “I think I’ve got it figured out.” He reaches one arm out for a hug and with a drop in my stomach, I go into his arms, wrapping mine around his waist.

  His lips press against my forehead, and he rests his cheek on my hairline. I look up, knowing the doubt shows in my eyes, and his lips are on mine. I respond hungrily, wrapping my arms around his neck. Our tongues explore each other’s mouths. We know we may not get this chance again, and we commit the taste of each other’s love and each other’s desperation to memory. He pulls away, kissing my cheeks, my forehead, and my lips once again before opening the door.

  “I’ll see you later,” he says softly, his eyes giving away nothing.

  “Yeah. I’ll see you later.”

  The door closes behind him, and I slide down the cool wood and sit propped against it for God knows how long, wondering what I’m going to do and if I can give up this incredible boy.

  t’s for the better.” Sejal says matter-of-factly come Thanksgiving. We lie sprawled out on the floor of my room in Philadelphia, waiting for Nishanth’s family to arrive. It’s been six days since I watched James leave me in that hallway.

  “How can you say that?”

  “Nithya, did you think it was going to work? I’m not being mean. For real. Did you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Look, I know you have your feelings hurt, but finals are coming up. Plus, Nishanth will be here, and he’s a really great guy from what you’ve told me. Focus on those things. Cut your losses.”

  “It’s a big loss, Sejal. We were really good together.” Even to my own ears, I sound flat.

  “I think you hoped you would be, but realistically, it’s just not in the cards. James isn’t vegetarian, he isn’t Hindu, he isn’t Telugu, or anything else your family needs. Is he going to understand that medical school needs to be your priority?”

  “Do you notice every one of those questions pertains to everybody but me? Not one of them was, ‘Do you think you’ll be happy, Nithya?’” I snap, finally pushed to the edge.

  “They all pertain to you. They’re all your priorities.” She is stubborn. Sejal knows exactly how to word her argument so she can make her opponent feel like the dumbass.

  “They might be, but none of them considers what I want. Just what I’m suppose
d to do. There’s a difference,” I reply, exasperated that I sound like a child. I wish James’ logical reasoning would rub off on Sejal, even through me. All I’ve been doing is defending a relationship that might not work out anyway to someone who would never understand it.

  “They’re the same thing.” Sejal proves my point.

  “–Nithya, Indrani’s family is here!” Anisha opens my door, effectively ending our conversation. I can’t complain.

  Thanksgiving break has flown by with family events, movie dates with old friends, and sleeping away the effort it has taken to get through this semester so far. My mind has blissfully been kept off the miserable Skype call, and this is the first I have been able to recount the events to Sejal, whose family (along with Nishanth’s) is over for Thanksgiving dinner. Nishanth’s family will spend a few days with us.

  Nishanth and I lost communication about the time that James and I picked up. It wasn’t intentional; other things occupied my time. He seemed busy, too. We both texted occasionally to check in and see how the other was doing, but the barrage of messages back and forth had ceased until a few days ago when he had, out of the blue, decided to poke me.

  Hey, stranger. I hear we’ll be living together for a couple days over Thanksgiving.

  I suspected Amma was behind this. She and Madhu Aunty had reignited their friendship. Now, less than two or three days passed without a conversation between the two of them. I knew she would invite their family to spend some time with us, but I didn’t expect it to be so soon. I was caught off guard by his message, asking my mother about it over dinner.

  “Madhu and I decided we should meet more often. After all, now that we are best friends again, it is important our children carry on our relationship too, right?” Her eyes sent messages of hope hidden under a veil of innocence.

  I haven’t spoken to James since the exam.

  “Give him his space over Thanksgiving break and tackle the issue when you get back!” Sophia said when I called her, panicked that I had ruined everything.

  I took her advice. Sejal, on the other hand, clearly thought it was for the best, and that no communication should be resumed after the break or ever again. I stew over this as we go downstairs… and over how I will find strength to plaster a happy look on my face.

  We rarely have big Thanksgiving dinners. Every few years, we have relatives over from California or Florida, but mostly, it’s been Mohini’s family and us each year. The American tradition is to have a huge meal and play football. Indians watch Bollywood movies, sing along with the high keening voices of backup singers, and eat tons of carb-loaded spicy food.

  Within a few short hours, Madhu Aunty, Reena Aunty, and my mother are in hysterics over a cup of chai, while my dad, Aditya Uncle, and Anil Uncle chomp down on samosas, sweets, and spicy mixtures of nuts and crunchy batter pieces over an inevitable topic du jour, Indian politics. Nishanth, the others, and I lazily lounge at the feet of the sofas and listen to our parents speak Hindi, the only common language between our different home states. The language switch is so natural in my mind that it startles me sometimes when I realize my parents jump back and forth among Telugu, Hindi, and English.

  We create an assembly line for dinner. The aunties slowly parcel out potato curry into the dough balls to turn into aloo paratha, a dish similar to a stuffed tortilla. Sejal cuts onions for a different curry while Indrani and Anisha tag team some vegetables for sambar. Nishanth and I dutifully roll out the dough for the parathas, entertained by how uneven and blob-like the shapes are.

  “You really aren’t that domesticated, are you?” Nishanth teases.

  “Hey, I’ll make a great wife, thank you very much,” I tell him as our moms look at each other and light up.

  They already envision little Nithyas and little Nishanths running around our knees as we prepare dinner. I fall quiet when I think about that. Would James ever fit into this equation? Was Sejal right? Moments like these, where twelve people can sit in a house and work together on a meal, laughing and speaking different languages yet bonding over a similar culture… they’re rare. And they’re beautiful. I love the way the younger generation stands as soon as an adult walks into a room to offer them our seat, even if there are four others open in the same area. I love the way our parents all speak the same language though they grew up in different regions, and how they can speak different languages equally as well. I love when Madhu Aunty finally grows tired of Nishanth’s burnt parathas and takes over, my mother can mix Madhu Aunty’s curry the exact same way without missing a beat. I love the way the saris glint in the lights and how we’re all the same shade of brown. Would being with James ruin that? Probably. He wouldn’t feel comfortable and neither would I. Yet there is something special about him that lights the darkness, and I would still be willing to bring him into this chaos because he could handle it.

  Just as I mull this over, a wad of flour hits me between the eyes, making them tear up. Cries of “Oh no!” (my mom), and “Nishanth!” (his mom), tongue clucking (Sejal’s mom, because the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree), and “Ooh!” (Sejal, Indrani, and Anisha) sound out around the kitchen.

  “Oops.” Nishanth feigns an accident.

  “You. Are. So. Dead.” I take off around the island in the middle of the kitchen. Nishanth jogs a few paces ahead of me.

  “You looked so serious, I had to break the tension!” he insists, pleased with himself.

  “I’m going to break your face, jerk!” I squeal. Tears still run down my cheeks.

  Our fathers rush in. The looks on their faces tell me they were expecting an epic tragedy, but they find our mothers trying to calm the situation, with equally loud shouts of “Nishanth! Sit down!” and “Nithya, leave him alone!” Anisha, Indrani, and Sejal are amidst a raging fit of giggles, amplified by the high ceilings in the kitchen. By this point, I aim a ladle of bhoondi, formerly sitting in a bowl to be turned in laddoos. Nishanth stands in front of our fathers, arms out and ready for a confrontation.

  “Nithya!” My mother warns me with a tone of urgency I haven’t heard since I was five and about to walk into traffic.

  I fire, my arm creating the best kind of catapult. Nishanth ducks.

  The skittering, crunchy pieces hit Aditya Uncle’s pristine white shirt.

  The room goes silent in a millisecond. Not even the dust in the air moves. I freeze, mouth open. A random sizzle from the paratha on the stove resounds through the hush as my ladle wilts into a white surrender flag. Aditya Uncle looks at his shirt, then at me. Ten seconds pass where no one breathes. I am a dead duck.

  Then he fishes some of the bhoondi out of his pocket, gives my dad a polite pat on the back that I am sure is a precursor to telling his old friend he is never coming back to the Kolluri house, and that he had more faith in his buddy to raise daughters, not animals.

  “Well… what is it they say? If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” He smirks before rubbing a handful of tiny sweet morsels into my shocked father’s hair.

  f you hadn’t been so serious, I wouldn’t have tried to lighten the mood,” Nishanth argues as I concentrate on rubbing out a curry stain from the kitchen wall.

  “You couldn’t have told a joke?” I incredulously ask, and the glint in his eyes confirms he was looking for mischief.

  “You didn’t have to come at me with a monster spoon of food!”

  “This is your fault. Don’t turn it around.” I point at him with a withered paper towel. Our parents have taken a walk, giving an hour to clean up the war zone.

  “You hit my dad with bhoondi.” He tries to remain serious, but bursts out laughing in the middle of his sentence, likely replaying my moment of mortification in his mind. He sounds like he can’t believe it happened. Neither can I.

  “Who are you, Jackie Chan? Who ducks like that? You should have taken the hit!”

  “You both suck. You’re twenty-two and twenty-four and here we are, cleaning up what’s left of a food fight.” Anisha chimes in from scrubbing
the floor. Her tone makes it clear the underclassmen at her high school have more maturity in their little toe than we’ve displayed.

  “And what’s left of your dignity,” mutters Indrani, too mature for her age and above this ruckus.

  It might be the grumbling teenagers. Maybe it’s the combined embarrassment and relief that Aditya Uncle didn’t kill me. I start to giggle and Nishanth joins in, belly-busting, stomachache-inducing, on-the-floor hysterical laughter that has tears streaming down our faces. There doesn’t need to be a reason. It may even be the loss of one at this point. All I know is an uncharacteristically silent-until-now Sejal joins in, and even Anisha and Indrani aren’t immune.

  After three hours, because IST (Indian Standard Time) never allows for punctuality, we finally settle around our formal dining table for dinner. Showered and dressed like humans again, we are caught up in the buzz of conversation. Every now and then, my mother gives me the you are so dead for behaving that way look, but when Madhu Aunty coos that I look beautiful in my salwar kurta (that my mom insisted I wear), Amma smiles like I’ve been her angel the whole time. My father clears his throat; it takes a minute for the loud chatter to simmer down.

  “Well…”

  Is he going to make a toast? This is new.

  “I am not one for this speech business. But I did want to say we should start a new tradition now that we have been reunited with old friends. I, for one, am very thankful that you all are here and we have such wonderful company to keep. You are like family–so here’s to new relationships and old ones!” My dad raises his glass of sparkling cider, and we all follow.

  “Hear, hear!” Aditya Uncle cheers. “I agree, Venkata… You have hit the nail on the head. It is rare to have old friendships pick up where they leave off. It has been twenty-two years, yet it feels like we are still sitting around our old smelly apartments at UCLA with toddlers around our knees. That is something I cherish and am very thankful for as well!”

  Our mothers repeat similar sentiments about love and loyalty and how friends can become family. Amma glances at me and for a millisecond, the look of longing to really have Nishanth’s family become ours is apparent, but then it is gone in a flash. Next, it is Nishanth’s turn. He raises his glass.