When I emerged from the bathroom, the aunties were dancing in the family room, swinging their chunnies and singing folk songs that brought forth short bursts of laughter. I smiled when I heard my name inserted into a song, and though I didn’t know what they were saying, I blushed. Over and over, they danced short sweeps of a circle while all the other women clapped the ill-timed beat. Aman translated one of the songs for me and I was taken aback that women who appeared so chaste and proper would sing such crude lyrics, but by then I’d learned that nothing was ever what it seemed. This was what I was thinking when the photographer lined us up from tallest to smallest, pulling us into frame and focus. He held his fingers up, counting them down one at a time, all of us smiling except my mother, who had long since forgotten how. Sweating beneath the camera lights, the photographer clicked offrolls of film, telling us all in his Indian accent, “Say cheese. Smile. Everyone happy. Look this way.” I knew that when the film was developed, these pictures, like all other wedding pictures, would be placed in a twenty-pound photo album that would only ever be dragged offa bookshelf to be shown to the aunties who came to tea on Sunday afternoons. The aunties would flip through the plastic-covered pages, their oily pakora-eating fingers leaving marks and stains on every moment.
I was relieved when Sunny’s family arrived. The attention diverted from me to the small delegation who came bearing gifts that were laid out in the living room for everyone to see. The gold jewellery and heavy silk saris were passed around for all to admire and as the fat aunties judged the weight and value of the gifts, girls jostled to get a better view, some of them giggling when Kal glanced their way. When Masi teased him that it was not appropriate for him to be there, he reminded her that he had been my friend since we were children so in fact was a member of both sides of the family.
My sisters made several passes in and out of the crowded room, carrying trays of soda pop and tea for our guests, who fanned themselves with the ends of their chunnies. The aunties continued to dance, this time with ornate pots of candles balanced on their heads as they sang the same cele-bratory Jaago song that had been sung for them when they were to be married. Masi held her small pot with one hand, and with the other, strong-armed people into dancing. Even my mother made a short-lived attempt and danced around the room once. Time looped on itself and when the dancing finished, old songs were resung, toddlers fell asleep at their mothers’ feet and scores of nameless distant cousins sat in huddled conversation.
Masi opened the window. The room flooded with the sounds of the children who had been sent outside to decorate the cars with plastic pompoms—which they were instead using for a game of dodge ball. Masi leaned out the window, hollering at them to begin the task of attaching the pompoms to the Styrofoam “Just Married” heart. “Fluffthem up so they look like roses,” she yelled.
After dinner, my nieces and younger cousins sat in a circle drawing henna peace signs and love hearts on their palms and cheeks as if it were face paint. The mehndi artist held my hands in the air, and twisted them to the light. The little girls watched with curiosity. “Sometimes the palm dictates the design,” she said, and filled the trenches with fine swirls and paisley budded branches that bloomed in my fingertips. “Your life is a twist of fate,” she said, continuing with a pattern of roots and vines that wrapped around my wrists.
“How do you know? Can you read palms?” I asked. “Can you read mine?”
She put her henna pen down and looked at my hand, and for a moment I recognized sadness in her expression. “There is no life but the one at hand,” she said.
I shook my head, not wanting to understand, and as I waited for my henna to dry I remained quiet, disappearing into the sound of the house as guests came and went, as dishes clattered and cleared, as the voices of many strangers became the whispers of a few family members.
Serena came into the living room, picking up stray paper plates and cups before collapsing onto the loveseat. The grandfather clock struck midnight.
“Today is the first day of the rest of your life,” Aman said, rushing into the room, banging a pot with a wooden spoon as if it were New Year’s Eve.
I looked up at her and then down at my hands, flaking offpieces of hardened henna.
She put the pot down and sat beside me. “Aren’t you excited? You’re getting married today.” I nodded, chipping offanother piece of henna, letting the green crusty bits fall into the shag carpet.
“Stop that. You’re making a mess of it,” Aman said, grabbing my hands. She removed a patch to see if the dye had taken. “Sometimes the colour is too orangey, but this looks really nice.” She held my hand up and showed Serena, who agreed that it looked good. “You can probably go wash it off if you want.”
When I didn’t answer, she looked up at me. “Are you okay?”
I got up, my legs cramped from sitting cross-legged for so long. “Yeah…I just need some air. It’s too hot in here. I’m going to go outside for a bit.”
“Well, wash that offwhile you’re out there,” she hollered as I opened the porch door. “Or the stain will get too dark.”
I stood in the backyard, rinsing the dried henna offwith the garden hose until all that was left on my palms was the blood red pattern of pais-leys. I stared at them, tracing the fine swirls with my fingertips over and over again, falling into a frantic trance. Hands shaking from the cold, I turned the tap back on and scrubbed harder in a futile attempt to regain my sense of self.
“Meena?”
I turned around. It was Kal. “I thought you left,” I said, quickly drying my hands on the end of my sari and trying for composure.
He nodded and lit his cigarette. “I did, but your mom asked me to come back and drop some stuffoff for tomorrow.”
“For tomorrow,” I whispered. “You mean for today.”
He checked the time on his watch, exhaled, and without looking at me, handed me his cigarette.
“I don’t smoke.”
“I know,” he said, still offering.
I took it from him, alternating drags until there was nothing left.
THREE FOR LOVE
3.1
Iran my fingers along the bolts of fabric that lined the walls and watched a mother-in-law type haggle with the turbaned shopkeeper at the sari-covered counter. The shopkeeper’s frustration grew in the perspiration stains under his arms and the spittle on his lips as he smiled and replied repeatedly that $895 was his best price. The daughter-in-law folded her arms over her chest and examined her fingernails, cracking the already chipped red polish, thumbing her wedding bracelets in boredom. I wondered how long she had been married, and counted her bangles as if the number meant something.
My mother-in-law had been furious that I’d taken my churah offafter the wedding—these bangles, she’d reminded me, were meant to be worn until they broke off. “The longer they last the happier your marriage will be,” she’d said while examining my naked wrists. When I told her that they were too tight, she hissed that taking them offwas like throwing my marriage away. Sunny assured her that we would be happy, and asked me to put them back on for the reception, for appearance’s sake.
Now I looked up at the daughter-in-law’s upside-down reflection in the mirrored-tile ceiling. She stood slightly behind her mother-in-law, speaking only when spoken to, as if she existed only for the benefit of others. She could have been me four years ago.
“Surinder?” The shopkeeper was squinting over his bifocals.
“Hello, Uncleji.”
He smiled and twisted his head in an elfish nod. “This is Rani’s daughter-in-law,” he told the mother-in-law type. She smiled and eyed me up and down with some admiration. I stood taller, recouping my pride in being recognized as someone. “Your mother is already here. She is in the showroom looking at our latest collection.”
The showroom smelled like incense. Not the kind you got from the Indian store, but the kind that was sold in overpriced tin canisters at trendy import shops—the kind that made being Indi
an smell like mango peach and gingered spice rather than the aroma of ghee and tarka that I’d grown up with. Even the walls were painted with a Taj Mahal-like mural, complete with marble pillars and frescoes of the Mughal period, lovers sitting on woven carpets, the bejewelled women feeding men whose heads and eyes were reeled back in ecstasy. Not a picture of a guru in sight.
I wiped my feet on the Persian rug and walked across the mahogany floor to where my mother-in-law was seated in a large rattan chair, sipping chai.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, kissing her on the cheek.
“You’re late.”
I looked at my watch. She was early. “Sorry, I was in another shop and lost track of time.”
She nodded. “I had them pick out some things for you. I will wait while you try them—Sita, can you get me another cup of chai?” Sita, the salesperson, nodded and asked me if I would like tea and some sweets. My mother-in-law told her “No,” before I could answer.
I came out of the change room and stood in front of a three-way mirror, surrounded by myself. My mother-in-law put her chai down, stood up and shook her head.
“Too many gulab jamuns at Aman’s wedding, heh?” she said, pointing to the taut fabric across my chest. I caved my shoulders in, trying to hide my curves, which had long since gone out of style. Even Sunny seemed to prefer the waif girls in push-up bras. After he’d bought me a gym member-ship for my birthday the year before, I’d gone shopping for undergarments with spandex in them: I needed something to hold me in. “How does Aman like living in England?”
“Well enough, I suppose. She’s still settling in,” I said, turning around, wondering what Aman would think of this outfit if she were here. I’d sel-dom heard from her since she’d moved away.
My mother-in-law shook her head. “No, I really don’t like this. Try the next one—and hurry. We don’t have all day.” She ushered me back into the change room.
“What time is the party?” I asked.
“Seven-thirty, but come to the house early because I want everything to be ready before Sunny’s chachaji gets there.”
“Sunny’s chacha?” I asked, knowing that Sunny’s father did not have a younger brother.
“Mmm,” she said, teacup trembling in the saucer. “It is Sunny’s grandfather’s cousin’s son—he is here for the party.”
I nodded, shut the change room door and tried to trace the family tree to work out where this new person really fitted. Was he second cousin once removed, or first cousin twice removed, or maybe second cousin twice removed? I could never figure it out, and just went along with the endless string of dinners she asked us to attend.
When we were first married, she’d accepted social invitations on our behalf, considering our requested attendance as a mandatory function of our marriage. These events were the same regardless of who was the host. I wore a ridiculous amount of gold jewellery, applied a radiant moisturizer to replicate the honeymoon glow that had already worn off, and spent the evening pretending that my existence was completely defined by Sunny and that married life was the only life. I complimented the ladies on their outfits, dished out useless advice to the unmarried girls who wanted to be me, and discreetly watched the clock. I wondered if anyone realized that everything I said was disingenuous. I wondered if their asking things of me and accepting of me was as artificial. While I sat in the family room with the ladies, sipping tea sweetened with polite insincerity and watched our wedding video for the one-hundredth time, Sunny sat in the living room with the men drinking whisky in a whirl of testosterone, crude jokes, pats on the back and burst of laughter. I felt like the punchline.
I’d hoped that when we moved out of his parents’ home, these social obligations would lessen but they never did. Whenever his mother asked us to attend a party, Sunny insisted we go, saying that was the least we could do considering how our moving out had devastated her.
Initially, when I’d brought up the topic of moving to Yaletown, Sunny refused, reminding me how much money we were saving by living with his parents and how much money his parents had spent on refurnishing the basement suite to suit us. We had a private entrance, our own kitchen, living area and a master bedroom ensuite complete with a Jacuzzi we never used. “What more could you want?” he’d asked. But as he went out night after night with his friends, leaving me behind to watch Hindi movies with his mother, I knew it was his bachelor status that he was not yet ready to part with. He’d often come home smelling like Scotch and cheap perfume, stumble on and offme in a forceful fuck, occasionally leaving me grateful that he could still make me feel something, even if it was my own discomfort. On those rare nights when I felt something close to desire, he’d cover my mouth so his parents wouldn’t hear.
“How about this one?” I asked, turning before the mirror so my mother-in-law could inspect me.
“Masi!” a voice said from behind. My mother-in-law turned around to greet Sunny’s hook-nosed bitch of a cousin Preetpaul—Pretty for short. I didn’t bother turning around; she was used to talking behind my back.
“Are you here to pick up your sari for tonight?” my mother-in-law asked.
“Just the blouse. They had to take it in… It’s so nice of you to have this dinner for me, Masi.” Pretty stood behind me, circling. “Jasmine was wearing a similar lehnga last month. She looked stunning. She’s so thin she can make anything look good. Apparently her secret is not to eat before a party—that way your stomach stays flat,” she said, sucking in her already flat abdomen until it caved in beneath her ribs. “Maybe you should try that, hmm?” she said, looking at my midriff. “Unless you’re pregnant.”
My mother-in-law’s eyes widened at the thought of a grandchild. She was more frustrated with my inability to get pregnant than I was and forced me to endure her suffering. She worried I was infertile and had insisted that I go to see her astrologer, who mapped out my stars, suggested that I no longer eat meat on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and encouraged her to hold a paath to bless us in our baby-making. After a year of trying and tests, our doctor informed us that Sunny’s sperm count was too low to father a child. Sunny went into a rage at the mere suggestion, calling the doctor a quack and threatening to sue him for a misdiagnosis. I didn’t tell anyone about Sunny’s infertility and he did nothing to shoulder my monthly blame. “No, I’m not pregnant,” I said.
“Well, when are you going to have kids?”
“When the time’s right.”
“Well, you may not want to wait much longer—you know, tick-tock,”
she said, laughing. “I can’t wait to have kids. I told Raj that I want to have them right away!”
“Lucky for you that right away is only a few months away,” I muttered, knowing the truth behind her rushed engagement.
“What?” She stamped her foot in a controlled tantrum.
I turned to face her. “I just mean that your wedding is only a month away.”
“I know, isn’t it great.” She presented her left hand, showing us her ring as if we hadn’t seen it a dozen times. “I can’t wait to be a wife and a mother. I think giving life is the most important thing a woman can do.”
I tried to smile despite the snub. The only life I’d given was my own. I had long stopped trying to conceive of any existence but the one that I had moment to moment. My mother cautioned me that when it came to marriage, it was best not to expect anything. On my wedding day, she’d told me not to smile too much. When I asked why, she stood behind me and gazed at my reflection in the mirror and told me that life was about depth. “The greater your happiness, the deeper your sorrow.” I asked her if it worked the other way—if my sorrow was deep, would my happiness be great? As we stood in each other’s reflection, looking forward and back, she narrowed her eyes to a squinted stare. For a moment I thought she saw me, and I knew she did when she answered, “Your disappointments dwell with your dreams.”
As my mother-in-law and Pretty continued their conversation, I returned to the dressing room to try on more lehngas, acutely aw
are of their lowered tones, the pentameter in their verse—the sound of gossip.
When I arrived at the house, my mother-in-law was in the kitchen doing the dishes. “Good, you are here,” she said, handing me a tea towel. “Dry these… Where is Sunny?”
“He’s working late. He’ll come by when he’s done.”
She shook her head. “He works so hard… He didn’t work that much when you lived here. Hmmm. You kids didn’t know how expensive it was to live on your own.” She turned the faucet offand dried her hands. “In-dependence. All you want is independence.”
“Mom, it’s not like that. Everything’s fine. We’re fine.”
“Of course it is; my son makes sure it is. But you, what do you do.
Hmm, how much money do you make?” I didn’t bother with the dialogue. Ever since she’d hit menopause, her hot flashes and mood swings had ruled the household. “Go tell your father to move the cars out of the driveway so our guests can park.”
“Where is he?”
“How should I know?”
I stacked the remaining dishes and went offdown the grand hallway and up the stairs to look for him, poking my head into the almost empty rooms that served as guest rooms. During and after our wedding, their megahouse with its massive oak doors and columned entry had welcomed out-of-town guests who came to visit us and bask in our post-wedding life. We’d spend the day taking them sightseeing, pointing out the best places to take pictures, posing with them in Stanley Park or on the top of Grouse Mountain, and when we came back home too tired to cook, Sunny’s dad would order in pizza with extra chilies on the side. But ever since we’d moved out last year, their guests had been few, and my mother-in-law had retreated into her own paranoia and telephone gossip while my father-in-law spent most of his time in his study.
Everything Was Good-Bye Page 14