by Anne Cherian
In the end Kila needed a new school uniform and Amma dropped the talk of a saree, though the disapproving look never left her face.
So Leila had dressed for this morning’s sit-and-be-seen in a peacock green saree almost a year old.
The doorbell chimed. He had arrived.
Soon Leila would take out the coffee tray. To meet him, and also to show that her legs were in walking condition. In the old days, girls suffering from polio waited decorously in the sitting room to avoid walking, and thus married unsuspecting men. No one took chances like that anymore. Girls were like cows, their pedigrees discussed openly and parts checked out.
Kila rushed into their bedroom, face alive with what she had just seen.
“They are all of them here. Are you ready, Akka?”
“She’s ready,” Indy replied for Leila. “Did you see him?”
“Yes.” Kila turned her attention to what really mattered. “Akka, can you save some samosas for me?” Kila loved the fried snacks, but today Amma had not allowed her to have any. She wasn’t sure how many members of the Sarath family were coming, and didn’t want to run short.
The samosas reminded Leila she was hungry and she hoped her stomach would not disgrace her by singing loudly. But she had been unable to eat any breakfast and had surreptitiously fed the cat her dosa under the table.
“Kila, don’t be such a pig.” Indy yanked one of her sister’s braids. “What does he look like?”
“Handsome. He’s all dressed up.”
“Dressed up?” Leila immediately felt drab. The green color was still vibrant, making a nice contrast with the pink border, but the sheen and crispness that give a brand-new saree its fullness were long gone. For a moment she regretted fighting Amma.
But it wasn’t just pride that had made her oppose even Appa, who ordered her to “Stop back-answering your mother, and go buy a saree so we can finally get some peace in the house.” It was hope, the feeling that emerged only in the dark of night when everything seemed both possible and impossible. And with hope had appeared the absurd notion that if this time the answer was going to be different, then she had to make certain the occasion itself was different. A whole procession of new sarees had brought her rejections, so an old one might change her luck. This was probably the last best proposal she would ever have and behind her unconcern she desperately wanted it to work. It was only a matter of time before she was set aside, “not even dusted while I sit on the shelf,” she said self-deprecatingly, and Indy the one brought out for potential grooms.
Kila turned to Leila. “Yes, he’s wearing a suit. And I could smell him from where I was peeping behind the window. What do you call it when men wear perfume, Akka?”
“Fe-men-ine.” Indy wrinkled her nose at Leila. They both thought men who wore aftershave were a little affected. After encountering numerous men whose artificial body scent reflected a changed mind-set, the sisters had decided that clean smelling equals clean thinking.
“Cologne, Kila,” Leila answered, trying to gain composure by thinking of something other than Suneel. His name had reverberated in her mind all night. Suneel. Suneel. She had even tried out Leila Sarath, until she realized it was bad luck to do that. “It’s not perfume. They put it on after they shave.”
“Then how come you and Indy don’t put it on?”
“Because we shave our legs, not our faces, you stupid.” Indy gave Kila a little push.
Amma appeared at the door and wagged her index finger. Leila rose to follow. Their earlier anger had evaporated, replaced by uncertainty and a hope that momentarily united them. They both wanted the same thing.
“Akka, don’t forget about the samosas,” Kila whispered, as Leila walked past her.
“Remember he is nervous, too,” Indy rushed her words. “If he makes you uncomfortable, just picture him with a lota.”
Men crouching beside water-filled lotas had amused them since their first train ride to Appa’s village. It helped alleviate the boredom of the trip, and broke up the monotony of the endless graph of emerald rice shoots spiked by the hairpin silhouette of workers. They would peer through the bars of the bogey window, searching for the village men and their telltale brass pots that glinted in the early morning sunshine. The train never bothered the line of villagers, who kept talking amongst themselves, sometimes waving, as if going to the bathroom was a social occasion.
But this time Leila couldn’t giggle at the memory of the “scatological society.”
Even before she entered the sitting room, Leila heard Mrs. Rajan: “The new-style sofas are not at all comfortable. I like these old kind. Virry clever of Mrs. Krishnan not to make the change.”
It was impossible to make a rich impression at the exact moment their poverty was being touted as good judgment. Why had Mrs. Rajan brought the proposal if she meant to tarnish it even before it had a chance?
Leila and Neel didn’t look at each other for the first five minutes.
Leila served coffee to his parents. She concentrated on the milky brew. As she poured the hot liquid, she smelled the faraway, sweet aroma of America, and heard the “r” sounds in his accented words.
Neel focused on the father. He had visited Britain and surprised Neel by really knowing his way around London. As they spoke of Cleopatra’s Needle and the mummy in the British Museum, he saw the bright green material that swayed this way and that, occasionally leaving his range of vision.
“So, Suneel, you have anything to say for yourself?” Aunty Vimla’s voice broke the fence Neel had erected. Now he had to look at the girl. Acknowledge her presence. Say something.
He took refuge in being American.
“Hello,” he said, as he stood and extended his hand. “I’m Neel. How do you do?” His words came out with the full roundness of a California accent, not the clipped speech that many Americans assumed came from a British education. This was the first time he heard himself sounding like an American. People in India said he did, but he always thought his accent had an English polish to it. When he first got to Stanford, he enjoyed telling his classmates that the British had stolen their accents from India.
Her grasp was surprisingly strong and she looked him straight in the eyes.
“I’m Leila.” She let go of his hand, but still felt embraced by his aftershave. Leila wanted to add something, but her mind refused to cooperate. Disconcerted, she looked down and saw the shining curves of his shoes. All she could think of was telling Indy that a man’s foot indicated the size of his penis. Sitting on the bed they had laughed, but now she felt tongue-tied. Everyone was looking at her and she could not even raise her eyes from the spot that had brought on that humiliating thought.
Her bent head annoyed Neel. What sort of girl had Tattappa suggested he see? He didn’t find shyness an endearing quality and now it only made a strained situation worse. Was this all he was worth? An aging thirty-year-old in an old saree? Living in a small house, a father without a job, a mother so eager to please she kept offering him samosa after samosa?
Aunty Vimla had gone on and on about how Mrs. Krishnan made the tastiest samosas in town. They smelled delicious, but God knows how many grams of fat were in the deep-fried triangles. Yet there were only so many times he could refuse and be considered polite. As he bit into the spicy potato mixture, he glanced at the girl and tried to figure out how he could make this painless for both of them. If only he could leave right now.
But he was trapped. Trapped in their best room with its best furniture, including the glass-fronted cabinet filled with the requisite Walkie-Talkie doll. Mr. Krishnan had doubtless brought it back from England and everyone had probably seen the foreign marvel walk and talk just once before it was put away.
And he was trapped by the best intentions of his family.
He couldn’t blame them entirely. He had walked into this house of his own volition. His precise, anesthesiologist’s mind, adept at making correct decisions, had gone over every detail last night. He hadn’t chosen his field at
random. He was the doctor of exactitude, the one who researched the situation thoroughly, knowing that even a fraction too much or too little could cause complications. He had lived his life this way, so this new episode didn’t pose too great a challenge. The plan was simple: Get ready in the morning, be polite but uninterested in the girl, then return home and reread one of the many letters Caroline had written him. Clever of old Tattappa to recommend he see this girl because she had been rejected before. Her family would not, could not, expect otherwise from him. His pride would have preferred the young English graduate his mother kept saying was beautiful, but wealthy parents invariably had great expectations. Once he stepped into their large house they would own him, demand explanations why he didn’t want to marry their precious daughter. The Krishnans could only ply him with food, not questions.
As he looked down at the girl’s glossy hair, last night’s well-thought-out strategy lost its clarity. He hadn’t once considered the possibility that he might be nervous. Sweat rolled down his underarms and his neck itched. The suit was hot. He should have worn a kurta. He was reacting like his college friends, who told of suddenly uncoordinated fingers, legs bolted to the ground, coffee cups falling in a febrile dance of “Will she, won’t she?” But those men had wanted to marry the girls they were seeing. Had he really imagined this would be easy twelve hours ago? That he could saunter in and out like this was a restaurant? Was he crazy? Indian crazy. The phrase was reverberating in his head when he heard Tattappa’s voice. “Suneel, why do not the two of you go outside? These are mahdern times. Go, go, walk, talk.”
He was trapped again. It was like his first downhill skiing lesson. Every instinct told him to lean back, but the only way down was to lean forward. He had bought into this lesson and the only way out was to follow Tattappa’s suggestion—and the girl.
Leila preceded him out of the room, determined to make up for her earlier nervousness. She wanted him to think highly of her. She wanted him to like her enough to say yes. On paper he had all the credentials she aspired to in a husband—a doctor from abroad and, in that swift meeting of faces, handsome. Skin shaved clean of beard or mustache, a square jaw, and a cleft in the cheek. He exuded success and confidence, all the more alluring because he lived in America. Most of her college friends had longed to marry men from abroad. A foreign address added greatly to one’s status, even if that country was Indonesia or Malaysia, so close on the map and in culture. This Suneel, with the MD behind his good looks and a house in San Francisco, was a man she would be proud to call her husband.
“Do you mind if we just stay in the garden?” she asked as soon as they stepped off the verandah. If they walked on the road all the neighbors, and not just the Nandis who lived next door, would see them and ask questions afterwards.
Neel took in the tiny patch of stubbly lawn. “Sure,” he agreed. The smaller the garden, the shorter the walk, the sooner he was out of here. Anticipating the worst, he was surprised both by her well-spoken English and her looks. Somehow he had equated her age, and her previous rejections, with ugly and a bad accent. She was fair, with light brown eyes that tilted slightly at the corners, and spoke as if English were her only language. She was also taller than the average Indian girl and he noticed again that she hadn’t oiled her hair. The black strands shimmered in the sun as he followed her.
He searched for a topic of conversation. But what could he possibly say to a girl who had spent all her life in a small town? They had lost any commonality by age twelve. Caroline and he at least had the hospital to chat about. He glanced sideways at the girl. She was holding her saree so it didn’t drag on the muddy ground. He was just about to comment on the weather when she spoke.
“Is your name Suneel or—?” Leila left the blank, not sure if she had heard his introduction correctly.
The question was unexpected. She was starting the conversation and making it seem like an interview. He wondered if she was one of those demure-on-the-outside but in-control-on-the-inside women. Westerners thought Indian women, with their shy smiles and silent ways, were docile, but he knew better. Mummy had probably taken charge as soon as she married Father. In company, she always acted the part of the deferring wife. Neel, however, knew the truth and disliked the duplicity. The household key ring was tucked into her saree at the waist and, like the old Indian joke, another ring was attached to Father’s nose. Where she led, he followed.
“It’s Neel. I changed my name shortly after I got to Stanford. Americans find it easier to pronounce than Suneel.” His name hadn’t been butchered; the idea of changing it to mark his new life had come from a classmate.
“So you created your own Ellis Island?” Leila was happy to have this chance to show her knowledge of America.
“What?” Neel looked at the low cement wall separating this garden from the next one.
Leila wondered if she had mispronounced Ellis. “It’s the small island near New York City where immigrants used to stop. And every time officials could not understand the names, they simply changed them.”
“Of course,” Neel responded. So she knew a little American history, this English teacher.
He looked remote and irritated, and Leila wished she could take back her comment. Perhaps he was touchy because people always commented on the change? More and more Indians were returning home with abbreviated, Western versions of names that had distinguished their families for generations.
The pattern Neel had been staring at revealed itself: cow dung patties slapped against the cement wall, the fingerprint indentations visible even from this distance. He recoiled from the fetid odor of drying dung that reached out toward them. What sort of family permitted such germ emanation near their house? This would never happen in America.
A fly circled him slowly, loud and taunting. Neel stopped, gaze fixed on the dung-drunk, hovering body, willing it to disappear. It must have come from one of the cow dung patties and he didn’t want it near him.
Leila watched the man watch the fly. She had noticed the look on his face when he saw the drying rounds of cow dung their servant Heera used as fuel. Although it never bothered her, she wished Heera had not chosen today to plaster the wall. The dung was fresh and gleamed a sticky brown. His mother’s servant probably did the same thing, but Neel-Suneel must have forgotten this. She knew from friends who had married men living abroad that foreign places had a way of making Indians look down on their own country. Just last year Mr. and Mrs. Pillai who lived on the next road, had installed screens on all their doors and windows. Their daughter refused to bring her children from England without that protection. That she herself had played barefoot in the rains and eaten cart food that bore the imprint of a hundred flies was never mentioned. Within six months the screens had rusted and formed holes, though the Pillais kept them on, to be fixed before the next visit.
The fly hung in the air, flaunting its brilliant colors, daring Neel to take a step forward.
Leila knew their meeting was over, and with it, her chance to be his wife. There was no getting away from the cow dung. Besides, he did not want to talk and had obviously made up his mind. Amita, the uncrowned Miss India, was going to win. The best she could do was get it over with as quickly as possible. “I think it likes your aftershave. Flies are drawn toward sweet smells. We can go back,” she said, and turned before he could reply.
Leila could feel her footsteps dragging from disappointment.
Once again Neel found himself following her, but this time he was thinking that his earlier assessment might be wrong. She wasn’t shy and didn’t mind expressing herself.
They approached the front steps without talking.
He’s definitely going to say no, Leila thought, and everyone is going to know that because we’re returning so quickly.
As they climbed up the steps, a furry ball flung itself at Leila. Neel was startled and took a step back, sliding on the wet cement and almost falling.
“ET!” Leila bent down to stroke the cat. This was her bab
y, the kitten she had found abandoned outside the college cafeteria. Kila claimed that Leila loved ET more than anyone else. If only she could pick up the purring bundle and run to her room. Hide from the questioning eyes just beyond the front door. Instead Leila said, “ET, are you waiting for your old friend the sparrow again? You know you’ll never catch that bird.”
Now it was Neel’s turn to query her. “ET?” he asked. “Since when have cats been extraterrestrial?”
“Her real name is Elizabeth Taylor,” Leila clarified, “but we call her ET for short.” Leila picked up the cat so Neel could look at the pointed, gamine face. “See, she has one blue eye and one green eye, and everybody kept saying she was ugly. So I gave her the name of a beautiful woman.”
As if sensing their interest in her, ET slowly and deliberately opened her pink mouth wide and yawned.
So it was that when Leila’s mother and Mrs. Rajan peeped out the window, they saw the pair laughing.
FIVE
“A HONEYMOON IS FUNTAHSTIC, YAAR,” Ashok said during the dinner his wife, Smita, had spent hours preparing for Neel.
Lunch and dinner invitations started pouring in as soon as Aunty Vimla’s megaphone mouth broadcast Neel’s engagement. Neel didn’t know they had so many relatives, or relatics, as he privately named the toothy backslappers. Uncles, aunties, cousins, all laid claim to his time, wanting to congratulate and feed him. They meant well, but he could not get over the feeling that each house was another reminder that in India there is no choice. Things are what they are. If a bus is late, don’t try and fix the system, just wait for it. If the flour from the ration shop is full of worms, don’t return it. It just means that all the flour has worms, so spread it out in the sun until the worms crawl away and die. You have to accept things.
He was to accept his engagement and eat with a happy face in all these houses that were so eager to fête him. He didn’t really want the array of vegetables, spicy sambar afloat with drumsticks, and always rice and curds to cool the stomach at the end of the meal. But he had no idea how to change his situation, and so made a pretense of acceptance and smiled till his facial muscles hurt.