And Laughter Fell From the Sky

by Jyotsna Sreenivasan

  “Red is festive. The astrologer said it’s your lucky color.”

  “I don’t want to look too gaudy.”

  “You won’t have to look at it.” Amma’s eyes were wild with frustration. “We will all be looking at you. Who knows? Maybe red is Viraj’s favorite color.”

  Rasika took the sari from her mother’s hands and rubbed a layer of fabric between her fingers. It was thin and light. The gold embroidery was subtle. The color wasn’t as bright as she’d originally thought, and she did look good in red.

  Amma pulled out a red blouse to match and laid it on top of the sari. “I think this will fit you.” She gave Rasika a red cotton petticoat. “Try it on, raja. Then we can select your jewelry. I will go and wake up Pramod. He must be ready. We want to show ourselves in the best light.”

  Amma left the room and closed the door. Rasika laid her robe on the bed and began dressing. She could hear her mother knocking and shouting at Pramod’s door. Her mother had insisted that he come home from Cleveland Clinic Medical School especially for this bride-viewing. Pramod’s presence was necessary to prove that her family produced not only beautiful young women, but also medical students with bright futures.

  Viraj really was handsome. Rasika had been afraid his photo might have been altered to show him in a better light, but as soon as he stepped in the door, she could see he really did have the thick, wavy hair, the large, dark eyes, and the dazzling smile that appeared in his photo.

  The entryway of the house was full of smiles, greetings, taking-off of shoes. Rasika stayed behind her parents—she didn’t want to appear too forward, too pushy—but put on a high-wattage smile, so they wouldn’t think she was shy. Pramod sat on the steps behind her, and while everyone else was occupied with greetings, she kicked him on the shin with her bare foot to persuade him to stand up, which he did.

  The men reached across each other to shake hands all around, and the women pressed their palms together in namaskar. Viraj put his palms together to greet her mother, and Amma smiled with pleasure at this traditional greeting. As everyone made their way into the living room, Viraj held out his hand to Rasika. She put her hand in his, and their eyes met. His gaze was steady, almost businesslike. And then he turned his right hand palm up, so her hand was lying in it, and patted her hand. She was so startled by this strange gesture that she giggled. He smiled back, let go, and turned away to follow the others. She felt silly standing there, alone, in the entryway.

  Amma appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Come and pass out the drinks,” she stage-whispered. In the kitchen Rasika recovered her composure. She walked, smiling and balancing a tray of soda glasses, into the living room. When they’d renovated a few years ago Rasika had suggested her parents buy furniture with simple lines and bland colors, so as not to compete with the Indian rugs and decorations.

  Everyone was dressed just right. Viraj’s mother was wearing a sari as fancy as Rasika’s mother’s, so that was OK. Rasika had persuaded her father, in the armchair next to the sofa, to put aside his dark suit and wear a white silk jubba and dress pants. Pramod wore a jubba over jeans, and other than the fact that the back of his hair was still a little wet from his shower, he looked reasonably awake and involved.

  Viraj’s father was wearing slacks and a dress shirt. Viraj, at the other end of the room, sitting on a sofa next to his father, was in a pair of dress pants and a silky-looking light blue shirt. Nice, she thought. Dressy, but not too formal. She wished she wasn’t wearing a sari. She’d left her hair loose and had worn makeup, so hopefully Viraj wouldn’t think she was too traditional.

  As she walked around the room offering fruit juice punch to everyone, she felt Viraj’s gaze following her around the room. She glanced back at him, but instead of averting his eyes, he kept his gaze steady. It made her feel as though she were some kind of painting or artwork.

  She was glad to see Appa looking happy. Or at least, appearing calm. His body was almost free of the tics he had when he was worried or stressed. Almost every evening after work, his eyes squeezed shut and open rapidly, and his shoulders twitched. Appa had wanted to be a surgeon, but these tics—something he had since birth—prevented him from having a steady enough hand, so he had settled for anesthesiology. Today even his hands, which often picked at his nails until the cuticles were bloody, were still, clasped together on one knee as he listened to Mr. Shankar.

  After Rasika returned the tray to the kitchen and came back into the living room, the only empty seat was next to Viraj’s mother, across the room from Viraj. Mrs. Shankar’s graying hair was pulled into a simple ponytail, and she wore no makeup. Rasika put on a friendly smile and sat down. What could she talk about to this woman, who seemed so much more old-fashioned than her own mother?

  She needn’t have worried; Mrs. Shankar started speaking immediately. “Viraj’s future is very bright,” she said. “He will be in top management soon. He wants a girl who is able to keep up with him.” She spoke in Tamil and said the words top management in English.

  Rasika wondered if this meant he wanted a girl who would also be in top management? Or someone who would be able to comfortably mingle with other top management and their spouses? She glanced in Viraj’s direction and found him still looking at her.

  “He wants someone who knows how to keep a beautiful house, and to entertain,” Mrs. Shankar said.

  Rasika murmured her agreement.

  “He is not interested in a girl who is too forward.” Mrs. Shankar had a way of lifting her upper lip when she talked, which exposed her long front teeth and made her look like a rodent. “She must be able to adapt to his way of life. He was raised to be decent. He will treat his wife like a queen. But he will be her king. And she must know that.”

  Rasika’s mother appeared at the doorway, a large apron over her sari. “Come and have lunch.”

  “Let me help.” Mrs. Shankar stood up and wrapped the palloo of her sari around her shoulders.

  “There is nothing to do.” Amma led them into the dining room, which had been set, the previous night, with the best china. When Amma shopped for china a few years ago, Rasika had recommended a simple, starkly elegant pattern with a thin rim of platinum. Amma wanted something more decorated, and they had compromised on this pattern: still simple, but with a wider design in platinum, almost like a sari border. It was beautiful against the white tablecloth embroidered in a subtle cutwork design. Amma had ordered a fancy floral centerpiece, like something belonging on a bridal table: a large triangular spray of roses and ferns, with three white candles sticking up from the middle. There was hardly room for the platters of vaday and raw vegetables, and the jars of pickles and chutney pudi.

  Rasika managed to place herself at the other end of the table from Viraj. She was reluctant to get too close to him. There would be plenty of time for closeness later on, she reasoned.

  Amma appeared with a pot of rice and went around the table serving everyone, as was traditional in India.

  “Why should you be serving us?” Mrs. Shankar stood up. “Let us all go into the kitchen and get our own food.”

  “No, no. This is the way I like to do it,” Amma insisted. “Rasika will help me with the rest. Come on, Rasika.”

  In truth, Rasika had never seen her mother do this before. Amma’s parties were always buffet style. Rasika followed her mother into the kitchen, where Amma handed her a pot of avial—vegetables in coconut sauce—and a serving spoon.

  The talk droned on. The fathers were discussing Indian politics.

  “The U.S. is finally paying attention to India,” Appa said as Rasika spooned avial onto his plate.

  The men were talking in English, maybe because Viraj didn’t understand Tamil—he had never lived in India.

  “Yes. Yes.” Mr. Shankar nodded his long head, like a cow’s head. She wasn’t sure if he was agreeing with her father, or her offer of food. She served him.

  “All these years, U.S. is sending the arms to Pakistan,” Mr. Shankar said. “Now only t
hey realize they must also pay attention to India. India is having high-tech boom. India is becoming economic superpower.” He mixed his rice and avial into neat balls and popped them into this mouth.

  Eating with fingers was traditional in India, yet it always looked awful to Rasika, especially at a beautiful table like this.

  Viraj glanced from one older man to the other, nodding.

  “Over thirty percent of India’s population lives on less than one dollar a day,” said Pramod, the lone liberal in the family. “If Mahatma Gandhi were alive now, I don’t think he’d see India as economically successful.”

  “We are long past age of Mahatma Gandhi,” Mr. Shankar said. “We are now in different era.”

  As soon as Rasika sat down, Mrs. Shankar, who was also eating with her fingers, said, “Viraj prefers vegetarian. He will eat meat outside, to be sociable. At home, no. He is not picky about food. He will eat Indian, Italian, Chinese, Mexican. Anything at all. But a good home-cooked South Indian meal is best for his digestion.”

  “Rasika is learning to cook South Indian food,” Amma said.

  Rasika smiled and nodded. Amma had been writing down recipes on index cards for Rasika and had already filled a whole box of them, but Rasika had not looked at even one.

  “She helps me cook every day,” Amma said.

  This part was truer. Rasika sometimes cut vegetables for her mother.

  As Rasika ate her rice and vegetables and dal neatly with a fork, she glanced once or twice in Viraj’s direction. He seemed completely absorbed in his meal and in the conversation. Which was worse, his constant stare, or his obliviousness?

  After lunch, as everyone made their way back to the living room, Rasika picked up plates and carried them into the kitchen where Amma lifted them out of her hand. “Go and change,” she whispered. “I will clean up. You are going to the mall with him.” Amma said the word him as though it were capitalized. “You can have your coffee there.” Then, before Rasika left, Amma grasped her upper arm. “You let him drive,” she said.

  In the garage, Rasika pulled her car keys from her purse and held them out to Viraj. “Would you like to drive?”

  He grabbed them from her hand. “Sure.” He slipped behind the wheel and ran a palm over the leather seat. “Nice.” He flicked his fingers at the GPS screen, and Rasika winced. “Your parents buy this for you?”

  “I bought it myself,” she said.

  He raised his eyebrows. “I just asked. You don’t need to get huffy about it.”

  She hadn’t realized she was being “huffy.”

  The car whined as he backed out of the driveway with far more force than Rasika used, and she involuntarily pressed her right foot against the floor.

  “Ohio’s not a bad place.” Viraj veered onto the main road from her parents’ housing development. “I was in Cleveland a couple of years ago, to visit Deepti Auntie, but I’ve never been down in this area. It’s more, I don’t know, modern than I thought it would be. I guess, being from the East Coast, I pictured a lot of cornfields out here. But, your parents’ house is really nice. Much nicer than I expected.”

  She wasn’t sure what to say to this. “Make a left here,” she said. “And then another left after we go under the highway.”

  “I guess real estate is a lot cheaper out here than in New Jersey. Still, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I know Akron’s got some major corporations, like Goodyear, right?”

  “Here’s where you want to make a left,” she said.

  “Goodyear’s not a bad company, as far as I can tell, although I believe it used to be doing better than it is now.”

  “You just missed it,” Rasika said.

  “What? Why didn’t you tell me? You have to give me some advance warning.”

  Rasika had him backtrack and this time was more insistent with her directions. “Sorry about that,” she said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “No one’s perfect.”

  They hummed along the black roadway. “I think you’ll find that I’m pretty easy to get along with,” he continued. “I don’t think you’ll have any complaints. As I said on the phone, I don’t have any bad habits. I do drink occasionally. Who doesn’t? We can have a drink together every day after work, just to relax. I’m into enjoying myself. I don’t know about your parents, but my parents have always worked really hard. And I’ve done that. It’s gotten me to where I am now, and so I’m finally ready to enjoy things. I like the very best. I can afford it, so why not? I know what I want, and I go for it.”

  Rasika wondered if she was something he wanted, and was going for. They passed a Chevrolet dealership hung with streamers and displaying a large sign with blinking words: GET PRE-APPROVED IN SECONDS! “We need to make another left pretty soon,” she said loudly.

  “I’ll be making a very good living, and I know you’ll enjoy that. You’re free to work until we have kids.”

  “A left is coming up,” she repeated.

  “After we have kids, you can stay home and enjoy yourself. You’ll be busy enough taking charge of the house. I’m not saying you have to clean. We can hire all the help you want. My home should be my oasis. I have enough stress at work. I want a happy wife and happy children, and I’ll be making enough money so we can have that. But if you’re off working, then it’s not going to jive.”

  “Here it is!” she shouted.

  “Don’t get so worked up.” He swerved into the left lane. They heard a loud honk. “Hey, cool it,” he said to the other driver.

  Was this how everyone drove in New Jersey?

  As soon as they stepped into the white interior of the mall, with the familiar stores around her, she felt calmer. “There’s a coffee place down this way,” she said. Her white beaded low-heeled sandals clicked smartly along the hard marble floor. She felt the eyes of other shoppers watching her. She and Viraj were already presenting a stylish image together. She had chosen to wear the pale saffron salvar kameez with a white clutch purse because they seemed summery. They passed upscale home furnishings, chic women’s clothes, and adorable children’s outfits. Each window held a picture of a happy and harmonious life. She always loved the feeling of knowing she could afford to buy almost anything she wanted. Not that she was a spendthrift. Sometimes she walked out of the mall without buying anything at all. Just looking, and knowing she could buy, was sometimes enough. As the wife of Viraj, her spending power would only increase.

  “Not bad.” Viraj surveyed the scene and nodded. “You’ve got some pretty decent stores out here.”

  The café was under a high dome of skylights, near a splashing fountain that made enough noise such that Rasika didn’t feel the need to talk. As they stood in line she wondered if she should offer to pay for her coffee. Then she heard a burst of trumpets. Viraj pulled his cell phone from his pocket and glanced at the display screen. “I gotta take this,” he said. She watched in disbelief as he stepped away from her. She smiled faintly, just in case anyone was watching. Could he be getting calls about work on a Saturday? And if it wasn’t about work, what was possibly more important than being with his future wife?

  She reached the counter, and Viraj was still out in the hallway. She stepped out of line and stood straight and tall at the entrance of the café, trying not to draw his or anyone’s attention to herself. She wasn’t going to be a nag.

  Eventually he flipped his phone closed. When he saw her, he threw his arms in the air theatrically. “I thought you were holding our place in line!”

  “I didn’t know what you wanted to order,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Whatever. Come on.”

  When they sat down with their drinks (he had insisted on paying), she got ready to break out her question on the U.S. Open so they could have some light conversation before moving on to more serious topics, like the honeymoon destination.

  Before she could speak, he said, “I’m impressed with your area. I really am.” He peered at his cup, twisting it a quarter turn this way, and another qua
rter turn back. “But not impressed enough to move here. I know you prefer to stay in Ohio, but it’s not going to work for me. I’m doing really well with my company, and you’ll like New Jersey. Lots of Indian stuff, if you’re into that—saris, jewelry, anything you want. There’s nothing you can’t get in New Jersey.” He twisted his cup again and settled into his seat.

  Rasika gripped her warm cup and sipped. Her hazelnut latte was too hot, and she felt a heavy pain in her chest. She closed her eyes and waited for the pain to pass. So, she would be moving to New Jersey. It would be okay. She could get a job there. She’d find new friends. And besides, soon she’d be busy running the household and having children.

  “I’ve already bought a house,” Viraj said. “I wanted to get married before doing a lot of decorating. I know that’s what ladies enjoy. You have good taste. I can see that.” He tilted his head back as he examined her outfit, and then patted her arm approvingly.

  Rasika rubbed the raw, burned spot on her tongue against the roof of her mouth. She looked past Viraj and recognized a handsome Indian man in the walkway.

  She stood up, knowing this was the wrong thing to do. “Abhay!” she called.

  Abhay turned. “Hey, Rasika.” He walked over and nodded at Viraj, who gave him a cold look.

  “You got your hair cut,” Rasika said. “Your ponytail’s gone. And your clothes . . .” Abhay wore a purple button-down shirt with a subtle pattern of dark stripes.

  “I’m a working stiff now,” he said. “My first week temping, they let me get away with T-shirts. Now I gotta fit in with the crowd. Mom sent me to the mall to get some work clothes.” He opened the giant white plastic bag he was carrying. “I’m hoping I can get away with some actual color, even in an office.”

  Rasika peeked in and saw a blue shirt, similar to the one he had on, and an olive green one with tiny flowers all over it. “Nice.” She felt Viraj glaring at her.

  “By the way,” she said, “this is Viraj.”

  Abhay leaned over the table and held out a hand to Viraj, whose smile stiffened. He made no move to take Abhay’s hand. He seemed to be grinding his teeth.