A Good Indian Wife: A Novel (13 page)

LEILA STEPPED OUT INTO
the cool but sunny afternoon, a red Kashmiri shawl embroidered with flowers wrapped around her shoulders. She had been living with this misleading weather for ten days, but was still surprised that the bright rays did not warm her skin. Just beyond, on the horizon, the sun transformed the Bay into a show of loose diamonds so dazzling she could hardly look at it.

A brisk breeze rustled the aerogram and she tightened her hold. She was going to post it herself. She didn’t trust the postman to actually pick up the letter if she left it in their lobby as Neel had instructed. She was used to postmen who did as they pleased, sometimes not coming at all, other times keeping interesting-looking envelopes that might contain photographs.

She had passed a postbox on her daily walks and recognized it from American films. Still, it baffled her the first time she went to post a letter. She circled the arched, metal box, looking for a hole like the slit mouths of the red postboxes back home. All she saw was blue, blue, blue. She stared at it, but the metal crouched, humped in silence. Finally, just when she was about to admit defeat, she saw the handle hidden beneath the top curve which pulled down to create the opening.

This was already her second letter home. She had so much to tell them, wanted so much for them to share in her wonderment, starting with that initial impression of San Francisco in the daylight. The wide, cement pavements uncrowded with people; the low, long cars that transformed the road into a flashing rainbow; the picture-postcard buildings in perfect condition. Most had no gardens at all, she noticed with surprise, while those that did were bright with the thick lawns and flowers she had read about in books. No fruit trees anywhere, just tall trees that occasionally grew right out of the pavement. One house had a long row of rosemary and she gazed at the purple flowers, marveling at the cascading profusion. There was the bell-like sound of the telephone, the milk carton that opened only on one side, the hot water that flowed all day. The fat newspaper, fatter yet on Sundays, the taste of nectarine juice, the Brobdignagian eggs. The packaged foods amazed her both by their variety and the amount of typed information. Kila would have loved to play with the empty strawberry baskets.

Leila wished her letter could be like the scratch and sniff advertisements in American magazines so her family could experience the myriad flavors of America.

Kila, I have not yet been to an ice cream parlor but when I go, I promise to tell you the exact number of flavors they have here
. Her father would want to hear about the house. She didn’t explain it was a flat, knowing Appa would not understand.
There are two bedrooms and also two bathrooms. We are situated on the side of a steep hill and at night I can hear the cars roar up with great acceleration. San Francisco is like Rome except that instead of seven hills it must have been built on a hundred!
She told Indy, who had such trouble with her long braid, about hair products.
There is a whole shelf of shampoos for different kinds of hair. I bought a bottle of Pantene, the same one Smita brought back from Singapore, and it is really very good. I am getting quite addicted to the TV. There are more than fifty channels and on Sunday they even have an Indian program. I saw an interesting documentary about the Bengal tiger. It was made by foreigners (naturally!) but they did have some Indians in it
.

She didn’t know what to tell Amma about Neel and their life in America. Amma would never ask about the auspicious night, but Leila felt its absence in every sentence she wrote. Would Amma guess that nothing had happened yet? Would Amma blame her? Maybe Amma would tell Leila she was silly to keep hoping that Neel would touch her before the night chosen by the priest—tonight. In a little less than twelve hours she was going to do more than sleep beside Neel.

Amma would definitely be interested in Neel’s friends, and whether Leila had enough sarees to wear to all the dinners. She fully expected that Leila and Neel would receive invitations from their neighbors, like all newlyweds in India. She would not be able to comprehend that Leila hadn’t even met anyone in the building. People smiled when passing each other in the hallway, but didn’t say anything. Their pink, voiceless lips told Leila how far she had moved from the Nandis—the Nosy Nandis, Indy’s sobriquet for their neighbors—who constantly peered across the separating wall or came over to drink tea and gossip.

Leila was happy that she could write of Sanjay’s invitation.
Tonight we are having dinner at the house of Suneel’s friend, an Indian doctor
.

The end of the letter was specially for Indy:
I miss our evening walks and have started taking short ones around the neighborhood. The hill is good exercise and when I am standing at the top I can see the ocean and know that everyone I love is on the other side
.

The walks were her way of absorbing their neighborhood—and America. She let go of the aerogram and heard it drop. In about a week their postman, wiry, Prince Charles–eared Doreswamy, would ride by on his rickety cycle, ring the bell, and hand it to Amma. Unless Indy rushed to the gate first.

Leila took another route back to the condo, an address she knew by heart, along with the long phone number. These small remembrances were her victories, tangible proof that she was settling into wife-life. She already had a daily routine and woke with Neel. She had fantasized that their mornings would be a mixture of American romance and Indian food. But so far the dosa tava and branched idli maker remained in their original boxes. Neel never kissed her “Good morning” like the husbands in films. He didn’t even want coffee or tea, showering quickly and leaving. When she offered to make him a hot lunch, he refused, saying, “I usually grab something from the cafeteria. It’s much easier.” He didn’t want her to cook for him. He wanted her to take this time to adjust to America.

It wasn’t just the outside world—the sharp needles of the fir trees, the sloping roofs of houses, the expansive celadon sea jaunty with sailing craft—that thrilled and excited her. She also began using gadgets she hadn’t known existed. Housework was hard work back home. Everything—laundry, floors, grinding, cleaning the pots and pans that got black from the kerosene stove—was done by hand. The first time she used the vacuum cleaner, it began making a clanking sound. If only she could run over to the neighbors and ask for help. But their doors were firmly shut, like those in hotels. So she waited till Neel returned. “I think I broke it,” she blurted as soon as he opened the door. Afterwards she laughed in relief when Neel showed her the penny that had been sucked into the rectangular box.

The washer/dryer gave her particular pleasure, and not just because the clothes washed themselves, unlike at home, where Heera pounded their sarees on the floor of the bathroom and then hung them to dry on a line in the garden. Leila’s fingers trembled every time she touched Neel’s underwear. The tiny bits of white material were erotic. She loved to fold them neatly as they came out of the dryer, warm and fresh-smelling. The triangles with their wide elastic bands and slit openings affirmed that she was married and had a right to know that Neel wore size 34.

Sometimes she still caught herself trying to turn on the light switches the Indian way, downward. But she no longer looked for the familiar blades of the ceiling fan. San Francisco had air-conditioned weather. Even the wood floors were cold, so she drank endless cups of hot tea and wore socks.

But mostly her days were long hours spent waiting for Neel to return home. And she often spent the evenings like she spent her days, alone. He told her that the work ethic in America was very different from India. No afternoon siestas, and few early evenings.

He tried to help, buying a guidebook on San Francisco and suggesting she follow its day trips to Fisherman’s Wharf, Alcatraz, Muir Woods. She imagined a forest tall with trees, the ground covered with mushrooms. Every Rice-A-Roni ad on TV made her want to ride a cable car. But nothing in her upbringing had prepared her to sightsee alone. Appa always accompanied Amma, and girls never walked anywhere unescorted. It was considered too daring, an invitation for ruffians to yell bad words and make obscene gestures. So she kept waiting for Neel to show her their new city.

Then yesterday he had called at noon to say he would be back past midnight. And suddenly the seconds and minutes and hours were like the face of the clock she was staring at, predictable and slow-moving. On the spur of the moment, she picked up the guidebook. All these days she had stood on various hills and looked over at the bluffs of Marin, the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge, marveling that she was in San Francisco, that she didn’t need to get permission to go out, that these sights belonged to her as much as to anyone else in the city.

She decided to walk to Union Square, where Neel had taken her to shop on their only outing together. She knew it would please him. He wanted her to be more American and women in America went everywhere alone. According to the TV, they even took holidays by themselves.

Union Square itself was a scruffy grass patch hemmed in by buildings. She was surrounded by the skins and smells of America, amidst people who looked as if they belonged on the pages of magazines, with coordinated clothes and shoes and handbags. Even the very old women resembled faded fashion sketches. She was glad she had worn her new salwar kameez.

Glad, until she noticed that people were staring at her. It wasn’t like home, where bold young men let their eyes linger over a few parts of the female body. Here even the young girls seemed to be looking at her. Was it her outfit? She
was
the only one wearing bright red silk. The tailor had made the pants too long and they hung over her shoes. The black border of the kameez was complemented by the dupatta around her neck. She had started the walk wearing the dupatta Indian-style, draped across her shoulders, the two ends lifting lightly off her back with every step. But the wind kept whipping it in different directions, so she twisted it around her neck, bringing both ends to the front, her hands holding them in place.

“That’s a beautiful costume.” A gray-haired woman touched Leila’s shoulder. “My daughter and I are wondering, is it a sarai?”

The light turned green and a crowd of people carried her across, separating her from the duo. Leila was amused at the woman’s mispronunciation. She had also never thought of her clothes as a costume. When they reached the other side, the daughter spoke before Leila could respond. “It’s silk, isn’t it? Such gorgeous material.”

“Yes, it’s a salwar kameez, not a saree.”

“Well, we just wanted you to know it’s beautiful. And so are you.”

After that, Leila didn’t look away from people’s eyes. They weren’t judging her; their glances were curious and admiring. Amma would be unhappy that she didn’t wear sarees every day, but the weather was too cold, even for thick silk ones. Salwar kameezes were the next best things to the pants she planned to add to her wardrobe, and more suitable for walking.

She stopped in at Gump’s, not knowing what to expect from such a funny-sounding name, and, like Alice, fell into enchantment with the glassware. “Hand-blown,” the labels said, and she imagined an old man blowing see-through perfection somewhere in Sweden. Every country was within grasp in America. Furniture from Japan and Indonesia, baubles from France, delicate crystal from Italy. On a shelf by itself was a bud vase, tall and slim, with the words
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways
. The vase was as exquisite as the line of poetry. She wanted to buy it for Neel, but she didn’t have the money.

She also didn’t have the right feelings for him. She loved him because she was married to him and couples were supposed to love each other. But she didn’t love him the way girls loved their husbands and lovers in romance novels.

Yet Neel never seemed to be far from her thoughts, more so in Union Square. The place symbolized her new life; it was to the Macy’s here that Neel had taken her shopping. That was a week ago, but she remembered every moment, playing it over and over again, like the ads on TV.

He’d called unexpectedly and given her ten minutes to get ready. She quickly drew on kajal, combed her hair, changed into a new yellow saree, and was waiting downstairs when the car pulled up.

She had never seen such a luxurious shop. The different levels reminded Leila of tiered wedding cakes, each one beautifully presented and decorated. The small tables slippery with silky, lacy underwear, glass counters aromatic with perfumes in small and giant bottles, hats hanging on pegs, hangers draped with ready-to-wear clothes that filled her eyes with so much color she thought she was going blind, all were bewildering and seductive. But there was no time to browse. They only had an hour, Neel’s lunchtime. He was giving it up for her.

Her head moving like the windshield wipers of his car, she followed as he strode through the labyrinth of clothes.

His question, “What do you want?” was as inviting—and confusing—as the different TV channels. Leila chose a brown pants suit, knowing that the color would look good on her. The smooth material followed the shape of her body. She felt as powerful as the Gods and Goddesses who transformed themselves in a moment.