A Good Indian Wife: A Novel (14 page)

She kept staring at herself, wondering what Amma would make of her reflection. But even Amma would not be able to say anything to the son-in-law who was buying this outfit. Neel. He was waiting to see the new girl in the mirror. She parted the curtains of the changing room and sauntered out like a model. This was how she had walked on stage to receive the crown when she won the beauty queen title in college. He didn’t say anything, just looked at her for a long time.

“We’ll take it,” he told the sales lady. Leila was relieved and pleased. He also bought her a pair of closed shoes. When she stepped into the soft black leather her toes felt warm, as if his fingers were clasping her foot.

Leila had worn those shoes to post the letter. She looked down at them, still mystified by her hidden toes. She had only worn slippers in India. And tonight, for the dinner at Sanjay’s house, Neel had asked her to wear the new pants suit. She wanted to look beautiful and make him proud in front of his friends. Neel had not said much about them, only that Sanjay Bannerji was an Indian doctor married to Oona, an American woman. Leila had never met a mixed couple.

She hurried to the flat, laying out the pants suit that still smelled of the shop, still bore the touch of his hand. Neel had warned her that unlike Indians, Americans don’t expect their guests to be late. She would miss the comfort of Indian Stretchable Time, miss the freedom to arrive two hours past the invitation and still be considered polite.

She brushed her hair and felt it light and soft around her face. Neel had asked her to loosen her hair that day in the shop. Her forehead looked bare without the pottu, but it didn’t suit a Western outfit. A special outfit, a special night.

Tonight wasn’t going to be like Ooty when she hadn’t even known if Neel planned to follow tradition. She had been thinking of this evening for days. She dabbed perfume on her wrists and sprayed some between her breasts. The brief brush of cold hardened her nipples as she imagined what awaited her after the dinner.

“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME YOU
were taking her to Sanjay’s tonight?” Caroline demanded.

“It’s not important.” Neel played it down. “Just an obligation.” It was absurd of Caroline to be upset over something he himself didn’t want to do.

The reception area was unexpectedly deserted, but they kept their voices low from habit.

“What do you mean, an obligation?”

“Sanjay felt obliged to invite us and I felt obliged to accept.” Neel looked down at the patient’s chart.

Caroline persisted, determined to reestablish her rights. “Why on earth would he feel obligated to invite you and—her?” Caroline didn’t want to know “her” name.

“It’s an Indian tradition. Inviting couples.” He wished someone would come by and interrupt them.

“You mean newlyweds, don’t you?” she sneered. “Gosh, I had no idea you were
so
into following Indian traditions. Aside from having—what did you call it?—an arranged marriage.”

Caroline knew Neel liked the distance between himself and India. When he first came to the hospital, all the single women had tried for him. One by one they moved on, but not before discussing the mysterious Dr. Sarath. Juanita was sure he hadn’t responded to her because she was too reminiscent of Indian women. Dark-haired Fiona, who had had a similar experience with a Middle Eastern intern, was convinced the doctor wanted a blonde decorating his arm. When Caroline finally got him to go out with her, she sensed what had drawn him in, getting confirmation after the concert they attended on his birthday.

She had surprised him with tickets to an Ali Akbar Khan concert. His mother only listened to South Indian classical music and Neel had never heard of Khan, who belonged to the North Indian school. Expecting to be bored, he was surprised to find himself enjoying every moment of the performance, but during the interval had felt out of place in the motley group of expatriates and wide-eyed Indian wannabees. Halfway around the world, he was surrounded by sarees (the Indians wearing the over-bright ones, the Caucasians looking like slightly better versions of Hare Krishna singers) and ornate slippers patently wrong for San Francisco’s chilly evening air. His discomfort must have been obvious, because Caroline never suggested another Indian event.

Yet he had started out being very proud of India. In his first weeks at Stanford he had actually liked it when people praised his English. But he quickly grew tired of the compliment and of the ridiculous questions people kept asking him. India was very hot, wasn’t it? They forgot about the Himalayas and the monsoons. Aren’t all Indians vegetarians? They were shocked that he ate steak. Do Indians meditate every morning? They clearly didn’t believe him when Neel said he had never done so. And then there were the embarrassing questions about the population problem, the bride burnings, and arranged marriages.

Indians think all Americans are rich and drive new cars, he told his roommate, who had come to Stanford on a scholarship and, like Neel, had to budget his money carefully. But Steven just shook his head, laughing that anyone would believe poverty could escape an entire nation and its people. So one day, after two blond girls asked Neel if anyone kept count of the dead bodies floating down the river in Benares, he created his “I’m just from there, I don’t know all the answers” persona.

He had thought briefly of resurrecting India’s past glory, when this fat finger of land, jutting into the sea, had given birth to men and ideas still looked upon with wonder. But Americans couldn’t even pronounce the two great epics, the
Ramayana
and the
Mahabharata
. No one really cared that Panini had written the first grammar, and the decimal point was too small to brag about.

He also didn’t like it that he had to dig into history to find the patriotic feelings that welled up so readily in Americans. He often thought that he had either been born in the wrong country or the wrong century. Tattappa always said, “Born right after Independence, you are a virry lucky boy.” But Neel thought that was precisely when India began producing more men than ideas. The men of ideas left the country in an ongoing exodus the media referred to as “the brain drain.” He had been among them. If a man is his passport, Neel Sarath was no longer Indian.

Sanjay continued to ask him to join the various Indian associations that kept springing up in nearby Silicon Valley, children of the brain drain. But after living in America almost a third of his life, Neel didn’t want to become part of an India club, where some members would embrace him just because he was an Iyengar. He enjoyed meeting the diverse nationalities in the Bay Area, the women who spoke their minds, the men who sought out new sports to excel in. It had been that easy accessibility, as well as the sense of limitless possibility, that made him sign up for tennis, scuba classes, flying lessons. In the past few years he had grown so accustomed to being with whites that sometimes the brown face in the mirror surprised him.

“Anyway,” he sidestepped Caroline’s reference to his arranged marriage, “you know I can’t take you to dinner.”

“Don’t think I’m good enough for your doctor friends?” Caroline raised her voice. “Let me tell—”

Neel interrupted her, “What I meant was, Sanjay’s wife only cooks Indian food.” He didn’t want another fight about why they didn’t socialize together.

Caroline vehemently disliked Indian food. The few times they went out she invariably chose a French restaurant, ordering in French, which pleased the waiter—and impressed Neel.

“But isn’t he married to an American?” Caroline dug through her purse.

“Yes, Oona is from Maine.” He felt the sickly familiar embrace of jealousy. Sanjay, that short, belly-bulging Bengali Babu, had managed to attract an elegant, tall Stanford graduate who came from East Coast money. Her parents owned a vacation home in Aspen, and though Sanjay went there every winter, he was not interested in learning how to ski. Neel, who had saved up to take advantage of Stanford’s outdoor programs, loved the challenge of black diamond slopes, but didn’t have the luxury of talking about “the family cabin.”

“You don’t even like Indian food!” Caroline said.

He never suggested going to Indian restaurants with Caroline, preferring the anonymity of Western restaurants. She didn’t know that he did in fact miss the flavors of spicy chicken curry, cool raita sprinkled with roasted cumin seed powder, green cabbage speckled with chilies and coconut.

Oona cooked Indian food not because it was fashionable to experiment with exotic cuisine, but because she genuinely wanted to learn everything about her husband’s world. She was almost more traditional than an Indian bride. How would Oona react to Caroline, who considered herself French? Neel often wondered.

Having unwittingly compared the two women, Neel was overcome by the deficiencies he invariably associated with Caroline. “Oona is a good cook,” he defended the other blonde. “She went to a lot of trouble to learn, using cookbooks and attending classes. I’m sure the dinner will be excellent.” Sanjay was lucky because his home life was both foreign and familiar. In the early days of his marriage, Sanjay had made some noises about their differences. He never denied that he had gained a wonderful wife. He just said that in a love marriage like his, he had also lost something—the range of shared experiences one could build upon. Neel thought that Oona was busy correcting that loss.

Neel picked up his pen and prepared to leave.

“Sweetie, I’m not criticizing her cooking.” Caroline took the pen out of his hand, surprised by his response. His enjoyment of Western food was another advantage for her. Why was he annoyed? She didn’t want him to leave feeling that way. She leaned forward so that the neck of her blouse dipped forward. It was a trick she had learned in high school. Sex was like makeup. Learn to use it, and it enhanced your natural charms.

Her sexual boldness continued to surprise Neel. On their first date she had invited him up for coffee and then excused herself. Neel assumed she was using the bathroom. He was fiddling with the receiver when she walked in stark naked.

Now, too, he reacted immediately and shifted uncomfortably.

“See you tonight?” She smiled.

“How about now?” They never risked making love in the hospital, but Neel could visualize her white ass bent over the operating table, legs spread apart on a vacant bed. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

“I’m ready,” Caroline responded immediately, glad that he desired her. He had to keep desiring her. “I’m not wearing any panties.” She had recently read that many French women didn’t bother with underwear.

Neel pictured the blond triangle, as excruciatingly inviting as his first sight that night when she slid up against him, her white body smooth and hairless. She had tiny “baby coconut” breasts, with the pinkest of nipples.

“I was just kidding. This is a hospital,” he said, trying to look stern.

“Oops, sorry, Doctor. I thought you were bold and daring.” She shook her head so that her hair cascaded around her face.

Gold. The color never ceased to fascinate him. Oona said she wanted their children to look exactly like Sanjay. A loving tribute—but ultimately foolish, Neel thought. Much better to be born white in America. Then their children would never have to worry about glass ceilings and rude comments.

Neel moved behind the counter and put his hand under the short black skirt, touching the bare skin, her thigh warm. She shivered. His hand moved up slowly, his fingers gradually approaching that junction of all men’s beginnings.

“Sweetie, you aren’t sleeping with—her—are you?” Caroline pressed his hand between her legs. The question had burned inside her ever since his return, with visions of Neel and the unknown woman in the condo she had never spent the night in. But she had waited for the right moment to ask it.

“What do you think?” He began to explore her.

“I don’t know. You tell me.” Caroline willed him to say no. What would she do if he was sleeping with both of them?

“My grandfather asked me to marry her. Not sleep with her.” He could hear Tattappa saying, “Suneel, I have spoken to the priest. He has picked July 24 as the ahspicious day.” Today was July 24. The mood was broken. He jammed his hand into his pocket.

“Do you know what I’m thinking about right now?” Caroline felt his withdrawal and moved against him. “It’s big and it’s hard,” she paused coyly. “And it’s on my bedside table.” When Neel didn’t respond, she said, “The
Kama Sutra
.”

He loved the way she mispronounced the word. He had bought her the large edition for Christmas and she had proclaimed it the perfect book since she didn’t need to read it. The pictures were enough.

“I knew there was a reason I was born double-jointed.
Double your pleasure, double your fun
,” she sang, bending her fingers so they looked like claws.

Neel laughed, then saw Patrick Connery from the OB/GYN unit coming toward them and quickly reached for his clipboard. Caroline busied herself with the schedule.

“Neel, how’s married life?” Patrick asked.

“Fine, fine.” Neel moved away from Caroline. “How are the twins?”

“Noisy. When do we get to meet the new Mrs. Sarath? I’ve got all these stories about you I want to tell her.”

“That’s reason enough to keep you far away from her. You’ll get me into more trouble than I’m in already.” Neel swung into step beside Patrick. Patrick was yet another colleague who wanted to meet Leila. How long could he keep putting people off?

He wished he could cancel the dinner tonight, send Leila back to India and pretend the trip to see Tattappa had never happened. He wanted the complications of his old life, not this new one of juggling two households and two women. Leila wasn’t demanding, but she was there. Which meant food in the fridge, explanations about the tiniest details of life in America, and invitations like this evening.

Oona had probably prompted that call. Why was she was so keen to adapt to the Indian way of life while living in America? She was taking Bengali lessons. And classical Indian dancing, Sanjay told him proudly. An oxymoron, Neel thought immediately, a tall, blond woman performing Bharat Natyam steps in a silk saree. Then he remembered Leila coming out of the dressing room at Macy’s.

The pant suit had transformed her, but she wore it like it was someone else’s clothes. A few of the other customers stopped and stared, making him think that perhaps he was right. Her face was too Indian for the outfit. “Her eyes are made for dancing,” Tattappa had said, referring to the intricate eye movements in Bharat Natyam and Kathak. Leila looked better when Neel asked her to let her hair down. The loose black strands framed her face, giving her the look of a love child from the sixties.

He hoped she would remember to wear it down tonight. This was their first social outing and he was nervous that she might do or say something to embarrass him. He hadn’t acted as a couple since the days with Savannah and wasn’t used to others judging him by who he was with. At least Leila spoke English fluently and her knowledge of poets and novelists—if she brought them into the conversation—would be impressive.