A Good Indian Wife: A Novel (6 page)

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 baby, 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.

“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.

He even attempted to put on a show at Ashok’s house. Neel had never liked his cousin’s superior attitude, and now Ashok parachuted into their youth, when he had always floated above, acting cocky. This time it was because Ashok had married first—and clearly, to a girl far superior to Leila.

“I tell you, Suneel, you simply have to take a honeymoon. Smita and I went to Singapore. Of course we did not leave the hotel room too often,” he winked at Neel, “but we did do some little shopping.”

Neel politely praised the blue-flowered china (from Japan), the thick glassware (from Taiwan), and Smita even brought out some of the sarees they had purchased. He watched the proud parade with a stoic smile. No one in America opened their cupboards in a display of show and share.

The much-ballyhooed honeymoon surprised Neel. When he was a boy, newlyweds didn’t waste money on hotels and eating out. But according to Ashok, a small class of Indians, equivalent to American yuppies,
had
progressed. Neel just hadn’t been around to witness it.

“Why not go to Australia?” Ashok recommended. “From there it is easy to take a yakht to New Zealand.”

It took Neel a second to realize his cousin meant a yacht. “Australia? It’s much too far,” Neel declined. Ashok was just like Aunty Vimla, insistent as only Indian relatives know how to be. He was not content to suggest an idea; he had to complete it with an itinerary. Neel didn’t want to go on a honeymoon. He just wanted to get back to the States—and Caroline. He thought of her constantly, and had even tried calling, but the operator could only patch him to Bombay, at which point he heard, “I’m sorry, sir, but the lines they are down. Must be from the monsoon. You must please to try again.”

“Too far,” Ashok scoffed. “You sound just like an old man. Anyway, Australia is on the way to America.”

“I’m not sure what atlas you’ve been looking at, but, at any rate, I’ve already been there. I gave a paper at a conference in Sydney two years ago.” He dangled the tidbit, wondering if Ashok would surprise him and change course.

“Maybe you have seen Australia,” Ashok ignored the last sentence. “But I am quite sure, in fact, hundred percent positive, that Leila has not.” He looked at Neel’s parents and proclaimed, “I think my younger cousin Suneel has become old-fashioned living in America. We are more modern here in India.”

Neel resisted hitting Ashok, who was as pleased with himself as if he were a thoroughbred. Yet all he had was an MBA from XLRI, an American-style college in North India, a desk job with a company headquartered in England, and a wife who was fair, MA-tried-but-failed, from a rich family that had sent them on the “funtahstic” honeymoon. When they were young, Ashok had capitalized on the three-year age difference to strut the part of Mr. Know-It-All. Not anymore. Now everyone except he and Aunty Vimla realized that Neel had surpassed him. Neel didn’t even know why he was having this ridiculous conversation.

He wouldn’t be in this boxy, overstuffed living room but for Aunty Vimla. He would be confirming his ticket to the United States instead of requesting a change as he had this morning. A week ago, he had gone to bed an American (“I’ll be polite when I go see the girl tomorrow”) and had woken up an Indian (“I have to marry her because otherwise it will ruin the family name?”).

Now Aunty Vimla was behaving as if she knew him better than anyone else, ordering Smita to pour Neel more coffee he didn’t want. “Our Suneel misses our cahffee in Ahmerica. My daughter-in-law makes the virry best. No ahrdinary milk. She only uses condensed milk. You must to tell your Leila that.”

Mrs. Krishnan, too, had added a liberal swig of condensed milk to the coffee Leila served him that confusing morning. His teeth were aching from the unaccustomed sugar when they finally left the small house that didn’t want to let go of him. Aunty Vimla, one step behind Neel, couldn’t wait to leave the garden before panting, “So, did you like her? Did you like her?”

Afraid the Krishnan parents, smiling anxiously from the verandah, could hear them, he responded, “Fine, she was fine.”

“I told you,” Aunty Vimla stated loudly, “I only have first-class girls for you. So there is nothing wrong with her?”

There was nothing obviously wrong with the girl, except for her age and the fact that she represented an arranged marriage. She was pretty, fair, and spoke excellent English. He knew she was somewhere in that house, wondering about his answer. But perhaps he had made that clear to her.

Neel pushed open the wrought-iron gate. It creaked forward reluctantly, only moving wider when he pressed his foot on the bottom rung. The idiot driver had parked the car down the road and was sitting under a tree, smoking a cigarette. He hurriedly stubbed it out and started the engine when he saw them emerge. “Aunty, I told you. She’s fine.”

“Not too tall?”

“No, not too tall.”

“Ah, that is because you are also tall. How could I forget? Mr. Basketball Team Captain. Good, good. I told you she will to be extremely virry fine.”

“Mrs. Rajan, your umbrella.” Mrs. Krishnan waved the flowery plastic that burst open in her hands. “So sorry, so sorry,” she apologized as her husband helped her close the bright orange umbrella.

“Not to worry, even if it is broken, our Suneel will bring me another one from Ahmerica. You wait there. I will come and get it. Appa”—Aunty Vimla turned to Tattappa—“maybe I will stay a little more time?”

“It is okay with me. Suneel, what do you have to say?”

Neel was delighted to get rid of Aunty Vimla. If she was this obnoxious outside the car, she would be much worse during the ride home. He had seen the girl and now wanted to enjoy the peace it had procured him. She was probably staying behind to vacuum off the last of the samosas. She wouldn’t, couldn’t tell the Krishnans anything without talking to him first. “Sure, Aunty can stay. As long as she has a ride back to her place,” he added politely, in case he sounded too eager to be rid of her.

“Don’t you worry anything about me. Everything will be okay. You will see.”

What Neel did see one hour later was an even more animated Aunty Vimla, her spittle dotting the Stanford T-shirt he had changed into. She had come flying into the house, breathless, so eager to report her latest handiwork that the words came out in bursts of one syllable: “They have a-greed to the match, Ap-pa.” That one sentence brought a big smile to Tattappa’s face. He congratulated Neel, who immediately demanded, “What are you talking about?”

“You said the girl was fine.” Aunty Vimla beat her index finger in the air. “You said it. They heard you. So I made the arrangements with her family.”

“I’m not getting married!”

“They have accepted it. Now only you are telling me you do not want to marry her? No, no, I cannot allow that.”

Dabbing the wet stains off his T-shirt, Neel thought she looked like a blowfish, cheeks swollen in outrage. “Tattappa, please tell Aunty to calm down. I never said I would marry the girl.”

“Ah, but you did not say you did not want to marry her. I asked you. I asked you right in front of their house, and you did not say that,” Aunty Vimla reiterated, her voice gaining in volume.

“What did you expect me to say after that brief meeting? And with her parents within hearing distance? This is ridiculous. We leave you behind to get your umbrella and you go ahead and get me engaged? Without even talking to me about it? Tattappa, please tell Aunty to go and undo the mess she has just created.”

“Suneel,” Tattappa shook his head. “That is not possible. Your aunty has already given the word of our family.”

“Tattappa, I never gave my word that I wanted to marry this girl.”

“Your aunty gave you the chance to say there was something wrong with the girl. But you said she was fine. I asked you if Aunty should stay behind. Surely you knew the meaning of that?”

“No, I did not. I just thought Aunty wanted to eat some more samosas.” He could not control his nasty tone.

“But this was not a visit, Suneel. It was to see a girl. And afterwards you have to tell the girl’s family what the boy thinks.”

“I assumed we would discuss my answer—which you already knew, Tattappa—when we got home.”

“Yes, yes, that is the way it is sometimes. But not when your aunty is staying behind. That is a sure sign of our interest.”

“Our interest? What’s ‘our’ about this, suddenly? It’s my life. My decision.”

“My this, my that.” Aunty Vimla narrowed her eyes. “Mr. Ahmerica you are suddenly. How can you be forgetting our customs so quickly?”

“Tattappa, are you telling me I have to get married now?”

“Surely yes. Otherwise our family name will be shamed. Your aunty has already given our word. It is like a vow. How can we go back on it?”

“I’ll tell you how. I’ll go there right now and tell them it’s all been a mistake. She’s too tall, she’s too old, and she doesn’t have a dowry. Isn’t that what you told me when you suggested I see her?”

“Yes, I was giving to you all the reasons why you may wish not to marry her. But you never said any such things to your aunty. I was virry much surprised. Then I was thinking that maybe you liked the girl.”

“It is done.” Aunty Vimla patted a handkerchief on her sweating face. “The marriage is to be in fourteen days.”

“Not my marriage, Aunty. Ashok is your son and he had to listen to you. But I don’t have to.” Neel could have throttled the pleased look out of Aunty Vimla’s face. He started out the door.

“Where are you going?” His mother spoke for the first time.

Mummy had never taken up for him in the old days and he couldn’t expect her to now. Tradition meant she had to bow to her older sister-in-law, and though she could lead Father around, she never interfered with Aunty Vimla. Father, as usual, was keeping himself out of the fight, just sitting in his chair. Neel thought his eyes were sympathetic, felt that he wanted to say something, but years of capitulation had castrated his ability to express his opinions. “I’m going to the Krishnans. To tell them that Aunty Vimla made a mistake.”

Neel didn’t know Aunty Vimla could move so fast. She catapulted her two hundred and twenty pounds out of the chair, and only stopped when they were face-to-face. “You will not to use my name like that,” she hissed. “I have done for you a big favor and you are going to spoil my good name?”

Neel knew Aunty Vimla had only done herself a big favor. She wanted him to marry Leila to increase the worth of her own daughter-in-law. She was making a fuss about her good name to ensure that he didn’t get a good girl. “Fine. I’ll tell them that
I
don’t want to marry the girl. Frankly, I don’t care what I say just as long as I get out of this.”

He had one foot on the verandah when Aunty Vimla screamed: “Appa!” Neel swung around to see his grandfather fall to the floor. The next hour was a mixture of wringing hands and worried faces staring down at a hospital bed. He never went to the Krishnans.

Now here he was, seven days later, sitting in his cousin’s house holding a cup of sweet coffee he didn’t want, while a sick Tattappa recovered in bed.

“No thank you,” he said firmly. “I don’t want more coffee.” He placed the cup on the side table, right under Aunty Vimla’s offended eyes. Too bad it would go to waste. But he had to take some control over his life.

He felt as if he had metamorphosed into a character from Kafka’s novel. One day he was Dr. Neel Sarath, a man whose only obligation was work, who ate beef when he wanted to and spent nights with a white woman outside the bounds of marriage. The next day, without his permission, he had been forced back into his discarded skin. He was Suneel once again—grandson, son, nephew, consummate Indian male. People he didn’t recognize thumped his back in congratulations, proffering unsolicited advice, demanding more and more of him. Suddenly he was both the most important person and, conversely, the one least respected.

Giving in to that initial guilt shove had created a buffet of other obligations. His afternoons and evenings were a blur of faces and food. He didn’t bother asking his mother their destination. He simply got into the car, smiled at people he didn’t know, and ate with his fingers because Mummy would keep apologizing to their host if he asked for a fork. Just yesterday he had reluctantly agreed to bare-chest himself and wear the traditional white silk veshti for the wedding ceremony.