And Laughter Fell From the Sky (10 page)

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I do want an arranged marriage. I’m not pretending.”

“You’ve done this before with other men, haven’t you? Lots of times.” He saw her face close again, yet he kept talking. “I’m not interested in sneaking around with you. If you want to have a relationship with me, that’s great. But I’m not going to play your game.” He thought his words sounded fine and courageous. He also knew that if Rasika wanted to whisk him off to a hotel again, he’d let her.

“If I’m playing a silly game, then so are you. You pretend like you’re so mature, but all you can talk about is that you don’t know what to do with your life. You’re only one person. You can’t do everything all by yourself. Just pick something and start doing it. Get into the stream of things. How long are you going to wait to start living?”

He rubbed a hand over his hair. “I just need a break after the move home.”

She pressed her fingers into the velvet bedspread, making light fingertip impressions. “That’s how I look at it, too. When the time is right I’ll get married, and I won’t have to do this kind of thing anymore.”

“So why don’t you marry that guy? The one I saw you with the other day.”

She kept pressing and rubbing away her finger-marks. “I ruined things. Everything was going well until I saw you. He was really angry, which made him look funny, and I couldn’t help laughing.” She laughed just thinking about it.

“He seemed like a complete jerk,” Abhay said. “How could you even think about marrying him?”

“He fit all my criteria. I don’t know why I went and ruined things.”

“Maybe your subconscious knows what you really want and isn’t willing to abandon you to an asshole.”

“Maybe.” Rasika crossed her ankles and tossed her wet hair over her shoulder. “So, Mr. Know-It-All. What does your subconscious want for you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you waiting for another clue? Like the dreams or signs you told me about?”

“I don’t think that’ll work anymore. I feel like I’m done with that phase of my life. I was naive to believe that I could run my life based on those kinds of signs. I want to try being logical. Try being reasonable. That’s what my dad always told me to do.”

Faint, tinny music sounded from a corner of the room. Rasika leaped up. “My phone. What did I do with it?”

“In your purse?”

“Where’d I put my purse?”

The music came from the area near the refrigerator/TV cabinet. Rasika stuck her arm between the cabinet and dresser, and pulled out a tiny black leather purse. The music stopped.

“Whoever it is will call back.” Abhay leaned against the dresser. He wanted a dessert. Something creamy, like the key lime pie he’d seen on the menu, or maybe some cheesecake. Or even some ice cream. He wondered if he could order it up and pay for it himself, or if it would all go on the room bill. He wondered if Rasika wanted anything.

“It’s probably my mother.” Rasika opened the purse, took out the phone, and peered at it. “Yes, it was my mom. She’ll definitely call back. She’s probably already tried me at home. If I don’t answer my cell phone the second time she calls, she’ll start to panic.”

The phone burst into life again. “Hello?” Rasika sat down on the edge of a chair.

Abhay threw himself back on the bed and examined the room-service dessert menu.

Rasika was saying something in Tamil. He had forgotten she was fluent in Tamil, which he didn’t understand. He remembered that she had grown up in India until she was seven or eight. As she spoke with her mother, Rasika’s voice became high and childlike, a pitch Abhay hadn’t heard before. She sat with her legs together, her feet flat on the floor, as though to prove to her mother, by her unseen body language, that she hadn’t been doing anything wrong.

He thought about going out into the hallway to find a vending machine. Or maybe there was a convenience store in the lobby where he could get something sweet. Besides, he didn’t like hearing Rasika lie, even if it was in a language he didn’t understand. He dressed quietly and left the room in his socks.

When he returned with two gourmet ice cream bars, Rasika was completely dressed in jeans and a blouse. “We gotta leave,” she said. Her hair, still wet, was mussed. She was trying to lift the handle of her suitcase, but the suitcase kept rolling out from under her hand.

“What happened?”

“My parents are bringing another eligible bachelor home. Tomorrow.” She yanked the handle up.

“So we can stay the night, can’t we?”

“I can’t. I have to get some distance from this.”

“Rasika, sit down. You don’t have to just follow your parents’ lead.” He tried to hand her an ice cream bar.

She strode over to the window and tugged the curtains open.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“I told you.” She flung back the covers of the bed. “I guess the people my parents are staying with have a relative who would be right for me. He’s visiting them now, from Nebraska, and he’s a doctor. So they’re bringing him over.” She kneeled on the floor and looked under the bed. Satisfied that nothing had been left, she pulled up the covers of the bed and smoothed them.

“What’s the hurry?”

“The astrologer said I need to be married before twenty-six. Remember?” She went into the bathroom and opened the shower curtain.

“How do you feel about what we just did?”

“I’d like to give all this up. I’m not proud of myself for doing things like this.”

“If you want to get married, fine. But that doesn’t mean you have to let your parents push you around.”

“I’m not. I really want to marry with their blessing.” She looked under the sink.

“You’re afraid to let your parents know who you really are.”

“My dad would die if he knew about . . .”

“You just think he’d die. The more you let Indian parents boss you around, the more they try to control you. You might as well start gradually getting them used to the idea that you aren’t the person they think you are. And you know what? They’ll get used to it.”

“You don’t know my dad. He gets so upset over the littlest thing. I can’t.” She opened and shut each drawer of the dresser, even though they hadn’t been in the room long enough for her to put anything into the drawers. She grabbed her suitcase handle. “If you want a ride home, you’d better come with me now.” She pulled the suitcase toward the door. “I just wish it didn’t look so bad. I’ll have to sign for my credit card, and I’m sure the hotel clerk will guess what we’ve been doing. I can invent some excuse about a family emergency.”

She bolted out the door while he shoved his feet into his sneakers. He caught up with her in front of the elevators, and they rode down in silence. She strode to the reception counter, and he stood by the tree under the false sun. He still held both ice cream bars in their cardboard boxes. Normally he refused to buy gourmet ice cream bars because they were so overpackaged, but tonight Rasika’s love of luxury must have rubbed off on him. He tucked one box under his arm, pried open the other, and bit through the bittersweet chocolate coating into the melting vanilla.

He recognized a group of Indians clustered near the grand staircase. There were some short women—one in pants, one in a sari—an elderly man in dark pants and a light shirt, and a few slouching teenagers in jeans. What were they doing in a downtown Cleveland hotel at this time of night? He ought to get out of their line of sight in case he recognized anyone. As he moved around to the other side of the tree, the woman in pants raised her hand at him and started bustling toward him, and suddenly he remembered her name. This was Mita Auntie, a friend of his mother’s, who had moved away from Cleveland about a year ago.

“We are here to attend Amisha Menon’s wedding reception.” Mita Auntie placed a hand on his arm. “You know wedding was in India last month, and Sunday is U.S. reception.” Mita Auntie was short and round, and despite the fact that they were quite wealthy—her husband was a plastic surgeon—she was just as unsophisticated as his own mother.

“My mother mentioned it,” he said. Slabs of chocolate coating threatened to fall off the ice cream bar, and he hurried to gather them into his mouth.

“Our plane landed so late. You are here to meet guests?”

“Just hanging out with friends,” he said. “I didn’t realize the reception was at this hotel.”

“It is at party hall near the Menons’ house. Kanchan likes to stay at these fancy hotels. Come say hello to everybody.”

Abhay reluctantly walked with Mita Auntie back toward her group. Maybe he could send them on their way and they would avoid seeing Rasika, and avoid wondering why he had two ice cream bars.

By the time he joined their group by the stairs, Mita Auntie’s husband, Kanchan Uncle, was heading toward them with Rasika beside him.

“Look who I found!” he exclaimed, and Abhay remembered that Mita Auntie’s family was good friends with Rasika’s parents.

“And, look who I found!” Mita Auntie grasped his upper arm in both of hers. “He is here with some friends.” Mita Auntie’s grip threatened to dislodge the other ice cream bar pinned under Abhay’s arm.

“Drinking at the bar, I suppose?” Kanchan Uncle winked at Abhay. Uncle was more dashing than his wife, tall and trim, with thick salt-and-pepper hair. “And she was here having dinner at the restaurant.”

Mita Auntie clasped her hands and looked from one to the other. “What a coincidence to see two old friends at same time.”

Abhay was glad he wasn’t holding Rasika’s suitcase. She had abandoned it next to the registration desk. Mita Auntie seemed happy to assume that he and Rasika were there separately and by chance. The other woman, an elderly lady who was probably Mita Auntie’s mother, because she was also short and round, glanced suspiciously from Rasika to Abhay and back. Abhay wasn’t sure what Kanchan Uncle thought.

Rasika threw her wrist in the air and eyed her watch. “Oh my god! I had no idea it was so late. I have got to go. It was so nice seeing you.”

“You will be at reception?” Mita Auntie called after her.

“Yes. I’ll see you there!” Rasika waved and smiled and walked briskly toward the door, her tiny black purse dangling from one hand.

Abhay watched her get smaller and smaller as she walked across the vast reception area. He licked the last bit of vanilla from the ice cream stick. He felt something wet under his arm. The other ice cream bar had melted through its packaging and was oozing onto his shirt.

Chapter 6

T
o make up for her dalliance with Abhay and for the misfortune of seeing Mita Auntie and Kanchan Uncle, Rasika woke up on Saturday determined to be on her very best behavior when her parents arrived home with the latest eligible bachelor.

Her mother called at eight in the morning.

“I can’t hear you very well.” Rasika was sitting up in bed.

“I am in the bathroom,” Amma confessed. “I have turned the fan on, so no one will overhear. And maybe the signal is bad. This is the only place I can talk without others hearing. You know we are bringing them home with us in the car, so I can’t even call you on the way home. I wanted to tell you that you don’t need to wear a sari. One of your salvar kameez outfits should be fine. The boy is quite casual, and his parents are very nice people. He is the same age as you are, and he has not yet finished medical school.”

As her mother talked, Rasika looked around her room for her robe and realized she had left it in the suitcase at the hotel. She was glad she had taken off the suitcase’s identification tag before going to the hotel last night. There was no risk of the hotel calling her about it. But she had lost her favorite robe, not to mention her blue dress and the suitcase itself. She couldn’t go back and retrieve it today, for fear of seeing Mita Auntie again.

“Is Pramod at home?” Without waiting for an answer, Amma continued, “I want you to send him out for some snacks. Tell him to get some nuts, chips, soda. And something sweet—cookies. Good quality cookies. Send him to the bakery at Acme.”

“Amma. Shouldn’t we check the horoscopes before I meet him?”

“There is no time for that. He is here now, and his family is from the same community. We will check horoscopes later. I only wish we had more time to prepare.”

Rasika sprang into action. The housecleaner came on Tuesdays, and by the weekend the house always started to look a little shabby. She vacuumed the living room, wiped off the sink and counters in the downstairs bathroom, carried out the trash. She was glad to be busy, so she wouldn’t have to dwell on the bad luck that had brought her into contact with Mita Auntie. She dusted the tables in the living room, and even ran a rag over the frames and glass of the photos on the walls.

First were black-and-white portraits of her grandparents, taken when they were middle-aged: proper photos in which the grandmothers wore large round kumkums between their eyebrows, and had their hair pulled back severely. Her mother’s mother had high cheekbones and beautiful skin, and was smiling faintly. Rasika loved her pati, and wanted Pati to be proud of her. Her father’s mother, whom she called “Ammachi,” glared out under heavy eyebrows and above her hooked nose. Rasika had always been afraid of Ammachi. She wanted to avoid her disapproval. Both grandmothers had on large diamond earrings and diamond nose studs, in addition to heavy gold wedding necklaces. That was all considered de rigueur back then.

In her parents’ color wedding portrait, her mother stood draped in a pink sari richly decorated in gold. Her mother’s kumkum was a sparkly pink teardrop. Her father, standing slightly behind her mother, wore a suit. The studio background featured a clean interior with pillars. Rasika had always thought her parents looked perfect in this photo: elegant, young, well-off.

The next photo had been taken just after she and Pramod and her mother had arrived in Ohio from India. They were all wearing Western clothes against a background of an American flag. Her father’s hair was black, and he wore large, rectangular black-framed glasses which had been fashionable at some point, but which now looked ridiculous. Her mother had a young, bright-eyed look—not the hardened smile she so often wore now.

Soon Rasika’s wedding portrait would grace this wall. She wanted her own picture to look as elegant and perfect as her parents’, and she often wondered what kind of sari she’d wear, and what kind of pose would be best. Should she sit and have her husband stand? But then her sari would not drape so beautifully. Perhaps she ought to choose a pose just like her parents’. Of course the most important missing piece was the groom. In terms of looks, Viraj would have been perfect, if only he hadn’t turned out to be such a complete jerk, as Abhay said.

Abhay. She stopped dusting. Her arms hung by her sides. She pictured Abhay beside her in a wedding portrait. He’d be smiling just as he had smiled when he’d seen her at the Fox and Hound the other day. He’d looked so delighted. Maybe he’d have his arm around her shoulders. Perhaps they would get a portrait showing just their heads and shoulders, so Abhay’s lack of height would not be obvious. What would she have him wear?

The rag dropped to the floor. Why was she thinking about Abhay? She sank down onto the sofa. When she thought of Abhay, she felt a pull at her heart, a longing to be with him. Was that love? She’d never been in love before, and if she was in love with him, then what did that mean? In her view of the world, she had to marry her one true love. But she obviously couldn’t marry Abhay. No matter what he wore and how the photo was posed, he would not be acceptable to anyone in her family. Pati would not approve; Ammachi would definitely not approve. Abhay would never fit into a portrait on this wall, and therefore, the logical conclusion was that she did not love him.

Her skin prickled with guilt at the thought of what had happened at the hotel. Abhay was right. She had to stop all this pretense, all this sneaking around, and bring her mind back to what she really wanted.

She thought about the young man who would be arriving soon. This prospective groom was just a twenty-five-year-old student. She’d wanted her husband to be older and more accomplished than she was. She didn’t want to support him while he finished medical school and slogged through his residency.

She picked up her rag and finished touching up the living room. Since Pramod wasn’t home, she drove to the store and selected a bouquet of flowers in addition to the cookies, nuts, chips, and soda. Her mother would see Mita Auntie at the reception tomorrow, and of course Mita Auntie would mention Rasika and Abhay in the same breath. Mita Auntie was so naive, Rasika knew she suspected nothing, but Rasika’s mother was capable of reading evil doings into the most innocent encounter.

At two o’clock, her parents and the guests tromped through the garage door. Rasika stood at the stove with an apron over her clothes, boiling the tea bags and spices to make chai. She glanced quickly at the young man before being caught up in hand shaking and doing namaskar.

He looked like one of Pramod’s friends, with his jeans and sweater. His face was round. He was just a boy. His parents were both short, round-faced, and smiling. His mother wore a pair of brown knit pants and a sweater with a yellow duck embroidered on it. His father said in English, “We have no idea we will find bride for Dilip on trip to Pittsburgh!” Dilip looked uncomfortable as everyone laughed. It was the Cute Family.

Rasika’s mother stayed behind with her in the kitchen while Appa led the others into the living room. “Your father likes him very much,” Amma whispered. “He is a little shy, but very friendly. He lives in Nebraska now. Don’t make a fuss about that. Your Appa will use his connections to try to get him a residency in this area. We are doing the very best for you.” Her face had taken on its “do what I say, or else” look. Amma untied Rasika’s apron and patted Rasika’s hair before turning to the stove to pour out the tea.

Rasika arranged the teacups on a tray. She couldn’t marry this boy. She had to get out of it, although she didn’t know how. At least for today, she’d play along. She took the tray into the living room. Her father was asking in English, “What medical specialty you will pursue?”

Dilip half-slouched on the sofa, one socked foot on top of the other. “Family practice,” he mumbled. Rasika lowered the tray of teacups in front of him. His hand trembled as he lifted a cup and saucer.

Appa’s hand hopped in his lap. “Family practice is not the best specialty. You cannot earn as much there. I am telling Pramod to choose surgery.” His forehead twitched.

Dilip’s father laughed. “Family practice is fine. We are glad he has gotten into medical school at all. We thought we will have to send him overseas, or to osteopathic college. Let us not put too much pressure.”

Rasika set the tray on the coffee table, picked up her own cup, and sat down next to Appa to observe this young man with the less-than-stellar academic record. Her mother breezed in with a tray of cookies.

After tea, Rasika and Dilip were packed off to the mall. Rasika drove. She had to figure out a way to get this boy to dislike her. That was the only way out. If he chose not to marry her, she’d be off the hook. What could she do that would put him off without causing any blame to fall on her? He certainly did seem shy. He was silent all the way to the mall. Maybe if she talked a lot, teased him, and flirted noisily, he’d get scared away? It was her only chance.

Since they’d just had tea, she took him to a juice and smoothie bar, and ordered a bottle of water for herself. They sat at a table in the walkway. She was unscrewing the cap of her bottle when he started mumbling something.

“You seem like a really nice girl,” he said into his strawberry-kiwi smoothie, “but I’m not ready to get married yet. Mom and Dad got all excited when they met your parents and found out we’re from the same, you know, subcaste, or whatever. Your mom showed us your photo and told us all about you, and my parents thought you’d be good for me, because I’m quiet, just like you.”

Rasika smiled. Her mother had probably painted a picture of a demure girl who loved to stay at home and cook all day.

“Your mom said you had to get married before you turned twenty-six, but I’ll still be in school.”

Rasika nodded and attempted to assume a disappointed look.

“I still like you,” he said. “I mean, I don’t know you. But I think I would like you, if we got to know each other. We could, you know, send e-mail or something. And then we could decide later. I mean, I’m sure I’ll like you.” His voice trembled during this speech.

Rasika didn’t want to “send e-mail or something” with this boy, yet it was a small price to pay for delaying the wedding. She was sure she could figure out a way to delay the thing into oblivion.

“Sure,” she said soothingly. “That sounds like a great idea.”

So like Amisha’s family, Rasika thought, sitting in a dark corner of a large banquet hall the next day. They invite a zillion people to the reception and then hold it in a dumpy party hall with no windows whatsoever, industrial heavy-traffic carpeting, and fluorescent lights that blinked off randomly. Someone had draped gold-colored cloths and strings of plastic mango leaves over a few of the walls, but these feeble attempts at decor couldn’t disguise the overall low-rent quality of the place.

Amisha was a few years younger than Rasika. Her parents were old friends of Rasika’s parents, although the families weren’t particularly close. Amisha’s family had money, but they tried to make it stretch too far and ended up doing things cheaply. They had just bought a huge new house. According to Rasika’s mother, everything in it was bottom-of-the-line, low-quality stuff.

Of course, they spent enough money on Amisha’s clothes and jewelry. Amisha, standing in line with the rest of the wedding party to serve herself at the buffet, was wearing gold cuffs on her upper arms and a wide gold belt over her heavy silk sari, in addition to the usual diamond earrings, gold bangles, and wedding necklace. They probably had to pay extra to get a belt large enough to go around Amisha’s ample girth.

“Such a nice family,” Mita Auntie said in English. She was sitting on the other side of Rasika’s mother. Rasika was on pins and needles, waiting for Mita Auntie to bring up Abhay. He and his family were here, too, on the other side of the hall. Maybe by hiding in this dark corner, she could avoid him until it was time to leave.

Subhash and his parents, Balu Uncle and Deepti Auntie, wandered through the doorway at the far end of the room. Subhash towered over his very short, plump parents. Rasika’s father waved them over, and they bustled toward them.

“Rasika!” Before Rasika could stand up, Deepti Auntie had enveloped her in a hug. Auntie’s breasts pressed against Rasika’s neck. Finally, Rasika managed to stand up.

“You look very nice,” Auntie said in Tamil. “As usual.”

Rasika wore a lavender salvar kameez with a matching gossamer scarf draped around her neck. “Thank you.” She smiled down at Deepti Auntie, who was lifting Rasika’s scarf to get a better look at the embroidery on her kameez. Rasika didn’t mind. Unlike other relatives, Deepti Auntie never criticized.

“Where did you buy this?” Auntie asked. “At Saree Palace in Cleveland?”

“My pati got it stitched for me in India, and sent it with Ahalya Auntie. They just came back from India a couple of months ago.”

“It fits very well. Your grandmother knows your size?”

“My mother sent an old outfit, and they used that as a pattern.”

“The beading is well done.” Deepti Auntie let go of the scarf. “Next weekend we are having pooja at the new office in Kent. Your parents will be coming. You must come, too.”

Rasika nodded. “I’ll definitely be there.”

Deepti Auntie patted Rasika’s cheek. “You are like a daughter to me,” she said. Her voice thickened, as though she were about to cry. “I have only one son. So you must be my daughter.”

Rasika wasn’t sure what Auntie meant by this. Was this a reference to the fact that Subhash wanted to marry Rasika?