And Laughter Fell From the Sky (24 page)

“Chess set?” The young man produced a travel-size wooden chess set. He opened its tiny drawers to reveal the minute chess pieces.

Rasika couldn’t help laughing. He looked like he was about sixteen years old, with a hint of a mustache on his upper lip. They escaped him only by entering a random store, where they pretended to look at shelves of men’s polo shirts.

“Rasika, I must tell you something.” Mayuri unfolded a shirt, held it up in front of her face, and said softly, from behind the shirt, “My misfortune is that I have fallen in love with the wrong man. He is the most honest, caring person I have ever met. And he is extremely smart. He didn’t do well in school because he is not good at memorizing. He is more of a big-picture person. He has a great business sense. He will be very wealthy someday. But I will never be allowed to marry him, only because he is a Muslim.” Mayuri said all this in a rush, although her voice continued to be quiet.

Rasika was surprised Mayuri would talk about her personal life in public like this. There were no other customers in the small, air-conditioned shop, and the four or five employees were standing around, looking attentive. Unlike stores in the United States, where it was often difficult to find anyone to help you, in India the salesclerks were everywhere. This shop even had someone just to open the door for customers.

“How did you meet him?” Rasika asked softly.

“He works with me.” Mayuri lowered the shirt and stepped closer to Rasika. “He was my trainer. He was so gentle and patient, Rasika. I started to love him from the first day of training.”

“Will you marry him anyway?” Rasika asked. She wondered how Mridula Auntie would react to her oldest daughter marrying not just out of their caste, but out of their religion altogether.

“I don’t know what to do. His family will also disapprove. He is afraid to ask their permission.”

Rasika looked out the glass doors of the shop. The young peddler was nowhere in sight. “Shall we go?”

Mayuri clutched a shirt to her chest. “I want you to meet him. I want someone in my family to understand. He is so beautiful, I cannot live without him.”

All the male salesclerks were gazing at them with interest. Rasika hustled Mayuri out of the store.

As they were sorting through the kurtis at the Stylish Shop, which, despite its silly name, was one of Rasika’s favorite stores in Bangalore, Mayuri told her all sorts of things about Khaleel: how he planned to start his own outsourcing business, but he didn’t know exactly in what field yet; how he had secretly bought her a necklace—he had a cousin in the jewelry business. She tugged a chain out from under her blouse. “I don’t dare wear it at home, in case Amma asks me about it.”

Rasika placed her fingertips politely under the pendant, a small square of gold set with a minuscule diamond. “Very nice. Couldn’t you tell your mother you bought it yourself?”

Mayuri tucked the necklace away again. “I don’t like to lie.” She shoved a line of blouses down the bar and eased out a hanger.

Rasika threw another blouse over the pile of clothes already on her arm. She didn’t like to lie either, and now that she was going to be Yuvan’s wife, at least she would never again be compelled to utter an untruth.

“He lives near the Lalbagh gardens.” Mayuri held up a patterned brown top and made a face at it. “Who would buy such an ugly thing, without any sparkle?” She attempted to squeeze the blouse back onto the rack, but someone else had shoved all the clothes down in their direction, so Mayuri flung the blouse underneath the rack. “Anyway, sometimes I arrange to meet a friend at Lalbagh, and he walks over, and I see him that way.” Mayuri pushed her way through the crowd to another rack of clothes. “I will take you to meet him one day.”

As soon as they left the shop with their bulging bags, they heard a voice: “Madam, just one hundred rupees for snake. Please look, madam.” The boy followed them, holding out his chess set, lowering his price to fifty rupees as they attempted to maneuver through the crowd. At the corner, they leaped into a newly vacated autorickshaw, giggling at their escape. “MG Road,” Mayuri shouted to the driver, and then sat back, cradling her bag on her lap. “There’s a nice restaurant there. We’ll get juice or ice cream or something, and then go home.”

As they buzzed and bumped along, Rasika heard the melody of her cell phone. She’d managed to get an Indian SIM card inserted into her phone. She looked at the display, and her heart sank. It was Yuvan. She hurried to answer. “Hello?”

“My meeting was canceled,” he said. “Where are you?”

Since they’d agreed to be married, Yuvan called her every day, although they often didn’t have much to say to each other. Rasika got the impression that Yuvan was determined to do the appropriate thing by her, but she didn’t sense much enthusiasm. Perhaps he was never particularly excited.

“We’re going to MG Road,” she shouted. “I don’t know where exactly. To a restaurant.”

“Call me when you get there. I’m catching an auto now.”

She made herself smile brightly as she told Mayuri that Yuvan would be meeting them. She’d hoped to have a whole day away from him, free of having to be on her best behavior.

Once they reached the restaurant she dutifully called Yuvan, who as it turned out was not too far away. They stood on the sidewalk—a wide, walkable sidewalk—and waited. Rasika looked around with eyes shaded by her sunglasses. There were many white Westerners strolling along MG Road, and many well-dressed Indians. This was a more expensive part of town. Every other store advertised “foreign exchange” services.

She noticed a young man walking toward them along the sidewalk, reading a paperback. He wore knee-length shorts and a T-shirt imprinted with the words
CARPE DIEM
. She saw, without really noticing, the title of the book:
The Upanishads
. Her face flushed and her whole body began tingling.

“Abhay?” she asked.

“Rasika!” He stopped abruptly and lowered his book.

“What’re you doing here?” She tried to keep her voice light.

“I was at the bookstore. Gangaram’s.” He pointed to a three-story gray building behind him. “I can’t believe I’m actually seeing you!”

“But, what’re you doing in India? In Bangalore?”

“I—well. I haven’t been here for a long time. I wanted to see my relatives.”

Rasika collected herself. “This is my cousin Mayuri,” she said.

Mayuri smiled and shook his hand.

Yuvan appeared at Rasika’s side. “Yuvan, this is Abhay.” She spoke as calmly as she could. “Abhay is the son of old family friends from Ohio.”

Yuvan shook hands with Abhay. “I am Rasika’s fiancé. We’re just going to have a bite to eat. Why don’t you join us?”

Abhay glanced from Yuvan to Rasika. She shook her head slightly at him. He cleared his throat. “I think my aunt might be expecting me home.”

“Please join us,” Mayuri invited. “You can keep me company while the two of them talk.”

Abhay stood motionless, as though not sure which way to move. Rasika sighed. He was just a friend, after all. “Come on, then.”

After the waiter delivered their juices and a tray of vegetable pakodas
,
Abhay tried to catch Rasika’s eye. She ignored him. She was sitting on the other side of the table, beside Yuvan and as far away from Abhay as she could get. She wore a red and orange blouse that was too bright for her wan face. Her lipstick had strayed to the corners of her mouth. She’d lost weight, and her eyes seemed glassy. She was leaning toward Yuvan and whispering under her breath, but he answered so the whole table could hear, recounting details of his morning at work.

Yuvan was handsome, just as Abhay’s mother had said. Abhay could see that Rasika wasn’t crazy about him, although she was putting on a good show by keeping her eyes on him and responding enthusiastically to his words.

Abhay’s heart was racing. He’d tried to convince himself that he’d never see Rasika in this city of six million people, yet here she was, sitting across the table from him. He brought a pakoda to his lips but realized he couldn’t eat. He was too nervous. Mayuri was talking to him, and he gathered that she worked at a call center, providing customer service for an American airline company.

“The dollar is going down against the rupee,” she said, “which is hard for companies like ours, since we depend on dollars.” She was wearing jeans and a sleeveless knit blouse.

He noticed that if he turned to face Mayuri, he had a good view of Rasika from the corner of his eyes. She was pretending to eat her pakoda, nibbling at its edges. “Are you getting paid less?” he asked Mayuri.

“The employees are not affected. Not yet. Anyway, I’m sure the dollar will go back up again. I’m not worried.”

He struggled to keep his mind on the conversation. “You must work nights, then. Your family doesn’t mind?”

“The company bus comes to pick me up at my door, and drops me off in the morning.” Mayuri moved her shoulders and hands in a free, fluid way as she spoke. “They provide food and health care.” She seemed so Westernized. Many Indian women held their bodies more still as they talked.

Mayuri flung herself back on her chair and ran her fingers through her hair. “Of course, my parents want me to get married and settle down soon, but until then, it’s OK. A lot of women work at the call centers.” Mayuri yawned behind her hand. “It’s difficult after my nights off. I don’t have the motivation to sleep during the day.”

Yuvan was working away at the pakodas, carefully selecting each one and dipping it into the spicy sauce. As Rasika spooned some green chutney onto her plate, her hand shook, and she spilled some onto her blouse. She rubbed the spot with her cloth napkin and excused herself from the table. Abhay’s gaze traveled with her as she walked to the back of the restaurant. At one point, she stumbled briefly, and he startled, ready to leap up to help her, but she continued on her way.

When he turned back to the table, Mayuri was tilting her head questioningly. He sipped his fizzy limeade to calm himself.

Yuvan rubbed his hands free of crumbs. “Abhay, how do you find Bangalore now, after so many years away?”

“There aren’t any more movie billboards,” Abhay said.

“What do you mean?” Mayuri wrinkled her forehead at him.

“Last time I was here, there were all sorts of giant billboards advertising Hindi movies.” Abhay remembered the dark-eyed Indian beauties and rakish, mustached heroes overlooking the streets.

“I don’t remember that,” Mayuri said.

“Now the billboards advertise mobile phones, jewelry stores, high-rise apartment complexes, mutual funds,” Abhay said. “I guess enough Indians have enough money now so they don’t have to fantasize through the movies about living someone else’s glamorous life. They can actually live that life themselves.”

“Things are really changing in India.” Mayuri extended a hand and rubbed her fingertips over her glittering rings. “You can’t believe how much money is coming into India nowadays. My friend Khaleel says Indian companies have more money than they know what to do with. He says the stock market is going through the roof.”

Rasika returned to the table. Her lipstick was fixed. Abhay tried to catch her eye and was aware of Mayuri gazing from him to Rasika.

Yuvan didn’t even glance at Rasika. He asked Abhay, “What are your plans in India? Just visiting the relatives?”

“I’m going to check out a place called Auroville. Have you heard of it?”

“You mean the Aurobindo Ashram? I’ve been there long back, I think. When I was a kid.” Yuvan turned his attention back to the tray of pakodas.

“No, not the ashram.” Many Indians confused Auroville with the hermitage in Pondicherry founded by Sri Aurobindo, a Hindu saint, in the early 1900s. “Auroville is about ten kilometers north of Pondicherry. Have you heard of a French woman who became the chief disciple of Sri Aurobindo? She is called the Mother.”

“Yes, yes,” nodded Yuvan. “I have heard of the Mother.”

“After Aurobindo’s death, she thought up the idea of forming Auroville as an international intentional community. ”

“What do you mean by ‘intentional’ community?” Yuvan asked.

“It’s a place where people decide to live intentionally, and not just by chance.”

“So . . .” Mayuri picked up the conversation. “It is sort of an offshoot of the ashram?”

“In my understanding, Auroville is much more free and loose than the ashram. There is a spiritual aspect, but I’m not sure how important that is. It’s a place where thousands of people from all over the world have come together to try to create a better life, a community more in tune with nature.”

At the table next to theirs, the host seated a couple of businessmen in dress shirts and dark pants.

“Are you thinking of moving there?” Rasika asked.

“I’ll have to see it first.” Abhay held her eyes for a moment. “What would you think if I did?”

She shrugged. “Your choices are irrelevant to me.” The last word caught in her throat, and she began coughing into her napkin.

“You’d really think about moving to India from the U.S.?” Yuvan asked. “So many people from here want to go to the U.S. And here you are, coming from America, reading the Upanishads and visiting ashrams.”

“I never want to leave India,” Mayuri said. “More and more jobs are opening up in Bangalore itself, so why should anyone leave? Rasika tells me India has everything that’s available in the U.S. The latest computer equipment, cameras, mobile phones—you can buy everything here now.” She fluttered her hands in the air, as if to conjure the myriad goods that India now had. “We have microwave ovens, washing machines, toasters. So I don’t see any reason to go to the U.S. and have to suffer with all that cold weather, and have to do my own housework.”