Serving Crazy With Curry (13 page)

As soon as she saw Girish, who was in the kitchen, immersed in a book, sipping coffee, she asked him, point blank, accusation rippling through her words, “Whose earring is this?”

Girish looked up and shrugged vaguely. “Should I know whose it is?”

“This was in
your
car,” Shobha informed him, wagging the earring in front of his face.

Girish shrugged again, just as vaguely as he did before. “So what?” he asked, going back to his book.

“So whose is this? Someone special?” Shobha asked, incredulous that he was unmoved, anger making her voice quiver.

Of all the reactions she'd imagined, this was the wrong one.

Girish burst out laughing. “Good God, Shobha, do we have to be part of a bad Hindi movie where you come and ask me if I have a … what do they call it in Telugu,
chinna illu,
small house, where I keep my mistress?”

When he put it that way it did sound ridiculous.

“Well, you're right of course, who'd want to be
your
mistress?” Shobha said, hiding her doubts behind suddenly developed nonchalance. With the same affected casualness, she put her sensible black-shoe-clad foot on the trash-can lever and tossed the earring on top of a blackened banana peel before closing the can.

And almost instantly she regretted throwing the earring away and not keeping it as evidence. Because once sown, those doubts wouldn't die. She was convinced, or a part of her was convinced, that Girish was having an affair, and with an Indian woman. Another part of her was convinced that Girish was not having an affair with anyone and Shobha just wanted him to, so that her irresponsible thoughts about her newly hired Ukrainian engineer would seem less irresponsible.

“I think he's doing it with someone else, G'ma,” Shobha told Vasu when she was visiting.

“Shush, Shobha. You're imagining things. Girish is a decent man,” Saroj admonished, immediately taking the son-in-law's side.

They were in the kitchen. Saroj was making her famous (all of Saroj's dishes were somehow her famous this or that)
rajma,
which she made with dried kidney beans, not the tasteless ones you got in a can that the lazy Indians in the United States used.

Vasu, who was sipping a hot cup of Darjeeling tea—Saroj kept it stocked just for her visits—didn't skip a beat at Shobha's declaration.

“Why would you think that?” Vasu asked calmly.

“I just know,” Shobha said, uncomfortable talking about the pearl earring she'd found in Girish's car. It was too cheesy, too much of a soap opera, and she was embarrassed that it was something as silly as an earring that had triggered this line of thought.

“Is it because you don't do
it
with him often enough that you think someone else is?” Vasu asked, looking Shobha right in the eye.

Oh, that was a little too much on target.

“G'ma, whose side are you on?” she demanded.

“On yours,” Vasu said without hesitation. “And that's why I think you should ask yourself why such an idea is even lurking in your mind. Saroj, you've been married more than three decades; have you ever thought that Avi was cheating on you?”

Absolutely not,” Saroj replied instantly.

“There,” Vasu told Shobha. “See, that is trust. They may not have the perfect marriage, but there is trust.”

After that the conversation went to hell in the proverbial hand-basket because Saroj wanted to know what Vasu meant by
they may not have the perfect marriage
and Shobha did not bring up the topic of Girish's alleged infidelity ever again.

But the doubts lingered. Was it a student? A friend of hers? A friend of his? A married woman? A single woman? A call girl? (Did they have Indian call girls in the United States who wore twenty-two-karat gold when they met their clients?)

And because she wondered if Girish was slipping it inside some woman at a Motel 6, Shobha felt no (or only very little) guilt when she imagined Vladimir's hands on her body. The sensations she was sure would be exquisite. Sex, the word had meant nothing to her for all these years, but now that she was deprived and there was a red-blooded male who wanted to take her in every which way
she
could imagine, sex had started to mean the world.

Shobha used her key to go inside the house, which was dark except for the small night lamp glittering green against the white walls of the living room.

It was almost midnight and Girish was still not home. Shobha wondered if she should call his cell phone and check on him, make sure he had a ride back from her parents’ house, and then decided against it. If he didn't have a ride back and she called, he'd expect her to come and pick him up and she didn't feel like doing that.

She changed quickly into the T-shirt she slept in and then, when she still didn't hear any Girish sounds, snuck into her husband's
study. She had been going there often since the “pearl earring” discovery, rifling through his papers, checking his e-mail (his password was always just
GIRISH
—what a nightmare for his IT department), and sometimes even reading his research papers. She was convinced that somewhere here was evidence of Girish's adultery, of his imperfectness.

Everyone always told her that Girish was wonderful, a perfect gentleman, and therefore a perfect husband. Even Shobha's closest friend, Jaya, remarked how perfect Girish was.

Jaya once visited with her husband, Akhil, from New Jersey, and Girish had been a wonderful host, as he always was. After that, whenever Shobha complained about Girish, Jaya would remind her that Girish unlike Akhil didn't have a bad temper causing him to throw things and yell the place down. Akhil hadn't hit her—and by God, let him try, she would have his balls in a blender—but still, Jaya said she would trade husbands any day.

“So bloody what if he can't find your G-spot? Buy a vibrator. I did and it keeps me happy and happy and happy,” Jaya instructed.

Shobha gave the vibrator serious consideration, but the idea was simply too classless for her liking.

There was another reason why adultery seemed to be the next imminent event in her life, and that was curiosity. Would Girish care? Would he find out? What would he do if he found out?

She wondered if there would be a
The Grass Is Greener
moment where Cary Grant and Robert Mitchum duel it out for Deborah Kerr. Would Girish turn from stodgy man to loving husband, like Cary Grant? Would there be a Robert Mitchum? Would she stay with Grant or go with Mitchum or find a third man to have another affair with?

She wanted to cheat on Girish. That was a fact. She really, really wanted to, but she felt her vagina closing off every time she thought about it. Years of programming, Saroj's brainwashing, stayed with her. Good Indian girls didn't cheat on their husbands: That was also a fact.

But she was neither good nor truly Indian. Unfortunately, all this deliberation, she knew was for nothing, as the only candidate
for an extracurricular fuck seemed to be Vladimir and he was unavailable for professional reasons. The last thing she needed was a sexual harassment lawsuit. Since her marriage was pathetic, the only thing that Shobha truly cared about was her career and she was definitely not going to fuck with that.

Killing with Kindness

After Shobha stormed out of the house to go back to work, Avi suggested that maybe Devi could drive Girish home. It would be a break for her and she could drive back
alone.
He seemed nervous as he made the offer, and once again Devi felt the mixture of panic and peace she'd experienced while lying in the bathtub a week ago, contemplating how deep to make the cut and where.

“But you'll have to come back right away,” Avi warned her, and Devi nodded, carefully, slowly. She didn't want anyone to think she was too eager. But she was, oh, how she was.

She was not the claustrophobic kind. She didn't mind being stuck in an elevator full of people or walking into a crowded room. Things like that didn't bother her, but this, this constant incursion into her privacy, was stifling. Someone was always there, constantly looking, wondering. Did they think she'd try the bathtub again? Didn't they realize that it would never be the bathtub again? Just looking at a bathtub gave her goose bumps. She wasn't sure if she saw a bathtub as an opportunity lost or a slim escape from death.

Death, which had been her mantra for a while now, was still ticking like an unstoppable alarm clock in her head. But along with the ticking were new sounds, the sounds of her father, her mother, G'ma, even Shobha. They were all there, tightly surrounding her, and even
though it was suffocating, it was also rewarding. Someone gave a damn and when someone gave a damn, it was harder to kill yourself.

“So, you plan to stay silent… for how long?” Girish asked as Devi drove him home.

Devi knew he'd been trying to get her alone to talk to her. She'd heard him whisper with Avi as they both debated whether her driving back alone from Palo Alto to Sunnyvale could be dangerous. She was relieved when she heard her father say that he didn't think there was anything to worry about. Devi seemed normal, almost happy, and he felt that it wouldn't hurt for her to be alone for just a little while. A drive would probably do her good.

Devi couldn't agree more. It was a relief to get away. She looked forward to the drive back, the solitude, the ability to relax and to not worry about what was expected of her. And the opportunity to decide once again in the quiet corners of her mind, without any witnesses or watchers.

“I heard this joke,” Girish said watching her carefully. “It's a good one. Want to hear it?”

When Girish didn't get a response from Devi, he leaned back in the seat. “You know, it's not healthy to keep it all bottled in. So, do you want to hear my joke?”

No response.

“Well, I'm going to interpret your silence as a yes,” he said, his tone light and casual. He was putting it on, Devi knew.

“So, Dopey, Sleepy, and Grumpy went to a bar with the Pope. They talk about the weather and how the Lakers are doing and then after a couple of beers, Sleepy asks the Pope, ‘Pope, Pope, do nuns dress in black and white?’ The Pope says, ‘Yes.’ Then Grumpy asks, ‘Pope, Pope, do nuns have beaks?’ The Pope shakes his head. ‘Pope, Pope, do nuns have webbed feet?’ The Pope shakes his head again, looking very confused.

“Sleepy and Grumpy turn to look at Dopey, who is looking really uncomfortable, and start saying, ‘Dopey screwed a penguin, Dopey screwed a …’ Is this not funny?”

It wasn't the joke that was funny; it was the fact that this was the only joke Girish knew and the only one he told. But today Devi
wasn't inclined to laugh, because today neither the joke nor the time and place of it seemed appropriate to her.

“I thought it was funny,” Girish said and sighed. “If you won't talk, this is going to be one long drive.”

They drove silently for maybe forty-five seconds when Girish blew air out. “You now, my wife thinks all my humor is sarcastic and now you won't laugh at my jokes. Things are not going all that well for me. Maybe I should climb into a bathtub and then fall silent. What do you think?”

Devi had half a mind to tell him that if he was planning to get into a bathtub, he should secure the deadbolt on the front door, just in case Saroj did a walk-in.

She kept silent, concentrating on the dark road ahead.

“How would you feel if I tried to kill myself and then turned around and never said a word?”

Oh, trying to make her guilty based on a hypothetical would work. Sure!

“My heart all but stopped when Saroj called,” Girish said; all humor had left his voice. “And it still hasn't started beating again. I'm scared. I'm scared to know why you tried to commit suicide. I'm scared of not knowing … actually, I'm just plain old scared … of you, of what you're doing to yourself and those around you.”

Devi gave him no response. Not even a shrug or a nod or a shake of the head. Nothing.

“If things were so bad, why the hell couldn't you just ask for help?”

Devi turned left into the street where Girish and Shobha's house was.

“We're all very worried.
I'm
very worried.”

Devi parked the car in their driveway.

“Damn it, Devi… you just don't give an inch.” His words were delivered irritably. There was anger, sprinkled with concern and helplessness. Devi wanted to say something then, because Girish rarely spurted out emotion like this, but her throat was closed, allowing no words to get by.

Girish didn't even say good night as he got out of the car and slammed the Jeep's passenger door shut behind him. Devi didn't
wait to see him open the front door before hastily backing out of the driveway.

She started driving aimlessly on 280. It was pitch dark, but there were still cars, white lights and red lights, sparse, but companions in the dead of the night.

Devi had promised Avi with a nod of her head that she'd drive straight home after dropping Girish off. But even as she'd made the promise she'd known she would need more time alone. She knew her father had been tempted, despite his faith in her, to come along, just to make sure she wouldn't wander away. But Devi knew that he wanted to let go as well. How long could he keep his daughter, suicidal or otherwise, constantly in front of his eyes? Sooner or later he'd have to let go and this was the first step at showing her that he trusted her to live, to accept life and not slide away into despair again.

Devi took the Half Moon Bay exit and then got on Highway 1. She rolled down the windows and let the air run through her hair, making knots and coils that she would have to untangle later, if there was a later. She could smell the Pacific and she could, if she just closed her eyes for a second, hear the waves slamming against the rocks down below.

When Shobha first told Devi about Girish, she'd burst out laughing. It was preposterous. Shobha was not the arranged marriage kind. Actually, Devi wasn't even sure if Shobha was the marrying kind.

“So what's the catch?” Devi asked. Shobha shrugged and said, “It's time. I'm ready and this guy sounds right.”

“The guy sounds right?” Devi couldn't believe this was the same Shobha who had stood with her and voiced to Saroj (in an angry and loud voice) their low opinion regarding arranged marriage.

“Look, I'm twenty-seven years old
and
I don't have to give you an explanation,” Shobha said caustically.

Devi had been visiting Saroj and Avi and was not surprised to see Shobha's car in the driveway, but was surprised to see a car taking her own spot in the driveway. That car belonged to Girish. He was visiting, along with his parents and grandparents, to finalize the wedding date and make the engagement official with a small informal
ceremony. Shobha had insisted Saroj not say anything to Devi until she did.

“How come I get to find out about this now?” Devi demanded as she peered from the kitchen into the living room to see her brother-in-law-to-be.

“It just worked out that way” Shobha said as she set out a tray with Saroj's prized white-with-pink-flowers kettle and tea set.

“You didn't want me to know because you're embarrassed,” Devi said smugly. “My big sister is walking into an arranged marriage with … and what does the suitable boy do?”

“He's a quantum mechanics professor at Stanford,” Shobha said, this with some pride.

“So you're marrying a simple
buddhu
professor?”

“He isn't a dumb professor. He plays squash,” Shobha said defensively.

“He plays squash?” Devi smirked. “Is that what you talked about when you spent… ah, what? Half an hour talking and figuring out if you'd make the right kind of couple? And what did you say about yourself when he said he plays squash?”

“I told him I ran,” Shobha said and then sighed. “Can you not be such a bitch about this?”

“Bitch? Come on, Shobha, you've got to—”

“This is what I want, can you respect that? I don't make comments or pass judgment over your innumerable loser boyfriends, now, do I?” Shobha turned to offense for results.

“I sleep with these losers, I don't marry them,” Devi pointed out.

“Regardless, that's your choice and this is mine,” Shobha said as she picked up the tray and then set it down. “Can you bring the tea? I'll feel like some country bumpkin if I carry it in.”

Devi picked up the tray. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Shobha said. “We went out on a few dates and he seems nice. A little stiff but I think we'll get along.”

“Why?” Devi wanted to know as she looked once again at the man who would soon be part of her family.

He didn't look anything special. He had a decent face but it wasn't a traffic stopper or anything. He seemed reasonably tall, wore elegant glasses (not geeky ones). But what caught Devi's eyes was
the stillness he wore on his face. He seemed calm, like a person who'd made his peace with the universe. He didn't seem to have the ability to have passionate outbursts the way Shobha did. He seemed stable, while Shobha had always been a little volatile.

“We're so different, I think we'll balance each other out,” Shobha responded. “He'll stay calm through an earthquake and I can lose it in paradise, so we should fit and work out.”

“But what if you don't?” Devi asked.

Shobha quirked an eyebrow and lifted her shoulders lightly before letting them drop. “I'll cross that bridge when I get there.”

That night, after Girish and his family left, Shobha and Devi found themselves emptying a bowl of homemade
kulfi
from the freezer while Avi and Saroj slept.

“What about you?” Shobha asked. “Do you think about marriage and children?”

“All the time,” Devi said, digging her spoon in to scoop out some
kulfi.
“But it seems like such a risk. You fall in love, you fall out, or worse, he falls out and you're still in. And then you bring children into the equation. I feel it's just too damned risky.”

“That's a fatalistic view of relationships,” Shobha commented, licking a big chunk of
kulfi
stuck to her spoon.

“Yes it is,” Devi agreed. “But I'd like to be a mother. I'd like a son, no daughters for me.”

“Well, gee, didn't think you were so old-fashioned. Want a son only? Want to propagate the world with more male specimens and the Veturi last name, huh?”

Devi grinned. “Not that way. Daughters just seem to be more trouble than sons. Look at how we relate with Mama and how she relates with G'ma. Disaster! I want a son, less chance of fuckups.”

“I'm afraid my children will grow up to be serial killers,” Shobha said, and Devi looked up from her
kulfi,
puzzled.

“Why?” she asked and then swallowed a big lump of ice cream.

“I don't know. I'm scared I'll be a terrible mother,” Shobha said, laughing a little.

“What's all this noise?” They didn't even notice Saroj until she was in the kitchen in a pink nightgown with little light blue roses. “Why are you both still up?”

“Oh, I'm going home,” Devi said, standing up. “How about you?”

Shobha nodded as well. “Yeah, me, too.”

“No, sit,” Saroj insisted. “I'm here. I'm awake. You ate all the
kulfi}”

“It was very good,” Devi said.

Immediately Saroj smiled and said, “Yes, it was. Avi's favorite. Before we got married I made it for him all the time.”

“Trapped him with
kulfi}”
Shobha asked as she got up and started to look for her purse.

Saroj laughed. “What were you both talking about?”