The Mango Season (14 page)

I shook my head. I didn’t even want to fight over HAPPINESS. This was an all-time low.

“What, not feeling well?” Nate put a hand against my forehead as if checking my temperature.

“I lied to Nick,” I confessed. “I told Nick that I wasn’t going to go through with the
chupulu
and that I was going to tell everyone about him.”

“Nick is the man’s name. Do we have a photo?”

“Photo? I have bigger problems, Nate.”

“So tell him the truth and don’t go through the
chupulu
,” Nate said as he chewed on his food. “Then tell them all about Nick. And I’d still like to see my future brother-in-law, if not in the flesh, at least in Kodak color.”

“I’ll send you a picture later.” I said. “And what does it matter how he looks? Lord, Nate, this stress is going to give me a coronary.”

“You’re not going to have a—”

“Nate?”
Nanna’s
voice filtered into the kitchen.

“Hey,
Nanna
,” Nate called out and winked at me. “At least
she
didn’t wake up,” he added on a whisper.

“Nate is here?” Ma’s voice chimed in on cue.

“Well . . . can’t have it all, can we?” Nate sighed as my mother’s shrill voice came in through the hall, she was saying, just as Nate had predicted, “Oh, my son is home.”

Part Four

Old Pickle, New Pickle

Rava Ladoo

1 cup semolina (
rava/sooji
)
1 cup sugar
3 tablespoons
ghee
1 cup milk
1 tablespoon cashew nuts
1 tablespoon raisins

Fry the semolina in a saucepan on low heat till it turns slightly brown in color. Then add sugar,
ghee
, milk, and fry till the mixture becomes sticky. Chop the nuts and add them, along with the raisins, to the mixture. Remove the pan from the heat and form the dough into small balls. Serve when dry.

Aloo Bajji

1 cup chickpea flour (
besan
)
water
salt to taste
1 teaspoon chili powder
1 cup peanut oil
4-5 large potatoes, sliced

Mix the
besan
, water, salt, and chili powder until the consistency is runny. Heat the oil in a deep frying pan. Dip thinly sliced potatoes in the chickpea flour mixture and fry in peanut oil until golden brown.

The Similarity Between Cattle and Women

Sowmya added the rava for the ladoos to the hot frying pan in which the ghee was sizzling. She used a steel spatula to coat the semolina with the ghee and lowered the flame on the stove.

“I can’t believe Anand said that to
Nanna
,” she said. The family was still buzzing with the way Anand had stood up for Neelima and how
Thatha
had accepted Neelima as his daughter-in-law, finally.

I was standing by the sink peeling potatoes to make potato
bajji
, dazed that I was allowing this atrocity of bride-seeing ceremonies to not only be perpetrated, but to be perpetrated upon me.

“I can’t believe I’m getting snacks ready for that stupid
chupulu
,” I said angrily, ripping away some skin from the potato.

“Maybe you should forget about this American and marry this nice boy—” Sowmya started to suggest.

“What do you mean ‘forget’, Sowmya? I’m in a relationship, not some dream I can wake up from,” I said in exasperation. “I live with Nick. I share a home, a bed, a life with him. What am I supposed to do, just walk away?”

Sowmya’s lips shaped into a pout and she sighed before slowly adding milk into the fried
rava
from a steel tumbler.

“And I love him,” I said softly. “I love him very much.”

Sowmya shrugged and put the tumbler down on the counter with a sharp sound.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded.

“Nothing, Priya,” Sowmya said, and then sighed again.

“Why don’t you just say what you have to say and stop with the shrugging and sighing?”

Sowmya measured sugar with her fingers and dropped a few handfuls into the frying pan. She rubbed her hand against her sari to shrug off the remaining particles of sugar and picked up a spatula.

“I don’t know how you can love an American. I mean . . . what do you two even talk about?” she asked as she slowly stirred the
rava
and sugar in the pan.

“What do you mean, talk about? We talk like everyone talks,” I said, as I bit back the few topics that had collected on my tongue as an automatic response to her question.

“But . . . he is not even Indian,” Sowmya said, as if that explained it all.

I dropped the potato I was peeling and put my hands on my face. If Sowmya, who was more my generation, had trouble comprehending my relationship with Nick, I could only imagine how the others would react.

“Priya, they’ll be here in an hour,” Ma said, bursting into the kitchen. “Have you at least taken a bath?”

“Yes,” I said. “First thing in the morning, Ma. After all that’s what a
Gangiraddhi
does, isn’t it?”

Drawing an analogy between a “dressed-up” cow for a
puja
and me was probably not a wise thing to do, but I was prepped up for a fight like a homicidal bull being made to do something against its will.

“A
Gangiraddhi
doesn’t have the choices you do,” Ma said angrily.

“What’s the boy’s name,
Akka
?” Sowmya asked before I could tell Ma what she could do with what she thought were my choices.

“Adarsh, a nice name. But probably not good enough for Priya
maharani
, our very own high-and-mighty queen,” Ma said sarcastically.

“The name is fine,” I muttered.

“I have put out some saris with blouses for you on
Ammamma’s
bed along with some jewelry; go and pick what you like. I don’t want to battle over this with you, Priya. . . . Just choose anything you want. I don’t want to interfere,” Ma said, picking up the potato I had let go.

“I’m not going to wear any heavy jewelry,” I warned.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Ma snapped. “Don’t do us any favors. We find an excellent boy for you to see and . . .” She threw the potato in the sink and said, “I can’t deal with this anymore,” before she stormed out of the kitchen.

Lata came into the kitchen in Ma’s wake and asked us what was going on. I followed my mother’s example and stormed out myself.

When Nick first suggested we move in together, my answer had been an unequivocal “no.” Unmarried couples living together was exactly the kind of thing I had been raised not to do.

“But you’re here all the time anyway,” Nick said about his apartment. “How would it matter if we were officially living together?”

“It’d matter . . . to my family,” I’d told him honestly. A week later I agreed to move in with him because I realized that I had to stop worrying about what my family would think and start living my own life on my own terms. After that I had been determined not to let Ma or
Nanna
or
Thatha
decide my fate for me. But now when they were so close, the ties that bound me to them grew tighter, biting through my skin and conscience.

The saris strewn on
Ammamma’s
white bedspread were so laden in embroidered gold that they made my eyelids heavy to just look at them.

“The blue one,” Nate said, as he sauntered in, biting into a carrot. “And this,” he said, flicking his finger over a heavy sapphire necklace-and-earrings set.

“I’ll look like someone’s grandmother,” I said.

“So, big deal. Who are you trying to impress?” Nate asked with a smirk.

“Stop being such a wiseass, will you,” I said, and smiled despite myself. Ah, vanity! Even though I didn’t care for Adarsh Sarma’s marriage proposal, I still wanted to look my best.

“If you really want to look nice, I say the yellow one with the red border. Classic Telugu movie sari, with that ruby necklace,” Nate said. “My girlfriend looks great in the classic yellow and red sari.”

I sat down on the bed and picked up the sari. “What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

“Tara,” Nate said without hesitation. “She’s doing her degree at St. Frances in Begumpet. Her father is an ex-army officer. They live in Sainikpuri and yes, her parents have met me and think I am the next best thing since instant coffee.”

I nodded. “
Nanna
was asking me about her.”

“
Nanna
knows about her,” Nate grinned. “He saw me with her once. We were having lunch at Ten Downing Street and
Nanna
came in with a colleague. We both saw each other and pretended we didn’t. Never talked about it. I guess
Nanna
didn’t want me to ask him what he was doing in a pub and didn’t want to know what I was doing there. Don’t ask, don’t tell, a good philosophy.”

“Does Ma know?”

“If Ma knew everyone would know,” Nate sneered. “Tell Nick about this
pelli-chupulu
. If Tara went through one of these ridiculous ceremonies without even telling me about it, I’d be pissed as hell for a very long time.”

When he left I sat amid the beautiful silk saris and contemplated my options. I had to go through with this afternoon. If I tried to back out now, it would reflect badly on my parents. And I had to tell Nick the truth. And I had to tell Ma,
Nanna
, and
Thatha
the truth.

It was very simply really. I just had to tell everyone the truth and hope that they’d still love me.

By the time the Sarmas were about to arrive, I was feeling like an object instead of a person. Ma had pulled and yanked and tucked and arranged for the nth time since I picked the blue-bordered sari to look like someone’s grandma.

“There,” she said with a satisfied glint in her eyes. “This boy is perfect, Priya. Even you can’t find anything wrong with him.”

“Wanna bet?” I felt like asking.

Sowmya came giggling inside
Ammamma
and
Thatha’s
bedroom where I was getting ready.

“They are here. Drove in a Mercedes,” she said with a big smile, unable to contain her joy at seeing me about to be fixed up with some loser who looked good on paper.

“They are very well off,” Ma explained, arranging
Ammamma’s
sapphires to her liking on my neck. “I wish you had worn the yellow sari. This is . . .” she clicked her tongue and then sighed.

“You look very nice, Priya,” Sowmya said and I smiled uneasily. I felt like a trussed up turkey with a timer that could go off at any time now.

I heard the voices of the guests from the hall in the next room—I closed my eyes and silently apologized to Nick. “I’ll make this up to you,” I promised him fervently, but I had no clue how I would go about doing so.

“If you both want to
just
talk a little, go sit on the swing in the veranda,” Ma instructed. “And don’t swing your legs like a
junglee
when you sit there. Be ladylike.”

“Do you want to tell me how to walk as well? Maybe you would like to continue giving me instructions after my marriage to make sure my husband doesn’t leave me?” I demanded sarcastically.

“With your attitude I may just have to,” Ma replied promptly. She was after all my mother, and my sarcasm had been inherited from her so my abilities were therefore diluted.

“You bring the
ladoos
, Priya, and—” Sowmya began and I raised both my hands in protest.

“I’ll go there and sit and talk like a normal human being but if you want me to demurely carry food around for them while they look me up like I’m cattle for sale, you’re both very mistaken,” I said in a soft, ominous voice. I realized that even at this late stage, I wanted them to protest, say something that would make it justifiable for me to walk away from this. Because if this didn’t happen there would be nothing I would not have to tell Nick about.

“Okay,” Ma sighed. “Sowmya, you just put the
ladoos
and
bajjis
on the center table along with tea. This
maharani
here can just sit there like a big lazy blob.”

I refused to be paraded around like meat for sale, so I casually walked into the hall as if I didn’t know who was there and why.

This time, I had to admit, Ma had pulled out all the stops. The boy—the man—was very handsome and if I were single, I would’ve probably agreed to an arranged marriage to this hunk without even speaking with him. Where were these handsome men when I was going to college in India? But as things were, he didn’t compare to the hunk I was already engaged to.

“My daughter, Priya,” my father introduced me. “Priya, this is Adarsh, Mr. Sarma, and his wife.”

“
Namaskaram
,” I said, folding my hands. “Hi,” I said to Adarsh. He smiled back. He had a dimple on his right cheek. Nick had a dimple on his left.

“How are you finding everything?” Mr. Sarma asked conversationally once I was seated by Ma in a lighted spot where everyone could see me, my sari, and all my jewelry to the best advantage. “It has been seven years, I hear, since you came back to India.”

“Everything is the same . . . but not the same,” I said enigmatically.

“Our son Adarsh feels the same way,” Mr. Sarma said enthusiastically, and smiled broadly. “He says how nothing has changed and then he says that everything has changed. Looks like both of you cannot make up your mind.”

“Have you ever thought about moving to
Tek-saas
?” Mrs. Sarma asked.

“I like living in San Francisco,” I replied, now very uneasy with this whole bride-seeing business. I avoided looking at Ma who was glaring at me and smiling at our guests alternately. Telling them that I was not ready to move was an obvious sign of reluctance on my part.

“Adarsh is planning to move to the Bay Area,” Mrs. Sarma said. “We have lots of family there and he is starting a business, too.”

“Actually . . . I’m not,” Adarsh corrected his mother uncomfortably. “I’m joining a friend’s start up . . . or, rather I’m thinking about it.”

“Really, what does your friend’s company do?” I asked.

“They make—” Adarsh began.

“Oh, all this business
gup-shup
,” Ma interrupted. “Why don’t you kids sit outside on the veranda and talk while we old people eat some
ladoos
and
bajjis
.”

Oh, what I wouldn’t give for Ma to be just, just a teeny-weeny bit subtle.

“What, no
ladoos
and
bajjis
for us?” Adarsh asked mischievously.

“Of course.” Ma flushed and held up a plate of
bajjis
.

Adarsh picked up a
bajji
and we both sauntered out to the veranda. I sat down on the swing and he sat across from me on a chair eating his
bajji
.

“I just got back from Dallas yesterday evening,” Adarsh said. “So maybe I’m jet-lagged, but you don’t seem all that eager to be married.”

The bluntness of his question, imparted in a casual manner, instantly put me at ease. “I didn’t come back home for seven years to avoid this,” I said frankly.

“I know the feeling. I’d managed to stay away for almost six years . . . but now, my grandmother’s health is failing, so I thought, what the hell, how bad can it be,” he said with a shrug. “My friends who got married like this seem happy enough.”

“Doesn’t it seem a little barbaric to come and see a bunch of girls while you’re in India and pick one to marry?” I asked.

Adarsh shrugged again. “Not really . . . Well, it did early on, but now, the girls looks at the guys, too, you know. It works both ways.”

“You’re right,” I conceded, now fidgeting with
Ammamma’s
sapphire necklace.

We both fell silent. This was awkward. Did this happen with everyone who sat through one of these bride-seeing ceremonies? Or did things change for a veteran like Sowmya?

“I want it all,” he said suddenly. “The wife, the children, the house . . . you know what I’m saying?”

“Well, I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but the fact that you’re here is a good indication that you’re looking for a wife,” I responded, smiling at his enthusiastic honesty. He was as unsure as I was about what needed to be said to know if the person you were speaking with for just a few minutes would be the person you’d want to spend the rest of your life with.

He grinned. “I could be here under parental duress. I just want to make sure you want the things I want.”