The Rearranged Life (6 page)

“It’s so pretty!” Sophia squeals. “Wait, how long is this going to go on?”

“Yes, Anisha, I’ll explain as we go along, okay?” I anticipate her coming questions, then direct my attention to Sophia. “A while, Soph. Get comfortable.”

Indian people don’t do things fast. Ever.

Nakul stops just outside of the hall, and we turn in our seats, straining to see. He repeats mantras the priest recites for all to hear. Mohini’s brother (in this case, her cousin since she is an only child) interrupts his repetition, gently being pushed to do so by other members of the family.

“Wait, that’s rude! Why’d he cut Nakul off?”

“He’s supposed to interrupt, Anisha,” I explain, amused at her outrage. “Nakul is saying he is going to go on a pilgrimage and begin his bachelor days as a
Brahmachari
. Mohini’s brother is supposed to interrupt and ask him to marry Mohini first so he can fulfill his
dharma.
”

“Is that like karma?” Sophia asks.

“Not quite. Dharma is like your duty to the world. Like children, and monogamy, and providing for those with less than you have.”

The priest loudly chants a few phrases.

“He just said this is auspicious, so Nakul should say yes,” I tell the girls now, both of whom are enraptured as Nakul and his parents walk to the
mandapam
set up at the front of the hall.

I wonder just how auspicious this union could be, considering Mohini’s cousin butchered the pronunciation of the ancient phrases so it sounded more like Martian than Sanskrit, but I guess the intention behind the statement matters more than the pronunciation itself.

“How many aunties have asked you when your turn is?”

“More than enough, kid,” I mutter, thinking of the white-haired ladies pinching my cheeks and telling me I would soon be a blushing bride, too.
Fat chance, ladies, I have medical school to think about.

“
Oh, please, Nithya. Like you wouldn’t want all of this.” Sophia gestures to the elaborate décor.

“I do, just not now! Let’s get through college first, okay?”

“You should have told them you’re a lesbian.” Anisha’s face is gleeful.

Sophia cracks up. I giggle too, picturing the shocked looks on the elders’ faces.

“Anisha!” I try to scold her, but can’t control my laughter. After four hours of sleep, everything seems funnier than it is.

The music swells. In India, a
mela
of a variety of traditional instruments plays classical music. Since we are in the United States, however, Mohini’s family decides to update the tradition, and a DJ stationed in the back of the temple hall controls a stereo system playing Mohini’s favorite Bollywood wedding song. We all stand, though it’s not our custom to do so… another American tradition appropriated by the Indians.

“Nakul looks pretty calm for a guy who’s about to get married,” Sophia observes.

She’s right. Nakul waits with his parents flanking his sides. He sits still, his back straight. The only sign of his nerves is in his bouncing toes. The mandapam forms a frame of flowers and long strands of crystals around the three of them, like a snapshot of their lives before they gain a new family member.

“Why are they covering him up?” Anisha asks impatiently. She has noticed the priests and family members onstage pulling a cloth across Nakul’s view.

“Because they have to wait until the right second to lift it. Astrologers figure out that stuff beforehand to make sure the marriage is auspicious.”

“They can figure out if we’re meant to be by knowing I’m an Aries? That’s kind of romantic. Like destiny or something.” Sophia says contemplatively.

“I’m pretty sure it’s a little more in-depth than figuring out you’re an Aries.” I grin and remember the maze of star charts that surrounded astrologers when a baby relative was born a few years ago.

“She will be a doctor!” The astrologers had claimed, and her parents had looked proudly at the bundle of joy that would surely change lives someday.
Maybe it’s written in the stars
that all Indians do the same things. Or do we only assure ourselves that it is?

Then, Mohini’s maternal uncles walk into the hall, a large basket in their arms. In it, sits Mohini like a child. The whispers grow around us; oohs and aahs fill the air at the audience’s first glance at the bride.

“Doesn’t her dad give her away?” Sophia frowns.

“Later,” I mouth back, my eyes following them past us.

Mohini slowly climbs out of the basket, making sure not to trample on the end of her sari. Her parents join her and place her hands in Nakul’s, underneath the cloth. This is always magical to me, just like the anticipation building at an American wedding for the groom to set eyes on his beautiful bride. Everyone can see both of them, but they can’t see each other. Nakul is taking steadying breaths, and Mohini smiles from ear to ear. The aunties whisper excitedly about how they’ll react.

The cloth is moved. Nakul’s face lights up when he finally sees Mohini–breathtaking in a red sari, the first of many outfit changes throughout the weekend. The glittering jewelry glints all over her body, and her delicate face is a snapshot of joy. When she and Nakul lock eyes, I am convinced they don’t see the hundreds of guests watching them. It is the two of them, in their own world, on the biggest day of their lives.

“Are they giving her away?” Sophia whispers, and Anisha leans in to listen.

I nod, surprisingly emotional, as Krishna Mavayya repeats after the priest. His jaw is taut as he tries to look unaffected, but his misty eyes betray him. He suddenly lets go of Mohini’s hands and the priest signals for her to step up next to Nakul for the rest of the ceremony as Krishna Mavayya moves out of his place.

“It’s like she’s not ours anymore,” Anisha says quietly, and I’m taken aback by this astute observation by a sixteen year old.

Then I remember what my dad told me at the last wedding we went to, and comfort fills my heart.

“She’s still ours, Anisha. Nanna told me that when we give things away in charity, we say ‘
na mama’
, which means it’s not ours anymore. The only time we don’t say that is during the
kanyadaanam
when we give away a bride.”

“That’s beautiful,” Sophia says in awe.

The little Sejal in my head tells me this is antiquated, but I agree with Sophia. Giving away a daughter binds two families. There can’t be anything more beautiful than that.

After the kanyadaanam, we watch Nakul tie a
mangalsutra
, the sacred necklace, around Mohini’s delicate neck. I suppose this is where ‘tying the knot’ comes from. Nakul leads her in seven circles around the holy fire, as they make promises binding them for life. Mohini looks down at the floor as she walks, the picture of a shy and inexperienced bride. Bollywood movies were dreamt up from scenes like these. Her parents watch with pride, and Nakul’s parents seem happy that they’ve gained a daughter. As Mohini and Nakul sit down on their seats again, her best friends pass out Hershey’s Kisses with
Just Married
written on the thin white tails. It’s official.

“How much longer?” Anisha whines. It has been two hours now, and her patience is wearing thin.

“Not long. Quiet,” I murmur, giving her my chocolate to appease her. Anisha is silenced, and it makes me that much more fond of her, because to me, she’s still a child.

“It’s no wonder Amma and Nanna’s ceremony took three days. This was supposed to be the short version!” Anisha says incredulously, as we wait in line for the buffet lunch.

“We haven’t seen you in a few hours! Did everything go smoothly behind the scenes?” I ask my parents as they finally appear in the cafeteria.

“Everything was wonderful.” Nanna is as diplomatic as ever.

“Neelam is too much,” my mother replies crossly. I expected her complaints. She and Neelam Atta have the world’s strangest love-hate relationship.

“Everything is so beautiful. This must have taken some serious work.” Sophia turns the centerpiece for a view from all angles.

“Sophia, honey, when your time comes, your wedding will be equally as lovely,” Amma says.

Endearments like ‘honey’ might seem out of place for my mother, who thinks out loud in Telugu or Hindi, but she has a soft spot for Sophia, evident by her fussing over Sophia’s sari, a loaner from my closet.

“Nithya, why didn’t you pin this blouse for her properly? It’s hanging off her.” Amma pulls a safety pin out of her purse and attempts to fold Sophia’s
pallu
over her shoulder.

“Amma, it doesn’t fit because I have boobs. I did my best.”

Anisha snickers next to me as Sophia sticks her tongue out.

“I’m going to get more food.” Nanna, already embarrassed at the turn this conversation has taken, leaves his seat and stands at the back of the line.

My mother gives me a disapproving look before she is distracted by an aunty I vaguely recognize from Philadelphia, a common friend of both Mohini’s family and our own.

“Arrey, Priya, did you hear about Karishma’s wedding?” Aunty sits without an invitation in Nanna’s spot. Her eyes are wide with the prospect of gossip.

“I did. She’s marrying an American.” My mother attempts a moral upper hand by sounding nonchalant. I know better than to believe Amma would take this lightly.

“An
American
. Her poor parents! I saw them at the temple last weekend, and they could barely show their faces!”

“Kids these days don’t think about their families and their reputation. It’s not like there are no Indian boys out there. We have five hundred million of them in the world!”

“Karishma’s parents say they are happy, and it is God’s will, but of course they will say that. Who wants to admit their daughter could not find an Indian boy?”

“She is a very smart girl, and a very good catch. The boy is very lucky.”

“She might be a good catch, but she should have stuck to an Indian. What is the point of having your own culture if you just blend right in and marry the one you moved into? You marry your kind. You are no Indian if you don’t act like one!” Aunty passionately argues.

My mother purses her lips and murmurs her agreement.

“Her parents probably blame themselves. That is a very big burden.” Amma tries diplomacy, but the gossip flame is well lit now; her rationalization will go unheard.

“Rumor has it,” Aunty starts, relishing this, “her parents threatened not to pay for the wedding or for her graduate school. They even threatened to disown her!”

“I would also not pay for my child’s schooling if they did not marry someone I approved of.”

“Really?” I can’t resist asking. She shoots me a look telling me to stay out of the grown up conversation. Like we haven’t been listening to this stuff since we were kids.

“I would not either!” Aunty proclaims, ignoring me. “We are the ones who have brought our children up, have given them everything they have wanted, have paid for their education, and tried our best to raise them correctly. A child acting like this is betrayal.”

“Her parents must feel very heartbroken,” Amma says, sympathetic.

“Let’s be honest, Priya. Her parents failed. Karishma did what she wanted. Their family will never be the same. Oh, I see some friends over there. I will be back.” She swoops out of our circle as quickly she came in.

I am thankful Sophia and Anisha, immersed in their own conversation the entire time, went to refill their drinks or the questions after this one would be endless.

“Nithya, you should not have barged in like that. It does not look nice if you protest our ways. People will think you support Karishma,” Amma says quietly.

“I don’t know if I agree with her, Amma, but it’s her life. She will deal with the consequences.”

“You won’t understand, kanna. You are too young.” She brushes me off.

“Would you really stop paying for school if I told you I was marrying someone different?” Her words still echo in my ears.

“I would. But I will never have to hold this over your head. You are smarter than that.”

“Oh,” I say lamely, picturing James for a fraction of a second, before Anisha and Sophia come back with their plates loaded with desserts.

I haven’t had the opportunity to detangle my thoughts on intermarriages, but conversations like this remind me that arranged marriages will always be encouraged. Aunties don’t see love marriages as a path to happiness. It will always be selfish betrayal.