A Good Indian Wife: A Novel (11 page)

“I just love your saree,” Cynthia said. “Isn’t it gorgeous, Harold?”

“Yes it is. Why don’t we get you one, honey?”

Cynthia pointed to the small red pottu Leila had pasted on that morning. She had begun wearing them when she got her first monthly and would only stop if she became a widow.

“Is it a decoration or is there some religious significance?” she asked Leila.

“Some people say it represents the third eye of Shiva, and others—” Leila stopped when she heard Neel.

“That’s just old people talk. It’s all a moneymaking device. Gimmicky. They started out with plain red dots and now you can get them in any color and shape.”

“I think Cyn would look lovely in a bright purple one.” Harold stroked her cheek and then covered her hand with his.

Leila noticed he could not stop touching Cynthia.

“Are you also…that is to say, you are on your honeymoon?” Leila asked, sure of the answer.

Their laughter was unexpected. “No, we’re not married,” Cynthia said. “But we’ve been living together for years.”

Leila stared at Cynthia. No one she knew would ever confess to such behavior, but then, no good girl would sleep with a man outside of marriage. She kept staring at the other woman, as if immorality were as visible as a pottu. But aside from the tight dress that showed her nipples, Cynthia didn’t look different from other women.

“I’d like to get married,” Harold said. “Cyn’s the one who is still making up her mind.”

Cynthia said, “It pays to be careful. No matter what anyone says, women lose if things don’t work out.”

“Cyn’s a feminist.” Harold raised his wineglass. “And long may she reign.”

“I take it you two are married,” Cynthia said.

“Yes, ma’am, we are.” Neel’s voice was forcefully jovial. “I am a taken man.”

“Was it an arranged marriage?” Cynthia asked. “We’ve heard of them, but do they still happen?”

Neel immediately felt like the two-headed snake he had read about in the Steinhart Aquarium. How many moments like these awaited him in San Francisco? It was bad enough to have an arranged marriage. But it was almost more humiliating to have to explain it to Americans.

“Aren’t all marriages arranged in heaven?” he joked.

“Well, tell us, was your marriage arranged?” Cynthia asked again.

“From across a crowded room,” Neel began after a brief pause. He had to make up a story. “She was pouring tea, looking very serene and domestic. I glanced up at her and couldn’t take my eyes away. I don’t think she noticed me.” He laughed. “Anyway, before the first cuppa was cold, bam! That was it.”

“Love at first sight.” Cynthia sighed. “How marvelous. Did you also fall in love right away?” she asked Leila.

“Probably not,” Neel said quickly. “But she’s not about to say that in front of me.” He smiled at Leila.

Leila’s lips widened in response as their faces mirrored each other. It was like the line from Donne’s poem:
Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread/Our eyes upon one double string
. She had always taught her students that it was a painful image. It wasn’t, she wanted to tell them. It was an erotic joining, a very visible coming together without physically being together.

Neel hoped she didn’t think he was serious. My God, even she couldn’t be that naive.

“You are one lucky man, Neel. Your wife is a knockout.” Harold turned toward Leila. “I think Indian women are gorgeous. Their eyes. Their skin. Their hair, hmmm. I love the way you talk, it’s so musical.”

Leila wasn’t sure how to respond. Indians never made personal remarks, unless the woman had chosen a public career such as a model or an actress. She looked down, inwardly pleased, unable to stop smiling. That her speech was musical confused her. She knew she didn’t sing well. In school the music teacher used to give her a passing mark without letting her sing. What could Harold mean?

“I think Harold wanted to come to India just to see the women,” Cynthia said, laughing. “We almost didn’t get here. It was a major pain to get a visa. You would have thought we were planning to steal the Taj Mahal, the trouble they gave us at the Indian Consulate.”

“And people told us it’s difficult getting to America,” Harold said indignantly.

Neel didn’t listen to the rest of the conversation. He wanted to reach across the table and kiss this woman with the broad Baltimore accent. She had shown him an exit on the dangerous slope he was speeding down with no hope of getting off. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it himself.

And the best part was he could blame America. The United States was making it almost impossible for Indians to get visas. It affected everyone: students who had received full scholarships, tourists, even brides. The visa problem wasn’t just a loophole, it was a giant void that would bury Leila forever in India. Even Aunty Vimla, the Great Aunty of Interference, wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

He’d leave Leila behind with Tattappa. Tattappa said she reminded him of Grandmother. Well, Tattappa could have her. Indian men did it all the time. Most of the workers in the Middle East lived like bachelors while their wives stayed behind in India. And going to the Gulf was much easier than getting to the States. Once he got home he’d delay the paperwork, do whatever was necessary to keep her in India till the divorce.

In four days he would be on the plane to San Francisco. Alone. What had happened in India would remain in India.

“YOU WERE RIGHT,” NEEL SAID
the next morning. “That spider’s lick is gone.” It was as if his plan from last night had taken over and now, even the annoying sty had disappeared.

It was nice of him to use her words. “Spiders don’t
lick
,” Leila copied him, accent and all.

Neel burst out laughing. He hadn’t expected the mimicking, just a thank-you or a silent shake of the head. “I see I’ll have to watch what I’m saying around you.”

“What shall we do today?” Leila felt emboldened to ask.

“Anything you want.” Neel was magnanimous. She had told him his eye would return to normal soon and very soon his life, too, would return to normal. He could give her this last day in Ooty.

“How good are you with your hands?” Leila asked.

Was she getting at something? No, it had to be an innocent question. “Can you be a little more specific?”

“Do you want to row a boat or throw a stone?”

“Hmm. Can you swim?”

“No.”

“Then it’s the stone stuff, since I can’t be responsible for your safety in the water.”

Neel didn’t admit it, but he was intrigued by her suggestion. He wondered if it was some ancient bowling game.

It turned out that the stone was the central attraction in the recreated Toda village. The small thatch huts were scattered on the hillside, and as the guide explained, anthropologists were not sure of the Todas’ origins. Some believed they were indigenous Indians, others that they came from Africa, given their facial features. They certainly had strange rituals. The heavy stone was a test given to suitors who demonstrated their strength, or ability to look after a girl, by hurling it as far as possible. It was a Marriage Olympics, the guide joked, with the man who threw the stone the farthest getting the girl.

“Anyone would like to try?” the guide asked.

A couple of foreigners went for the challenge, clapped on by their partners. A lanky Australian got into the spirit of things, groaning when he picked up the stone and then kneeling at his wife’s feet, begging her to take him even though the stone had barely cleared a yard.

Leila glanced at Neel, but he shook his head. It wasn’t for him. His family had already put him through one ancient ritual.

Leila sensed that Neel wasn’t enjoying the outing and wished they had gone boating instead. Then maybe they could have talked instead of following a guide. The tour included a visit to a botanical garden, but once they got there, Neel wandered off with his camera. He returned just in time to board the bus, explaining that he had got absorbed taking pictures of the various flowers.

As they left Ooty, Leila felt as though nothing had changed during the two days of their honeymoon. Once again she sat on the far side of the seat, wondering why he wasn’t talking to her. What would their family think of this silence? She had always imagined couples returning with a secret closeness that everyone easily recognized. Perhaps Neel was a quiet person? Then she recalled his animation the previous night. He might not be telling her stories about San Francisco, but at least she was learning things about her husband.

Neel knew he had to plan out the days carefully until his departure. This time he wasn’t going to be unprepared. First off, he would suggest that she go to her home. He’d tell everyone he wanted to spend time with Tattappa. He could hear Aunty Vimla simpering and saying, “There will be plenty of time for the bride and groom in Ahmerica. Our Suneel loves his grandfather virry much.” Too bad he wouldn’t be able to see her face when she grasped the fact that she had been bested.

He didn’t realize he was driving so fast till he came to a curve and had to brake before swerving past the large Tata truck that had stalled in the middle of the street. The driver, who was changing a tire, shouted something at them.

“I’m sorry about that. I’ll slow down. Can’t have an accident now.” Not when he was just about to get rid of her. She smiled and something in her eyes stayed him for a moment. Had she guessed his plan? No, she couldn’t have. She was just a simple girl from a small town.

He did, however, feel sorry for her. It wasn’t her fault that she was part of Aunty Vimla’s crazy proposal for Neel’s life. As a well-raised Indian girl, she was waiting for him to initiate things. Her upbringing did not permit her to think of a divorce. No, she had no idea what he was planning.

The least he could do was ensure she suffered as little damage as possible. He’d make certain everyone knew she was still a virgin. That way she could get married again. He’d give her enough money when the divorce came through to make her even more attractive to other men. He was positive she would get another husband. She was fine, really. Pretty, well spoken, unobtrusive. It was just that
he
didn’t want her. In fact, if he managed it correctly, he need never see her again.

LEILA STARED AT THE CLOSED DOOR.
Neel was gone, leaving her in this cold flat with the smell of unfamiliar flowers she had only seen in books.

Nothing had gone right after they left Immigration and entered America. Once outside, she had immediately looked for some soil. She wanted to touch the earth and ask for its blessings with her first footsteps in San Francisco. She walked a few paces behind him, looking for a gleam of brown. But all she saw was an endless expanse of concrete and asphalt, as if America was hiding that which had made it so rich.

“Come on.” Neel urged her into the taxi and she reluctantly abandoned the search, fretting that this was not a good start to her new life. She had been on the long-jump team in school and before every turn had always taken the time to quickly touch the ground and then her forehead. Even the Catholic girls on the team had done it.

The taxi driver asked question after question about India. Drivers back home never spoke to their customers and if they did know English, it was a word here and there, a sentence thickly accented and corroded with grammatical mistakes. This taxi smelled of stale cigarette smoke and the man’s half-chewed fingernails were black with dirt. She wished Neel would tell her where she was and what she was seeing. Tall buildings outlined with white lights, like the tiny earthen lamps people lit during the Festival of Divali, except that these did not flicker in the evening air. Billboards advertising strange products like Bacardi. Soundless cars speeding by in the wrong direction. Large green signs with the destinations written in white: Civic Center (the spelling making her look twice); Fell Street; and the only one she already knew, Golden Gate Bridge. She missed the putt-putt of auto rickshaws inserting themselves between vehicles, the drone of large red buses, the constant honking; she missed understanding what was around her.

“Nice neighborhood,” the driver commented when they stopped. “Bet you don’t get much crime here.”

“That’s right.” Neel smiled for the first time since getting on the plane in India. He enjoyed living in Pacific Heights. It was one of the better areas of San Francisco and he had never seen another Indian in the neighborhood. The Indians who could afford the price preferred to live in the suburbs in their version of the American dream, which was large houses with swimming pools.

Leila was still looking for some soil, determined to have an auspicious beginning, when Neel opened the glass door of a tall building. Once again she reluctantly abandoned her search and followed him into the foyer with its flowery sofa and wall-to-wall mirror, waiting while he pressed the
UP
arrow for the lift.

Leila recalled Mrs. Rajan saying he owned a house. The lift was old, even by Indian standards, with a grille door that had to be pulled twice before it closed.

Neel didn’t know whether he wanted her to hurry up and get into the elevator or stay in the lobby forever. He only knew that he hadn’t thought she would be here, in this building, on her way up to his condo.

But while he had been ticking off the slow, interminable honeymoon hours, constantly telling himself he would soon be rid of her presence, his family had been bribing their way through the visa loophole he had relied on. Which family member could he blame this time?

On the drive back from Ooty he had been almost jubilant, relieved that this ordeal was finally ending. He had even thought that if people made a fuss, he would stay in her house, do whatever was necessary, just as long as he could get back to San Francisco alone.

His plan had started off fine. Everyone seemed pleased that he wanted to be with Tattappa and the only time he saw Leila was at the reception. It had begun miserably, with rain leaking through the shamiana, and Neel feeling like an idiot on the stage that had been erected so all the guests could see them clearly. He didn’t even get to eat, because people kept coming up to talk to them. But most of the irritation left when he reminded himself that this was the final scene, almost the end of the play. He uncled and auntied all the elders, permitted strangers to hug him, even smiled at the man who said, “Today you have got for yourself a rare pearl.”

It all went smoothly till the very end, when Aunty Vimla bustled over, almost knocking over a flower pot. She ceremoniously handed him the envelope and he put it on the table, assuming it was money.

“Open it, open it,” Aunty Vimla insisted surprisingly, for usually no one checked gift money. “It is for you and your Leila.”

Three workers were dismantling the shamiana, careful not to knock into the stack of empty tables and chairs. The caterers were cleaning up, some sweeping the ground, others gathering glasses. Only the family remained, and they were the ones who now surrounded him.

He glanced at Leila, the bemused look on her face a copy of his feelings.

“It is not what you think. No money. It is a present from all your immediate family, your Tattappa and your mummy and daddy. And me also.” She was so pleased she almost snatched back the white rectangle to open it herself.

The thin slips of paper were clipped together. Typed in red letters was the route: India to Frankfurt to San Francisco. “I already have my ticket.” Neel was baffled.

“Ah, ah. This is not for you. It is for your wife. How can she go with you to Ahmerica without a ticket?”

“But, but…”

“It is a good good surprise, yes? See, anything and everything is possible. Now you will not be alone in Ahmerica.” Aunty Vimla clasped her hands together.

They had out-thought him once again. Favors must have been called in, money exchanged; even the priest had been complicit, altering the marriage license to the year before. That they could pull it off made as much sense as the ticket in his hand. He was stuck.

Leila’s parents were beaming and she herself looked happy. Only the two sisters began crying, the younger one hiding her face in Leila’s saree till the mother picked her up and went back to the house.

Neel tried to make excuses (“I need to get the condo ready”) and gave reasons (“Doesn’t Leila need to stay until the college can get a replacement?”), but nobody listened. They had done all this—even risked getting caught—just for him, they kept repeating.

When had they realized that he meant to leave Leila in India?

The elevator shuddered to a stop on the third floor. Neel rolled their bags to a door marked “303” in brass letters. “I always take my shoes off,” he said as they stepped inside. Leila’s “Of course” was swallowed by his American explanation, “I haven’t got round to buying carpets and I’d like to protect the floors.” As if he wore shoes inside his parents’ house, she thought.

Leila’s feet instinctively arched away from the cold wood while her mind began filling with questions as she examined the large room. It was almost empty, with a sickly sweet smell. A sofa and a coffee table stood in front of the fireplace. Long black wires linked speakers in every direction. In the middle, as if it had been lifted from a still life painting, was a white vase containing a riotous mass of flowers. The source of the smell. Leila walked toward the centerpiece, hoping this was all a joke. That the envelope prominently displayed above the flowers would contain the answer to her main question. Whose flat was this? It must belong to one of Neel’s friends. He was teasing her. Soon they would go to the large house he owned.

Before she reached the vase, Neel grabbed the envelope, glanced at it, and said, “It’s for me.”

Leila continued looking at him.

“From the office,” he finally said. “To welcome me back. And you,” he added. He saw his whole life in front of him with Leila asking questions he didn’t want to answer.

How soon could he get away from here? She was still staring at him, waiting for him to take charge. He’d show her the condo. It’s what he did with every visitor.

Leila followed, rubbing her arms to keep warm, as he opened the cupboard containing the stacked washer and dryer, then stood at the window as he pointed out the sea he called the Bay.

“The view is even better during the day. Unless it’s foggy,” he said. “Those twinkling lights are the Golden Gate Bridge and that flashing one is Alcatraz.”

So this was what he had been talking about in Ooty. An island named Pelican. And there was the famous bridge, set off in lights. It was as if all the roads, too, were paved with lights. Not the gold that Heera had told her to expect. But nothing was what she had expected. The road in America had dropped her off at a small, underfurnished flat.

As soon as the tour was over, Leila locked herself in the guest bathroom and held onto the edge of the basin.

What sort of mess had she gotten into? Her hands shook, and her heart thudded so loudly she was sure Neel could hear it. Had he lied about anything else beside this small flat? Was he really a doctor or had the Saraths just said that? Appa hadn’t checked up on Neel, the way most fathers did when they married daughters to men living abroad. They only had two weeks before the wedding, but even with more time, there was no one they knew who could verify Neel’s life in America. Neel had not spoken much about himself. His aunty had claimed he lived in a house. His aunty had said Neel was rich and wouldn’t accept a dowry even if they could afford one. In their small town it was usually the poor who lived in flats, boxed in on all sides by other families. But even they had furniture.

Tears splattered onto her hands, changing the color and texture of skin that had dried out on the plane. What could she do? She was married to him.

She had to accept it. Just as she had accepted the flaw in her wedding saree, the one Indy had found after they brought it home. A small swathe of color different from the rest. The shopkeeper would never take it back. He would claim they had done something to it. “At least it can be hidden in the pleats. We can arrange it so it will not show,” Amma had placated them.

Would she also have to arrange herself as the wife of a liar? Everyone knew of at least one girl who married a man claiming to be a lawyer, pharmacist, engineer in America, only to discover upon arriving that her husband was a waiter or a taxi driver and that she had to get a job to made ends meet. For all of them, the horror had begun when they arrived at their new home. One man rented a small room in a house—“my house,” he had told his bride back in India. To make the lie worse, he expected her to clean it in exchange for a lower rent. Leila had even heard of a man who left behind his American wife, married one in India, and then disappeared with her jewels. At least Neel had not wanted her gold. She had left it behind for Indy when he told her most people in America did not wear 24-carat gold.

She looked at her red eyes in the mirror. She hadn’t even cried when saying good-bye to Indy. Kila had clung to her, weeping uncontrollably, hot tears and snot smeared all over Leila’s new salwar kameez.

She felt as if she were neither living nor dead and knew nothing.

Water. She needed to wash her face, be calm before going out to confront him. She turned on the hot water tap. Nothing happened. It was the same with the cold water tap. There was no soap, no towel. Was he too poor to afford that? She wiped her face with the edge of her kameez and opened the door.

“I turned off the water in this bathroom when I left.” Neel walked past her without giving her a chance to say anything. “Why don’t you use the other one while I get this going?”

It had to be his bathroom because it smelled like she was standing inside his aftershave bottle. She washed her face carefully, suddenly aware of her hunger. She had not been able to eat the food on the plane, drinking juice instead.

“I think I’ll go to the grocery store. There’s nothing in the fridge and you must be starving. Any particular juice you like?” Neel slipped into his shoes, thinking of Caroline, hoping she was in her apartment.

This could have been another moment of mind-reading magic, Leila thought through her misery.

“Anything is okay,” Leila said, though she really wanted to cry and scream at the same time.

The marvelous life she had dreamed of was dismantling even before it started. Amma and Appa would be shocked and upset, but it was
her
life that was ruined. Even if the man lies and cheats, it is always the woman who suffers. Cynthia was right. But in India, the suffering infected the entire family. Her failure meant that Indy and Kila would be considered problems by potential grooms, as if failure were a gene. Should she accept her fate for their sake? Maybe she was just imagining things. Was she not thinking properly because she was so hungry? She
had
picked the wrong conclusion that first morning in Ooty. But one look around the virtually empty flat told her that even though her mind may not be working at its full capacity, her eyes were not betraying her. No wonder he had kept his distance before and after the wedding. Had he been afraid that she would somehow find out the truth? His lies were by convenient omission. But they were still lies.

“See you in a bit. Make yourself at home,” he said, and left.

Home. It was her first night in America and she was alone in a cold flat. Her footsteps echoed loudly and the wooden floor creaked in places. When would Neel return? She had to talk to him.