A Good Indian Wife: A Novel (12 page)

“YOU BASTARD! YOU FUCKING BASTARD!
I hate you, I hate you. How could you do this to me?” It was on the tip of her tongue to call him “Brown shit,” but she held back.

Neel stared in amazement. She had never used such words before. And they kept pouring out of her pink lips. After leaving Leila in the condo and rushing over to see her, he had expected kisses, not curses.

“You prick. You lied to me. Why didn’t you tell me? Dickhead. Asshole. Jerk!”

At the last word Caroline curled up into a fetal position on the sofa and continued sobbing.

Neel didn’t go to her. He was completely baffled. How did she know about the marriage? He had not mentioned it in the telegram, using the enigmatic “unavoidably delayed” instead.

Someone must have told her after she took the flowers to the condo, letting herself in with the emergency key he kept at the office. He had wanted to thank her for the bouquet and the note.
Until our tulips meet again. Love, Caroline
. In the very beginning of their relationship he had once sent her tulips with just those words.

“I came here as soon as I could to tell you myself. To explain.”

She looked at him from between matted lashes. “Bastard. Go home. Go fuck your wife. Your
wife
! How could you do this?” In one brief trip to see a dying grandfather, the three years she had put into their relationship had been reduced to nothing by a woman he didn’t even know.

Suddenly, Neel knew what to do. He went over to the sofa and held her tightly. Soon her protests grew halfhearted and she stopped crying.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Everything is going to be all right,” he promised in a soothing voice. “Shh, shh. Tell me, how did you find out?”

“Sanjay told us.” She sniffed and blew her nose. “He, he thought you were at the hospital today and wanted to congratulate you.”

Neel remembered that Sanjay’s brother was Ashok’s co-worker. Indians were obsessed with other people’s lives. Even in America they bored into his, like tenacious termites.

“Sweetie,” he stroked her hair, “I’m sorry you had to find out from Sanjay. Let me explain, all right? Just listen.”

He could see her face settle into understanding with his every word. His own voice convinced him beyond any doubt that he wanted to keep their relationship. It proved that nothing had changed, that he wasn’t really married. And that was of paramount importance to him.

“So you see, I did it because of my grandfather,” he said.

“I can’t imagine my pappy forcing me to get married.” Caroline touched Neel’s face. It was going to be all right. It wasn’t as if he had reunited with his childhood sweetheart and rediscovered their youthful passion. Poor Neel had been forced into a marriage he didn’t want. She would get her doctor after all.

“Your family isn’t Indian. It’s pretty common there. Emotional blackmail. Pronouncements like, ‘Do this or I will die.’”

“I guess Sanjay’s grandparents are different.”

“No, not at all. When Sanjay announced he was going to marry Oona, his mother warned him it would kill his grandfather. Sanjay’s grandfather also fought to get rid of the English. His mother didn’t speak to Sanjay for a year.”

“I didn’t know that. Wow! Poor Sanjay.” She didn’t understand Indian customs. She only knew she wanted to be Neel’s wife. In spite of her parents and brother, in spite of Neel’s reluctance, she wanted him. He was Indian, but he was a doctor—and that was much better than the bartender fiancé she had left behind in the Midwest.

“Sanjay doesn’t like to talk about it. And anyway, his grandfather died shortly after the wedding,” Neel exaggerated. The grandfather had actually come around and even met Oona before dying three years later.

“Ouch.”

“Yes, I’d hate to have that on my conscience.”

“But sweetheart, sweetie, what happens now?”

“We carry on as before. May our two lips meet again and again.” Neel kissed her.

Her mouth opened and he pulled her closer in relief. He had worried that she wouldn’t understand his sudden marriage, but she was wonderful, wonderful. His gratitude eased into a thankful love and now he regretted all the times he had been mean to her. Insisting on taking separate cars to restaurants when they risked eating out. Letting people believe he was single. Refusing to visit her family.

She had been so sweet last Christmas, saying she didn’t want him spending the holidays alone. Her parents had invited him to come home with her. They were from Wisconsin, “bad cheese country,” she called it. She had been born in France while her father was in the army, before he inherited the family farm. But Neel hadn’t wanted to chance walking into another bad experience.

Caroline hadn’t told him much about her parents, but he instinctively didn’t trust them. If Savannah’s well-traveled parents had dismissed him, he was sure that Caroline’s parents, even with a European touch, had kept their smug insularity.

“Did you like the flowers?” She smiled up at him, wishing her face wasn’t puffy from crying.

“I loved them.”

“And I love you, love you, love you.”

Neel believed her. She probably also liked the idea of being with a doctor. Neel understood that. He, too, had wanted to marry up.

“Caroline, I’m exhausted—” he began, but she interrupted him.

Her hand traveled down his torso, lightly, just the way she knew he liked it. “No talking now. Let me take care of you.”

ALONE, FRIGHTENED, INCREASINGLY COLD
and hungry, Leila stood by the window and stared into the dark. Even the night sky seemed different in America, obstructed by skyscrapers and lightened by the glare of unfamiliar road lamps. The smell of the blue and pink flowers was suffocating. She wanted to open the window but that would let in the chill air.

She lost hope that Neel had played a trick on her, that he would come back and they could start their life. As she watched the red taillights of passing cars, she realized that he really had gone to the shop, and really did live in this tiny flat.

She wished she could call Amma and Appa to come rescue her. But that would be admitting defeat—again. Besides, they had married her off and expected her to stay put. They would offer no comforting words, just a firm, “You must to stay with Suneel.”

Who was this man her parents had married her to? She had to find out, had to know why he and his parents had done this to her. Mrs. Rajan had lied. “Our Suneel has a fine fine house in Ahmerica,” she had boasted. Was the family so desperate to get Neel married they made up success stories about him? What was wrong with him that they were trying to cover up? Was that why he never saw another girl? It was all so confusing. She thought of home, the road on which the Saraths lived, their big red house with the mango tree next to the gate. No one had ever said anything mean about Neel’s mother. She had an honest reputation. His grandfather, especially, was well respected both in the steel factory and in the community.

She began searching through the flat, starting with the two piles of letters on the coffee table. Colored advertisements; a huge envelope declaring Neel Sarath a possible winner of $1 million; and near the bottom, a
Stanford Magazine
addressed to Dr. Neel Sarath.

He
was
a doctor. He hadn’t lied about that. Relief weakened her legs and she sank onto the sofa, only to feel the springs cave in under her. What kind of doctor was he if he was too poor to afford a good sofa? This was a red cloth one, with a large brown stain on one side, both arms pockmarked from plucking.

Leila wondered how sweet, nice Tattappa would react in this situation. But he wasn’t a woman. He had always had power, the automatic right of a male. Amma would be shocked at her behavior. She would expect Leila to sit and wait. Do nothing, be demure. But she had been demure enough for ten lives.

There was just one promising place to look: Neel’s desk, a large rectangle protected by thick glass. He was very organized, the central drawer neatly divided into sections by plastic containers. One for pencils, pens, another for stamps. Leila saw his Indian passport and checked the date of his birth. It was correct.

Only when she investigated the file drawer did she begin to learn about this man whose name was now hers. Telephone bills, Visa card bills, gas and electricity bills—he saved everything according to the month. She looked through them, thinking, “I’ll divorce him. I won’t stay with him. I won’t let Amma force me. I don’t care if people talk. I’m not like the others. I can’t accept that it is my fate.” The desk was nestled between two bookcases, the volumes arranged by subject. Most of them were medical books, but she saw that he had a complete edition of Shakespeare. At another time it would have made her happy. Not now. Warm, large tears fell on her hands as she bent down to look at the next file.

She was spurred on by the clock. What if he returned and found her at his desk? Would he hit her, throw her out of the house? Smita had told them of a girl whose husband used her arms as an ashtray, stubbing out his cigarettes on her skin. He belonged to a good family but had gone crazy in America. Leila was afraid of what Suneel might be capable of.

There was no one she could turn to in America. Certainly not her former classmates, who lived in big houses in Pittsburgh and Houston. They would feign sympathy, but would be the first to broadcast yet another “poor Leila” story.

In a file marked
LETTERS
, she thumbed though a sheaf of blue, yellow, pink-colored papers, some with flowers, others with big, intertwined hearts.
Darling Neel
, the two words waltzed around the room like lovers. Each love letter was signed,
Your Savannah
. Her fingers trembling so she could hardly turn the pages, she read a few. Tahoe, Mendocino, Carmel—they had visited many places together. The last one was dated eight years ago. She thought: “I’m not the only one with a Janni in my background.” Then she worried that he could still be in love with Savannah. But surely too many years had gone by. She put away the letters, convincing herself they didn’t mean anything.

The next file was marked
CONDO
. She did not know what that meant, but opened it anyway and saw a flyer with a prominent picture of the building. Under the picture was information on the flat, except that it was called a condo. There was a map of San Francisco showing the various neighborhoods, with descriptions noting crime rates and the average household incomes. According to the literature, some flats, condos, like Neel’s—theirs—were more expensive than houses. Another paper was titled “Comps,” with addresses and prices of condos close by. This was why the taxi driver said they live in a good area. They did, even though it was not an area of houses.

Leila noticed a square piece of paper on the floor. As she bent to pick it up, she saw that it was a photograph of a blond woman. Just the face, lips smiling, blue eyes well delineated in deeper blue, skin as white as a lychee. Was this Savannah? There was no name on the other side. Only the message:
Love you madly
. The girl’s face, her eyes, the hair curved into her jaw, made Leila uneasy. Jealousy drove away her earlier fears. It was one thing to say
she
would leave
him
; now she faced the fact that he might want to be with another woman. But Neel had known this blond girl a long time ago. In eight years, many things could happen. One could get a PhD and one could forget a person. There was no reason to be jealous.

That was Neel’s past; she was Neel’s future. He had come back to India to marry and had chosen her. But where had the picture fallen from? She knew she should not have snooped around the flat. Amma always said she acted before she thought. Now Neel would know she had been looking through his things. Hoping, crossing her fingers, that it came from the letter file, she put it back and promised herself she would never do such a thing again.

The desktop held a small black tray with stones arranged in a pattern on sand. Sand was a type of mud, she reasoned. She touched it with her finger and brought it to her forehead. There—she had blessed herself. Everything was working out, just in unexpected ways.

She sat on the desk chair, only to jump up. A shrill pealing echoed in the room. It sounded again and her eyes followed the unusual tone. The phone. It rang again, like a cat mewing for its food. Should she pick it up? What if it was this woman Savannah? Could it be Neel?

The voice that boomed through the receiver was male and Indian. It was Sanjay Bannerji, one of Neel’s friends, calling to congratulate them.

He laughed when she told him where Neel had gone.

“Good God, shopping at this time of night! I always told him not to keep a bare fridge. Your husband is a male Mother Hubbard. It’s a good thing you took pity and married him. Now at least he won’t come back to an empty condo or an empty fridge.”

The Indian accent and acceptance calmed Leila. Neel must have told people about their marriage. Now Sanjay was even inviting them to dinner.

“I will set it up with Neel. We have to celebrate this wonderful news,” he insisted.

She had panicked. It was going to be all right. When Neel finally returned that night, the raw, desperate feeling raging inside her was gone, replaced by fatigue and shame. But she could not look him in the eye. As she watched him put a frozen pizza in the oven, she wished she wasn’t starting her married life with so many secrets between them.