A Good Indian Wife: A Novel (28 page)

LEILA’S SUSPICIONS STARTED WHEN
Neel phoned to say he was working late, could she change their dinner reservations to the next day.

For two hours she tried to convince herself she was being neurotic. That was a Rekhaism. But finally she grew tired of playing the daisy game—he’s working late, he’s with Caroline—and called the hospital. A polite, efficient American voice informed her that Dr. Sarath had left at his usual time.

How could he go back to Madam Fake after sleeping with her?

She was in bed when he finally came home, his body bringing a cold front to the warm sheets. What was it about Caroline that he could not keep away from? Had he filed her in his heart like he had her picture? Shanti and Oona didn’t like her. What did Neel like about her? Was it because she was white? Did he want a mixed marriage so he would not be intimidated by whites? Was he as color-obsessed as the street urchins in Ooty who rushed up to foreigners shouting, “I touched them, I touched them!” Did occupation, status, breeding, all the things that mattered in India not concern him as long as his wife was white?

In the morning he smiled and chatted while dressing for work. He was acting the way he had on the trip back from Reno. Was this how he behaved when he had just been with Caroline?

“Did you change our dinner reservations?” he asked from the front door.

“No. I just cancelled them. What if you are busy tonight also?”

“Go ahead and make them. No cancellations this time,” Neel said as he left. He hardly knew what he was saying, his mind still preoccupied with the unseemly events from the previous night. He shouldn’t have given in to Caroline yesterday. There was much to regret about the evening, but at least he had had the sense to leave her apartment. He had spent part of the night driving aimlessly up and down the hilly streets. He had considered stopping at one of the many pubs on Geary, but didn’t want to be around anyone. He felt raw and exposed, in need of the camouflage offered by his car. By the time he finally got home, he had stopped wishing for another evening, another ending, and was relieved that he could slip into sleep without talking to Leila.

Leila heard the front door slam on his words. Once again he was telling her what to do. He did what he wanted, but like everybody else, never asked what she desired. Leila had allowed her family to prod and primp her and where was she now? Sitting in a room, alone. But Amma wasn’t in America; she couldn’t push Leila to make the dinner reservation. Her stern voice and unblinking stare couldn’t force her into one of the sarees she had insisted on buying when Leila would have preferred more salwar kameezes.

Leila ran to the cupboard and took down the suitcase that held the trousseau sarees. Neel might leave her, but she was not going to return to India. No one wanted her there: not Amma, and certainly no man, except perhaps a widower eager to find a mother for his children. In America she might be able to marry for love, make a new life for herself. Two American men had told her she was beautiful.

The sarees fell onto the bed and she inched into the folds with the scissors’ sharp steel edge. Crimson, blue, violet. The silk cut easily, making a loud tearing sound. Amma had gift-wrapped her in this purple one for Raj. In this expensive magenta one, Jayadeep had run his eyes up and down her body, only to say no and send Amma scurrying for other men. Even in America, the rejections mocked her. Not good enough for any man, the sarees shouted. She cut them all up, not even pausing when she came to the peacock green one. How Amma and she had fought over it. The scissors ripped the silk. Suneel, Neel. Cheater, liar, fornicator! The sarees lay ruined at her feet.

Only then did she cry, noiselessly, and it felt like a quiet dying. Exhausted, she barely had the strength to sit amid the ruins of her splendid wardrobe. She was amazed that she could even see, her eyes felt so empty—like the vacant eyes of unfinished statues.

Amma would be shocked at the waste, but Leila was glad to have gotten rid of that part of her life. She was as fed up with men and their promises as Rekha. Rekha was more Indian than she realized. She obviously wanted to get married, and was so eager to get a husband she was willing to date a married man. Both Rekha and she were parts of a triangle and knew what it was like to be on the acute side of love. She would call Rekha. Rekha would understand without pitying her, the way people in India would. She could give Leila some advice, listen to her. Tell her if there was any hope left.

She dialed the number quickly, the anger, hurt, and despair buzzing inside her like a hundred bees. After four long rings the answering machine came on and Leila listened to the whine of the tape, too discouraged to hang up. As she was about to replace the receiver, she heard a click, then Rekha said, “Hello. I just walked in. Are you still there?” the words rushed and breathless.

“I’m here. It’s Leila.”

“The palm reader,” Rekha teased. “You’ll be pleased to know that I am making something of my life.”

“That’s good.” Leila wasn’t sure what she meant.

“I just came back from seeing Tim. He wants to get back together. Swears he’s going to divorce his wife.”

“See? I told you everything would work out.” Indy, Oona, Rekha—they were the lucky ones. She had called Rekha thinking it would be easier to talk to a fellow sufferer.

“No, you didn’t say that. And I didn’t say I’d go back to him.”

“Then what?”

“I told him thanks but no thanks. I don’t trust him. He may divorce his wife, but what if he cheats on me when we’re married? Once a cheater, always a cheater. I’ve decided to make something better of my life. Hold on a sec. That’s another call coming through.”

Leila waited. Rekha was probably talking to Tim. From the little Rekha had told her about him, she knew he wasn’t the sort to give up easily. She and Rekha were not in the same situation at all. As the silence continued, Leila felt increasingly stupid for calling. Rekha was leaving Tim, not the other way around.

“Sorry about that. One of my classmates. I think he has a crush on me.” Rekha laughed. “But you didn’t call to hear the vagaries of my non-love life. What’s up?”

Cornered, Leila began a stammering account of the events over the past months.

“This is your friend, right?” Rekha clarified.

Belatedly, Leila realized that Rekha might guess she was actually talking about herself. “Yes, yes, it is a friend. You told me to tell you if I heard any stories, remember?”

“You mean to say he married her even though he was in love with another woman?”

Voiced like that it sounded hopeless. “Maybe he didn’t love the American woman that much. He probably also didn’t want to hurt his family by bringing home a foreigner.”

“But it’s his life. If he married your friend to please his family, then he should stick to his decision. It sounds to me like he wants to eat his cake and have it too. Has she confronted him?”

“No.”

“Then how does she know he’s still seeing the other woman?”

“She saw them together.”

“That’s nothing. People can be friends.”

For a moment Leila felt hope. Then she said, “Indian men don’t have women friends their wives don’t know about unless they have something to hide.”

“Oh, the poor thing. I feel so sorry for her. This guy sounds like he never gave their marriage a chance. This poor woman walked into a situation she had no idea existed. Do you think she’ll talk to me?”

“No, no. She doesn’t even know I’m talking to you. But you said to tell you if I know of any woman who is being abused. It is abuse, isn’t it? Even though the husband is not beating her or demanding more dowry.” That was the abuse Leila understood. Stories of girls with belt-striped backs, their arms dotted with cigarette burns.

“Sure it’s abuse. Emotional abuse. Sometimes I think it’s worse than physical abuse. Is the husband sleeping with both of them?”

“I don’t know.” Leila hesitated. “Yes, I think so.”

“I guess some men like to hop between beds. But why does she sleep with him?”

“I don’t know,” Leila repeated. “Maybe she thinks she will keep him that way.”

“That’s an old mistresses’ tale. Men only stay if they want to. Sex helps, but it’s not the deciding factor. Is this guy educated?”

“Oh yes.” Pride lifted Leila’s answer. “He has some very high degrees. He studied in America.”

“I wonder if he knows what he’s doing. More to the point, does your friend know what
she
is doing?”

“She is trying to make her marriage work. It’s what her parents would expect.”

Leila’s answer was pat. How could she confess that she was beginning to like Neel? That she enjoyed talking to him, feeling his skin against hers? In the early days of the marriage she had dismissed the consideration he had shown his grandfather as showing off, as not wanting to be with her. Now she was the beneficiary, feeling warm on a cold night because he wanted to know if seventy on the thermostat was fine with her.

“Sounds just like Anu. But it takes two to make a marriage. Now that she knows, what is she going to do about him?”

“I don’t know. I mean, she doesn’t know.” Leila quickly corrected herself before asking, “Do you have any suggestions?” Leila already knew what she wanted. She wanted him to forget Caroline and love her. But that had to come from him. She could learn his ways, know how to please him. But the love, the desire that would make him turn to her again and again, was out of her control.

“I’d kill the slimy bastard and make it look like an accident. Then I’d collect the insurance and live a comfortable life.”

“You would really do that?” The old images of earthquakes and car accidents unfurled in front of Leila’s eyes. She had never thought of money, though. Or life afterwards.

“No, of course I wouldn’t do that,” Rekha said. “I guess I don’t have any great advice. She’s got to do what she feels comfortable with. I know I’d rather live alone than with someone like that. I would never be able to trust him. Killing him is only a fantasy. I’m so tired of the stories I keep hearing at the shelter that just once I’d like to see the shoe on the other foot. Like Anu beating up her husband for a change.”

“I think my friend would agree with you. She says that no matter what men do, it always comes out okay for them.”

“Not always. At some point they have to pay their dues. Maybe not now, but in one, five, maybe even twenty years, they’ll suffer. Isn’t that what you call karma?”

Leila laughed. “You’re beginning to know a lot about Indians. Soon you will know more than I.”

“I doubt it. I’m not Indian and I’m not married to one, either.”

“Neel is an American citizen,” Leila said lightly. “And if I want, I can become one, too.”

She had wanted to, had made strides in that direction, but always got held back by the rigid rules of India. She had changed her country, her name, her status, but she couldn’t change herself.

AS THEY WALKED INTO THE
Indian restaurant, Leila felt as if she were cocooned in a shawl of disbelief.

She had taken a late walk in the evening, convinced that he would be with Caroline again. But Neel had been waiting for her when she returned, and instead of being annoyed that she hadn’t cooked dinner or made reservations, he suggested they keep the original plan to eat out.

She still didn’t trust that he really wanted to go out with
her
, and couldn’t understand why he was suddenly making the effort to spend time with her. The combination of Neel’s insistence—he phoned the restaurant—and her casual attitude gave her a power she had never before possessed. It prompted her to ask if she could drive to the restaurant. He hesitated, then handed over the keys without a word. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him sitting very quietly, only his feet betraying his nervousness. Every time she braked, he, too, pressed down. His restraint when she almost collided with a suddenly stalled car made her relent and forgive him enough so that by the time they pulled into the parking garage, she was talking to him.

“That wasn’t too bad, was it?” she asked archly.

“No, you’re a decent driver.”

“I’d say thank you except you sound so surprised.”

“You continue to surprise me.” He smiled.

“And you did me by parting with the keys to your beloved Porsche,” she shot back, swallowing the rest of her thoughts.

“It’s just a car,” Neel shrugged.

“So I can take it any time I want?”

“Oh, no. I’ve created a Frankenstein.”

“Wrong sex,” Leila mocked. “And Frankenstein was the student who created the monster.”

“Yes, Teacher. Let’s hope that review was right about the food. I’m starving,” Neel said, as he pushed open the heavy wooden door.

The restaurant was dimly lit, with a bar that opened into the dining area. The afternoon buffet stand was tucked into a corner, but the aroma lingered and Neel’s first thought was he’d have to dry-clean his jacket. The obligatory “authentic” Hindi film music played in the background. Neel recognized the melodramatic highs and lows, but could not place the singer or the film. At least the decor was less kitschy than most other Indian restaurants, with their penchant for garish garnishes of gold and silver.

“How sexist,” Leila remarked. “All the pictures on the wall are of Maharajahs.”

“I didn’t know you were a feminist.” Neel raised his eyebrows.

“You don’t know a lot—” Leila began, and stopped as Sanjay slapped Neel on the back.

“I spy, I spy! Arre, caught the lovebirds out on the town.”

“And I don’t spy Oona,” Neel rejoined. “Did we catch you eating out without your wife?”

“Now tell me, why would I do that? She’s not feeling well, so I told her I’d take care of dinner. Take care, take out, one and the same thing.” Sanjay winked at Leila.

“Is Oona sick or—” Leila paused, wondering if Sanjay was going to confirm her suspicion that Oona might be pregnant.

“She’s very tired. She just finished working on a big case.”

“Maybe you can come over for dinner sometime next week?” Leila offered.

“Leila Didi, you catch on fast. I was definitely fishing for an invitation!”

“Let us know a good time and we’d love to have you over,” Neel said. “I’ll make tandoori chicken.”

“You know how to cook?” Leila was surprised as much by this revelation as by his seconding the invitation.

“How do you think I managed before I married you?”

“Neel can barbecue, but cook?” Sanjay laughed. “He used to open up a can of vegetables, throw in some curry powder, and tell everyone it was Indian food. He did such a good job convincing them that they used to think my genuine, streets-of-Calcutta samosas were some strange kind of wonton.”

“If you like samosas, I can make my mother’s recipe when you come.”

“Looking forward, Didi, looking forward. Just keep Neel out of the kitchen.” Sanjay laughed, and went to collect his order.

“It was nice to run into Sanjay. Makes me feel I belong here.”

“I don’t think this music belongs in the restaurant. That singer sounds as if he’s in pain,” Neel complained.

“He is. He’s singing about losing the woman he loves.”

“I’m afraid it all sounds the same to me. Just like the films. Predictable. Boring.”

“I bet you haven’t seen a Hindi film since you came to America,” Leila challenged, irritated by his attitude. “They’ve changed, you know. They still make the Bollywood masala films, but there are very good art ones, too.” Janni had taken her to see one of them. Why was she thinking of Janni here, in another country, sitting at a restaurant with her husband? Was it because Janni, too, had given her up?

“I’ll have to take your word for it. I myself prefer French films.”

The word “French” leapt out at her. Leila recalled the scene at the hotel in Reno. Neel bending down over the blond head. The silk scarf. Neel pronouncing Caroline’s name the French way. Was he taking her out to dinner to tell her about the secretary?

“I didn’t know you speak French,” she bit out the words.

“I don’t. But I can still appreciate the translation.”

“I suppose some people prefer secondhand experience to immediate gratification.” Her words were still bitter.

“Does it really matter?” Neel was taken aback by her tone. “You like one thing, I like another. I like chicken, you don’t.”

“I don’t know if I don’t like it. I’ve never eaten chicken.”

“Would you like to try?”

“Why not?” Leila felt reckless.

“Really? Just like that, you are going to eat chicken?”

“Isn’t that how you began eating it? One day, like any other day, you just gave up being a vegetarian.” Just like he had given up his name, his upbringing, his word when he married her.

They were still not talking when the waiter brought their order: Tandoori chicken, chicken tikka masala, saag paneer, alloo gobi, raita, naan, and rice.

“Some champagne,” Neel ordered. It wasn’t like her to be waspish. Or was she moody because it was the wrong time of the month? He knew so little about her. Yet when he made the dinner reservations he’d assumed she would be grateful, and that they would have an easy time together.

When the champagne arrived, Neel raised his glass. “To celebrate the new you,” he toasted Leila, and was relieved to see her smile.

Leila took a sip and then looked down at her plate. “It’s quite tasty,” she pushed aside her chicken piece, “but I don’t really like the idea of eating flesh. And I don’t know why they have to give it names like breast, thigh, legs.”

“When you put it that way, it sounds cannibalistic. Let’s pretend you never said that. Words, begone!” Neel moved his hand in a circle like a magician. “Now, where were we?”

“In Katmandu,” Leila responded, a little dizzy from the champagne and his playfulness. “I just climbed Mount Everest and you were begging for my autograph.” It was a game she had devised with Indy. A fun and easy passing of the time that also helped them learn geography.

“No way. I had just returned from climbing Nanga Parbat. Everest might be higher, but I went up the naked mountain.” He stressed the last two words.

The phallic symbol, the gloriously naked mountain, rose between them, and Leila grew hot. She saw them in bed, Neel reaching for her, his hands like butterfly wings all over her body. They had done some of the things she had yearned for in India—seen movies and walked in the park, though he hadn’t held her hand. But he had slipped back into his old ways and now, when she was preparing to give him up, he was being flirtatious.

“Here,” Leila pretended to autograph her napkin and handed it to him.

Neel tucked it into his pocket. “I didn’t know that the girl who poured out the coffee so seriously that morning could be so bubbly.”

“Never judge a girl by her face,” Leila mandated. He had known all along, then, that she had served coffee, not tea, the day he came to see her. “I don’t think I’m bubbly,” she continued. “It’s such a vacant word. I’d rather you thought I had a bone of whimsy. Like this one,” she pointed to her elbow.

Neel touched her arm. “Did you inherit it or get it some other way?”

Leila’s heart beat faster. She loved the touch of his hand. “Some other way. Like I tell people who compliment my accent, I bought it in India. Cheap.”

“This doesn’t look cheap to me.” His hand stroked the knobbly triangle.

“It was on sale. Two for the price of one,” she babbled on, undone by his caress. “Like the Sunday-Monday saree,” she continued, unaccountably glad that she hadn’t cut that one to pieces.

“And what am I to make of a woman who wears such a tricky saree?”

“You can’t make me into anything,” Leila intentionally misunderstood his meaning. “I’m already formed.”

“Except for the lines in your right hand,” Neel reminded her.

“How do you know about that?”

“Every Indian is born knowing that. It is the epitome of contrary Indian philosophy. It allows you to have control over karma.”

They were the last customers. Neel pointed to a yawning waiter and said, “I guess we should leave before they throw us out.”

“I want some rat shit before we go,” Leila said the words deliberately.

“I beg your pardon? Did I hear you say rat shit?”

Leila’s giggles were laced with champagne. “It’s those pastel-colored anise seeds. That’s what we call them. I saw some in a bowl when we walked in.”

“Well, if you want rat shit, you must have it.” Neel spooned some on to her palm.

They left the restaurant and walked along slowly, past the cafés and shops.

Leila saw the lump of humanity on the pavement as they turned the corner. It still amazed her that America, too, had beggars. But unlike in India they were clothed, even shod, and spoke English. She felt sorry for this man, who was stretched out behind a placard that read
ANYTHING HELPS. GOD BLESS YOU.

God
had
blessed her. She was taking a late night stroll with her husband, their bodies so close that their arms occasionally brushed each other. Every part of her was alive to his slightest movement and she knew that tonight he would reach for her in bed. She wanted to share some of that blessing. She opened her purse and gave the grizzled man a five-dollar bill.

“Thank you, beautiful lady. Good night, good night.”

She was glowing, pleased at her good deed, when Neel said, “You shouldn’t have done that. He’ll only spend it on beer. Or cigarettes.”

“How do you know that?” Leila looked back. The man had not moved.

“Because they’re all losers. They don’t want to do an honest day’s work. They hang around here, preying on people’s consciences, and then hurry to the nearest liquor store to feed their habit.”

“Maybe that’s all he has to live for.”

“Oh, come on. He can do better than that. He can clean himself up, become a waiter, something, instead of just sitting around all day.”

“Maybe he is doing the best he can. And it can’t be easy, to sit and wait for charity. You’ve never been disappointed in life, have you? I’m glad I made him a little happy.”

“Sorry. Forget I said that. You’re right. I don’t know a thing about him.”

“Except that he has less than you.” Leila would not give up.

“Peace offering?” Neel handed her the car keys.

“Peace accepted, but you can keep the offering. Driving here was enough for me,” she confessed.

“Ah, now the truth will out. I may not know everything about you, but I do know you have never driven across the Golden Gate Bridge. Let’s correct that.”