I knock on the door. My heart beats heavily, out of rhythm. It is most improper for the daughter of the house to knock on the chauffeur’s door, even if he is old enough to be her father.
Singhji’s shocked face mirrors my thoughts when he opens the door. “Sudha Missybaba, you shouldn’t be here, especially now that your marriage is being fixed,” he says as he tries to tuck in the ends of his turban with fingers that shake a little. I notice the furrows cutting into his mottled, fire-slicked forehead, the way he holds on to the door, for a moment, as though dizzy. “Someone might say something bad.”
What had I thought he could do for me, this poor aging man whose brief rest I have disturbed?
The afternoon smells of honey from the trumpet flowers that have spilled over the wall of the gatehouse. It is unfair that there should be so much beauty in this world when my heart is breaking. I can no longer control the tears I have been holding back so long.
A look of distress passes over Singhji’s usually expressionless face, and he puts out his hand as though he would like to touch my arm. “Don’t cry, beti,” he says finally. “Crying does no good. I learned that when I lost my family.” He looks past me into the air, and I wonder if he is remembering the child he once had. Perhaps that is why he called me beti.
“No, crying does no good,” says Singhji again. “We must make a plan.”
TODAY THE SANYALS are coming to see Sudha.
I was afraid because I didn’t know how she’d take it. She’s been acting strange ever since their proposal came in. Sometimes she’ll lie with her face buried in her pillow, so still that she could be dead. Sometimes she’ll stare blindly at the pipal trees for a whole hour. She still won’t let me talk to Mother about Ashok. On the rare nights when I can get her to sleep in my room, I’ll wake to find her pacing back and forth, twisting the edge of her sari into a rope. When I tell her she’ll drive herself crazy if she keeps doing this, she’ll push me away impatiently. “I wish I were that lucky!” she’ll say in a bitter, not-herself voice.
Sudha’s prospective mother-in-law didn’t give us much notice. She called the night before and said they were coming to Calcutta on some business and would like to stop by in the afternoon for a few minutes. We were not to worry about a meal or any such formalities. They just wanted to see the girl.
But of course Aunt N wouldn’t have any of that. “It’s a test!” she insisted. “I’ve heard of things like that! And later they’ll complain that we didn’t show them respect. It’ll give them an excuse to mistreat my poor Sudha—or maybe break off the wedding.” I wanted to say in that case maybe we shouldn’t be thinking of getting Sudha married there, but since Mother’s illness I’ve been trying not to cause trouble.
Aunt wouldn’t rest until she made Mother call them back, and after a lot of back and forth it was decided they should stay for tea. The rest of the evening the household was in turmoil. Aunt set the servants to cleaning everything, just in case Mrs. Sanyal decided to take a little walk around the house. Once she and Pishi finally reached agreement on the tea snacks they should serve, she dispatched Singhji to the evening bazaar to get the freshest ingredients.
Then there was the matter of what Sudha would wear. Aunt wanted something extra fancy, with lots of zari work, while my mother felt that simplicity was best. They had Ramur Ma bring down whole armloads of saris, which Aunt draped around Sudha one after the other. I was afraid Sudha would explode after the eighth or ninth time—I would have. But she sat there silently, with a sleepy-looking smile on her face. “See,” whispered Aunt to Pishi, “she’s already dreaming of her husband-to-be.” But I knew my cousin better, and that smile worried me. What worried me even more was that when I questioned her about it when we were alone, Sudha wouldn’t answer. She only gave me a hug and said, “Not yet, Anju dear. Talking about it might bring bad luck. I’ll tell you later.”
The Sanyals arrive a whole hour late.
“That’s nothing,” Aunt N will say later. “I’ve known of cases where the boy’s family decided to arrive a whole day late—all the food spoiled, the girl’s family going crazy, and the bride-to-be weeping and wailing, wondering if someone had slandered her, and will the match be broken off. It’s just to show who’s in control.”
If something like that happened to me, I’d be so mad I’d break the match off myself. Why should the boy’s side always be the one in control?
Mrs. Sanyal’s good at control. I can see it in the way she handles her entourage, which consists of Ramesh, his younger brothers, and three or four female relatives whose exact relationship to the family isn’t quite clear. It’s very subtle—a glance here, a little cough there. And suddenly the female cousins would stop in the middle of a less-than-refined joke, and the boys would put back the singaras they’d heaped onto their plates. Even Ramesh would stop staring at Sudha and begin a polite, if somewhat boring, conversation with my mother.
I’m not sure how I feel about Ramesh. He must be very capable—else how could he hold such a high governmental post?—but I’m not taken with his thin sharp nose, his hair slick with Brylcreem and combed down too precisely, his mouth, which is set in worried lines—except when he looks at Sudha. For he’s quite smitten. We can all see that.
I’m not surprised. Even when she was a scab-kneed girl in an old frock, there was a radiance about Sudha so that men couldn’t stop themselves from looking—and looking again. Women too stared, whispering behind their hands, and more than once a well-meaning aunty warned the mothers “to keep an eye on that one, so much beauty’s bound to land her in trouble.” And today in her dark blue dhakai sari, with a thin gold chain that gleams at her throat, she’s irresistible. Little tendrils of hair curl around her face like a halo as she pours the tea and takes it over to each guest. Her anklets tinkle like wind-bells. She answers Mrs. Sanyal’s questions without a trace of the irritation I’m feeling for her: what was her favorite subject in school (embroidery), what is the proportion of sugar and water in rasogollah syrup (one to two), what she thought should be a woman’s most important duty (taking care of those she loved).
Mrs. Sanyal’s so impressed that she says she has no more questions, we can be excused. As we leave we hear her telling Aunt N it’s clear how much effort she’s put into raising her daughter. (I almost laugh aloud at that.) She sees no reason to delay the happy event. Why not have the pandit look for an auspicious day next month?
Sudha must have heard her too, but not a tremor crosses her face. Not even when we reach my room and I tell her, “I just hate the way women are paraded in front of prospective grooms—like animals at the fair. How could you put up with all those stupid questions so calmly?”
“Because I had to make sure Mother would be pleased with me. And because I know I don’t have to marry Ramesh,” says Sudha. She pulls me up and whirls me around the room, then bursts out laughing at the look on my face. “Don’t worry, dear dear Anju. I haven’t gone crazy. I just got a letter from Ashok—”
“But how?”
“Singhji told him about the proposal. Yes, our Singhji! He found out where Ashok lived and went and met him. He’s been such a support—I can’t thank God enough for him. Anyway, Ashok wrote that he really loves me, that he’s been anxiously waiting to hear from us. Yes, he persuaded his parents, and they sent us a proposal quite some time back. But my mother”—here Sudha’s lips twist in bitterness—”must not have thought it good enough for our illustrious family. Anyway, we’re going to meet tomorrow, and he’ll figure out what to do.”
I sit down hard on the bed, at once terrified for Sudha and amazed that she’d taken such a bold step. I’m also confused, and that makes me angry.
“I thought you said we had to wait for Ashok to act, that we couldn’t help him!”
“But we didn’t help. I just got the news of my troubles to him, like the princess Rukmini did with Lord Krishna, remember that story? Ashok’s doing all the rest.”
I fight back a pang of jealousy. All our li
ves Sudha had looked to me to plan things for her. Now that usurper in a white shirt had taken my place. But mostly I feel sad. Even if they met (where?) at such great risk, what solution could they come up with? By now Aunt’s probably orchestrated the entire wedding, from flowers to food to which musician would play the shehnai and who would take the groom-gift to the Sanyals the day before the ceremony.
“We’ll meet at the Kalighat temple early tomorrow morning. I’m going downstairs right now to tell Mother that I’d promised the goddess I’d pay her a visit, alone, before my wedding. She’ll be in such a good mood, I know she’ll say yes.”
Luminous with her faith in her prince, Sudha kisses me on both cheeks and runs down the stairs, leaving me to cross my fingers for luck and hope to God they don’t think up something too crazy and dangerous.
WHENEVER I’VE BEEN to the Kalighat temple before this, it has been a cacophony of human and animal clamor—priests yelling and shoving at confused temple-goers who mill around like sheep, vendors calling out their wares, lost children wailing, crippled beggars crying for alms, goats bleating as they are dragged to sacrifice. So it seems eerily quiet this dawn, only the sweepers washing the steps of the temple, and the first flower sellers setting up garlands of bright orange marigolds and jasmines white as new-cooked rice. I buy a hibiscus garland, red like the sindur that married women wear, and make my way in.
The stone vault which houses the deity is dim with incense and holy mystery. Later in the day it will be crowded to suffocation, but for now things are quiet, so the priest allows me to stop before the gleaming black image. Since morning I have been rehearsing prayers, all the things I want, but now as I look at the huge eyes of the goddess, rimmed in gold and red, I cannot remember any of them. The goddess appears a little displeased—she knows I have used her as an excuse for a rendezvous of a very different nature. But after all she herself has known love. It is said in the Puranas that she left home against the wishes of her father to follow Lord Shiva, her beloved. So I think she forgives me. When I lay my head on the silver pedestal at the foot of the image, it is cool and smells of sandalwood paste, and I feel comforted.
I see Ashok as soon as I come out. As agreed, he is standing by the Shiva shrine at the far end of the temple. It is the first time we have met alone, and I grow unexpectedly shy when he takes me by the hand and leads me to an alcove. But time is short—Singhji, who is waiting outside, has told me that we should return home within the hour—so my shyness will have to wait until our wedding night.
“Are you well?” Ashok asks me, looking closely at my face. “Did they come for the bride-viewing already?”
I nod wordlessly. He himself appears somber, as though the decision to marry has propelled him into adulthood. There is a new line between his brows. I want to smooth it away. I want to kiss him. I want to laugh and cry, all at once. Finally I say, “They’ve set the wedding date a month from now.”
Ashok thinks carefully, counting on his fingers. Then he says, “Your mother’s turned down my offer once already. There’s no way she’ll agree to our marriage, now that you’ve received a more ‘suitable’ proposal. We must elope.”
My heart heaves with panic. Elope. I am dizzy at the finality of the word, like a door slammed behind me for good. They will disown me. Never again to enter that old marble mansion that has always been home, never again to see the mothers, never to hold my dear Anju close, for comfort and for joy. Can I bear it, even for Ashok’s sake?
“We’ll do it in two weeks, as soon as you turn eighteen,” says Ashok. “That way your mother can’t force you to return, or annul the marriage.”
“How did you know when my birthday was?” I ask, amazed.
For a moment he looks mysterious. “I have my ways!” But then he gives in to a smile—already he cannot keep secrets from me—and says, “I asked Singhji.”
I hadn’t realized Singhji kept such close count of my birthdays. But Ashok is giving me details: where we’ll go, who’ll perform the wedding, how long we must remain in hiding afterward. Singhji has promised to help. I need bring nothing with me. Ashok is confident that his parents would take me in—even before the wedding, if he asks. But to protect them from my mother’s accusations, he will not tell them of our plans until the marriage has taken place.
“Don’t look so worried, Sudha. Don’t you trust me?”
I touch that dear crease between his brows. His skin smells of a soap whose name I do not know. “I trust,” I say and sway toward him. That is how we kiss our first kiss, behind the great black Shiva Lingam. His lips are a shock of heat. His fingertips linger on my throat. For the rest of my life, passion will mean the smell of crushed hibiscus and champak incense, this prickling in my palms, this damp slippery stone under my feet.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, just out of focus, I see a young woman, quite lovely, dressed in a village cotton sari—an old-fashioned design one does not see nowadays. Next to her is a tall, fair stranger, his fingers still red from the wedding sindur he has just put on her forehead. He turns her audaciously to him for a kiss—he must be a rule-breaker too. Her body takes on a shivering, like a flowering tree in a spring wind, and over her face, which is oddly familiar, flit joy and regret and excited fear. I swing around urgently—I must find out who they are—but they have vanished.
No matter. In my bones I know them—the shades of my parents, impressions left in this temple air from their marriage day twenty-one years ago. Did they appear to remind me of their story? Or to warn me about mine?
Daughter and mother, mother and daughter. Though we would like to think otherwise, how our lives echo each other’s.
When I look back from the temple gate, Ashok is still standing near Shiva’s shrine. Soundlessly, he mouths something. I watch the shape of his lips saying my wife, and my heart dissolves into honey. Two weeks. How can I live for two whole weeks without him?
I lie on the newly washed terrace floor, the matting cool against my skin, and stare at the night sky. The darkness is diluted by the lights that seep upward from this never-sleeping city. I would ask Anju the names of the constellations that glow faintly through the haze, but she has fallen asleep, her head on my pillow, her breath warm and moist on my cheek, and smelling of cloves. So I repeat to myself the only one I know, Kalpurush, the black warrior with his curved, glittering sword.
I am sleepy too, but I force myself to stay awake. I am looking for falling stars. I need two of them, just at midnight, because I must make two wishes. One for myself and one for Anju—because today a promising proposal has arrived for her from a reputable Calcutta family, the Majumdars, whose only son works in America.
Not that Anju believes in falling stars. They are nothing more, she says, than burning meteors which have no power to help anyone, not even themselves.
I know. But I know also that there may be many sides to something all at once, many realities. A ball of flaming gas hurtling to its doom can, if you believe strongly enough, give you your heart’s desire. The death of a star, the birth of a new joy in your life. Isn’t that how the universe balances things?
I have not said this to Anju. How hard it is to explain wondrousness—even to her whom I have loved since birth. I hope she understands, though sometimes I wonder if true understanding is ever possible between people.
Earlier tonight when we stole up to the terrace after dinner, and I told her what Ashok and I had decided, I was certain she would be delighted for me. Instead she was distraught.
“Sudha, that’s too big a risk. What if things don’t turn out the way he says they will? All you have is his word that he’ll marry you once you run away with him. What if “—she hesitated, then plunged ahead—”what if he has his way with you and then changes his mind?”
“I know he’s telling the truth. I know I can trust him.” I felt the anger shoot through my veins like a poison. “You don’t know what love is, that’s why you can say something so mean—”
Anju let my accusatio
n pass. “Sudha, listen to me,” she said patiently. “Even if he’s telling the truth, or what he believes to be the truth, there’s no guarantee his parents will take you into their home. If your mother had accepted their proposal, it would have been different. But now you’ll be a runaway girl who’s lost her reputation. From a family that’s already antagonized them. What if they don’t recognize your marriage?”
She was putting into words the fears that had jostled unshaped inside me all day. Perhaps that was why I put my hands over my ears and cried, “Enough. I won’t allow you to slander Ashok. I’ve made up my mind about what I’m going to do, and that’s that!”
Anju stopped then. She bit her lip hard to keep in the words that wanted to pour out, the angry words, the cautionary words, the loving words. For of course she knew what love was, my sister who would have given all her happiness for mine. “I’ll have to help you then, I guess,” she said.
Later we talked about Anju’s possible marriage to the young man who would be arriving soon from America. All we knew about him was his name—Sunil—and his occupation—a computer scientist. Anju confessed that she was scared. My heart ached to hear that, my brave cousin who had never been afraid of anything in her life.
“To think that I’ll have to go and live with a stranger. That I’m supposed to belong to some man I haven’t even met as soon as he puts a garland around my neck. Oh, why can’t I just remain single? Why must I be yoked to a man like a cart to a buffalo?”
I sighed in sympathy. I would have been afraid too, if Ashok had not saved me. I tried to point out the good sides of marriage to her. A home which in time she would come to rule. A man to wake her with moonlight kisses, to glance at her across a roomful of people with a heat in his eyes that would shake her heart for joy. The babies, with their sweet milk-and-cinnamon smell, to sing to sleep at her breast.