And Laughter Fell From the Sky (5 page)

His mother seemed stunned by this invitation. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, towel still raised.

“Can I make you a cup of tea?” he asked.

“No, no.” She laughed. “I will not drink tea now. Some water I will have.” She ran the faucet and filled a glass for herself.

Once they were seated, Abhay scooped up some kurma with a piece of roti and asked, “How did you decide that you wanted to marry Dad?”

“Only eighteen I was when I got married. My parents said he is good man, so I said yes. Yogurt you want?”

“I’ll get it later.” He mixed a bit of rice with the vegetables. “How could you agree to marry him? You’d only met him a week before the wedding, and after the honeymoon he came back to this country. You didn’t see him again for months, and then you got on an airplane and came here all by yourself to live with a stranger?”

“Our families are knowing each other. They are not strangers.”

“You didn’t know Dad.”

“All marriages are happening like that only.”

“What was it you wanted when you got married? Why did you get married at all?”

“It was expected. And I was—I feel proud that this man, so educated, handsome, coming from America, wants to marry me.”

“So you wanted to marry him.”

“Of course. My parents did not force. If I did not want, I could say no.”

“What was it like when you came to Ohio?”

His mother paused. “It was hard. Before I come here, I think it is like a movie, or TV show—everyone dressed up so nice. Everything so clean and big. Then I come here, and it is so cold. Almost all year it is cold. The snow gets black and dirty. My English is bad, so I am shy to speak and make friends. Even with other Indians I feel shy sometimes. And your father—bad temper he has. I was not used to that.”

“He’d yell at you?”

“He does not shout. He is quiet, but angry. He wants me to be smart. I am not. He wants me to cook all kind of dishes. I know only few at that time. So he thinks he married stupid girl.”

“He said that to you?”

His mother nodded. Abhay was outraged. How could his father have treated his innocent mother so poorly? He ripped off a large piece of roti, used it to gather a pile of kurma, and chewed furiously. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, his mother wiping her eyes with her fingers. Once he’d swallowed, he asked softly,

“Did you ever regret marrying Dad?”

“Sometimes.”

“Did you ever”—he hesitated to ask this—“did you ever think about leaving him?”

“My mother wanted me to try longer.”

“You told her?” Abhay’s eyebrows shot up.

“I wrote to her after few months. I said I want to come home.”

“Did you tell Dad? Did he know?”

She shook her head. “My mother’s advice I wanted first, before telling.”

“If you had gone home, would you have gotten a divorce?” Abhay couldn’t believe he was having this conversation with his mother.

His mother shrugged. “I don’t know. I was not thinking. No one got divorce then. Divorce was always woman’s fault. That is how society considered. No one would allow their son to marry divorced woman.”

“You were so miserable,” Abhay said slowly, “that you were going to risk returning to India and living as a single woman for the rest of your life, just to—”

His mother shook her head. “Too young I was. I did not think. My mother said, you stay one year, and then we will see. And then I start taking classes. Typing, bookkeeping. I meet friends. Then it was OK. I managed. You see, I found out his secret—when he is worried, he becomes angry. So, then I could say, what you are worried?”

“You figured him out,” Abhay said. “Did you—do you think you loved him then?” Again, Abhay was surprised at his bold words.

His mother considered her water glass. “We do not worry about love all the time in Indian marriage. It is not all about love. He is my husband. I must help him by taking care of house and children, and by cooking food. And I am his wife. He must earn the money. He must take care of me. I felt—before, when I was just married—I think he does not like me. I think, he is angry at me. Then later, I saw that he is not angry at me. He is just angry. And then you were born. He was so proud to have son, and I am happy to have cute baby to play with.” She smiled at him fondly and patted his hand. “Why you ask about all this long-ago things?”

“I want to know you as a person,” he said. “Not just as my mother.”

“Good boy you are.” She patted his hand again. “About you he is also worried now. So he is angry. But I know you are smart. Finally, you will surprise him.”

After his meal, Abhay shooed his mother out of the kitchen and put away the dishes in the drainer. Then he picked up his backpack from the dining room and trudged past the living room with its white carpeting and shiny white furniture, which no one ever sat on. It always looked cheaply furnished to him, although he knew it wasn’t. Past the family room, which was equally depressing: the usual dirty-looking brown shag rug, the sagging brown furniture.

As he walked down the hallway, Seema’s radio grew louder. Some sort of dance tune, sung in a high, cloying male voice almost drowned out by a synthesizer and that crashing, echoing drumbeat every R & B dance band seemed to want to use.

He knocked on her door.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me. Abhay.”

The radio switched off, and paper was shuffled. The door slid open a crack to reveal part of Seema’s thin face, and her prominent nose.

“Yeah?” she whispered.

“Can I come in?”

“Why?”

He smelled cloves. Could she possibly be smoking clove cigarettes in her room? Yet it wasn’t smoky. “Come on, Seema. I’ve hardly seen you since I’ve been home.”

She disappeared from the door crack, and then the door opened just enough to admit him. The air was stuffy, despite the air-conditioning. This was the smallest bedroom in the house. It had been Seema’s since she was a little girl, and she’d never wanted to move, to switch rooms with Dad’s office, as Mom suggested.

The bed was made—Seema still used an old flowered spread—and there was none of the clutter one would expect in a teenaged girl’s room, none of the clothes bursting out of the closet, or hair dryers and makeup and jewelry scattered everywhere. On top of her neat desk were a tiny radio, a stack of books, and a handmade journal from Rising Star, which he’d sent for her birthday. The walls were bare, except for an outdated calendar she’d had for years showing a photo of two big-eyed fluffy gray kittens.

Seema sat on her desk chair, which she had placed with its back to the desk, as though to guard her books. She crossed her arms over her chest and crossed her skinny legs around each other until one foot was behind the other ankle.

Abhay set his backpack on the bed and sat beside it. He rested his palms on his knees. “What’s up?”

She shrugged.

“How’s your summer been?”

“I took a class at Kent State.” Without turning away from him, she reached behind her back, tugged open the pencil drawer, picked up something with her forefinger and thumb, and slipped it into her mouth. She started working at it, gnawing it and rolling it around with her tongue.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Clove. Want one?” She reached behind her back again.

He shook his head. “You just eat them plain?”

“Yeah.” She pulled one out and held it on her palm. “They’re like little nails. They’re sweet at first, and then hot. So hot it hurts.”

He didn’t know what to say to this. He had noticed, at dinner, that Seema had taken to eating Indian pickled chilies with her rice. Mom warned her every evening—“Not so much, Seema.” But Seema didn’t listen. She ate almost nothing except white rice and hot chilies, as if she needed the intense sensation to balance out the blandness of her life.

“Are you looking forward to your first year at Kent State?” he asked.

“It’ll be something to do.”

“What’re you taking?”

“General requirements. Calculus, English, world history, biology.”

“I heard Dad’s been bugging you about your college major. Don’t let him get to you.”

She put the second clove in her mouth.

“What are you thinking you’d like to study?”

She chewed her clove. “Medicine. Or engineering.”

“Really?” He raised one eyebrow. “That’s what you think you’d enjoy?”

“I don’t really like anything else. Not enough to make Mom and Dad upset.”

“Pretend Mom and Dad don’t care. Then what would you do?”

She untwisted herself and sighed. “I don’t know, Abhay.” She looked like a rag draped on the chair.

“Remember, Seema. The whole world is open to you.”

She rotated herself again, this time in the other direction. “I just want to pick something and get it over with. I don’t want to leave things open and have to keep figuring it out, like you’re having to do.”

He’d thought he was setting a good example for her by trying to figure out what he really wanted to do, and the whole time she was trying to avoid ending up like him.

Chapter 3

A
mma. Be sure to use the toothbrush on your hair,” Rasika shouted into her mother’s bathroom on Saturday morning. She spoke in Tamil, except said the word
toothbrush
in English. The family was getting ready for Viraj and his parents, who were coming over for lunch. Rasika was proud of her mother’s beauty, and she’d inherited Amma’s high cheekbones and smooth skin. But her mother sometimes went too long before touching up her hair dye, and the gray showed through.

Rasika sat on her mother’s bed in a plush pink robe, looking at her outfit choices. She’d already showered and washed her hair. She still wasn’t sure what to wear. Amma wanted her to put on a sari and jewelry, as was appropriate for a traditional bride viewing, but Rasika felt a silk sari and gold jewelry were too much for a daytime event. In India the women wore their fancy clothes at any time of day, if the situation warranted. Still, Rasika felt odd, decking herself out for lunch. Also, Viraj might be put off by a sari. He didn’t want to marry a traditional Indian girl, after all, but a modern Indian-American.

She considered the green salvar kameez with sprays of flowers embroidered over it; and a pale saffron salvar kameez printed lightly and tastefully in gold. She had chosen these with care at an Indian clothing store in a Cleveland suburb. So often, Indian clothes were made to show off fancy needlework or beadwork, and not for a good fit. She had to try on so many to find one that draped well and showed off her figure without being revealing.

Rasika looked around her parents’ bedroom, which was one of her favorite rooms in their home. Like the rest of the house, it had just the right touches of Indian and Western decorations. The bed, dresser, and other furniture were sleek and modern, in a light maple finish. The bedspread and curtains were done in Indian textiles: a tan background with a pattern of lotuses. A few years ago Rasika had helped her parents redecorate this room, as well as the entire house. She’d had to use all her charm to get her father to pay for the makeover. He was mostly concerned about saving his money for retirement or to guard against every possible disaster. She hoped Viraj also enjoyed luxury and would feel comfortable allowing her to spend their money as she saw fit.

The bay window let in the morning light through the sheer curtains, and the king-size bed made the room very inviting. Rasika lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. She didn’t want to think about Viraj any more. She didn’t want to think about anything. Since yesterday, her mind had been full of Abhay, and she definitely wanted to forget about him. She loved to sleep, and she allowed her mind to lull and drift. She knew she ought to feel nervous. Instead, she felt tired despite the two cups of coffee she’d had.

The bathroom door opened. Rasika sat up.

Amma, wearing a robe, threw her dirty clothes into the bin in the closet and looked at the outfits Rasika had laid on the bed. “You won’t wear a sari?”

“Should I?” Rasika asked.

“A sari is always appropriate. It is both traditional and modern.” Amma opened a dresser drawer and lifted several saris folded in neat rectangular packages.

“If I wear a sari, Viraj might think I’m too old-fashioned.” Although she was speaking in Tamil, as she normally did with her parents, she said the words
old-fashioned
in English. This was the way they spoke: her parents and relatives often mixed English words with their Tamil.

“Right now, you worry about impressing his parents. Viraj will see you are beautiful even in a sari. You can wear one of your own, or one of mine. Later this afternoon, when you and Viraj go out on your own, then you can wear whatever you like.”

Rasika nodded and picked up the rectangular packages, looking for something light and cheerful. Amma was right. She couldn’t go wrong by wearing a sari.

As she considered her choices, an unhappy thought struck her. “Is Appa going to wear a suit?” Her father was eager to see this marriage go through, and a suit at an informal at-home luncheon might broadcast this eagerness in an embarrassing way.

“I don’t know what he will wear.” Amma unfolded one of the saris so Rasika could see the glistening gold on the palloo.

“Tell him to wear one of his silk jubbas. It’s summer. It’s Saturday. We’re having lunch at home.”

“He does not like me to meddle with his clothes.” Amma lifted petticoats and blouses out of a drawer.

Would Viraj allow her to “meddle” with his clothes? She hoped he would be open to her suggestions. Or, better yet—maybe he would have a fine fashion sense of his own.

“I don’t want one with gold,” Rasika said. “Maybe a printed silk.” She leaned over the drawer to find something that wasn’t so fussy.

“Why not gold? You are meeting your future husband. You must get dressed up!” Amma displayed a bright red, heavy silk sari with a green plaid pattern and a wide gold border. It looked like a Christmas tree, or a winter scarf.

“I won’t wear that one. It’s too heavy and dark. I’ll burn up in it.”

“You will be in the air-conditioning. No one is asking you to go outside. We used to wear this Kanjeevaram silk all the time, for any festival or wedding. No one complained.” Nevertheless, Amma refolded the sari and put it back in the drawer.

Rasika picked up a light green rectangle printed with watercolorlike flowers.

“That is too old.” Amma grabbed it from her. “If you want something light, wear a Benares silk.” She opened another red sari printed with paisleys and scrolls.

“You really want me to wear red,” Rasika said.

“Red is festive. The astrologer said it’s your lucky color.”

“I don’t want to look too gaudy.”

“You won’t have to look at it.” Amma’s eyes were wild with frustration. “We will all be looking at you. Who knows? Maybe red is Viraj’s favorite color.”

Rasika took the sari from her mother’s hands and rubbed a layer of fabric between her fingers. It was thin and light. The gold embroidery was subtle. The color wasn’t as bright as she’d originally thought, and she did look good in red.

Amma pulled out a red blouse to match and laid it on top of the sari. “I think this will fit you.” She gave Rasika a red cotton petticoat. “Try it on, raja. Then we can select your jewelry. I will go and wake up Pramod. He must be ready. We want to show ourselves in the best light.”

Amma left the room and closed the door. Rasika laid her robe on the bed and began dressing. She could hear her mother knocking and shouting at Pramod’s door. Her mother had insisted that he come home from Cleveland Clinic Medical School especially for this bride-viewing. Pramod’s presence was necessary to prove that her family produced not only beautiful young women, but also medical students with bright futures.

Viraj really was handsome. Rasika had been afraid his photo might have been altered to show him in a better light, but as soon as he stepped in the door, she could see he really did have the thick, wavy hair, the large, dark eyes, and the dazzling smile that appeared in his photo.

The entryway of the house was full of smiles, greetings, taking-off of shoes. Rasika stayed behind her parents—she didn’t want to appear too forward, too pushy—but put on a high-wattage smile, so they wouldn’t think she was shy. Pramod sat on the steps behind her, and while everyone else was occupied with greetings, she kicked him on the shin with her bare foot to persuade him to stand up, which he did.

The men reached across each other to shake hands all around, and the women pressed their palms together in namaskar. Viraj put his palms together to greet her mother, and Amma smiled with pleasure at this traditional greeting. As everyone made their way into the living room, Viraj held out his hand to Rasika. She put her hand in his, and their eyes met. His gaze was steady, almost businesslike. And then he turned his right hand palm up, so her hand was lying in it, and patted her hand. She was so startled by this strange gesture that she giggled. He smiled back, let go, and turned away to follow the others. She felt silly standing there, alone, in the entryway.

Amma appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Come and pass out the drinks,” she stage-whispered. In the kitchen Rasika recovered her composure. She walked, smiling and balancing a tray of soda glasses, into the living room. When they’d renovated a few years ago Rasika had suggested her parents buy furniture with simple lines and bland colors, so as not to compete with the Indian rugs and decorations.

Everyone was dressed just right. Viraj’s mother was wearing a sari as fancy as Rasika’s mother’s, so that was OK. Rasika had persuaded her father, in the armchair next to the sofa, to put aside his dark suit and wear a white silk jubba and dress pants. Pramod wore a jubba over jeans, and other than the fact that the back of his hair was still a little wet from his shower, he looked reasonably awake and involved.

Viraj’s father was wearing slacks and a dress shirt. Viraj, at the other end of the room, sitting on a sofa next to his father, was in a pair of dress pants and a silky-looking light blue shirt. Nice, she thought. Dressy, but not too formal. She wished she wasn’t wearing a sari. She’d left her hair loose and had worn makeup, so hopefully Viraj wouldn’t think she was too traditional.

As she walked around the room offering fruit juice punch to everyone, she felt Viraj’s gaze following her around the room. She glanced back at him, but instead of averting his eyes, he kept his gaze steady. It made her feel as though she were some kind of painting or artwork.

She was glad to see Appa looking happy. Or at least, appearing calm. His body was almost free of the tics he had when he was worried or stressed. Almost every evening after work, his eyes squeezed shut and open rapidly, and his shoulders twitched. Appa had wanted to be a surgeon, but these tics—something he had since birth—prevented him from having a steady enough hand, so he had settled for anesthesiology. Today even his hands, which often picked at his nails until the cuticles were bloody, were still, clasped together on one knee as he listened to Mr. Shankar.

After Rasika returned the tray to the kitchen and came back into the living room, the only empty seat was next to Viraj’s mother, across the room from Viraj. Mrs. Shankar’s graying hair was pulled into a simple ponytail, and she wore no makeup. Rasika put on a friendly smile and sat down. What could she talk about to this woman, who seemed so much more old-fashioned than her own mother?

She needn’t have worried; Mrs. Shankar started speaking immediately. “Viraj’s future is very bright,” she said. “He will be in top management soon. He wants a girl who is able to keep up with him.” She spoke in Tamil and said the words
top management
in English.

Rasika wondered if this meant he wanted a girl who would also be in top management? Or someone who would be able to comfortably mingle with other top management and their spouses? She glanced in Viraj’s direction and found him still looking at her.

“He wants someone who knows how to keep a beautiful house, and to entertain,” Mrs. Shankar said.

Rasika murmured her agreement.

“He is not interested in a girl who is too forward.” Mrs. Shankar had a way of lifting her upper lip when she talked, which exposed her long front teeth and made her look like a rodent. “She must be able to adapt to his way of life. He was raised to be decent. He will treat his wife like a queen. But he will be her king. And she must know that.”

Rasika’s mother appeared at the doorway, a large apron over her sari. “Come and have lunch.”

“Let me help.” Mrs. Shankar stood up and wrapped the palloo of her sari around her shoulders.

“There is nothing to do.” Amma led them into the dining room, which had been set, the previous night, with the best china. When Amma shopped for china a few years ago, Rasika had recommended a simple, starkly elegant pattern with a thin rim of platinum. Amma wanted something more decorated, and they had compromised on this pattern: still simple, but with a wider design in platinum, almost like a sari border. It was beautiful against the white tablecloth embroidered in a subtle cutwork design. Amma had ordered a fancy floral centerpiece, like something belonging on a bridal table: a large triangular spray of roses and ferns, with three white candles sticking up from the middle. There was hardly room for the platters of vaday and raw vegetables, and the jars of pickles and chutney pudi.

Rasika managed to place herself at the other end of the table from Viraj. She was reluctant to get too close to him. There would be plenty of time for closeness later on, she reasoned.

Amma appeared with a pot of rice and went around the table serving everyone, as was traditional in India.

“Why should you be serving us?” Mrs. Shankar stood up. “Let us all go into the kitchen and get our own food.”

“No, no. This is the way I like to do it,” Amma insisted. “Rasika will help me with the rest. Come on, Rasika.”

In truth, Rasika had never seen her mother do this before. Amma’s parties were always buffet style. Rasika followed her mother into the kitchen, where Amma handed her a pot of avial—vegetables in coconut sauce—and a serving spoon.

The talk droned on. The fathers were discussing Indian politics.

“The U.S. is finally paying attention to India,” Appa said as Rasika spooned avial onto his plate.

The men were talking in English, maybe because Viraj didn’t understand Tamil—he had never lived in India.