The Story Hour (24 page)

Jyoti's eyes shone in the dark. “What I done is helping my best friend marry the man she love. Which none of her family relations do to help her.” She glared accusingly at Lakshmi.

Lakshmi felt her cheeks flush. “You. What you. Think. That I?”

“Shilpa say you and your dada sell her body so you can be married next.”

A wail started from deep within Lakshmi. “No, no, no. This all wrong. I fights Dada. I's on Shilpa's side.” She stopped abruptly at the sight of a passing bicycle, and she used that time to pull herself together. “Tell me,” she said urgently. “Where my Shilpa now?”

“With Dilip.”

Lakshmi blanched. “Where?” she whispered.

“They gone away. Hiding somewhere until the wedding canceled.”

Lakshmi looked up at the night sky, as if expecting it to land on her head. This was the end of them, of Dada, of their family name. A young woman spending the night before her wedding with another man. Word would get out. Strangers from five villages away would hear about this beautiful, impulsive girl who had thrown her life away, who had given them permission to spit in her face, who had gone from being a high school graduate to a prostitute in one heedless moment. This kheti, this unforgiving patch of land out of which her father had coaxed things to grow; this earth that he had battled and loved until he was a bent old man, older than his years; this house that her parents had built out of years of hard labor, their thin limbs the beams that held it up, their blood and sweat mixed into the cement that made up its walls; this family name that they had nurtured and fed like a prized pet, this family name that belonged not to them but to their ancestors, this izzat, this honor, that they valued more than anything else, that compensated for the daily humiliations and trials of their lives—the tense silence with which they waited each harvest season while Menon sahib weighed their produce and decreed how much it was worth; the lecture they had mutely listened to when the local moneylender, who charged thirty percent interest, told them that having a pucca house was an indulgence they couldn't afford; the terrible fear that grew each day the rains stayed away—this stupid careless girl had trampled upon their family honor, had risked all their lives with one thoughtless gesture. Lakshmi swallowed the bile that rose in her mouth.

She stood staring at Jyoti, noticed the righteous set of her mouth, and wondered what to say, what words to use to convince the younger woman that what she believed was so right—two young lovers reunited by her, Jyoti—was in fact horribly wrong. That everything depended on finding Shilpa right away, on bringing her to her senses and then bringing her home. For a second she hated Jyoti and, by extension, Shilpa, all these young, stupid, childish girls who liked shiny objects, who believed in love rather than responsibility, whose heads were turned by the Bollywood snake charmers ShahrukhBobbyRanbirImran, who forgot that they were the daughters of farmers and laborers, who lived in their decrepit homes and impoverished villages without noticing the squalor because their dreams were of marbled houses along Juhu Beach in Mumbai. In the second that they stared at each other, Lakshmi felt she was old enough to be Jyoti's mother, old enough to be her grandmother, felt like the oldest woman in the world. How clearly she could see the fate that awaited Shilpa. Nothing would matter—not her beauty nor her high school diploma—nothing would be enough to protect her against the scorn of their neighbors. And the irony was that eventually Dilip would leave her, for what man would willingly marry a prostitute? Lakshmi could see it so clearly, the arc of her sister's destiny, that it shocked her that Shilpa hadn't.

“Jyoti,” she said, trying to fight off her panic. “You please listen to me. You take me to where they are hiding. I promises you. She will not have to marry Aditji. I am giving you my promise.”

“You cancel the wedding first.” Jyoti's words were tough, but her voice was shaky, and Lakshmi grabbed on to that shakiness.

“Does you understand what will happen to Shilpa if someone finds out she alone with Dilip at night? They . . . they spits on her, calls her a . . .” Lakshmi forced herself to say the ugly word and was gratified when she saw Jyoti flinch. “Jyoti. You like my younger sister. You knows how much I loves my Shilpa. You knows what I done for her. If, if anything happen to her, if anybody say something wicked of her, I . . .” The tears fell, hot and furious, dripping down her face. “I will sacrifice anything for Shilpa. Anything. Including my dada's heart.”

The two women stared at each other, shocked. Lakshmi opened her mouth to explain, but just then Jyoti reached over and touched her lightly on the shoulder. “Didi. Say no more. I understands. And I will take you to Shilpa.”

Lakshmi ran back into the house to put on her slippers and to tell Dada she was going out to do some last-minute shopping. The old man started to protest, but she was already out of the house. “Where they are?” she gasped as they walked.

They were in an apartment in town owned by one of Dilip's customers who was a long-distance truck driver. When Lakshmi walked in without knocking, they were sitting on the sofa watching television. Dilip sprang to his feet, while Shilpa remained on the couch, her mouth open.

“Come,” Lakshmi said without preamble, reaching for Shilpa's thin wrist. “We talk later. First you come home.”

“I not leaving.” Shilpa held on to the sofa.

“Not leaving? You wants to spend night here with the man you not even engage to?” Lakshmi pointed to the door. “You know what happen when you walking out of here? The world spit on you. Say you are loose woman. Do you think Dilip's mother allow her son to marry a loose woman? Think of your future, Shilpa.”

“I's thinking of my future, only. That's why I here. I don't want to marry that ugly man. His sister shown me his photo.”

“It's okay. Wedding is cancel. You not marrying that man. But for now—”

“You lying, Didi. You trap me. You . . .”

Lakshmi felt Dilip tense beside her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him shake his head disapprovingly at Shilpa. Jyoti was at the far end of the room, as if hoping to be swallowed up by the walls.

“Listen, girl. I see you the day you was born. I feeds you, change you, take care of you my whole life. When I ever tell you the lie? When?” Lakshmi narrowed her eyes. “Munni. It is good that you loves Dilip. He a good boy. But because you loving someone new, not give you permission to stop loving peoples you love your whole life.”

“Cent percent correct.” They all jumped at the sound of Dilip's voice. It sounded more firm than Lakshmi had ever heard it. “Didi is correct.” He walked over to crouch before Shilpa. “You won. And you too stupid to know. Didi say you not marrying that ugly giant. Bas, Didi's promise enough for me. Should be enough for you, too, Shilpa.” Turning toward Lakshmi, Dilip folded his hands. “Maaf karo, Didi. Please to forgive. We make huge mistake. What to do, Shilpa say she going to swallow rat poison. I got scared, so I bring her here.”

“Rat poison? Shilpa, have you gone mad? Is your Didi dead that you act this way?” Her eyes glittering with tears, she pulled Shilpa up to her feet, embracing her as she did. The younger woman held back for a second and then flung her arms around Lakshmi, sobbing.

Shilpa fell asleep soon after they got home, and listening to her soft breathing, Lakshmi marveled at the callousness of youth. Shilpa seemed to think that, having extracted the promise from Lakshmi, the worst was over. Despite the fact that they had not awakened Dada to break the news when they reached home. Despite the fact that she knew Adit's family had spent lakhs of rupees on the wedding and that the blot of shame of a canceled wedding would spread and cover not just their family but his also. Shilpa's breath was as quiet and steady as a baby's, and she was not tossing and turning in bed, as Lakshmi was. It was the wrong sister who was lying in bed drenched in sweat, staring up at the ceiling. It was the wrong sister who tried to think of a way to save face, to spare both families the humiliation that was undoubtedly coming their way tomorrow. It was the wrong sister who sat up in bed, her heart pounding, as an idea came to her. Because it was the wrong sister who was about to marry Adit Patil.

And so it was:

Adit's father and sister wait at the entrance of the open-air reception hall for Dada and the bride to emerge out of the air-conditioned taxi. They inquire about Dada's oldest daughter and are informed that she is home with the stomach flu. Adit's sister is about to ask more questions, but they are distracted by the appearance of the groom, who looks resplendent in a gold-embroidered jacket and a saffron-colored head scarf. As per local custom, the bride's face is covered by her sari, so that Dada has to steer her toward where the wedding mandap has been set up. Someone puts two heavy rose and jasmine garlands around the necks of the bride and the groom. They smell cloyingly sweet, heavy as a premonition. For a second, the scent of the flowers, the heat under the veil, the sheer duplicity of what she's about to do, it all gets to her, and she thinks she is about to faint. But just then strong arms steady her—she's not sure whose—and she feels herself maneuvered to sit in front of the sacred fire that's burning in an urn set on the mandap. She fights a moment of panic. It is all happening too soon. Even though she knows Adit insisted on a simple ceremony—he arrived at the reception hall in a car instead of on a white horse, for instance—she had not expected things to move this fast. She had thought there would be more time. Even through her sari, she feels the heat of the fire around which they sit cross-legged. She hears the sonorous chanting of the priests. It is happening. She is getting married. In another moment, she feels him taking her hand in his. She tenses, wondering if he will notice anything, but as the seconds pass, there is only the chanting by the priests. When directed, they feed rice into the fire, still holding hands. She feels blind, being led into a new life by a force stronger than her will, and finds that she doesn't mind the feeling. Next they walk around the fire seven times. They are now husband and wife. As proof of their life together, one end of the groom's head scarf is tied to the bride's sari. They take seven steps into their new life together. Each step symbolizes something meaningful—strength, prosperity, happiness, harmony, and the like. As the priest explains the meaning of each step, the sob in the bride's throat grows larger.

It is time for the bride and groom to feed each other a sweet, a symbol of the sweetness of married life. She breaks off a piece of ladoo and places it delicately into his mouth. It is his turn. Before he can feed his beloved new bride, he has to lift the veil. His hands shake slightly from the anticipation of seeing that beautiful face, a face he has told his sister he has been unable to forget from the first time he set his eyes on it. He raises the veil and sees a different face peering at him. Already, there are tears in the eyes gazing at him, and beyond the tears, a deep, dark fear. But he barely registers all this. The shock, the disappointment, the confusion is too great.

A moment passes. Then another. Then someone screams. Maybe it's the groom. Maybe his sister. In any case, it seems to the bride as if this scream will never stop. As if it will reverberate through time, through history, through the dark, dingy tunnel called her future, so that she will hear it every day, every minute of every day, for the rest of her life.

L
AKSHMI HAD FINISHED
her story, but they did not speak. As they walked around the lagoon, it was as if they were both hearing it, the scream that Lakshmi had described. Maggie knew she should say something, that Lakshmi was expecting her to, but she couldn't. None of it made any sense to her—the deceit, the betrayal, the sheer chutzpah of it. Like something from a movie. Who in real life acted this way? But then she remembered this had happened in India, and India was not real life. The most heartbreaking, most desperate, most bizarre stories she had ever heard all came from India. It wasn't just the poverty. Even among Sudhir's middle-class relatives, such stories were legion. Every story was epic; every emotion was exaggerated; every action was melodramatic. Desperate love, mad obsessions, outbursts of rage, bizarre self-sacrifice, self-immolation. Young women eating rat poison, jumping off buildings, or burning themselves alive. Young men throwing themselves onto railroad tracks in the path of oncoming trains. It was as if they didn't value their bodies at all. And all this self-destruction over issues that in the West would be solved by a simple elopement or estrangement from one's parents or a move to a different city.

Knowing that her distaste was showing on her face, knowing that Lakshmi was watching her carefully, Maggie forced her mind away from these thoughts. After all, there were more urgent matters at hand. Lakshmi had come to her with this confession because she needed absolution. Maggie could scarcely imagine the guilt that the woman had been living with. Well, yes, she could, but this was about Lakshmi, not her. She knew she should say something kind and reassuring to her client, but what? The honest fact was that her sympathies had changed. For almost a year, she'd seen Lakshmi as a victim, a semiliterate immigrant woman trapped in an inhospitable marriage. Lakshmi had just rewritten the narrative so that the villain now seemed like the hero. Well, not quite the hero, but at least a sympathetic character. It made Maggie question all the counsel that she had given Lakshmi, question the very foundation of her therapy. She couldn't imagine staying married to someone who had pulled such a huge fraud. Why had Adit?

“Why didn't he just leave?” she asked. “I mean, he obviously sent for you, applied for your visa and everything. Once he learned the truth, why didn't he just, you know, divorce you?”

“That what I thinking will happen, surely. I marries him to spare gossip about Shilpa. This way, she can tell that unmarried older sister lie and cheat to be first to marry. Also, that way, divorce is my fault. Not the husband's. That my thinking. But Maggie, what you know? So much commotion and upset at the wedding ceremony. And my husband shouting, shouting at my poor dada. Calling him a badmash, a chor—you know, a crook and thief. Finally, I say to him, any name you wanting to call, you calls me. Not my dada. So he call me a wicked name, but his old father go up to him and hold his arm. ‘Chup, beta, chup,' the old man say. ‘You don't talk to my new daughter-in-law in this manner.'”