I’m breathing heavy. I think I had fallen asleep for a few minutes. Quickly, I spring off the bed, pull whatever book I can from the nearby table, and hop back into the bed. Right before my mother enters, I lean back against the wall, crossing my legs and pretending to read. I can hear my own heartbeats.
“So, beta,” she says, referring to me as her daughter, “did you like Raag?” She stands at the threshold, grinning with the energy of a demon.
This is a typical question in the arranged marriage process. The only difference in our situation is that rather than talking face to face with my would-be husband, I spoke with Raag on the phone. Most of the time you get one such meeting, or if you are lucky, you get two.
I like him. But do I want to get married to him and leave this life behind for him?
My mother is dressed for the night in her long green nightgown, her dark hair tied up in a low bun. Her jewelry stays on her regardless of the day or night: mangalsutra—a necklace made of black and gold beads, a symbol of marriage—golden dangling earrings, and red and gold bangles. A big red bindi rests between her dark eyebrows and above her cute nose, striking on her lovely round face. Though age has loosened her skin, she looks rather charming. Some say I look like my mother, only that I inherited a golden tan from my father. My sister, on the other hand, got my mother’s very light complexion.
“Mayu?” my mother asks again.
“Mummy…it’s just one call. How would I know?” I sulk.
My subconscious does not hold back. Liar! I did lie. I like Raag. Maybe a lot.
Cleverly I hide the fact that I asked Raag to talk more, to have a few more phone calls. For my mother, speaking to Raag more will be marrying him and having his kids and living happily ever after in the United States of America. My sweet innocent mother’s dream. However, the thought of having Raag as a life partner is slowly invading my brain and infesting my neurons. They are not in harmony.
“What do you want to do?” She shows her impatience and a pang of anger in that question.
“I don’t know!” I mumble.
Keep it up. Don’t let your mother intimidate you, I tell myself.
“How come you don’t know? You talked to him for an hour. I have to answer Preeto Auntie, Raag’s mother, too.”
“Tell her I am still thinking,” I snap. “You can ask Auntie to let me know what Raag thinks,” I say in an attempt to put the ball in Mr. Purohit’s court. I really want to know his answer, although he clearly denied answering before knowing mine. I wonder what the reason could be.
I am surprised at my expectations, though. It was not so long ago that I was bunking the whole idea of arranged marriage altogether.
“Hey, Bhagwan! I don’t know why you are not clear on this!” my mother yells. “When your father came to see me the first time, I talked to him for five minutes! Look at us now! We are happily married for the last twenty-five years.” She barges into the room, stops near the computer table, and starts arranging my scattered books lying on it.
There she goes.
All that bubbling love that erupted minutes ago has evaporated and is now turning into vapor, as she is seething. Magically she produces a cleaning cloth hidden on the side of the table and starts hitting the books as if to make them disappear.
God, it’s almost 11:00 at night. Nothing needs cleaning at this hour.
“Mummy, you at least saw Pappa in person for five minutes! I just talked with Raag. I don’t know how he looks…and he hasn’t seen me either,” I snap, looking at her. But I quickly look back into my book as she comes to a sudden stop.
“You have the picture. Don’t you?” She slams the deck of the books on the table hard with a cleaning cloth.
My poor books!
She opens the drawer, pulls something out, and hands it to me. It’s his picture. She sits on the black revolving chair next to the table, like a dragon breathing fire. “Look how good-looking he is!”
Now that I observe his picture, I cannot disagree with my mother. There is a serenity about his beautifully chiseled face, his towering figure, his broad shoulders. He is, without a doubt, handsome. His smile is the most honest I have ever seen. Suddenly, the black on black he wears is in fashion.
“Look, he stays in America. He is the only son. He is in IT. You are in IT. Educated family. I know his mother for years. Very good people too.” She speaks as fast as she can. “They don’t have an issue with your studies. In fact, they will be happy if you wanted to work after marriage. What else do you want?” She is selling him, totally. I wonder why my father never considered my mother as one of his salespeople. She could sell a comb to a bald guy. Cleverly, she is avoiding mentioning his half-Punjabi status.
Auntie Preeto’s husband Uncle Jitu was Gujarati. They had a love marriage. From what I heard, it was like both of their families broke all ties with them. Auntie Preeto came to Gujarat with Uncle Jitu. Unfortunately, Uncle Jitu passed away in a car accident.
I have met Auntie Preeto at some social gatherings some time back. She seemed like a strong, graceful lady. I kind of like her too.
Not bad for a mother-in-law.
“Mayuri, I am talking with you.” My mother harshly breaks my train of thoughts.
“Mummy…I said, I need time. That’s all.” I sigh and hold my head between my hands.
My mother gets up and takes the phone lying on the table. “I will tell the same to Preeto Auntie. We can only try. Whatever is in your stars will happen. I am telling you that you won’t get a guy like him.”
The temperature in the room is boiling. I dare to peek at my mother through my eyelashes as she stares at me with those burning eyes. Oh, if looks could kill. Her excitement-filled entry has turned into a disappointment-filled exit.
“Mummy, please tell Auntie that I need time.” I look straight into her eyes where she stands, seething. That’s a little intimidating for me, but I have to hold my ground. She slams the cleaning cloth on the table, turns, and heads downstairs.
I hear her blabbering something about my age and choices of suitable men for marriage, and some other usual stuff. I get up and close the door behind her and stand leaning against it. Taking a long calming breath, I close my eyes. She is correct about one thing: I may not get to know a man like Raag.
Assuming my impromptu hotline with the almighty God, I open the complaint box. Why did you bring this man into my life? I was supposed to talk with Mr. Right for no more than ten minutes and reject him. Now, this amazing person, Mr. Raag Purohit, calls right in, and my whole universe turns upside down.
Raag is someone—or maybe the only one—in this world with whom I felt comfortable to share my real emotions, my viewpoints, my thoughts and feelings. There is definitely a connection of some sort. It doesn’t happen every day. At least, it hasn’t happened to me ever. Raag respects my rights and respects me. He is willing to help, is ready to make things easier for me.
Then there is a knock on the door. “Mayuri, open the door!” my little sister Bansari commands.
Just as I open the door, the fairy-like tiny creature, dressed in dark pink capris and a light pink T-shirt, rushes into the room and starts to mutter while riffling through her books in the lower cabinet.
“This is my room too! Keep the door unlocked. You may go to sleep, and I may have to sleep outside. I am in eleventh-grade science. My time is important!”