Authors: Shilpi Somaya Gowda
D
ADIMA INSISTS
A
SHA ATTEND THE BRIDE’S
MEHNDI
CEREMONY
with her cousins, though she herself is not going. “I am an old lady, these things are not for me. You girls go and enjoy.”
Priya brings Asha a pale blue chiffon
salwar khameez,
thankfully less ostentatious than the outfit they purchased for the wedding. On their way to the party, Priya explains the
mehndi
is only for women, close family and friends who gather before the wedding to decorate the bride’s hands and feet with henna. The Thakkars are invited because Dadima’s mother was good friends with Mrs. Rajaj’s mother from their days in Santa Cruz, though both women are long since deceased.
When they arrive at the palatial Rajaj home, Asha discovers that the allegedly intimate nature of the
mehndi
means this evening’s guests will number only in the hundreds, rather than the thousands who will attend the wedding. Inside the vast marble foyer, there are musicians playing lively Indian music, a harmonium player and a
tabla
drummer. In the distance, Asha sees a dining table set with a
magnificent buffet of silver dishes and begins to drift in that direction. Priya catches her by the arm and whispers, “First, we must say hello,” nodding slightly with her chin in the direction of the grand living room. The bride is seated on a thronelike chair atop a raised platform. One woman sits at her feet, another works on her hands. Each of them holds a small plastic cone filled with olive green paste. As she draws closer, Asha sees the women are creating designs on the bride’s skin that are indescribably intricate—a flowering branch climbing up the back of her hand and over to her palm, which is covered in swirls and spirals. Even more impressive, both
mehndi
artists appear to be drawing freehand, without looking at anything. In fact, they carry on a conversation with each other and the guests all the while.
“Come on now, make sure it’s nice and dark.” One of the bride’s friends teases the hand artist. “We want the
mehndi
to last a good long time!”
“And make sure you make the initials as small as possible. We want him to really look hard.” Another friend laughs, kissing the bride on her head.
Priya guides Asha toward a cluster of older women as she explains, “It’s a tradition on the wedding night, the groom has to find his initials hidden in the design before the bride will let him…you know.” Priya smiles and winks. “Come, here she is.”
“Manjula Auntie!” Priya presses her palms together and bows slightly to one of the older women, swaddled in a burgundy silk sari, her artificially jet-black hair tied neatly into a bun. “Dadima sends her regards she couldn’t come tonight. This is my cousin from America,” she says, quickly turning to present Asha. “She’s just arrived. She’s come on a special scholarship. From America. Very prestigious.”
“Hello,
namaste
.” Asha tries to emulate her cousin’s easy way. “Nice to meet you.”
“Welcome,
betis
. So nice to have you,” Manjula Auntie says, taking Asha’s hands in her own plump ones. “Are you enjoying your time here? I do hope you will come tomorrow—we have a charter boat sailing around the harbor. I always say, that’s always the best way to see the lights of Mumbai at night, far away from the pollution!” She laughs heartily at her own joke, causing ripples through the belly rolls of fat exposed by her sari. “Please, help yourself to food. There is so much of it,” she says before excusing herself to greet another guest.
“Okay, that’s done,” Priya says and they head off to the buffet table. On the way over, Asha sees two more
mehndi
artists creating less elaborate, but still beautiful, designs on the hands and feet of other guests. Asha piles her china plate with
samosas, kachori,
and
pakora,
but is sparing with the assorted chutneys, having learned these tend to be too spicy for her. She reflects on Manjula Auntie’s comment about the harbor cruise and Mumbai’s pollution. She’s noticed the thick blanket of smog that covers the city most days and finds herself coughing quite often outside, but it also seems most of the fumes are emitted from the auto rickshaws and scooters that bear the Rajaj name. Manjula Auntie, old family friend, also happens to be quite the hypocrite. While they stroll around the vast house, Asha discreetly checks out the large marble statues of Indian gods and heavily embroidered tapestries that line the wall. Priya introduces her to several other women, but Asha misses much of the quick Gujarati banter among them.
Asha eats and watches the
mehndi
artists demonstrate their handiwork. When one of the artists is free, Priya nudges her forward. “Something simple,” Asha says, “like that, maybe.” She points to a sun design worn by another girl. In under five minutes, both of Asha’s palms are adorned with radiant spheres. The
mehndi
artist applies a layer of lemon juice and then oil to the design after it dries, and tells her to leave it on for as long as possible for a dark stain. In the morning, she is fascinated by the beautiful red designs left behind
after she scrapes off the dried mudlike material, and can’t stop looking at her own hands all day.
T
HE WEDDING TAKES PLACE TWO NIGHTS LATER
. A
S SOON AS
Asha walks through the gates of the Cricket Club of India, she stops cold at the sight before her. The entire grounds, perhaps the size of two football fields, are covered in luxurious furnishings that have been transported here for the occasion: ornate chaise lounges, carved tables, silk pillows, tented ceilings draped delicately overhead. It looks like an enormous outdoor palace. There are thousands of guests milling about, and an almost equivalent number of servers holding silver trays of food and drinks. Asha’s concerns about looking too flashy in her new
lengha
are supplanted by the realization that she is rather underdressed compared to other women, draped in lustrous saris and dripping with jewelry.
“Come on,
yaar,
” Priya says, grabbing her by the elbow. “Close your mouth, you look like you’ve never been to an Indian wedding before!” Asha follows her cousins around mutely for a while, staring in wonderment at the transformation of the cricket field. She wonders whether her parents’ wedding was like this, and then remembers the framed photo that hangs in their bedroom, of her mother in a simple sundress and her father in a suit at Golden Gate Park.
“…And this is Asha, my American cousin. She’s not only beautiful, but brilliant too,” Priya says, nudging her in the ribs. Asha shifts her attention to see an extended hand in front of her, and follows it all the way to its owner. Her eyes widen at the sight of him.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Sanjay,” he says with a British lilt in his voice.
“Yeah, me too. I’m Asha.”
“Yes, I know, Priya just told me. That’s a lovely name, do you know its meaning?”
Yes, of course I do. I’ve only been told by my parents a thousand times.
But she shakes her head mutely, hoping he will keep talking in his intoxicating voice.
“Hope. Your parents must have had big dreams for you.” He smiles, and Asha feels her legs wobble.
“Yeah.”
Shit.
Why can’t she say anything else? She notices his eyes are the color of soft caramel. From the corner of her eye, she sees Priya and Bindu are already steps away.
“Just get some food…come right back,” Priya says with a wink.
“So, from America? Do you come here often to visit your family?” Sanjay says.
“Well, actually, this is my first trip,” Asha says, finally recovering her ability to speak. “How about you? Are you from…England?”
“No, no. I’m a native Mumbaiite, born and raised just a few blocks from here. But I’ve been in England the past six years for university and graduate school.”
“Graduate school—for what?” She catches herself sounding like a reporter, but his easy smile reassures her.
“London School of Economics. I’m getting my master’s and then I hope to work someplace like the World Bank. That is, if my father doesn’t rope me into the family business first. How about you?”
“I’m in college, a place called Brown University in the United States. I’m here on a fellowship to do a project.”
“And what’s your project?”
“I’m doing a story on children living in poverty—in the slums, like Dharavi.” His eyes widen. “What, are you going to tell me to be careful, like everyone else?” she says.
“No.” He takes a sip of his drink. “I’m sure an intelligent woman like you understands the dangers.” His smile radiates heat that makes her feel like she’s melting. “So what have you learned so far?” Their conversation flows easily from there. At some point, they wander
over to the buffet table, which features at least fifty varieties of food. He carries her plate over to one of the velvet sofas where they sit down. He eats with his hands and encourages her to do the same. They talk about the upcoming elections in the United States, the conversion to the euro, and the World Cup. He laughs easily at her jokes, and makes sure her glass is always filled. The evening passes quickly, and she begins looking around for her cousins.
“So, tell me. You said this was your first trip to India. Why haven’t you come before?” Sanjay asks, his arm resting loosely on the back of the couch behind her.
His relaxed confidence has been contagious all evening, quelling the reporter in her. It feels as if he knows her already, and nothing she says can surprise him. Even so, she’s not ready to talk about this. She swallows and pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “That is a long story, too long to get into tonight. I’ll tell you another time.”
“Promise?” he says.
Her stomach flips over. “Promise.” She extends her hand, and instead of shaking it, he raises it to his lips and kisses it lightly, then covers it with his other hand. When she takes her hand back, she sees he’s left a card there, bearing his name and phone number.
Bindu and Priya appear next to her, as if on cue. “There you are. We’ve been looking for you. Absolutely impossible to find someone in this place. Madness.” Priya wears a sly smile.
They say their farewells, and as Asha turns to leave, Sanjay touches her arm. “Remember.” He smiles. “A promise is a promise.”
On the way home, while her cousins tease her about Sanjay, Asha reflects on his question, which she can’t answer because she doesn’t know herself.
O
N A
F
RIDAY AFTERNOON IN
N
OVEMBER
, S
OMER IS INVITED BY
Liza, another doctor at the clinic, to join a few colleagues for a drink after work. In no hurry to return to her apartment, a sublet from a graduate student in Madrid for the year, she agrees. The sparsely furnished one-bedroom apartment on a quiet tree-lined street a few blocks from campus is unremarkable, featuring the beige carpets and neutral walls characteristic of such rentals. Somer expected the place to give her a sense of freedom, unencumbered by the constant presence of Krishnan and his things. But each day when she returns to it, it simply feels empty.
They go to a wine bar in Palo Alto, one of the hip new places that have been built here since Somer was in medical school twenty-five years ago. Liza orders a glass of Shiraz and Somer, overwhelmed by the selection, asks for the same. Somer doesn’t know Liza well, other than that she’s single and an avid yoga practitioner, often showing up at work with a purple mat rolled under her arm. The clinic doctors gather once a month for their staff meeting, but otherwise
rush past each other in the hallways. At fifty-two, Somer is one of the older doctors in the group and the most tenured, having been there for over fifteen years. The relentless pace of the clinic, combined with the unpredictable clientele and dismal pay, leads to high turnover among the younger ambitious doctors.
Somer takes a sip of her wine and notices her colleagues seem able to shift from work to relaxation mode easily, shedding their white coats and swirling their wineglasses. Liza, whose hair is normally pulled back in a low ponytail, now wears it loose around her face. From the wiry gray strands in her dark curls and the lines etched around her eyes, she looks to be in her late forties, a few years younger than Somer. The conversation circulates through the predictable topics of eccentric patients, ornery nurses, and the recent election debacle. After the first glass of wine, most of the group excuse themselves to get home to waiting families.
“Well, I’m in no hurry.” Liza slides down the now-empty wooden bench toward Somer. “I left food out for my cat this morning. How about you?”
“Nope, I have nowhere to be either,” Somer answers, draining the last of the wine from her glass. She cannot bring herself to admit she and Kris are separated. It has only been a few weeks, and she is not yet used to the idea of living alone: she still makes too much coffee for one person in the morning and keeps the TV on all evening to compensate for the silence of the apartment. All her friends from medical school and the neighborhood are really their friends as a couple, and Somer hasn’t told them either.
“Great, another glass then,” Liza says to the waiter.
Somer watches, mesmerized, as the rich claret-colored liquid fills her glass again. Her head begins to feel pleasantly light.
“Hey,” Liza says, lowering her voice. “I was sorry to hear about the director position. I was sure you’d get the job. You’ve been there longer than anyone, and the staff loves you.”
“Yes, well, they found someone with more administrative experience, someone who’s actually been doing it full force for twenty years, not half-assed like I have.” Somer knows she shouldn’t say this, but she was disappointed about the promotion, and it feels good to finally talk to someone about it.
“Do you know anything about the guy they hired?”
Somer shakes her head. “Just that he’s coming from Berkeley.” She had been flattered when her retiring boss suggested she throw her hat in the ring. For a while, she allowed herself to be intrigued with the idea of focusing on her work again, investing herself in something new.
“So, what are your plans for the holidays, Somer?”
“I’m going down to San Diego to see my parents.” She wonders if it is possible this glass of wine tastes better than the first.
“That’ll be nice. Does your family go there every year?”
“My…no, actually.” Somer feels so warm all over, the rest of it comes tumbling out. “I’m going alone. My husband is going to India to visit his family. And our daughter, who’s there right now.” Somer takes another deep sip of her wine and continues. “I didn’t want to go, but my husband was really stubborn about it, so…” She shakes her head. “It’ll be good to have some time away from him. You’re lucky you’re not married, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” Somer’s laugh sounds a little loud for the small wood-paneled room, even to her.
“Well, I was married, actually,” Liza says, “for six years. I got divorced ten years ago. No kids, thankfully. At least that made the breakup easier. And how about the kids part of it? Is that all it’s cracked up to be?”
“Hmm.” Somer considers this. “Normally I would say yes, but that seems like a very complicated question right now.”
“That’s fair. I always feel compelled to ask, since that’s the reason—well, the main reason—my husband and I split up.”
“He didn’t want kids?” Somer says.
“No, he did, actually. Very much so. I didn’t,” Liza says. “I never had that driving desire to be a mother, and I started seeing what it did to my friends. It changed their marriages, their careers. It changed…them. They weren’t the same people anymore, they were like empty shells of their former selves.” Liza runs her index finger around the rim of the glass. “Maybe I’m selfish, but I really like who I am, and I didn’t want to lose all that. I like staying in shape. My career’s important to me. I didn’t want to give up traveling for ten years. I just looked ahead to a life with children and didn’t think I’d be happy with the trade-offs.” Liza shrugs her shoulders. “I guess it’s not for everyone.”
“Do you still think it was the right choice?” Somer asks before she can stop herself.
“Sometimes I wonder,” Liza says. “But most of the time, I’m really happy with my life. I love my job, my weekends are my own, I get to travel…By the way, I’m planning a trip to Italy next spring with a few friends, and my sister just canceled because she’s having knee surgery. If you’re interested in coming along, it’ll be a great trip—bicycling in Tuscany, delicious food, great wine. Just the girls.” Liza smiles as she lifts the glass to her lips.
“Hmmm. That’s tempting. Especially the part about leaving my husband behind.” Somer drains the rest of her wine, the warmth now spreading all over her body.
“You know, I’m meeting my Italy friends for dinner tonight at that new Singaporean restaurant. Why don’t you join us, if you don’t have plans?”
L
ATER, OVER PLATES OF CRISPY CALAMARI AND SATAY SKEWERS,
Somer meets Liza’s friends, both single women in their forties. “I’m Sundari,” one of them says. She wears her sun-bleached hair in two
braids, one resting on each shoulder. “It’s my spiritual name,” she explains. “It means beautiful in Sanskrit. And Hindi. And my cat is named Buddha. I’ve got all my bases covered.” Sundari smiles as she picks up a menu. “I always forget how hard it is for me to order here. Aren’t there any vegans in Singapore?”
“You know,” Liza says, “Somer’s husband is from India.”
“Really?” Sundari puts her menu down. “That is so cool. I love India. I went to New Delhi a few years ago for a friend’s wedding. Arranged marriage, the whole thing. They dressed me up in a sari and did the henna on my hands. I loved it. Did you do that? Then I traveled to Agra and saw the Taj Mahal. Such an amazing country. I would love to go back and see more of it. I hear the south is really beautiful. Have you been there? Where is your husband from?”
Somer waits to see if Sundari expects an answer this time, then simply says, “Mumbai.”
“You’re so lucky. I would love to get married in a sari. For a white girl from Kansas like me, it’s all very exciting.” Sundari giggles.
A woman in a blue pantsuit arrives at the table looking harried and pulls out a chair. “Can I get a cosmo?” she says to a waiter, not theirs, passing by. “Sorry I’m late, girls. I had a showing at five o’clock, then Justin insisted I read him three books. I only got out of there because I told the sitter he could watch cartoons. Resorting to bribery with my six-year-old, aren’t I a great mother?”
“Yes, Gail, you are,” Sundari says, holding up her martini glass for a toast. “Especially considering you have to be mother
and
father most of the time.”
“Gail, this is my friend Somer,” Liza says. “She works at the clinic with me. I’m trying to convince her to join us in Italy next spring.”
Gail clinks glasses with Somer across the table. “Great, the more the merrier. I’m still trying to get Tom to take Justin for that week.
My ex,” she says for Somer’s benefit. “He’s such a pain about switching weeks with me, he always has to check with his girlfriend first. I never imagined when I got divorced that my schedule would be at the mercy of the other woman.”
“’Tis better to have loved and lost…,” Sundari says, with a dreamy look.
“Sundari’s our hopeless romantic.” Liza shakes her head, smiling.
“Still looking for Mr. Right, if you know any candidates,” Sundari says. “Hey, maybe it’s time for me to have an arranged marriage.”
“Trust me, honey,” Gail says after taking a gulp of her drink, “there are no Mr. Rights left, not at our age. The question is, how much wrongness can you tolerate?” She throws her head back and lets out a big laugh, causing the waiter who has just arrived to take a step back.
S
OMER AWAKENS THE NEXT MORNING TO A HEAVY ACHE IN HER
head and a dry mouth. She rolls over slowly and opens one eye to see her alarm clock showing 10:21
A.M
. The aspirin is in the bathroom medicine chest, an unbearable distance away. She moves her head slowly back to the pillow and looks up at the white ceiling, the paint cracking at the corners where it meets the wall. She thinks back to the night before—two glasses of wine at the bar, a few more drinks at the restaurant—more than she’s had to drink in a long time. She had a good time with Liza and her friends: they were fun and helped take her mind off things for a while. Still, Somer wouldn’t want to trade places with any of them. Liza, who is perfectly happy being child free, as she calls it. Gail, struggling to make a living, raise a child, and manage an ex-husband. And Sundari, still looking for love in her fifth decade but settling for a relationship with a cat named Buddha.
Somer rolls over to escape the sunlight streaming across her pil
low.
Too old for a hangover
. Fifty-two. Separated from her husband. Living in a student apartment. Working at the same place so long she’s become a fixture but still isn’t qualified to be in charge.
Not how I pictured my life.
It seems as if everything she’s cared about over the past twenty-five years has disintegrated, oblivious to the time and energy she has invested. She can call herself a physician but can’t take the same pride in this she used to. She is not really a wife at the moment, not much of a mother. Somewhere along the way, Somer realizes, she has lost herself.
She can’t quite put her finger on when her marriage fell apart. When she thinks of Krishnan now, he hardly seems to be the same man she remembers from Stanford. This Krishnan is impatient and dismissive, like some stereotype of the egotistical neurosurgeon they used to joke about in medical school. He no longer has the tenderness and the innocence he had when he first came here from India. He doesn’t need Somer the way he did when she taught him to drive and operate a microwave oven. He hasn’t lost himself in her eyes over dinner or held her hand proudly as they walk down the street in a long time.
She tries to remember the last time they were truly happy. Asha’s high school graduation? Hawaii, their last real family vacation? At some point after Asha went to college, the distance between her and Krishnan grew. By the time their daughter left for India, they were too far apart. It was as if they stood on opposite sides of a lake, neither of them having the ability to cross the distance between. The angry words they hurled fell like stones to the bottom of the water, leaving ripples of sadness on the surface.
Somer sits up slowly and waits for the pounding in her head to subside before getting out of bed. In the bathroom, she splashes cold water on her face and supports herself on the sink while she retrieves the aspirin from behind the mirror. After closing it again, she catches her reflection, the image of a middle-aged woman.
Fifty-two
. In a
few weeks, Krishnan will leave to join Asha in India, and Somer will be left here alone. And although it is her husband who will be boarding the plane to fly away, just as their daughter did months ago, Somer cannot help wondering if she’s the one who drove them to do so. If she, in fact, left them first.