Imaginary Men (2 page)

Auntie grips my elbow. “This is my accomplished great-niece, Lina. Lina, Nikhil Ghose.”

I stiffen, dust stinging my eyes.

“Pleased, pleased,” Mrs. Ghose says, nodding sideways.

“Lina plays classical piano and cooks very well,” Auntie says. “She's here from America for short time, nah? You must come round for tea.”

Dumbfounded, I stare at Auntie. Cooks very well? I can pour milk over Lucky Charms, but Indian food is a mystery. And piano? This is a conspiracy. Auntie must've spoken to Ma, and now they're desperate to arrange my marriage. I'll never agree to a match with Pee-wee. He makes me want to drown myself in the Ganges River.

His mother gives me the once-over, and her lips turn down in a sneer. “She's a bit
thin
, nah? Living in America all this time? Our good girls go thin and wild in America.”

“I wasn't raised by wolves,” I say.

“She's witty as well,” Auntie says.

“I like my women wild.” Nikhil gives me a disgusting wink. He even has Pee-wee's voice.

I focus on the ground. He probably thinks I like him and I'm looking down out of shyness.

“Lina's a good girl,” Auntie Kiki says. “Fitness craze in America has made her thin. Everyone wants to be slim there. They are doing these exercises, that exercises, all the time jogging, aerobics, spinning, Pirates—”

“Pilates, Auntie,” Kali says, smiling. She's going along with this farce.

Nikhil's mother stares hard at me. Gradually, her lips lift at the corners. “Well, we're pleased, of course, that you're
Sahadev
Ray's daughter.
Doctor
Ray's daughter.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Ghose.” Darn, she traced my lineage. For once, I wish I were a sweeper's child. These things matter in India—whose daughter you are, whose granddaughter you are, who your second cousin twice removed is. Women have goals and dreams, but they often keep them secret, tucked away in their underwear drawers to be worn beneath their clothes, necessary but unseen.

“We shall come for tea, of course. Very pleased.” Nikhil's mother is all impressed, my thinness and Americanness forgotten. She turns to Auntie. “The Rays are staying with you? When shall I bring Nikhil?”

He steps closer until I smell his curry breath.

“Tomorrow?” Auntie says.

No, not tomorrow. Not any day. Get me out of here. I'll sit on the curb, contemplate the sewer system, anything but listen to Auntie set me up with Pee-wee. I force a smile and hope the sweat doesn't show through the armpits of my
choli
.

“We'll still be here tomorrow,” Kali says. I glare at her.

Nikhil's mother smiles. “Tomorrow shall suit us well. Lina, Nikhil is successful in business, nah? Manufacturing and import-export. He'll give you grand tour of the factories.”

“Just the two of us.” Nikhil spears me with a lecherous gaze.

My shoulders tense up. “Thanks, but I won't have time. Lots of relatives to visit—”

“Lina!” Auntie shouts. “We'll find the time.”

“I really don't think—”

“We'll arrange, nah?” Nikhil's mother resumes reciting his many glowing attributes.

He stands so close, his hot breath sears my cheek. Sweat beads on my brow, and nausea builds in my throat. The
Jaws
theme plays in my mind, and then the answer glows like a rainbow. Of course, of course.

“I have some news,” I say.

“News? What is this?” Auntie asks. Her lips tighten.

All goes quiet.

I give a knowing smile. “I was waiting for the right moment, but maybe—” I pause for effect.

Nikhil steps back. His mother blinks.

“What? What's this news?” Auntie's eyes widen. “No, you're not. You're … already engaged?”

I nod, although it's a big, fat lie.

“Oh, Vishnu! Why did your Ma not say?” Auntie shouts. “All this time we were arranging your engagement to Nikhil!”

Arranging my engagement? Before I'd even met him? This is worse than I thought.

Tongues cluck and gossip flies. Kali narrows her gaze. Perhaps she sees through my deception. “Is this true?”

“Yes, it's true. My fiancé is quite high up.” I gaze into the dusty, darkening sky. “Accomplished. Rich. Very handsome. Gentlemanly and a bit dangerous.” I'm already beginning to picture him in my mind. He looks a lot like Nathu.

Oohs and aahs.

“Is he Indian?” Kali asks a question the others wouldn't bother to pose. They just assume.

“In a manner of speaking,” I say. “He's the perfect man.”

“What does he look like?”

“Tall. Dark, wavy hair. The most beautiful eyes—he's a dream.”

“Sounds a little too perfect,” Kali says.

“Why is this man not with you?” Nikhil snaps.

“He travels all the time. Here and there. Riding elephants into the jungle, touring his palaces, several properties—”

“How can you stand being away from him?” Kali asks. “Don't you miss him terribly?”

“Like the devil.” I sigh. “But he sends postcards.”

“E-mails? Love letters?”

I nod. “He embeds photos and poems in the messages—”

“All this was happening, and you didn't tell?”

I smile. “Isn't the Internet amazing?”

Mrs. Ghose huffs. “Come, Nikhil.” She grabs his arm and yanks him away in search of another victim. My shoulders relax.

Auntie nearly swoons. “Congratulations are in order. We must summon your parents—”

“They don't know yet,” I say quickly. “It's a love match, not arranged.”

“They don't know?” Auntie's eyebrows rise, and her cheeks puff outward.

“Things are different in America. Parents don't chaperone their daughters on dates.”

“Ah, yes, this can't be helped. All the same, this is good news. Marriage is marriage. Is it an auspicious match?”

“I believe the stars are aligned just right.”

“Who is he? What's his name?” Kali asks.

“It's a surprise. He'll be traveling for … a few more weeks.” With every lie, I dig a deeper hole. I might as well climb in and let the dirt fall on top of me.

Auntie clasps and unclasps her hands. She's in planning mode. “I must meet this man and make sure he is more suitable than Nikhil.”

“More suitable? I already know he is—”

“
I
must know!”

“Of course, Auntie. Your approval will honor me.”

She smoothes her ruffled sari. “
Bhalo
. You'll bring him to India?”

Bring him? “He has business in San Francisco.”

How will I maintain this charade? Soon I'll have to say Mr. Perfect and I have split up. He found a girlfriend in Germany or Italy, on his travels. He'll go when I want him to go. But I can't marry Pee-wee. What to do?

“You'll bring him to India for a Bengali wedding, of course,” Auntie says.

“When the time comes.” No matter how long we've lived in America, we must return to India for this rite of passage.

I slip into the house to the bathroom. I lean my elbows on the sink and focus on breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I can't afford to have a panic attack here, in a Kolkata bathroom with a concrete floor and old-fashioned toilet with a chain hanging down.

I gaze into the mirror, at the black kohl smudged beneath my eyes. My hair, cut to my shoulders, is frizzy in the humidity.

“Lina, Lina, on the wall,” I say to my reflection, then let out a crazy giggle. “Who's the biggest liar of them all?”

I
pull myself together and return to the courtyard in time to witness the
sindoor daan
. Durga's handsome groom applies the symbol of marriage to her hair part: a red stain of henna called the
sindoor
. If she's a good Hindu woman, she'll wear this symbol until her death.

Durga has a
sindoor
now. Ah well, who wants to wear henna on her scalp all the time and endure Americans asking, Why do you have blood in your hair? Did you cut your head?

I'm happy for her. May she and her groom, Amit, live a long and blissful life, have many tall, fair-skinned children—
all of whom will be married off before the age of twenty—and live happily ever after.

The bride and groom rise to take the traditional seven steps together.

Auntie returns to my side. “Ah, the
saptapadi
!” she whispers in my ear. Her breath emits the odor of garlic. “Step one pays homage to the Almighty, the next is a promise of cooperation, the third a promise of discipline. The fourth is a promise to discover joy, the fifth is for the sake of children, the sixth is for family prosperity, and the seventh is for the blessing of mutual company.”

“Why don't they just dance as they do in Hindi movies?” I say. I like the promise to discover joy, but I'd gladly discard the other six steps. The wedding ceremony ends, and the bride and groom kneel to touch the feet of their elders.

There's a rush as relatives and friends gather to bestow their blessings. I weave through the crowd and hug Durga, who exudes the scents of sweat and jasmine perfume.

“Congratulations, sweetie. Long life together and much happiness.” I hold her warm hands in mine.

Tears brighten her eyes. “Thank you, Didi, and now you're the one who should be congratulated. Finally engaged. I thought you were too scared!” She kisses my cheeks. She has always called me Didi, “elder sister.”

I'm in such trouble now. “I'm not marrying Pee-wee—I mean, Nikhil Ghose. Just so we have that straight, right?”

“Of course you're not. But he must be devastated, nah? You have a mystery man!”

“News travels fast in India.” I was in the bathroom for all of five minutes.

“Everyone knows. Congratulations.” Amit shakes my hand with his large one. Close up, he looks even more like Johnny Depp with a permanent tan.

“Thanks, I think.”

“You and your fiancé must visit us in our new house!” Durga says.

“When I'm ready for the boondocks.”

She and Amit live in a protected suburb of Los Angeles, where lawns unfold like perfect green napkins. “Why don't you move to San Francisco, near me?”

“Is the city any place to raise children, Lina? What with gangs and burglaries—”

“I've never had a problem. I have a view of Coit Tower and the city lights. I can even go out on the roof.” I don't go on the roof too often these days. Roofs are romantic places made for two.

“When you marry, you may have to move,” Durga says. “Children need playgrounds, not views. You can't have them falling off the roof.”

“I haven't thought that far ahead.” My skin prickles with irritation. I don't have a real man, and already she's talking about children.

“The time is coming sooner than you think, nah?” Amit winks as we're carried along on a current of guests heading inside for the reception.

In the dining room on the first floor, Auntie has spread a feast on long tables—rice and
dahl
, curry and potatoes, and sweet
roshogollas
for dessert. I hide in the crowd, but Ma finds me in a heartbeat. She's slim, with a moon-shaped face and frizzy hair like mine. She looks truly Indian in her traditional green sari, the
bindi
on her forehead; you'd never know she wears jeans to the university in Santa Barbara, where she teaches mechanical engineering.

“My little girl is leaving. The full impact is just now hitting, nah?” She presses a hand to her chest as if damming a torrent of tears.

“You can visit them in boondockville.”

Ma shakes her head. “What's your mother supposed to feel when her daughter is married? Is she not supposed to shed tears of joy and grief?”

“I'm sorry. It's been a trying day. All the festivities. I hope this goes off well, or people will accuse me of setting up a bad match.”

“Finally, you've found a good match for yourself too.” Ma touches my cheek. “Ah, Lina. After Nathu, I never thought—”

“Ma—” I take her hand from my cheek and hold her cool fingers in mine. I want to tell her I lied. I want to explain, but the words won't come.

“How could you keep this from your mother? Auntie Kiki and Uncle Gula came and gave congratulations, and I was pretending to know all about your fiancé. Lucky I'm a good actress.”

A skill I inherited. “I was planning to tell you, Ma.” I step away and grab a
roshogolla
from the table.

“Baba's indigestion has returned, you know. Ulcer last winter, and he never fully recovered. This news will make him well.”

“I'm glad.” I nod and smile as relatives go by, but my stomach turns upside down. Baba's health problems worry me.

“We're so happy for you.” Ma's eyes shine with concentrated joy, and I don't have the heart to undo my lie. “What's his name?”

“It's a secret for the moment.”

“A secret? Why? What does his father do? Does he come from a good family? Does he make enough money to support you?”

“He makes loads of money—”

“Good. You'll tell all.”

“Not now, Ma. Later. We must entertain the guests.”

“Then soon, nah?” She leaves me with fake answers on my tongue and flits off to join my father, a half-balding man talking to the groom's father.

I can handle Baba from a distance. He resembles any other Indian father-of-the-bride, puffing with pride. And I
can handle him at his office, where he wears a white coat and stethoscope, jots prescriptions, and orders the nurses around. When he tries to order me around, my fingers curl into fists and my jaw clenches. His bushy brows gather like a storm, the tightness in his lips saying I've failed him.

I wonder what he thinks of me now. What would he do if he knew the truth? He would disown me; tell everyone he never had a daughter named Lina.