The Mango Season (18 page)

“I think so,” Nate said. “I know it looks like I don’t care about them, that I’m aloof. The ditz is right. I am aloof. I don’t . . . You were always closer to them, Priya. I never thought I could compete. I never thought that
Thatha
would get close to me the way he was to you. Even with
Nanna
, I don’t have that closeness you do. I envy you . . . a lot.”

“Well, envy no more. I’m losing it all,” I said, a little flabbergasted that the nonchalant Nate was after all not all that nonchalant. How we had all misjudged him.

“No, you’re not.” Nate sighed. “They’ll never let go of you.
Nanna
loves you, he loves us both, I know that, but I know that he has this . . . this special relationship with you.”

I didn’t deny it. I had always known that
Nanna
and I had a closer bond. Maybe because I was the firstborn, maybe because I was a daughter, maybe because I was Priya.

“And how about Ma?”

“Ma will surprise you,” Nate said, and smiled. “She may nag, she may be a real pain in the ass, but when the chips are down, she’ll be there for both of us. No question about it.”

“I wish I was that confident,” I said. “She slapped me . . . twice in two days now.”

“That’s her way of showing love,” Nate said, and we both burst out laughing.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Nick earlier?” Nate asked. “You’ve been together for . . .”

“Three years and living together for two of them,” I supplied. “I didn’t want to tell anyone here. Frankly, I was scared what your reaction would be. An American, a foreigner! I . . . just didn’t want to say anything to anyone about him.”

“What’s he like?”

“He’s nice, a good guy. An accountant, how is that for stable and steady?” I said, and Nate grinned. “Accountant Nick! He is . . . he plays racquetball; it’s like squash. You’d like him. He hates Madonna, loves Julia Roberts, thinks Salma Hayek is sexy and would like to sleep with Halle Berry. He’s tall, dark, and handsome, at least I think so. He’s stubborn, hates long lines, does this crazy thing when he has the hiccups. Drives me nuts.”

“What does he do?” Nate asked.

“He drinks three sips of water from a tall glass and after each sip he holds the glass up and looks at the bottom of the glass. Apparently it stops the hiccups.”

“And does it?”

“That’s the weird part, it does,” I said smiling. “I miss him. He wanted to come. Said it would be a
Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?
moment. I told him it would be more a
Guess Who’s Getting
Lynched?
moment.”

“It would definitely have been interesting,” Nate said, getting up from the bench. “You’ve got to believe, Priya, that love conquers all. You should’ve brought him along. Let the old people deal with it head-on.”

“Oh, this is scary enough. That would’ve been worse and I don’t need to be scared any more.”

I got up and looked at the bench longingly. I would’ve been content to sit there all night with Nate, but it was time to go.

There was still no sign of my father when I got back.
Thatha
and
Ammamma
had already gone to sleep; their bedroom lights were turned off and their door was halfway closed.

Ma and Sowmya were lying on straw mats in the hall talking. When I came and sat beside Sowmya, Ma turned away.

“I’ll go and sleep up on the terrace,” I told Sowmya, and she asked me to wait a second.

“
Akka
, I will go up with Priya. Is that okay?” she asked.

“Fine,” Ma muttered and got up. “I will sleep in the veranda bedroom then and wait for Ashwin to get back. Where has he gone? All your fault, Priya.”

I watched her walk out of the living room with detachment. I knew she was angry but now she was ready to blame me for global warming and war as well. I couldn’t take her seriously when she was so excessive.

“Jayant and Lata went home?” I asked.

“Sleeping in the dining room bedroom,” Sowmya said, and we rolled up the mats, gathered the pillows, and got ready for bed.

It was a beautiful warm night, despite the mosquitoes being out in the millions. We lit a mosquito coil close to our mats and lay down facing each other, our cheeks pillowed against our folded hands.

“Where did you go?” Sowmya asked.

“Nate took me to meet his girlfriend and then we sat at Tankbund,” I told her.

“Is she nice-looking?”

“Yes, very cute. But North Indian,” I said. “Ma will hate her.”

“
Abba
, your Ma will hate anyone Nate marries, even if it is a girl she picks out herself,” Sowmya said.

“I wonder where
Nanna
went.” I sighed.

Sowmya sat up and looked at me. “I need your advice on something.”

“What?” I sat up, too.

“I want to talk to Vinay . . . all alone. How can we do it?”

“Why?”

“They said they would make a proposal. They need to look through the horoscopes or something before they—”

“When did this happen?” I asked.

“They called right after you left,” Sowmya said in exasperation. “Things have never come this far before so
Nanna
is very happy, ready to give anything to get rid of me. But . . . I want to talk to him and if he is not to my liking, I don’t want to marry him.”

I stared at her and blinked. “What?”

“What do you mean, what? Just because I am thirty years old doesn’t mean I will marry any man who comes my way. He is nice. He seems like a good person, but I want to talk to him,” she said, strong determination in her voice. “What do you think?”

“I think you definitely should talk to the man before you—”

“I have his phone number. I need for you to call him and set up a meeting for tomorrow,” Sowmya said, talking over me, as if she had it all planned. “We can meet at Minerva. And you will have to come along. I need you for support.”

I sat up and blew out some air. “If they find out . . .”

“You are already in trouble, this won’t make things any worse for you,” she said with unfailing logic. “So will you call him?”

“Sure,” I said. “First thing tomorrow morning.”

“Good. It is a Sunday so he will be at home,” Sowmya said, smiling. “I am going to change my life, Priya. I am going to change it. I am not just going to sit down and let them do what they want. . . . I am going to decide what I want to do.”

I was amazed. This was not the Sowmya I knew. But the Sowmya I knew was seven years in the past. This Sowmya had had experiences and epiphanies I didn’t even know about. This Sowmya was a revelation.

“What happened?”

“You,” she said sincerely. “You are like me, Priya. We come from the same background, same place, but you have a different life. I want to have a different life, too. I don’t mean I want to marry an American or anything, I just want to do the things I want to do.”

“Like?”

“Work. I got a job offer to be an assistant at this doctor’s office. She is a friend of mine and she needs help.
Nanna
said there was no way I could do it, but now, I think I will,” she said, her face lighting up with the new life she was dreaming up. “And I want to stop wearing saris. I want to only wear
salwar kameez
. This sari is so uncomfortable. And I want to go to America to see your house and see that country.”

“You are very welcome to visit,” I said, enjoying this new Sowmya.

“So you will call him, right?”

“Absolutely.”

Part Five

Leftovers

Perugannam (Curd Rice)

2 cups cooked rice
1 ½–2 cups thick curd (yogurt)
½ cup milk
salt to taste
½ cup fried peanuts
1 tablespoon finely chopped coriander leaves

Ingredients for the Seasoning
1 teaspoon oil
½ teaspoon mustard seeds
½ teaspoon Bengal
gram
(yellow
dal
)
½ teaspoon split black
gram
(black
dal
)
1 dry red chile, broken into bits
1 green chile, finely chopped
1-inch piece of ginger, finely chopped
5 curry leaves

In a wok, heat oil and when the oil is very hot, add the mustard seeds. Once the mustard seeds start to crackle, add the rest of the spices and fry until they are golden brown. Be careful not to burn the spices. Add the thick curd to the wok and stir until it liquefies and mixes well with the spices. Put all the rice inside as well and mix thoroughly so that it is completely coated with the yogurt and spice mixture. Garnish with peanuts and coriander. Serve warm or cold with lime or mango pickle.

Bridegrooms and Boyfriends

I woke up to the sound of metal crashing against cement. I sat up, zombielike, when there was another sharp crash. I looked around with blind, sleep-ridden eyes.

Who the f——?

Sowmya was still sleeping and from what I could make out from my wristwatch, which wasn’t much, considering I was still half-asleep, it was almost six in the morning.

I rose unsteadily and walked to the edge of the terrace and leaned over to investigate the noise and see if I could yell some sense into the noise-maker.

I smiled sleepily. How could I have forgotten?

Thatha
was standing by the
tulasi
plant in his white
panchi
and looking like he belonged in the fifteenth century or some old-fashioned Telugu movie. His fingers were strumming the white thread that crossed his chest and hung loosely on his body, as if it were a guitar. Like every devout Brahmin,
Thatha
invoked the
Gayatri mantram
every morning to welcome the day. I watched him circle the holy
tulasi
plant and pour water into the cement pot with the offensive brass mug that had fallen on the cement floor and woken me up.

His deep voice boomed to me and even though I couldn’t hear the words, I could feel them, words that were forbidden to women. Sanskrit, sacred words from the Vedas, passed from generation to generation, secretly, to men, by men.

Om
Bhur bhuva swah
Tat savitur varnyam
Bhargo devasya dhimahi
Dhiyo yo nah prachodayat
Om

The words were Sanskrit, unadulterated by bad pronunciation or lack of knowledge. He knew what he was talking about, but I don’t think he really understood what the
mantram
stood for.

I knew; I had asked
Nanna
and he had explained to both Nate and me. The
mantram
stood for enlightenment. It was the way a Brahmin man could become a better person. It was to invoke the sun god and ask the light of the generous sun to enlighten the reader of the
mantram
, so that he could love all, wipe away hate, and start taking the journey that would bring him closer to the supreme god.

“Why can’t girls say it? Why only boys?” I’d asked
Nanna
.

“I don’t care if you want to say it,” he said. “Do you want to wake up at six in the morning
every day
and say the
mantram
?”

Considering that waking up at seven-thirty in the morning to catch the school bus at eight-thirty was a trial, I shook my head and decided that maybe it was okay that Nate would have to be the one to wake up early, not me. As things turned out, Nate refused to have his thread ceremony done and was planning to never have it done.

“If I don’t feel like a
Brahmin
, then why should I follow this farce?” he asked my mother, who had then blistered his ear about tradition and culture. He responded to that by saying that just yesterday he’d had beef
biriyani
at an Irani Café in Mehndipatnam and didn’t care all that much about tradition and culture. Ma was so shocked she never brought the topic up again, mostly, we believed, out of fear that Nate would disclose the meat . . . no, no, that could even be overlooked, but the
beef-
eating incident to
Thatha
and the others. That couldn’t and wouldn’t be overlooked.

“Didn’t the boy know that the cow was sacred?” Ma had demanded of
Nanna
, whose job it had suddenly become to instruct Nate on how to be a good Brahmin.

“Maybe if you read the
Gayatri mantram
like my father does, your son will learn something,” Ma had told
Nanna
, who had turned a deaf ear to her demands and pleas in that regard.

But reading the
mantram
was just a formality.
Thatha
didn’t really believe in what it was telling him, to hate none and love all. He did what he did because it was expected of him, because his father before him had said the same
mantram
in the same way with the same passion and lack of understanding. If
Thatha
understood and abided by the
mantram
he would not have a problem accepting Nick or anyone else that I might want to marry.

This was a man whose life was steeped in ritual. Life and tradition lay alongside each other and bled into each other.
Thatha
didn’t question tradition but accepted it just the way he accepted waking up every morning at six to perform the
Gayatri mantram
.

He would never come around, I realized sadly. I would have to sacrifice the granddaughter to keep the lover.

Needless to say, Vinay was shocked when I called him. It was just not done, but to his credit he stammered only a few times before saying, yes, he would be at Minerva at 11 A.M. sharp.

“He said okay? Really?” Sowmya asked, her fingers trembling on the piece of ginger she was holding.

“Yes, he did,” I said, and stripped some curry leaves from their stem. “What will you say to him?”

Sowmya resumed grating the ginger. “I don’t know, but I am sure I will be inspired once I sit in front of him. You will be there, won’t you? All the time?”

“Yes,” I said, and popped a peanut into my mouth.

“I can’t believe it is going to happen. Marriage!” Sowmya sounded excited. “But I want to talk to him before I say anything to
Nanna
. Otherwise . . . life will be a waste, you know.”

“You’ll leave this house, your parents. Do you think you’ll miss it?”

“I think so,” Sowmya said, looking around the kitchen. “I like this house. It is nice and cozy. The tenants upstairs don’t make too much noise; Parvati comes regularly, more or less, and yes, I am very comfortable here.

“But I am ready for the change,” she said, and paused. She looked around to make sure no one was listening and then whispered, “You have had sex, right?” just as I put another peanut into my mouth. I all but choked on the nut.

“What?”

Sowmya gave me a look laden with curiosity. “You have, right? You live with this American and . . . you have, right?”

“I . . .” This was an intensely personal question, but she seemed so eager to know that I nodded.

“How was it the first time?” she asked.

I shrugged. I was mortified.

“Tell me,” she demanded.

I watched her put a wok on the gas stove and fire it up. She poured oil into the wok and looked at me expectantly.

“I don’t remember,” was the best I could do on short notice. Sowmya gave me a “sell me another bridge” look and I grinned, embarrassed. “I . . . it was fine.”

“Was it with this American?” she asked.

“Yes.” Good Lord, this was not a conversation I was prepared to have.

Sowmya threw some mustard seeds in the wok, and they spluttered in the oil. Some sprang out and landed on the stove and counter. She stirred the mustard seeds for a few moments and then dropped some curry leaves with black and yellow
gram dal
into the wok and let them sizzle for a while. Then she broke two dry red peppers and plopped them into the oil with crackling fanfare.

“Oh, give me those
pachi marapakayalu
.” She pointed to the green chilies by the sink, which I was leaning against.

She put green chilies inside the wok as well and sighed, spatula in hand. “I always wondered about it. And now it will actually happen. I am scared and excited.”

I had never seen this side of Sowmya before. This was a dreamy Sowmya, not the practical mouse I had grown up with.

She piled a deep-bowled steel ladle with yogurt and thumped the handle of the ladle on the side of the wok to drop a dollop of yogurt in it. She dropped another dollop of yogurt alongside the first and stirred hard, forcing the thick yogurt to liquefy and mix with the spices already sizzling in the oil.

“I always liked curd rice,” I said, as the familiar smell of burning yogurt filled the kitchen.

“This is the best thing to cook for breakfast,” Sowmya responded. “Fast and easy and I can use all leftovers. Pass me that rice, will you?” She added the rice left over from dinner the previous night to the wok and started to stir hard again, mixing everything into a Telugu breakfast staple.

“Do you think he will say no because I am being so bold?” Sowmya asked, almost as if she were wondering aloud.

“If he does, to hell with him,” I said.

She nodded, smiled, and turned the gas off.

Breakfast was ready.

Everyone in Ma’s family drank filter coffee in the morning. Instant coffee was okay for any other time of day but for mornings it had to be filter coffee. The coffee was made in a steel filter where hot water was poured onto rich ground coffee and filtered to make a thick decoction. The decoction was then mixed with frothy, bubbling hot milk and sugar. I remembered waking up every morning to the smell of decoction. I never got hooked on coffee but I always drank it when I was at
Thatha’s
house. No matter what Ma said about all filter coffee being the same—“You mix coffee decoction with milk, what skill do you need for that?”—Sowmya’s coffee was way better and she didn’t complain when I added five spoons of sugar to my coffee tumbler either.

Sowmya poured coffee in steel tumblers and put the tumblers in small steel bowls.

“Priya, I have a personal question,” Sowmya asked. She topped the glasses off with the coffee left in the steel utensil after she had filled up all the glasses.

Asking me if I’d had sex was not personal enough anymore? “Sure,” I said.

“Does it hurt a lot the first time?”

I shrugged. “Depends upon the . . . Sowmya, I can’t talk to you about this.”

“Then who should I talk to about all this?” she demanded. “Maybe your
Ammamma
would like to fill me in regarding the ins and outs of marital life. What do you think?”

I sighed. “It hurts, but it gets better.”

“Really?” she brightened. “How much better?”

“A lot better,” I said unable to keep a straight face any longer.

“But it depends upon the husband, right?”

“Yes.”

Sowmya nodded. “But I can’t test that.”

“Not in India, you can’t.”

Sowmya sipped some coffee from a glass and nodded again. “That is okay. It is going to be okay. Right, Priya?”

“Right,” I said, though I wasn’t sure what she was talking about being okay.

Minerva hadn’t changed, even a bit. It even smelled the same way it had seven years ago. My mouth watered at the sight of long crisp
dosas
and sizzling
vadas
. It was hard to get good south Indian food in America. The chicken curries and
tandoori
places were in abundance but the all-out vegetarian, south Indian food was almost impossible to find.

“I’m going to get a
masala dosa
,” I told the terribly nervous Sowmya.

“I am going to throw up,” she said, as soon as her eyes fell on her husband-maybe-to-be. “I have never been this scared before, Priya. This is a really bad idea,” she clutched my wrist. “Let us go back and we will pretend you never called him.”

I unclasped the death grip she had on me and patted the offending hand. “You don’t have to do this. But I think you need to, to be sure. It’s okay. I’ll be there.”

“You are more interested in that
masala dosa
,” she quipped nervously.

“Well . . . it is hard to get good
dosa
back home,” I said with a smile. “Come on. You know you won’t rest until you do this. And we have to get back by noon.
Thatha
wants me to let him know what my decision is.”

“And what is your decision?” Sowmya asked, still rooted at a safe distance from Vinay.

“We’re not here to discuss that,” I reminded her. I raised my hand and waved to Vinay. “Hi,” I cried out, and Sowmya closed her eyes.

She looked strange without her glasses. Vanity had taken over and she had abandoned the thick glasses for her seldom-used contact lenses.

“
Namaskaram
.” Vinay folded his hands and then gestured for us to sit down.

“
Namaskaram
,” Sowmya said. “Ah . . .
chala
, thanks, for coming here.”

“No problem,” Vinay said, and then smiled uneasily at me. “Would you like to eat something?”

“No,” Sowmya said, but I nodded and said, “
Masala dosa
.”

Sowmya pinched my thigh and I stifled a yelp. “No, nothing, thanks.”

“Coffee?” Vinay asked, sounding as nervous as Sowmya.

“No,” Sowmya said, her head still bent. “I . . . wanted to talk to you,” she raised her head and he nodded. Speaking of uncomfortable places to be, this one took the cake and the baker.

“So . . . is there a problem?” Vinay asked. “You don’t approve of the match?”

“I . . . I want to marry you,” Sowmya reassured him a little too curtly. “But I wanted to clarify a few things.”

“Sure, sure. I am very happy that you want to marry me,” Vinay said with a small smile.

Sowmya held my hand and almost broke my pinkie finger. “I want to work,” she revealed sincerely. “My father didn’t let me and they said that your family doesn’t approve. But I want to work.”

Vinay nodded. “No problem. I can handle my parents. I will explain to them. If you want to work, I fully support that and they will, too.”

Sowmya smiled and I felt and heard her sigh of relief. “And . . . I want to have my own house. I know you care for your parents, but . . .”

Vinay smiled then. “The house is big. There are two kitchens and two everything. Old house, though. My grandfather, he built it. We will live separate, but they are still my parents.”

Sowmya smiled back and nodded.

“Anything else?” Vinay asked.

“And that is all,” she said.

“Now will you have coffee?” Vinay looked at me. “
Masala
dosa
?” he asked.

Sowmya nodded shyly and Vinay signaled for a waiter to come to our table.