“That’s not the point,” I said.
“You think that you are too good for a pelli-chupulu and only people who look like me have to go through it?” she asked quietly, and my eyes flew wide open, denial dancing on my tongue ready to pour out.
But she was right. That was exactly what I thought.
I wanted to make an excuse, a good one, and that was when it slipped out; I was busy trying to make Sowmya feel better about her several pelli-chupulus and my belief that I was much better than she was.
“I have a boyfriend… a fiancé,” I blurted out.
“What?” The potato Sowmya was holding rolled away from her into the sink. She grabbed it and stared at me through her nine-inch glasses.
“Yes,” I said. I had stepped in it with one foot so I might as well dip the other one in. “He’s American.”
“Your father will kill you and, if not, your Thatha will,” Sowmya said as she clutched the knife she was using to peel potatoes against her chest. “When… how…? Priya? What were you thinking?”
“He’s a nice guy. I love him,” I said and it sounded like such a line, even to me. “I didn’t plan it.” Another line. “It just happened.” I felt like I was tripping over clichés, one after the other.
“No, Priya. You can’t do this to us. Anand… that was bad enough, but this, this will destroy your Thatha and your father,” Sowmya said.
“What do you want me to do? Dump Nick to marry some guy my parents think is good for me?” I demanded.
“Yes,” Sowmya said firmly. “That is our way.”
“Oh, screw our way,” I said, and threw a raw mango on the counter.
“What will you do?” Sowmya asked, picking up the mango I had thrown and checking to see if it was bruised.
“I don’t know,” I confessed and had an overwhelming desire to cry.
TO: NICHOLAS COLLINS ‹NICK_COLLINS@XXXX.COM› FROM: PRIYA RAO ‹PRIYA_RAO@YYYY.COM› SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: GOOD TRIP?
YOU WON’T BELIEVE THIS BUT SOME NICE INDIAN BOY IS COMING OVER TOMORROW AFTERNOON TO “SEE ME.” BLOODY HELL! HOW DARE MY PARENTS DO THIS TO ME, NICK? THIS IS HUMILIATING. THEY EXPECT ME TO PARTICIPATE IN THIS BARBARIC RITUAL OF ALLOWING SOME MAN TO COME AND ASSESS MY WORTHINESS AS A WIFE.
WHAT HURTS IS THAT MY FATHER IS IN ON IT, TOO. I EXPECTED THIS FROM MY MOTHER, BUT NANNA… HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ON MY SIDE.
I AM GOING TO TRY AND CALL YOU AS SOON AS I CAN. BUT DON’T WORRY ABOUT ANYTHING. IT IS JUST… DAMN THEM. I HAVE NEVER BEEN THIS ANGRY BEFORE. I HAVE TO TELL THEM ABOUT YOU NOW, BEFORE THEY PUT ME IN A SPOT WITH THIS IDIOT INDIAN BOY THEY HAVE DECIDED IS JUST PERFECT FOR ME.
I WISH I WASN’T HERE. I WISH I WERE BACK HOME. I WISH MY PARENTS CARED MORE ABOUT ME THAN WHAT THE NEIGHBORS WILL THINK.
PRIYA
TO: PRIYA RAO ‹PRIYA_RAO@ YYYY.COM›
FROM: NICHOLAS COLLINS ‹NICK_COLLINS@XXXX.COM›
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: GOOD TRIP?
SWEETHEART, I AM SO SORRY. BUT YOU WERE EXPECTING THIS, WEREN’T YOU?
I DON’T MEAN TO PATRONIZE (AND YOU SOUND SLIGHTLY MELODRAMATIC!), BUT I’M SURE YOUR PARENTS CARE MORE ABOUT YOU THAN WHAT THE NEIGHBORS THINK. REGARDING YOUR FATHER, GIVE HIM A BREAK. HE WANTS TO SEE HIS DAUGHTER MARRIED AND HE WANTS HER TO GIVE HIM SOME GRANDKIDS. HE DOESN’T KNOW YOU’RE ENGAGED TO A HANDSOME AMERICAN, SO HE’S TRYING TO DO HIS BEST.
I KNOW IT’S HARD TO TELL YOUR FAMILY SOMETHING YOU KNOW FOR SURE THEY DON’T WANT TO HEAR AND IF IT’S TOO MUCH PRESSURE, DON’T. JUST DON’T MARRY SOME INDIAN GUY WHILE I WAIT HERE TWIDDLING MY THUMBS. PLEASE? WE HAVE A JOINT MORTGAGE! IN SILICON VALLEY THAT’S AS SOLID AS A MARRIAGE!!!
IT’S OKAY IF YOU DON’T WANT TO TELL THEM ABOUT US. JUST RELAX. I DON’T WANT YOU TO HAVE AN EMBOLISM BECAUSE OF ALL THIS STRESS. DO WHAT YOU’RE COMFORTABLE WITH.
TAKE CARE, SWEETHEART, AND CALL ME.
NICK
Confessions and Lies
Anand was one my favorite relatives. He was five years older than I and we’d spent many summers together in Thatha’s brother’s house in our village near Kavali.
The last summer we spent there had been quite an adventure. Thatha’s brother, who we called Kathalu-Thatha, had been trying to track down the thief who was stealing from his mango orchard and we were convinced that we could be just as good as writer Enid Blyton’s Famous Five heroes. Anand was thirteen, Sowmya eleven, and I was all of eight years old; we thought we made a dashing Thrilling Three.
Thatha’s brother told the best stories and that was why we called him Stories-Grandpa, Kathalu-Thatha. We would all gather around a fire and Kathalu-Thatha would tell us about the ghost who lived in the old well in the middle of his sugarcane field, the old-old man who still lived in the shack by the stream at the end of the village and the tigers that would come out only in the night to take away little naughty children. Some stories scared us, others made us laugh, but all of them brought us closer to Kathalu-Thatha. My memories of sitting by the fire, sipping hot sweet milk from silver tumblers while Kathalu-Thatha wove tall tales that were rich, still had the ability to brighten my day.
Anand gave me a hug as soon as he saw me. “You took too long, Priya,” he said. “And now you are all grown up.”
“All grown up and single,” Ma muttered from behind us. “And making nakhras, throwing tantrums like a spoiled brat.”
I sighed.
“Let it be, Akka,” Sowmya said, wrapping the edge of her sari around her waist. “Why don’t both of you go and bring the mangoes downstairs while I get Anand’s tea ready?”
It was a good escape route-neither Anand nor I needed to be told twice.
“I hear a boy is coming to see you tomorrow,” Anand said, as we went up the stairs. “Two boys in one day… My mother must be in heaven.”
“Yup,” I said sarcastically, “one for me and one for Sowmya. Just a regular meat market.”
“Oh, it won’t be so bad,” Anand said, and patted my shoulder.
“And so says the man who fell in love, eloped, and married,” I pointed out. “And there is big news as well.”
Anand smiled from ear to ear. “I can’t believe it. Can you believe it? I am going to be a father?”
I shook my head and laughed. No, I couldn’t believe the Anand who had spent an entire night atop a mango tree waiting for Kathalu-Thatha’s mango orchard thief to make an appearance was now old enough to be a father.
“I was thinking about our last summer at Kathalu-Thatha’s house,” I said, as we started folding the muslin cloth on which the now dried and wrinkled mangoes lay.
“Oh yes,” Anand said, rubbing a scar over his left eye. “ Amma refused to ever let me go there again.”
It had been late in the night. Sowmya and I kept guard at the end of the orchard, looking for the thief. We’d sneaked out of the house, adamant at finding the thief to impress Kathalu-Thatha. Sowmya had been reluctant, but Anand and I had been persistent. Unable to bow out in the face of our enthusiasm, Sowmya came along, her forehead wrinkled in a worried frown.
Anand was on sentry duty atop a mango tree along with a steel flashlight. “I will have a better view,” he said.
It surprised all of us when the thief turned out to be a monkey who freaked out when Anand flashed a light on its face and attacked him. Anand fell from the tree and hit his head on a stone, its sharp edge just missing his left eye.
Sowmya and I, sick with worry, ended up screaming for help like the girls we were.
We were all reprimanded the next morning and unfortunately that had been the last time we had gone to the orchard on vacation. Kathalu-Thatha, did not make it through the coming winter and Thatha, his only next of kin, sold the family house and leased the orchard to some jam and juice company.