Amulya Malladi - The Mango Season

“Doesn’t it seem a little barbaric to come and see a bunch of girls while you’re in India and pick one to marry?” I asked.

Adarsh shrugged again. “Not really… Well, it did early on, but now, the girls looks at the guys, too, you know. It works both ways.”

“You’re right,” I conceded, now fidgeting with Ammamma’s sapphire necklace.

We both fell silent. This was awkward. Did this happen with everyone who sat through one of these bride-seeing ceremonies? Or did things change for a veteran like Sowmya?

“I want it all,” he said suddenly. “The wife, the children, the house… you know what I’m saying?”

“Well, I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but the fact that you’re here is a good indication that you’re looking for a wife,” I responded, smiling at his enthusiastic honesty. He was as unsure as I was about what needed to be said to know if the person you were speaking with for just a few minutes would be the person you’d want to spend the rest of your life with.

He grinned. “I could be here under parental duress. I just want to make sure you want the things I want.”

“I want a husband and children and that house in suburbia… well, maybe not suburbia,” I said. It was not a lie. I did want those things. I just wanted those things with Nick.

“I’m glad,” Adarsh said. “I don’t know much about you and you don’t know much about me. And in another ten minutes my mother or your mother will come and interrupt us because it’s still not right for us to be talking so freely for too long.”

“My mother will come out of curiosity, not out of some sense or propriety,” I corrected him.

He smiled again and the dimple on his cheek deepened. Telugu film star, Venkatesh, had nothing on Adarsh Sarma, son of the eminent Rice Sarma. Any girl in her right mind would grab this guy, hope that he would grab her as well, but I was contemplating whether or not to tell him about Nick.

“I’d like to be honest with you,” he said. “It’s important to be honest I feel because we have to make a rather large decision based on a very short conversation.

“I was dating a Chinese woman two years ago. We broke up after a three-year relationship. That was when I realized that I wanted to marry someone from India.”

This was an unusual boy… man. I had never heard of anyone discussing ex-girlfriends at a pelli-chupulu. It was simply not done and even though it gave me an opening to talk about Nick, I was reluctant. India was still a man’s world and it was still okay for Adarsh to talk about his ex but taboo for me to mention my current or ex. In any case, I didn’t have the guts.

“How did a bad relationship with a Chinese woman convince you that Indian women were the right variety for you?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t use the word variety,” he said, visibly flinching at my description. “I’m just doing what you’re doing, looking for a life partner who’ll make me happy and will make my family happy. With my ex-girlfriend it was great, we got along well, but Chinese New Year never started to mean anything to me and she never figured out Ugadi,” he said. “Can you understand that?”

Actually, I couldn’t. Nick and I hadn’t had any problems on that front. I celebrated Christmas and Thanksgiving with him and he celebrated Diwali and Ganesh Chaturthi with me. But we were hardly religious and all festivals on either side were about good food, spending time with friends and family, and alcohol.

“It appears that you’re looking for someone traditional,” I said, and rose from the swing. “I’m not traditional.”

He shook his head and gestured me to sit down. “Not traditional, just Indian.”

“I’m not very Indian either,” I told him evenly, still standing. “Don’t be fooled by the sari and the bindi and the jewelry. I work hard and I play hard. I’m not even going to remember when Ugadi is unless someone will tell me. I drink an occasional glass of wine and I’m known to smoke a cigar to bring in the New Year… I-”

He lifted his hand, a big grin on his face. “I’m not looking for some gaonwali. I’m not interested in some village-type; I’m looking for a peer. It doesn’t bother me if you want to drink a glass or two of wine, or even a bottle on occasion, I really don’t give a damn. I simply want someone I can share Hindi movies with, be Indian with. Someone who understands the jokes, you know?”

Now I did understand what he was saying. I had lost count of the times I’d translate something to Nick and he’d sit there with a wrinkle on his forehead, unable to comprehend the Indianness of what I was telling him. But I needed more from a relationship than the understanding of a joke or an Indian cliché. I needed so much more. I needed Nick.

“Priya Ma,” Nanna came outside then, obviously at the urging of my mother, “why don’t you offer our guest a cup of chai?”

“Of course,” I said, and looked at Adarsh. The meeting as such was over. Now we’d have to make a decision based on this small conversation. A decision of a lifetime!

“How much sugar would you like?” I asked him.

“I don’t drink tea,” Adarsh replied.

“Coffee?” I asked.

“No thanks, I’m fine,” he said. “It was nice talking to you,” he added.

I smiled at him before walking away.

Even before I entered the kitchen, Ma descended upon me. “So what did he say? What did you say? You didn’t make any pitchi-pitchi remarks, did you?”

“No, Ma, I didn’t make any insane remarks,” I muttered, and sat down on a dining chair instead of going inside the kitchen. My heart was racing at a hundred miles a second. I had gone through with this demeaning ceremony. I, who was already spoken for, had talked to another man who considered himself a potential husband to me. I had insulted Nick, our relationship, myself, and, ultimately, even Adarsh.

“So… how did it go?” Sowmya asked.

“Okay,” I said, as tears threatened to fall like little hard pebbles of hail.

“Do you like him?” she asked.

“Of course she likes him,” Ma said. “What’s not to like?”

“Radha,” my father called out from the living room. “They’re leaving. Come here, will you?”

I joined my mother to bid our guests farewell. Adarsh smiled at me, and his parents grinned knowingly at mine when they saw their son smile at who they thought was their future daughter-in-law.

TO: NICHOLAS COLLINS ‹NICK_COLLINS@XXXX.COM›

FROM: PRIYA RAO ‹PRIYA_RAO@YYYY.COM›

SUBJECT: I’M SO SORRY!

NICK, I AM SO SO SO SO SO SORRY!

I TOLD YOU I WOULDN’T GO THROUGH WITH THE BRIDE-SEEING CEREMONY BUT I DID. I SAT THROUGH THE DAMN THING AND EVEN TALKED TO THE HUSBAND-NOT-TO-BE. THIS DOESN’T MEAN ANYTHING. I HOPE YOU UNDERSTAND THAT. I COULDN’T BACK OUT. MY PARENTS… THATHA, EVERYONE… LORD, I’M SORRY.

I’M SO SCARED THAT NOW YOU WON’T LOVE ME ANYMORE AND THAT NOW WHEN I TELL MY PARENTS ABOUT YOU, THEY WON’T LOVE ME ANYMORE. I FEEL VERY LONELY, VERY CONFUSED, AND VERY ANGRY.

I’M REALLY SORRY THAT I COULDN’T FIND A WAY TO EXTRICATE MYSELF FROM THIS. I’M GOING TO TELL THEM ABOUT YOU TONIGHT, RIGHT AFTER DINNER. I PROMISE.

I DO LOVE YOU.

PRIYA

TO: PRIYA RAO ‹PRIYA_RAO@YYYY.COM›

FROM: SYSTEM ADMINISTRATOR

‹POSTMASTER@YYYY.COM›

SUBJECT: UNDELIVERABLE: I AM SO SORRY!

YOUR MESSAGE

TO: NICHOLAS_COLLINS@XXX.COM

SUBJECT: I’M SO SORRY!

SENT: SATURDAY 14:02:21 -0800

DID NOT REACH THE FOLLOWING RECIPIENT(S):

NICHOLAS_COLLINS@XXX.COM ON SATURDAY

14:02:21 -0800

ERROR: RECIPIENT SERVER NOT RESPONDING.

Sowmya looked into the mirror, the blue-bordered sari that I had worn just that afternoon draped over her shoulder. “Do you think I will look as nice as you did?” she asked.