Interesting Mail Forwards

Grandmother was pretending to be lost in prayer, but her prayer-beads were
spinning at top speed. That meant she was either excited or upset. Mother
put the receiver down. "Some American girl in his office, she's coming to
stay with us for a week." She sounded as if she had a deep foreboding.
Father had no such doubt. He knew the worst was to come. He had been
matching horoscopes for a year, but my brother Vivek had found a million
excuses for not being able to visit India, call any of the chosen Iyer
girls, or in any other way advance father's cause. Father always wore four
parallel lines of sacred ash on his forehead. Now there were eight, so deep
were the furrows of worry on his forehead. I sat in a corner, supposedly
lost in a book, but furiously text-messaging my brother with a vivid
description of the scene before me.


A few days later I stood outside the airport with father. He tried not to
look directly at any American woman going past, and held up the card
reading "Barbara". Finally a large woman stepped out, waved wildly and
shouted "Hiiii! Mr. Aayyyezh, how ARE you?" Everyone turned and looked at
us. Father shrank visibly before my eyes. Barbara took three long steps and
covered father in a tight embrace. Father's jiggling out of it was too
funny to watch. I could hear him whispering "Shiva shiva!". She shouted
"you must be Vijaantee?" "Yes, Vyjayanthi" I said with a smile. I imagined
little half-Indian children calling me "Vijaantee aunty!". Suddenly, my
colorless existence in Madurai had perked up. For at least the next one
week, life promised to be quite exciting.


Soon we were eating lunch at home. Barbara had changed into an even shorter
skirt. The low neckline of her blouse was just in line with father's eyes.
He was glaring at mother as if she had conjured up Barbara just to torture
him. Barbara was asking "You only have vegetarian food? Always??" as if the
idea was shocking to her. "You know what really goes well with Indian food,
especially chicken? Indian beer!" she said with a pleasant smile, seemingly
oblivious to the apoplexy of the gentleman in front of her, or the choking
sounds coming from mother. I had to quickly duck under the table to hide my
giggles.


Everyone tried to get the facts without asking the one question on all our
minds: What was the exact nature of the relationship between Vivek and
Barbara? She brought out a laptop computer. "I have some pictures of Vivek"
she said. All of us crowded around her. The first picture was quite
innocuous. Vivek was wearing shorts, and standing alone on the beach. In
the next photo, he had Barbara draped all over him. She was wearing a
skimpy bikini and leaning across, with her hand lovingly circling his neck.
Father got up, and flicked the towel off his shoulder. It was a gesture we
in the family had learned to fear. He literally ran to the door and went
out. Barbara said "It must be hard for Mr. Aayyezh. He must be missing his
son." We didn't have the heart to tell her that if said son had been within
reach, father would have lovingly wrung his neck.


My parents and grandmother apparently had reached an unspoken agreement.
They would deal with Vivek later. Right now Barbara was a foreigner, a lone
woman, and needed to be treated as an honored guest. It must be said that
Barbara didn't make that one bit easy. Soon mother wore a perpetual frown.
Father looked as though he could use some of that famous Indian beer.


Vivek had said he would be in a conference in Guatemala all week, and would
be off both phone and email. But Barbara had long lovey-dovey conversations
with two other men, one man named Steve and another named Keith. The rest
of us strained to hear every interesting word. "I miss you!" she said to
both. She also kept talking with us about Vivek, and about the places
they'd visited together. She had pictures to prove it, too. It was all very
confusing.


This was the best play I'd watched in a long time. It was even better than
the day my cousin ran away with a Telugu Christian girl. My aunt had come
howling through the door, though I noticed that she made it to the plushest
sofa before falling in a faint. Father said that if it had been his child,
the door would have been forever shut in his face. Aunt promptly revived
and said "You'll know when it is your child!" How my aunt would rejoice if
she knew of Barbara!


On day five of her visit, the family awoke to the awful sound of Barbara's
retching. The bathroom door was shut, the water was running, but far louder
was the sound of Barbara crying and throwing up at the same time. Mother
and grandmother exchanged ominous glances. Barbara came out, and her face
was red. "I don't know why", she said, "I feel queasy in the mornings now."
If she had seen as many Indian movies as I'd seen, she'd know why. Mother
was standing as if turned to stone. Was she supposed to react with the
compassion reserved for pregnant women? With the criticism reserved for
pregnant unmarried women? With the fear reserved for pregnant unmarried
foreign women who could embroil one's son in a paternity suit? Mother, who
navigated familiar flows of married life with the skill of a champion
oarsman, now seemed completely taken off her moorings. She seemed to hope
that if she didn't react it might all disappear like a bad dream.


I made a mental note to not leave home at all for the next week. Whatever
my parents would say to Vivek when they finally got a-hold of him would be
too interesting to miss. But they never got a chance. The day Barbara was
to leave, we got a terse email from Vivek. "Sorry, still stuck in
Guatemala. Just wanted to mention, another friend of mine, Sameera Sheikh,
needs a place to stay. She'll fly in from Hyderabad tomorrow at 10am. Sorry
for the trouble."


So there we were, father and I, with a board saying "Sameera". At last a
pretty young woman in salwar-khameez saw the board, gave the smallest of
smiles, and walked quietly towards us. When she did 'Namaste' to father, I
thought I saw his eyes mist up. She took my hand in the friendliest way and
said "Hello, Vyjayanthi, I've heard so much about you." I fell in love with
her. In the car father was unusually friendly. She and Vivek had been in
the same group of friends in Ohio University. She now worked as a Child
Psychologist.


She didn't seem to be too bad at family psychology either. She took out a
shawl for grandmother, a saree for mother and Hyderabadi bangles for me.
"Just some small things. I have to meet a professor at Madurai university,
and it's so nice of you to let me stay" she said. Everyone cheered up. Even
grandmother smiled. At lunch she said "This is so nice. When I make sambar,
it comes out like chole, and my chole tastes just like sambar". Mother was
smiling. "Oh just watch for 2 days, you'll pick it up." Grandmother had
never allowed a muslim to enter the kitchen. But mother seemed to have
taken charge, and decided she would bring in who ever she felt was worthy.
Sameera circumspectly stayed out of the puja room, but on the third day, I
was stunned to see father inviting her in and telling her which idols had
come to him from his father. "God is one" he said. Sameera nodded sagely.


By the fifth day, I could see the thought forming in the family's
collective brains. If this fellow had to choose his own bride, why couldn't
it be someone like Sameera? On the sixth day, when Vivek called from the
airport saying he had cut short his Gautemala trip and was on his way home,
all had a million things to discuss with him. He arrived by taxi at a time
when Sameera had gone to the University. "So, how was Barbara's visit?" he
asked blithely. "How do you know her?" mother asked sternly. "She's my
secretary" he said. "She works very hard, and she'll do anything to help."
He turned and winked at me. Oh, I got the plot now! By the time Sameera
returned home that evening, it was almost as if her joining the family was
the elders' idea. "Don't worry about anything", they said, "we'll talk with
your parents."


On the wedding day a huge bouquet arrived from Barbara.
"Flight to India - $1500.
Indian kurta - $5.
Emetic to throw up - $1.
The look on your parents' faces - priceless" it said.


From Davy