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Spring 2007

Two months go by and I don’t hear anything about what happened to Bobby, the school shooter. If there was anything in the Washington Post Dad would have mentioned it. Only once there was a short article in the Metro section that Bobby is under psychiatric evaluation and a hearing will be set for a date sometime in the future. The juvenile courts move slowly, so I heard. I get involved with my studies, our band, and the search for colleges.  

One weekend I get downstairs for breakfast, and I hear Dad talking on the phone with Uncle Mayur. He sits at the breakfast table with his bowl of cereal half empty and his teacup half full. It’s so cheap nowadays to call India, he had said—and so, they talk often. He told us how a few years back it was a pain in the neck to call India. It would cost a dollar a minute in those days. Sometimes one had to go through an operator to book your call. People wrote letters instead. But then it took at least a month to get a response. Compared to that now making overseas calls is a piece of cake. Dad has signed up with Reliance Call India service. According to him, we can direct-dial any number in India for pennies a minute.

“Hey Mayur, how do you think we should proceed?”

Dad is talking on the cordless phone. I remember him telling us about the time they had a wall phone with a ten-foot-long spiral cord, and whoever was on the phone could walk with the receiver in hand only as far as the cord allowed.

I surmise from listening to the one-sided conversation that they are talking about how to get Lakshmi and Akaash together.

“Yes, yes. That would be the best way,” Dad is saying.

I hear Dad chat for a while and end the conversation. He has a smile on his face. Mom is busy in the kitchen, but all her attention is on Dad’s talk. I sense it because she keeps turning her face his way as she stirs the eggs in the skillet.

“What does he say?” Mom asks from near the cooking range. She’s always there, cooking or cleaning, and never sits with us at the breakfast table.

“Mayur says he’ll give Lakshmi’s email to Akaash and hope he contacts her.”

“I hope so,” Mom replies.

I am listening to this conversation and don’t understand how they are ignoring the main person, Lakshmi. What if she doesn’t like to meet Aakash?

“Shouldn’t you ask Lakshmi first?” I can’t resist asking.

“What for?” Dad gives me a puzzled look.

“Well, you are giving her contact information to a stranger. I think you should at least give her a heads-up. She deserves that much. “

I am sure Dad is going to get mad at me.

“I think Arjun is right,” Mom says, approaching us. “We should give her an idea of what’s happening. She wouldn’t know who Akaash is.”

Mom is a savior. I love you, Mom.

“All right,” Dad seems more relaxed now. “You talk to her.”

“Me?” Mom has a mischievous look on her face. She always does this. I feel on the one hand she is happy that Dad has asked her. There is always a special bond between mothers and daughters. But mom doesn’t want to accept the responsibility immediately.

“You are the father. It’s better if it comes from you.”

“No, no, no. Mother-daughter relations are better in these matters.”

If you ask me Dad is the head of the household and he should be the one talking with Lakshmi. But perhaps he is right. Mom may have a better way to talk with Lakshmi.

“Okay. I’ll talk with her.”

Dad is happy he’s not going to mess up a delicate matter.

“When I talk to her, I’ll suggest it’s best if Akaash contacts her first. It’s better that way.” Mom is already thinking ahead.

She believes that the initiative should come from the boy, even if the girl’s family is the interested one. According to mom a few years ago in India, when the parents have done the preliminary inquiries about a suitable boy it would require a visit to the prospective boy’s home with the prospective bride. Then the boy’s family would ‘interview’ the girl.

“It used to be stressful, very stressful for the girls,” She shakes her head.

“Why do you say a few years ago? I bet it’s still the practice. Especially in the more orthodox families.” Dad interjects his opinion. “Mayur was telling me about how his friend Suraj selected his wife.” 

“By interviewing his future wife by his family?” I ask.

“Yes,” Dad replies, calmly. “Of course.”

“Did you have to go through that, Mom?” I ask. I’m curious about how my parents got together. They’ve never spoken of their dating.

“Go through what?” Mom turns to me and asks.

“You know your marriage with Dad. Did his family interview you?”

“Well, sort of,” Mom says. “Your Dad’s family was more progressive, you might say.”

“Progressive? In what way?”

I am curious about this whole business of arranged marriages. I know only that Mom and Dad’s was an arranged marriage, but I do not know the details. I have heard stories from my American friends from high school about how their parents got married. Some of them had been dating for years, meanwhile, their parents were worried about whether anything was going to happen or not, but they didn’t want to interfere. Indian parents generally don’t allow their teenage children to date, the way American parents do.

“Well, there was a custom for the young girl to put on a show,” Mom continues. “The boy’s side had all the information about her. They knew of her scholastic achievements. But in those days, girls were not supposed to work, so it was important to know if they possessed other soft skills like singing, cooking, decorating, and entertaining. Their moms would have trained them. The perception was that if their boy became a success in his career, his wife would be a good hostess and an expert entertainer. Sometimes the boy’s family would ask her to sing as a demonstration.”

“Are you serious? That’s horrible,” I say. “Did you hear that, Lakshmi?” I call out to Lakshmi, who is upstairs, getting ready for college. “Start practicing Hindi songs, watch Indian Movies with Dad.”

I am not sure if she hears me. There’s no response. I can hear water running in her bathroom.

“Did you sing for Dad, Mom?” I tease her.

“Heck noo,” she says with a smirk on her face. “You think your dad would have married me if he heard me singing?”

Dad has a mischievous smile as he looks at her.

“Then what did you do to ‘pass’ the test?”

“As I said, your dad’s parents were progressive. When my parents took me to their house, I had a cordial welcome. I was surprised that their women and men sat together in the living room talking with me. In most traditional houses, the women stayed in a room at the back, sometimes peeking through the door, by moving the curtain just a bit, to see the progress or to bring snacks and tea and then disappear. Your Dad’s father didn’t ask me anything personal or embarrassing — just general stuff about my likes and dislikes.”

“Did Dad ask you anything?”

“You are interested, aren’t you?” Mom says with a smile.

“I want to know.”

“He was quiet, just kept looking at me. That made me more uncomfortable. The only thing he wanted to know was whether I would work after marriage or be a stay-at-home person.”

Dad is quiet.

“Didn’t you have a chance to ask questions of him? Weren’t you interested in what he had in mind for his career or personal life?”

“Are you kidding? It wasn’t proper, and it would have been rude. It was always one way. Men were automatically considered to have the potential to be successful.”

“Then what happened?”

“You know what happened. We are married, aren’t we? Well, both sides thought it was a good match. My Dad asked me if I liked the boy. I thought he appeared to be nice and well-educated, so I agreed.”

Dad nods.

“I think you made the right decision. But if you had any reservations, would you have said ‘no.’”

“Are you kidding? Presumably not. I didn’t want to start a gossip in the community about—well, about the kinds of things I don’t even want to think about.”

*******

Two weeks later, we are sitting in the living room waiting for Mom to say dinner is ready.

“What’s going on, Lakshmi?” Mom can’t wait to hear that all is well. “Did you hear from Akaash?”

Lakshmi is staring at her iPhone. I wonder what is so important that she has to be glued to her phone every minute.

“Mom. Leave me alone,” she says, briefly looking up. “If he writes, he writes. I don’t care if he doesn’t.”

“Well, it’s not good if he waits too long. You know how boys are these days. You never know. He may go after someone else.”

“So, what if he does?”

“It’s hard to find good young men. Someone in our family recommends him, so he will be a good catch.”

“A catch? What is that supposed to mean?” Lakshmi says, sounding annoyed.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t use the right word.” Mom doesn’t want to upset her.

“Are you dating that boy who keeps calling for you?” Dad asks. He has a way of sneaking in from nowhere during conversations. “What’s his name? It sounds like a dog.”

“Oh, Dad, come on, please!” Lakshmi squints at him. “It’s Doug, not Dog.”

Dad has a problem with American names just like Evan had difficulty pronouncing Uncle Mayur’s name. I am not sure if he does it on purpose.

“Okay whatever, Doug it is. Why does he keep calling you all the time? What does he want?”

“What do you think? Do you think boys always have to want something? He’s just a friend, Dad. Don’t get all bent out of shape. He likes me and wants to be friends.” Lakshmi fidgets in her seat, clearly annoyed.

“But, where’s it going to lead?” Dad continues.

“Probably nowhere,” Lakshmi says softly, barely audible, and returns to punching something on her phone. But it looks like Dad has heard her.

“Then don’t waste your time. But I wouldn’t mind if he is an Indian boy.”

“Why? What do you have against non-Indian boys?” Lakshmi has raised her voice.

“It’s just that…” Dad tries to explain but cannot find the right words. I am anxiously listening, trying to stay out of it, hoping the conversation doesn’t erupt into something confrontational. Has Dad given up on Aakash?

“Yeah?” Lakshmi asks, looking straight at him.

“It’s good to stay in our own culture. It’s good for the children.”

“Dad. You are thinking too much ahead. Nothing is happening. We go out and have fun with friends.”

“It’s okay if you are all together with friends, but I don’t want you to be alone with him.”

“How are you going to find out if we are alone? Do you have spies?”

Mom is listening to the conversation and joins in. I am surprised to find my sister in such a defensive mood. But I’m with her. She’s making the right argument.

“It’s not good to argue with your dad, Lakshmi. He only means well,” Mom says.

“But, Mom! We are growing up in America. He has to realize that.”

“Don’t you think he doesn’t know that? But he has a point, and you should respect that.”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” Lakshmi puts her phone down and walks away toward the bathroom. I hope she isn’t crying. Girls always do when they get emotional.

Mom and Dad are silent during dinner. So is Lakshmi. As we finish our dinner quietly, Dad returns to the family room to watch the news. I join Mom in cleaning up the kitchen. Lakshmi goes up to her room. I hear her talking to someone on the phone, whispering, probably complaining about Dad.

It’s a Sunday a month later, and the phone rings. As usual, we’re sitting around the breakfast table. Dad is reading the Business section of the Washington Post. When the caller ID starts reciting the number beginning with one, nine, and then a series of digits, we know it’s a call from India.

“It’s probably Mayur,” Dad says, putting down the paper and walking up to the phone.

“Yes?” he says, picking up the receiver, then “Oh! Hey, Mayur. I was hoping we would hear from you by now.”

Mom is looking at Dad with an expectant stare.

“What are you saying?” Dad is speaking loudly. We all look at him. I sense something has happened, and Dad is not happy about it. “No, Lakshmi didn’t say anything to us.”

Mom moves closer to him. “What’s he saying?” she whispers.

Dad raises his right hand and signals her to wait.

“Yes, yes. I understand. I’ll find out. Thanks for the update.”

Dad puts the receiver on the base and turns to face Mom, who is just looking at him, waiting for him to say something. I am not sure what’s to come next.

“What kind of girl are we raising?” Dad says, agitated.

“Oh my god. What happened? Did she do something foolish? Did she decline or insult Akaash?”

I’m thinking the worst.

“Calm down,” Dad assures her. “It appears Akaash has been in contact with Lakshmi.”

“He has?” Mom is all smiles.

I am happy nothing serious has happened. Dad isn’t angry. He’s just unsettled, maybe a little confused.

“Yes. That’s according to Mayur. What I don’t understand is why she didn’t say anything about their talking to each other. Why is she keeping it a secret? Where is she?”

“She came in late last night. She is still sleeping.” Mom informs him.

“Came in late? I hope she wasn’t with that Dog guy.”

“No, she wasn’t.” Mom reassures him. “And it is Doug. She went to see a movie with her girlfriends.”

“I want to know what’s going on,” Dad says as he paces the kitchen floor. 

I can’t keep quiet.

“Dad,” I say. “It’s okay. She is an adult. You can’t expect her to tell you everything that’s going on in her life.”

“But I’m her dad. Mayur will be upset if something goes wrong. He will blame me.”

“Relax. We’ll find out soon enough.”

I finish my breakfast and consider going to talk to my sister but decide it’s best to stay out of her life. I go to my room to practice new tunes on my guitar. 

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