“You should’ve at least asked me before you invited them,” I told Ma in a soft voice. She shrugged again and looked away from me.
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell Ma that this was why it was so hard to respect her. Respect was a two-way street and if I didn’t get any, I couldn’t give her any either. Feeling utterly betrayed by both my parents and my grandparents—my entire family—I walked out of the hall.
In the kitchen, Sowmya was soaking lentils in water for the mango pappu.
“Can I help?” I asked sourly, and she smiled gamely.
“Peel the mangoes, will you? I have to cut potatoes for the curry,” she said, handing me a peeling knife and two green mangoes.
I stood on one side of the sink and she on the other as we worked on our respective vegetables.
“They’ve set up a pelli-chupulu for me,” I said bitterly.
Sowmya nodded. “Radha Akka told us when you went to the vegetable store.”
“How can they?”
“Come on, he sounds perfect. I have someone coming tomorrow evening and he is a lecturer in a private college and looks like Brahmanandam, not Venkatesh,” Sowmya said with a broad grin.
Brahmanandam was a comedian in the Telugu film industry. He made people laugh but didn’t have anything going for him in the physical attributes department.
“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 FROM: PRIYA RAO 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.