said that he didn’t blame Nate. “He isn’t married to your mother, he doesn’t have to be in her parents’ house all the time,” he would say.
And to be honest, Nate didn’t even try to get along with Thatha or Ammamma or anyone else. He spoke to Anand once in a while and got along reasonably well with him, but the rest of the family could go hang itself and Nate wouldn’t give a damn, as he always said.
After the guests left, everyone congregated in the living room. Thatha opened his pouch of tobacco and started rubbing some in the palm of his hand. “Nice family . . . enh, Sowmya?”
Sowmya nodded.
Ammamma banged her hand against the arm of the sofa she was sitting on. “Very nice. If this works out . . . a big burden will be off our heads. I can’t wait for this marriage to take place. Ten years . . . ten long years . . . Now I want to see my Sowmya married.”
“They will definitely ask for dowry,” Jayant said. “Do you know what they want?”
Thatha put the tobacco inside his lower lip and sucked the tobacco into his mouth. “From what I hear they are not greedy people. And whatever they want, we will give . . . within reason, of course.”
Sowmya fidgeted with the gold bangle she was wearing. “He lives with his parents,” she said quietly.
“And . . . ?” Thatha demanded immediately.
Sowmya just shrugged.
“Why? You don’t want to take care of his parents?” Thatha asked, chewing the tobacco noisily. “Sowmya?” he asked again when she didn’t respond.
“No, nothing like that,” she all but whimpered.
“So, do we have a problem, Sowmya?” Thatha asked.
“No,” she said after a minute’s hesitation.
We all knew she was lying.
“Grooms are not lining up outside the gate, you know,” Lata said as nicely as she could to Sowmya when the three of us were in the kitchen. “And his parents seem like nice people.”
Sowmya shrugged as she squeezed the pulp out of the tamarind, which was soaking in water. “Priya, large pieces, Ma. We need large pieces of tomato for the sambhar,” she told me, and threw the pieces of tomato I had diced into the sink. “You don’t even know the basics, Priya,” she complained. “You have to learn to cook . . . And if you don’t . . . just leave my kitchen.”
I wanted to leave her kitchen as she suggested. It was there just for an instant, the prick of pride, piercing and slamming against ego. I let it pass.
“I’ll do it properly,” I said, and showed her as I cut the tomatoes into large pieces. “This will do?”
Sowmya nodded without looking at me.
“He is a nice boy,” Lata said, looking up from the pearl onions she was peeling.
“He is thirty-five, dark, balding, and he wants dowry,” Sowmya said, tears glistening at the edge of her eyes, threatening to fall. “And he wants his wife to take care of his old parents. Haven’t I done enough? How many people do I need to take care of? What about me? Who will take care of me?” The tears fell.
I wanted to console her, but I didn’t have the words. What would I say to her? Wait for number sixty-six; maybe that will bring better luck?
Sowmya sat down on the floor and buried her face in her hands. “He asks if there is problem.” she sobbed, “There is always a problem. . . . I am the problem. Can’t wait to get rid of me, she keeps saying.”
“They don’t mean it that way,” I said lamely.
“What would you know?” Sowmya flashed at me. “You have Mr. Mercedes wanting to marry you and you have an American boyfriend who wants to marry you. You have all the choices and . . .” She stopped speaking as she saw the shock on my face and then on Lata’s.
“American boyfriend?” Lata said, catching the most important part.
“I was just making a point,” Sowmya tried to backtrack but it was already too late.
“Yes,” I said boldly. No point in lying anymore, I realized. It was time. I should have done this as soon as I got to India. I shouldn’t have waited. “But please don’t tell anyone anything,” I pleaded. “I want to be the one to tell them.”
Lata nodded and then threw her hands up in the air. “You girls complicate your lives,” she said in exasperation. “When I was getting married it was simple. The first