“I should go to Thatha’s and tell them that I’m not going to be the next Mrs. Sarma,” I said, standing up.
“I’ll drive you,” Nanna said. “The liquor has worn off. . . . Your daughter marrying a firangi is bad for the buzz.”
“What about him?” I asked, pointing to the sleeping Nate whose mouth was just a little open and drool was pooling, slowly trickling down his chin.
“He’ll be fine,” Nanna said. “Probably not the first time he is drunk and hung over. Now, on our way to Thatha’s , I want you to tell me all about Nate’s girlfriend. Is she at least Telugu?”
I hugged Nanna tightly then, let the floodgates open and sobbed in relief. He rubbed his cheek against my hair and I wasn’t sure if the wetness I felt was sweat or Nanna’s tears.
Sowmya was making buttermilk instead of coffee for the early-evening tiffin along with some almond biscuits. “Too hot for coffee,” she told me, as she poured water into the earthen pot in which she made yogurt every day.
“Where did Thatha go?” I asked, annoyed that he wasn’t there when I was ready to explain to him why I couldn’t marry Adarsh and why I had to tell him the truth.
“Something happened at the house construction. . . . Some wall was put up that shouldn’t have been put up or something like that,” Sowmya said as she added powdered cumin and coriander along with a teaspoon of chili powder and salt to the earthen pot.
She churned the yogurt with a wooden mixer, tasting as she churned. “Will you drink this,” she asked, “or should I make some separate with sugar?”
“This is fine,” I said, smiling at the fact that she remembered I always drank buttermilk with sugar in it.
Lata strolled into the kitchen then, a slight waddle creeping into her walk as she massaged her back. “None of my previous pregnancies gave me this much trouble,” she muttered and then sighed when she saw me. “Why did you have to tell Adarsh everything? Your mother is waiting to kill you.”
It annoyed me that Adarsh had gone home and been a good boy, telling his parents the truth about my personal life, something I thought I had revealed to him to ease his hurt. I had believed there was a tacit understanding between us not to reveal our conversation to any of the elders. I felt cheated out of the money I paid for his chaat and ganna juice.
“Well, he told me that he had a Chinese girlfriend,” I countered, deliberately keeping the ex-girlfriend part out.
“Chinese?” Lata’s eyes widened, and she came and leaned against the wall beside me. “What, are there no Indians in the States for you all to meet?”
Neelima came into the kitchen right then, her eyes slightly puffed up and lethargy swirling around her like an irritating mosquito. “Can you make me some coffee, Sowmya?” she asked as soon as she was in. She sat down on the floor next to the large stone grinder. “I am so sleepy,” she complained.
“Happens in the first trimester,” Lata told her caustically. “And why are you and Anand so late? I thought you would be here in the morning. Sowmya and I had to mix the dried mango for the maggai all by ourselves.”
The scolding didn’t faze Neelima who wanted nothing more out of life at that instant than coffee. “My parents wanted us to have lunch with them,” she said.
“Here no one has eaten lunch,” Sowmya muttered. “ Nanna came and just took some of the morning’s curd rice and Amma is still having a headache. Radha Akka and I unnecessarily cooked so much rice and pappu.”
“We’ll have it tonight,” Lata said, and then focused on me. “How is your father doing?”
I smiled. “He’s going to be just fine.”
Lata put her hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “I think you are very brave,” she said. “It would have been easy for you to not have said anything . . . like Anand. But you did and that was very brave.”
I was surprised by her assessment. I didn’t feel very brave, just helpless in a situation that I couldn’t alter.
“I wish more women would stand up for what they want,” Lata finished with a smile.
“Maybe it’s time you did,” I suggested to her.
Sowmya finished churning the buttermilk and started pouring it in tall steel glasses that stood shakily on the not-so-smooth stone kitchen counter.