He said little; his eyes were fixed on the conveyor belt. She filled the silence with senseless non-thoughts that weighed her heart down. She wished her bags would arrive quickly. It seemed like an eternity since she had left home. She was hungry and tired. She looked around again. Her mind swam as it absorbed the picture—the deeper picture. It cast her under the spotlight because she looked so different from everybody around her; so different even from the man next to her. A deep yearning arose in her chest for the comfort of the familiar.
She had waited three years to get here. Now, she was being ridiculous. That is what Daddy would say; perhaps Amma would concur. Stop being ridiculous, she said to her mind, to her heart, to the tight knot in her belly. Tara, you are finally where you belong.
Marriages are made in heaven, but theirs had been made through a matchmaker. Their families were both from Mangalore but weren’t known to each other, although a distant common family connection had been discovered during the bride-viewing three years ago.
Sanjay’s family’s visit had been brief, the party small. Only his father and mother had accompanied him and the matchmaker to Tara’s home. Amma had insisted on an Indian-English high tea—triangle-shaped mint chutney sandwiches, vegetable cutlets, and her homemade fruit cake with tea, all set out in their fine old china—because she didn’t want to appear clueless about Western ways before the groom. Small talk was made. Daddy had been extra courteous. Amma had talked too much, as usual. Then Tara’s parents had suggested that she and Sanjay take a stroll outside to learn more about each other.
It was a humid summer evening. She had felt overdressed and sweaty in her yellow chiffon salwar suit, her short curls tamed with hairspray, as they walked down a by-lane in the quiet but ostentatious Mangalore neighborhood. He had been a dashing figure in his pressed black dress pants and starched white shirt, hands in his pockets.
The stroll was a short one. He had been polite but brooding. She had been anxious to get back home, to not be overwhelmed by the onus placed on her to be liked by this suitor. Her throat was parched, her tongue dry. But she had liked the aquatic notes of his cologne, the way he rolled his R’s, the Americanness that exuded from him.
“So, you are a journalist at the Morning Herald.” His first question had sounded like a statement.
“I am a backroom journalist, not a reporter,” she had replied. “I mostly edit news reports and give headlines.”
She had not cared to mention that she sometimes wrote features for the magazine section of the newspaper. That a feature she had cowritten with a senior colleague, a deathbed interview with a victim of domestic violence, had won several national media awards. He had asked her no further questions about her job.
“What are your other interests?”
“I like to read,” she had said.
“Do you watch movies?”
“Oh, yes, I like movies, too. I watch them all, Hollywood and Bollywood.”
He said he hated soppy Bollywood trash, but watched Hollywood movies that had good reviews. His great love was for American football and, as an Atlantan, he felt compelled to root for the Atlanta Falcons, although he was a New England Patriots fan.
She didn’t tell him she had never heard of the Atlanta Falcons or the New England Patriots. “What about cricket?” she had asked.
“What’s to watch? The matches are fixed. I’d watch if I were in the betting game,” he had said with a dry laugh.
She had forced a smile to her lips. His Americanness had become a bit too much for her. Did they have nothing at all in common?
When they returned, she had slipped into the kitchen and whispered her doubts into Amma’s ear.
“It takes years to know a person, build common interests,” Amma had whispered back in a dismissive tone. “Besides, there will be plenty to talk about once the children come along. Don’t you worry about that.”
She understood Amma’s desperation. Tara was desperate too, because at twenty-eight, everybody else in her age group was married. It embarrassed her, the questions from the community that seemed like thinly veiled barbs directed at her and her parents. They made her feel like a defective piece of merchandise.
Sanjay’s proposal had come as a relief. When his dad turned in a positive verdict the day after the bride-seeing high tea, her doubts had seemed suddenly flimsy, even to herself. She had looked at Amma and Daddy’s shining, happy faces, and felt only relief that they had finally been relieved of their burden, and she, of hers.
And three years later, here she was, at Aisle 5 of Hartsfield–Jackson International Airport’s baggage claim lounge, finally spotting her two suitcases. He helped her yank them off the conveyor belt. She wished Daddy hadn’t insisted on binding them with fluorescent green plastic rope. The straps looked so absurd here. She glanced at Sanjay, almost expecting to see scorn between his dark brows, but his face was a wall.
He loaded her bags into his silver BMW sedan.
“Nice car,” she said, once they were in it.
“I’ve always wanted a Beemer. Finally bought this baby last year.”
She got a whiff of his cologne, of his masculinity over the smell of new leather, and the newness of it all hit her senses with acuity.
“You’ve got to wear your seat belt. It’s the state law,” he reminded her. She struggled to get it on and felt stupid when he showed her how it was done. Daddy had a showroom full of cars. They had two at home. Why had she not practiced buckling up when it was still a trifling thing to learn?
He pulled the BMW out expertly into the night. The interstate was a revelation to Tara. Not one honk. The cars moved quietly, smoothly, within their lanes, at speeds that seemed inconceivable in Mangalore. Such discipline! Soon, the BMW was passing through downtown Atlanta. He pointed to the Georgia State Capitol, CNN Center, the Bank of America Plaza, and some other tall, impressive buildings the names of which did not register in her mind.
Soon, downtown Atlanta was past them, and the buildings and shimmering lights made way for smaller, less impressive buildings that lay in semi-darkness.
“I’m sure you are hungry,” he said, as he pulled into an exit. “There’s a Chinese and a Mexican restaurant close to my apartment. Or are you craving Indian?”
He had said “my apartment.” And yes, she craved rice, dal, and fried mackerel.
“Chinese or Mexican is fine,” she said.
But he didn’t take her to the Chinese or Mexican restaurant. They pulled into the driveway of a Wendy’s. He ordered a chicken sandwich for her and a cheeseburger for himself.
“This is faster,” he explained. She nodded.
The apartment was on the second floor of a three-storied structure in a sprawling community of silhouetted sloping roofs. He had furnished it well. The living room was populated with deep leather—a three-seater sofa, a loveseat, and a reclining chair. A large TV console occupied one corner. A couple of tall floor lamps lit the room. An array of magazines lay, neatly arranged, on the glass coffee table. Glass balcony doors covered one section of the wall, partially hidden behind venetian blinds. The carpet felt soft to her bare feet.
The far end of the living room contained a small dining table of dark wood and four chairs. Tara peeped into the open semicircular kitchen. The four-burner stove was clean. The counters sparkled. A white fridge stood in one corner. The kitchen was lined with white cabinets.