Just Another South Asian Arranged Marriage Story
She was twenty-seven when she phoned her mother and said, “Ok Amma. You can arrange my marriage now.” She had to hold the telephone away from her ear as the mother who had waited exactly a decade to hear this sentence shrieked with the joy of a teenage banshee.
The year before, her father had complained of indigestion. They had taken him to the hospital and there he had died leaving them frozen in shock as if caught in the blinding flash of an unexpectedly snapped photograph. As the smoke from his pyre ascended into the sky she knew that her mother was now unmoored, a ship bereft of safe harbor. It had been a long, happy marriage. When her mother said, “I still reach out for him when I wake up…” she realized that her mother would now have to pay for her past happiness. Her sorrow as lead-heavy as her previous state had been luminescent.
She was a medical student, lucky enough to love the discipline for itself as much as for the cache it gave her as that rare and precious thing- the good South Asian daughter. And yet, just a few months before, her mother had said, “Darling, all this studying business is good. But you must also think of other things.” She knew exactly what other thing the mother had in mind, but couldn’t resist, “What other things Amma?” She asked. “Darling,” the mother purred, “You have to start thinking about the future. Seriously. You must get married. Soon. Before you get, you know…” She didn’t know. There were lectures to attend, the names and locations of miniscule bones to memorize, the pale gleaming skin of cadavers to pull back like bed-sheets, all mysteries revealed. Still she had to ask, a small part of her curious about how the mother viewed her solitary existence. “What Amma? Before I get what?” “Well…” the mother paused, “Before you get too dried up.”
…
Her boyfriend had green eyes flecked with amber and the slim, muscled V-shaped torso of a serious swimmer. He was as far away from what her mother would have considered a “suitable boy” as geographically his birthplace of Salt Lake City, Utah was from hers of Kurunagala, Sri Lanka. At six-five, he was a foot taller and seven years younger than her. In lieu of a good family, education or any real job prospects it was this combination of mathematical properties that made for the opposite of the mother’s dire prediction about the state of her reproductive organs. In bed, he shouted, “Dried up? She actually said those words? Dried up like a raisin?” He slid a gentle finger across her, sucked it between his plump lips, “Nope, baby, dried up is definitely not what you are.”
Six months later, he was gone. Disappearing into the mysterious interior of the wide American continent on the trail of a Mormon girl he had met while working out at the local Y. “She gets me in a way you never could” was his parting blow. “She’s from close to my hometown. She gets it.” She had not known that heartache would hurt so much- like some exotic, tropical disease found in her textbooks that arrested her need for food, for sleep, denied her body any chance of respite. She missed his size 13 shoes, the vague chlorine pheromones that rose from his skin and permeated her clothes, her sheets, so that she would complain until he kissed her. Yet through the raw, piercing physicality of it, she could see that maybe he had something. Maybe what she needed was not a giant, blond American merman but someone dark and short and familiar. Someone who understood what ninety percent humidity felt like, what a pineapple curry or a mangostein tasted like, someone who sometimes, no matter how rarely, dreamed in Sinhala. This, then was the train of thought that had led to her declaration of readiness for arranged marriage-dom.
When the mother had regained her composure, she made it sound so easy. Like looking for a pair of shoes or a new car, “We’ll just take a look. See what’s available. What’s out there, no?” Yah, she thought, I should take a look at what’s out there. It’s always good to know what one’s options are in the areas of shoes, transportation, or husbands.
If they had been in Sri Lanka this is the point at which a certain well-oiled social mechanism would have been launched into action. But alone in America, under the empty-skied oblivion of Los Angeles, the mother had no husband, no match-maker, no weave of old women, no network of mouths and ears to inform and educate her about the desirability of possible son-in-laws. What she did have instead: the Internet.
One morning, the daughter sat bleary eyed at her computer to read, “Sweetie- here is your ad! I just now sent it out. Call me soon, Amma.” Ignoring the coffee she had just spilled in her lap, she scrolled down to read,
“Respectable, Buddhist Parent looking for a suitable
husband for daughter of 27. (82 born) She is 5’5 in height,
has a wheatish complexion and an attractive figure.
She has got a bubbly personality, is kind hearted
and good looking. She is a medical student living in America.
Seeking an educated, respectable, caring, generous,
Well-employed, good, kind-hearted gentleman.
Personality and family background are important.
Divorcees must not apply. She owns substantial assets.
Please send horoscope and details only if you are serious
in entering into a relationship, subsequently leading to a successful marriage.”
She thought of all the people opening up their morning papers in Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Britain and Sri Lanka reading about this “bubbly, wheatish complexioned, attractive figured” girl? Who the hell was she? Perhaps this girl was some other version of herself, the version of her that might have been if her parents had stayed in Sri Lanka, if she had grown up there, a mirror version in which every attribute was just slightly altered. The part in her hair on the left instead of the right. She didn’t think she could recognize this other self, even if the girl was standing next to her.
There were two weeks of stubborn postal silence. The mother on the telephone sighed as if she were disclosing a cancer diagnosis and said, “No, nothing has come yet.” And then, as if the gods who watch over anxious mothers had finally received her prayers, the barrage began.
There were envelopes from all parts of the world. They bore stamps depicting exotically plumed birds and the crowned heads of state. There were letters from parents and sisters extolling the skin color, caste status and earning potential of their men-folk. There were land deeds and houses titles. There were intricately plotted astrological charts and many photographs of young men in various staid or seductive poses. One had draped himself supine over a Porsche, in the manner of a car magazine model. The daughter wondered if this was supposed to be an ironic comment on gender, she decided that it probably was not. The young man’s shirt was unbuttoned to display thick chest hair that matched his prominent and luxurious moustache. Over this atrocity, the mother cooed, “Oh this one is so handsome. He looks just like your father at that age. Just look at him!”
The daughter looked, but this did not in any way make her actually want to meet the hirsute Porsche model. It was around this time that her stubborn heart had somehow stopped bleeding and began again to be aware of its own oceanic quality. The mother asked, “So who do you like?” She couldn’t answer. It seemed to her entirely too intimate, the opening of every envelope akin to the process of slitting open a body. Inside she found herself forced to witness every species of need. The need for belonging, for containment, or simply for an American green card. The weight of these desires left her exhausted so that finally she said, “I don’t know Amma, there are too many.” She pushed the pile towards the mother, “You decide.” She left the mother dwarfed by that mountain of letters, escaped into the startling chilly desert air.
…
She had almost forgotten the whole enterprise when the mother called, “I’ve found him! I didn’t want to bother you. So busy with your studies and everything. Computer engineer. MIT. San Jose.” And then as if revealing the Holy of Holies, “You two have a 100% astrological match!” The mother’s jubilance implied it was time to cue the full-cast Bollywood dance number complete with Aishwariya Rai in resplendent bridal costume. “My God! Do you realize that your father and I only matched 68%? My parents had to bribe the monks so that we could get married!” She could picture the mother clutching the letter to her heaving bosom, proof that her daughter had just won the astrological lottery, “This is the one for you. I just know it.”
“So what happens now? Do I meet him?”
“Well… darling… his parents are coming here next month. It will be more proper if I met them first.”
“Whaaaat?!”
“That’s the right way. We don’t want them to think you are too Americanized.”
“Amma, no!”
“They live in Colombo. They are coming to the U.S. for just two weeks. If I don’t meet them it will look very bad. What harm? Nothing will happen.”
“Amma are you crazy? I haven’t even met this guy yet.”
“And so what? You think I will scare them off? Is that it? Why? Because I am all alone now that Daddy is gone?”
“What? That’s not what I meant at all!”
“Then it’s ok. I’ll just meet them for a small, quick dinner.”
The mother returned from a long, expensive dinner, deeply, madly, gushingly in love. She had met the parents and they were perfect in every way.
…
What does one wear on a first date with an unseen, unknown future husband?
She had gone though her usual suspects. Jeans and T-shirt, too casual. Little black dress- too sophisticated- she didn’t want him to think she was trying too hard. For a few heart pounding, moist palmed moments she had even considered the sari.
A package had come the week before. Folded in a bed of pink tissue paper, a red sari, silver high-heeled shoes, even a tube of fuchsia lipstick. Her mother’s block letters, “You probably don’t have time to find something- so here you are! Your father loved when I wore it. It was his favorite. You’re welcome. Love, Amma.”
She had unfurled the six yards into a crimson billow, held it against her right shoulder and let it flow down her body like molten lava. It was beautiful; it was sexy. But her face reflected seemed slightly askew, replaced by the face of the mirror image girl she had glimpsed in the marriage advertisement. A girl who was like her, but in certain profound and soul heavy ways not like her at all. Ultimately she had stuffed the sari back into its pink paper womb and kicked the box into the back of her closet. “Because,” she told herself in an attempt to ward off nervous delirium, “If this 100% astrology stuff is really real, it won’t matter what we’re wearing.”
Driving to his hotel she said, “I’m going to meet my husband today.” She said it out loud, slowly and carefully to test the veracity of this statement. But the meaning of the words kept slipping away while the sea going vessel that was her stomach continued its rollicking pitch and roll. Parking, she considered puking right at the doorman’s feet, but then her passenger door was opened and her maybe future husband was sitting in the car. He said, “As you know, my name is Rajive, but you can call me Ralph, everyone else does.” She put her hand out, he grasped it and when their skins met she could have sworn the slightest suggestion of cumin and cardamom escaped from him and flavored the air around them. As she drove, she could feel the weight of his eyes as he took in her jeans and T-shirt. His own khakis and polo shirt seemed to have been freshly ironed by a meticulous maternal hand.
As they ate he said, “So what do you do in your spare time? Hobbies and whatnot?”
“Well… I like to read.”
“Oh I see… a bookworm.” She regarded this statement in light of his short, squat figure, the thick glasses and squinty near-sighted eyes behind them.
“Me, I like to ski, snowboard, golf and run.” He counted these activities off on his fingers. “I’m a real active type. I work hard. I play hard. That’s my motto. I’m buying an SUV. Something big and rugged. Not like that rinky-dink car you’re driving. What is that thing anyway?
“A Prius.”
“Oh yah. Not like that. I want something I can take up a mountain, load my friends in the back. Do anything I want, on the weekends, freedom you know. The American way.
“Ok.”
I bought a house last year. Did you know that? In San Jose. Nice. New. Two-story place. Gated community. The whole works. My parents are living there with me now. Ammie is the best cook in the world- she makes pineapple curry like you wouldn’t believe. Although, of course, I like steaks and hamburgers best of all. Do you want some of this?”
“I don’t eat meat.”
“Oh, ok. Bit of a flower child aren’t you? What’s with the jeans and T-shirt?”
…
Much later, as she maneuvered through LA traffic, desperate to get him back to the hotel, he sighed and said, “Ok. Listen, here’s the deal. I only agreed to see you to get my parents off my back. You seem like a really nice girl. But that’s not what I’m looking for. I want… you know… an American girl. To be honest, I’m just crazy about blondes!” He giggled and punched her arm, then got straightened up, “But don’t tell my parents that. Bottom line, I’m not really interested in a traditional girl who wants an arranged marriage.”
As he walked away, she felt her spine uncoil; suddenly there was more oxygen in the atmosphere.
On the freeway, the cell phone cradled in the drink cup holder rattled like a desert reptile announcing her mother. Her fingers itched to pick it up but she glued them to the correct ten and two-o-clock positions on the steering wheel until it shuddered silent. She could hear the mother’s voice in her head, “Pick up, darling. You know it’s me. Did you wear the sari? Did he like you?” She could hear all the authority of the maternal, the recently widowed, the righteous weight of loss and sorrow held in that voice. In this small refusal of that imperial, impervious tone, she knew guilt but also salvation.
She thought that, maybe later, if she were lucky, there would come a different understanding of love. For her it would not be a thing haunted by ghosts or foreign landscapes but two bodies mingled together to create the scent of home.
The supple fortress of her skin held her with ease, she rolled the window down and let the desert air pick up her hair, tangle it into medusa curls, playful, free. In her headlights on the long empty road ahead, the mirror-image girl, her hair parted on the wrong side, her clothes strange and ill fitting, held up her arms in supplication asking to live. She stepped on the gas, drove straight through her.
Possession
When my father was a very small child, a demon came roaring into his village. “Everyone ran away and hid,” he says, “The thing was a shiny red. It had a hard body and the head and torso of a man. It screamed so loudly!” He shakes his head at the memory. “We hid for a long time but then a strange man appeared and called to us. It was the demon-man but now instead of the shrieking thing he walked on two legs like a normal man. When we came out of our houses, out of the jungle, the man showed us the demon. It lay quiet. He said it was a thing called a motorcycle.”
When my father tells this story, he laughs until quiet tears slip from the corners of his eyes. He wipes them away quickly before he thinks we have seen them. “That was a long time ago. We didn’t know about such things,” he shrugs his hands, a gesture of bewilderment and in this movement I see the fragile ghostly outline of that long-lost boy.
He has spent the majority of his life far from the village of his birth, in Europe, Africa and America. When I visit him he has just retired after an illustrious twenty-five year career as an engineer. Every freeway overpass, every bridge, every flood control dam in Los Angeles bears his imprint. He has lived the life of a rational man, a scientific man who values precision. The tools of his trade are certain quantifiable things: concrete, asphalt, cement.
His broken wrist is encased in pink fiberglass. The loss of his right hand seems to strike him like a major catastrophe, evidence of a callous universe. He cannot drive and to be thus incapacitated within the vast freeway-veined expanse of Los Angeles he has helped build is to be truly bereft.
But I recall another older story, a different version of my father.
When he was six years old, my father stopped walking. When he tried to stand his legs would buckle like twigs snapping leaving him broken and weeping on the ground. One day he had been a normal Sri Lankan schoolboy, scaling walls to steal mangoes and guavas, turning somersaults on the beach, diving into the surging surf to emerge salty-limbed, ocean incandescent. The next he was stretched out on his mother’s pallet bed in the dark house, sick, scared, lonely.
“My parents were so afraid,” he says, “My mother would go into the jungle and find herbs, grind them in her pestle and make disgusting potions for me,” he gags to make me laugh. “She would mix coconut oil, saffron and turmeric to massage deep into my limbs; she fed me the most nutritious and cooling foods, buffalo curd and honey, milk rice, lentils in coconut milk. My father sent to Colombo for pills from the British doctors, but nothing made the smallest difference. I stayed in bed, my legs turning brittle and white like the inside of a tree branch.” He massages his thin legs with his left hand as if somewhere deep in the muscle, the memory of paralysis lingers.
I know the rest of the story. For six months, the boy lay in bed. When his mother whispered his name or sang the ancient lullabies of the fisher-people that he had once loved over his head, he was barely attentive. His broken parents attempted to prepare for death. He was their beloved eldest son, and the loss of him hung heavy in the air like the fragrance of rotting fruit. Slowly it began to be whispered in the village that the family was cursed.
“A devil has entered your son,” the old women would say to my grandmother as they walked down to the river to bathe. “A devil saw the way you treated the boy- as if he were better than the others. You sent him to that city school and he came back speaking the language of the white men, smelling like them, wearing long pants. He is not a child of the village anymore. So a devil has entered him, made him sick. It will kill him and then it will take him back into the forest as its own.”
My grandmother tried to ignore them. She had been trained by her British missionary-school-educated husband to ignore the nonsense spoken by old, superstitious women. But this was the last buoy of hope available to her. “Please” she pleaded with her husband, “We must take him to the devil dancers. Let them perform an exorcism in the old way.” My grandfather was stubborn. Daily he listened to Radio Ceylon, which revealed to him the truths of the age. “The Soviet Union has just detonated an atom bomb! America has just completed an-around-the world-flight! Meanwhile you are still talking rubbish!” he shouted and stomped out of the house.
It took my grandmother weeks of cajoling, and then finally the refusal of nourishment, food, sex, the comfort of her body next to his in the dark before he acquiesced to her wishes.
They travelled through the jungle by bullock cart. The boy cradled by his mother in the belly of the cart, his father walking beside the great-horned buffalo. Overhead the trees closed ranks and cast shadows on every surface so that it seemed they were deep underwater, walking through the green depth of the ocean. Sometimes, the chatter of wild elephants could be heard like the distant din of whales. In these forgotten depths, it was wise to arrive at your destination before night fell. Then, it was known that certain creatures awoke, sniffing for the rich, pungent blood of humans.
They reached the village of the devil dancers just as bats began to pour across the darkening sky. My father was taken into a hut and laid on the ground. He was carried out only when the moon was high and pregnant. Outside the air was thick and smoky, throbbing with the deafening heartbeat of drums that mirrored the staccato panic in his chest. He pulled his mother around him like a shawl and then through the smoky air came spinning, leaping, swirling figures. Huge man-shaped shadows with bulging eyes, curved, blood splattered, canine teeth, manes of raffia and human hair. The figures convulsed and trembled as devils entered them and then they tore the boy from his mother, gathered his shaking, sweating body to them and danced with him held close against them. They danced for hours. They danced through the night as the village gathered in a tight circle to witness the arrival of demons in their midst.
It was nearly dawn when the most ferocious, most fearsome dancer held my father’s body high up into the brightening sky, shook him like a weightless doll and then gently lowered him to the ground. His toes reached tentatively for earth, his mother and father clutched his arms, ready for him to crumble. The child swayed, then he straightened. Their arms fell away and he stood alone, unassisted, tears coursing down his cheeks. And then stumbling but erect, my father walked.
When I remind him of this story, my father shakes his head, “That was a long time ago” he says as if these events happened to someone else who is not him, someone he doesn’t even know or recognize. When I press him, “But what happened? Were there really demons? Did they really save you?” he shakes his head, turns mute, turns his pink encased arm up as if shielding himself from the blows of my curiosity. He doesn’t know he says, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know.
I drive away through the desert city, over the octopus-limbed freeways that bare his mark. I wonder where the demons that will dance for him are now? Can they hear him calling through this maze of cement and concrete? Can they reach him over the hard walls, the buttresses that he has set between them and him?
Or do they die, lost in the impossible expanse of America, so far from the humid jungle that holds its secret heart far from our searching modern eyes.
