Kalyana Read online

  I plopped in a Betamax video of Princess Diana and Prince Charles’s wedding. By that time, in addition to a gray rotary phone that allowed my mother to occasionally hear Manjula’s distant voice, my father had invested in a color television set. Usually it sat silently in the middle of our living room or played Hindi films with big stars like Amitabh Bachchan, Mithun Chakraborty, Hema Malini, Rekha, and Anil Kapoor. The royal wedding, however, was one of my favorite English videos to watch. I never tired of seeing Prince Charles and Princess Diana in their regal splendor. Their grand royal occasion made me dream of my wedding day, much like Manjula used to dream of hers.

  Although I would never have admitted this to my mother, staying at home with no school or trade to prepare for was a somewhat unsettling experience. I was also starting to get a hint of the torment that Manjula’s unmarried life had caused her. Whenever I watched this video, instead of Princess Diana walking down the red velvet carpet towards her shining prince, I would see myself striding confidently towards my own prince, the one who could take me away.

  The one difficulty was that my father would never permit a Christian wedding, so a white dress and a long aisle were nothing more than a young woman’s fantasy. I was sure of my prince, though. Even though I was forbidden to see Kirtan alone, my childhood friendship with him had still managed to survive and slowly built to something deeper and ever stronger. He and I talked on the telephone, under our parents’ noses, and we met secretly under the cover of carefully constructed lies. While I was still at school, I would tell my parents that I was going to a study session with a cousin—and, like other Indo-Fijian girls not allowed to meet with boys, we would abandon each other immediately, her to frolic with her boyfriend and I with mine.

  Kirtan and I met behind the rose bushes at the University of the South Pacific, where Kirtan was completing his second year of accounting. Sometimes we met in parks, in abandoned bure houses, in theaters, in restaurants. From time to time he would drive me to the Suva Point in his father’s car; there we could join lovers of all ages, shapes, and statuses, who were parked in rows, locking lips, holding hands, and watching the sun set over the ocean waves. Listening to romantic songs play over and over again on the radio, we would remain oblivious to the disapproving glares of passing fishermen.

  Sometimes instead, Kirtan took me for picnics on the sandy beaches or in dense forests. Once we went to a Chinese restaurant, where we ate chicken chop suey with forks, like the goras.

  Kirtan promised to marry me in two years, when he would be finished his accounting degree. And in 1985, a few months after I turned twenty-two, he came to my house unannounced.

  It was a sweaty Saturday. I was hiding up in my room, perspiring fiercely in an agony of expectancy. Kirtan, his mother and father by his side, strode to our front door and asked my father for my hand in marriage.

  My mother was shifting plates and cups alone in the kitchen when this happened. Roni was not with her, as she seldom came over during the weekends when my father was home. I craned my head, anxiously awaiting my father’s decision. Manjula had been allowed to marry a Christian man. Raju was able to sow his wild oats with an older Fijian woman, one who had already borne three children to three different men. Why should I not be allowed to marry my Kirtan?

  Yet still I feared. I worried that my father—or worse, my mother—would bring out excuses, such as “Kalyana is too young to get married. She’s practically still a child.” Or “Kalyana might still want to go to university.”

  But my father smiled at Kirtan’s modest proposal. After all, he was a Hindu boy studying to be a chartered accountant at the University of the South Pacific. His parents owned their own jewelry store and were well off, and Kirtan was their only son, their only heir. It was a good alliance from any viewpoint, especially as I was, to my mother’s eternal regret, not planning to pursue a career. The date was set for us to marry the following November, during the school holidays.

  My mother may have initially insisted that marriage was not my best path, but that did not stop her from plunging into wedding planning with a trace of her old enthusiasm. She was in her element, and I began to understand and sympathize with what Manjula must have gone through. Mother’s demands often sent me storming out of the room and heading for the ocean seawalls, much like Manjula had done. Don’t slouch. Stand tall. Sit straight. Don’t sleep in until noon; it’s best to awaken before seven in the morning. Put coconut oil in the hair to strengthen it. Amla oil to darken it. On and on she went.

  Why would I do any of that? Kirtan knew I had brown locks and that I liked to sleep in, and he had seen that sometimes I slouched or sat crooked. He didn’t require me to change anything, so why should my mother be so concerned?

  Mother’s biggest worry was fitness. She gave me a Jane Fonda videotape and told me to squeeze my buttocks hard and slow. I felt like a fool as I jumped up and down in the middle of our living room.

  “You need to start exercising, Kalyana,” she would say. “You’re too fat to be a bride. Your stomach will hang over the petticoat. What are your in-laws going to think? Do it for at least twenty minutes a day.”

  When she wasn’t commenting on my weight, she was nagging me about my inability to stir dhal or flip rotis. “Kalyana, come here and learn how to flip rotis properly. If you can’t make them perfectly round, your mother-in-law is going to say that your mother never taught you properly. She’ll tell everyone that you make crooked rotis. Is that what you want? Come and learn. Do you even know how to cook cabbage, cauliflower, potato curry?”

  “I’ve watched you all this time,” I would snap. “It’s not hard. You throw bloody onions in oil, fry cumin and spices all together, stir it up, and put whatever vegetables you want in it.”

  “What about salt? When do you put salt in? How much do you put in? Do you know?”

  I would turn up the volume of my Walkman, plastering the spongy earphones to both my ears. “Kalyana, put away that music and go help your mother in the kitchen.” Father took her side more and more often those days.

  So, to please my father, I would snatch the earphones off my head and throw the Walkman on my unmade bed. I would gather my long, brown hair and put it in a bun—gone were the days of bowl cuts—and with grim lips and a cantankerous face, I would help my mother prepare meals in the kitchen.

  In the same way, I begrudgingly took out the Jane Fonda tapes every morning. Summoning up every ounce of energy within me, I hopped around in the middle of the living room in front of the small television set. I hated the way my white T-shirt and purple leotard became stained with sweat.

  I recalled how, many years ago, my father had begun each morning with vigor. He would punch the air with great enthusiasm, breaking sweat, and then run for miles. Yet now he started the day more slowly, leaning back on the sofa with his hands interlocked behind his head. Age had crept up on him more severely than on my mother. Harsh lines creased his face and forehead, and sometimes I thought he seemed frail and old.

  And so, partly because of this, I did the exercises my mother thrust upon me. But Fonda or no, during the course of the months before the wedding my weight was highly variable. The intense scrutiny of my mother’s watchful eyes was like a scale tied to my back. Worse, relatives and neighbors soon made it their business to comment on my frequent fluctuations.

  “Rajdev’s girl is looking good now. She’s slimmed up quite a bit.”

  My mother would proudly tell them it was Jane Fonda. It was the miracle of aerobics.

  But then, when my waist ballooned up again like a pregnant woman’s belly, they said, “What a pity! Rajdev’s girl was looking good when she slimmed down.”

  My mother looked defeated then. She had no good answer to give. She would whisper to Roni, “She cheats on her diet. That’s why she can’t keep it off. Just last week she didn’t exercise at all, and I saw her stuffing herself with a bowl of dried coconut shredding
mixed with brown sugar. I don’t know what to do with that girl. Maybe God will kick some sense into her head one day.”

  Roni would tap my mother lightly on her back and nod her head. I would simmer with rage, believing she was on my mother’s side. But now I wonder whether her understanding was greater than my mother’s ever could have been.

  25

  November 23, 1985. My Wedding Day.

  Unlike Manjula’s wedding, when frangipani, hibiscus, marigold, bougainvillea, and jasmine exuded the most beautiful scents for the entire week my auntie sat preparing for her day, the week leading to my own auspicious day was different. We were in the midst of a bout of miserable weather; rain fell constantly, blotting out the sun, and the flowers, leaves, and trees were limp as they trembled and shivered in the wind. For this reason, my father rented a big hall in which to safely celebrate my wedding. I would not be joined to Kirtan in the yard, under the gentle skies, with the soft lull of the ocean for accompaniment.

  Naturally, my mother was not pleased. She complained about the rain, the noise, the sun—or the lack of it, that is. The wind and the tin rattling sent her nervously twitching. She did not want to move all arrangements to the hall. She complained about the inconvenience. And to make matters worse, my fitness was worse than ever; on my wedding day, I tipped the scale at exactly 182 pounds.

  Yet, despite it all, I could still be married. I wore the traditional red sari with gold jewelry, not a pink one like I had imagined as a child, and my blouse slipped over my petticoat and covered my wide stomach. The sari draped around me in a flattering manner, thank God. My hands, like Manjula’s, were painted with henna, and like her I wore a ruby-studded gold bindia.

  The priest began chanting his mantras. Initiating Vara Satkaarah, he lit a fire in a small concrete box, as my mother welcomed Kirtan and his guests at the entrance gate of the wedding hall. The rice rained gently on Kirtan’s head as my mother reached over and put a long streak of vermilion powder on his forehead. She took his face in her hands, planting a kiss on both of his cheeks. It warmed my being to see this, though I could only observe at a distance from a small room at the end of the hall.

  Then it was my turn to step forward. Young girls led me to the altar, initiating Madhuparka. I could feel the guests’ gazes penetrating my skin, even though I kept my eyes lowered, as was proper for an Indian bride. As I walked towards the altar, my surroundings seemed to blur for a moment. I remembered how Manjula had limped to her groom as I had sat back on a wooden stool, watching and yearning for my own day to come. I was filled with an understanding of how time could at once pass so quickly and yet stand still.

  As I approached the altar, my father humbly took charge. With tears in his eyes, he came bearing gifts of pots and pans, of long-sleeved shirts and silk pajamas, and of rings and chains and gold coins on silver trays. He placed them at Kirtan’s feet, asking in return for the gift of his daughter’s well-being, my happiness. Perhaps that was all my parents had truly wanted for me after all.

  The pundit continued chanting prayers as the smoke from the fire filled the altar. My father took my hand and placed it onto Kirtan’s, initiating Kanya Dan: the giving away of a bride, a daughter, a woman.

  The pundit dropped a small silver spoon of water on the sacred fire. This was Vivah-Homa, the blessing of the altar and the purification of the air. He said, “Let this auspicious occasion begin with purity, with love, and with joy, with goodness.” Then Kirtan took my right hand in his left, accepting me as his lawfully wedded wife. Pani-Grahan had begun, and, following the pundit’s orders, I led Kirtan around the fire. Together we took vows of loyalty, steadfast love, and lifelong fidelity to each other: Pratigna-Karan.

  My mother gently placed my foot on a cold slab of stone, initiating Shila Arohan, and counseled me to prepare for my new life. I could not hear what she said, for in that moment I saw among the guests a small girl with a round face and innocent dark eyes, sitting close to her mother. The girl fidgeted and played with the ends of her mother’s pale-blue sari, whispering something in her ear. My heart stopped as the girl rose to leave, and it seemed I must leap to follow her. But then I saw her mother also rise and take her hand.

  The pundit, with one hand in the air, softly asked us to complete Laja-Homah. He instructed me to put my hand on top of Kirtan’s. Together we offered the sacred fire a teaspoon of ghee-soaked rice each time he uttered the gentle benediction “Om Bhur Bhuva Svaha.”

  The fire blazed louder and brighter, consuming the mixture. The pundit continued chanting Sanskrit verses, saying ancient prayers that neither of us could understand. Yet we knew that the gods and goddesses were gathering up above, hearing the chants of these prayers and raining blessings like confetti on Kirtan and me, sanctifying our new spiritual union.

  Then, following the pundit’s instructions for Pradakshina, we both stood up, Kirtan and I, our pinky fingers linked. Together we walked around the fire seven times, making seven promises:

  May we be blessed with an abundance of resources and comforts, and be helpful to one another in all ways. “Om Bhur Bhuva Svaha.”

  May we be strong, steady, and healthy in our minds and our bodies and our spirits. “Om Bhur Bhuva Svaha.”

  May we be blessed with prosperity and riches; may we share happiness and pain together, and may we work and live together. “Om Bhur Bhuva Svaha.”

  May we be eternally joyful, and smile in each other’s embrace, and forever be faithful to each other and to our love for one another and to our respective families. “Om Bhur Bhuva Svaha.”

  May we bear fruits and multiply plentifully; may God give us noble and heroic children. “Om Bhur Bhuva Svaha.”

  May we live in harmony and peace, true to our values, true to our promises. May we always be the best of friends. “Om Bhur Bhuva Svaha.”

  For the final time, the pundit called upon the triple worlds: the earth, the sky, and the atmosphere in between. “Om Bhur Bhuva Svaha,” he said softly, as I looked into the eyes of the love of my life.

  The marriage knot, the Saptapadi, was tied between Kirtan and me. We were connected with a long, red piece of ribbon and instructed by the gentle priest to take seven steps together as husband and wife. Seven steps for nourishment, strength, prosperity, happiness, progeny, long life, and harmony and understanding. Kirtan stared into my eyes, not even glancing once at the flabby arms or protruding stomach that had caused my mother and me so much distress. He put his hand upon mine, and in perfection we walked.

  We completed Abhishek and Anna Praashan. We sprinkled water and meditated on the sun and pole star. We made food offerings, first to the fire, then to each other. We bent down and touched the feet of our parents for Aashirvadah, touching our fingers to our heads. We received their blessings, their good wishes, and their benediction.

  Smiling confidently, Kirtan dropped vermilion powder in the part of my hair, marking my status as a married woman. The pundit blew the conch shell loudly and clearly. We were united, Kirtan and I, like princesses with their princes, like Juliets with their Romeos, and like Mumtaz with her Shah Jahan.

  Now I understood why Indian marriages took so long to celebrate. The joining of two families and a lifetime of promises can never be made in mere minutes.

  During the reception, my father supervised the hired men who had cooked goat pilau and an array of vegetarian curries for the four hundred guests. Instead of banana leaves, as there were at Manjula’s wedding, we used paper plates and paper cups. My mother and father, Kirtan’s parents, and Raju all stood together in the receiving line and accepted mountains of presents on our behalf: from bedspreads to drinking glasses and spoons and knives to wall hangings. These gifts would help Kirtan and I start our new household, away from both of our families.

  As I was leaving the reception that evening, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Uncle Baldev standing silently by a far wall, watching the proceedings. These days
, he carried a walking stick and wore round caps to hide his recent baldness. I glanced at him briefly, then swiftly turned my head back to Kirtan, who had noticed nothing.

  Though Uncle Baldev was at a distance, I was sure I could still smell the faint whiskey on his breath and the stale stench of cigarette on his clothes, and my stomach churned. But I gripped Kirtan’s hand tightly and stepped forward. Together we walked out of my old life forever.

  Svaha.

  The sting of that word.

  The crackling fire.

  The pundit’s gentle voice, so far and so long ago.

  It plays like a haunting melody—over and over—ceaselessly repeating—in my mind.

  Kirtan, hovering above me.

  Then the song—the love song.

  Kabhi kabhi…

  Sometimes, sometimes…

  Mere dil mein khayal ata hai…

  A thought flickers across my heart…

  Ke jaise tujhko banaya gaya ho sirf mere liye…

  Like you have been made only for me…

  The sound of a conch shell blowing through the wind.

  Kali-yana.

  I hate the sound of that word.

  Suhaag raat hai, gunghat utha raha hoo mei…

  It’s our wedding night, as I lift up your veil…

  The smell of whiskey on his breath. Though Kirtan did not drink tonight, I am sure.

  I close my eyes. I disappear, even for a moment.

  Tu ab se pahele, sitaro mein bas rahi thi kahi…

  Before today, you were among the stars up above.

  Tujhe zamin pei, bulaya gaya hai mere liye…