The Mango Season

“Na

“But you have to be ready sometime, Priya,” Na

I tentatively sipped mine and sighed in pleasure. “This is what I really miss. This and chaat.”

Na

I finished my ga

“We are staying here tomorrow. I am taking the day off,” he said over the sound of honking cars, sidestepping trash on the pavement.

“I know, I brought a change of clothes. I’m pla

Na

“Do you remember Mahadevan Uncle?”

Mahadevan Uncle is one of Na

“Sure, I remember Mahadevan Uncle. He has two sons, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, both married,” Na

“Rice? Why?”

“He works at ICRISAT and he has done some big-time research in rice. Has won some major awards; the President gave him one just last year,” Na

“Hmm.” I refrained from saying more. I could see where this was going.

“Rice Sarma has a son,” Na

“Yes,” I said tightly.

“He is a manager there,” Na

BITS Pilani was a very good school for engineering in India and I could see my father was laying it on thick. Producing the perfect groom for me. My heart sank. How was I going to get out of this one without telling him about Nick? How could I now not tell him about Nick?

“Oh.”

“And he did his master’s at MIT and has an MBA from Stanford,” Na

“Impressive,” I said. Good God, what next? Would he tell me that the man was six feet two and looked like Adonis?

“He is six feet two inches tall,” Na

Venkatesh was a Telugu film actor I used to be fond of seven years ago. I hadn’t seen a movie of his since I left India, but I was impressed that Ma was using him as bait.

“So what?” I pretended ignorance.

“We showed him your photo-”

“You did what?” I extricated my hand from his and faced him. We had reached Thatha’s gate and we stood there, I angry, he contrite.

“Well, what did you want us to do? Wait until you are fifty to get you married?” Na

“He seems perfect. Maybe Ma should marry him,” I quipped.

Na

I stared at my father. “You are not putting me through one of those cattle-seeing ceremonies.”

“You are not cattle and stop overreacting.”

“Overreacting? His family will show up… that’s why Ma packed my silk blouses. Damn it, Na

“Don’t use words like damn,” Na

“I won’t sit there and be watched by him and his family like I’m a cow for sale,” I said sharply.

“It won’t be like that, Priya Ma,” my father tried to console.

I brushed past him and marched into the house. I flung my straw slippers from my feet onto the veranda and went inside the hall.

I barely acknowledged Jayant who had arrived while my father was sticking the knife in my back.

“I’m not going to be here tomorrow afternoon,” I told my mother. She was sitting on the floor, leaning on a cushion, and I towered over her, my hands at my waist.

“You will be here,” Ma said without even flinching. “None of these shenanigans will work with me. Your father will put up with this-”

“Really? What will you do if I leave tomorrow afternoon when Na

“Priya,” Thatha said sternly. “Calm down and don’t yell in my house. Why don’t you go help Sowmya in the kitchen?”

I almost raged at him but bit my tongue back. This was not the time to get on the feminist soapbox.

I wanted, I so very much wanted, to stay and fight but I didn’t want to behave like a child and prove their point that they didn’t think I could take care of myself, find my own husband.

“You should’ve at least asked me before you invited them,” I told Ma in a soft voice. She shrugged again and looked away from me.

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell Ma that this was why it was so hard to respect her. Respect was a two-way street and if I didn’t get any, I couldn’t give her any either. Feeling utterly betrayed by both my parents and my grandparents-my entire family-I walked out of the hall.

In the kitchen, Sowmya was soaking lentils in water for the mango pappu.

“Can I help?” I asked sourly, and she smiled gamely.

“Peel the mangoes, will you? I have to cut potatoes for the curry,” she said, handing me a peeling knife and two green mangoes.

I stood on one side of the sink and she on the other as we worked on our respective vegetables.

“They’ve set up a pelli-chupulu for me,” I said bitterly.

Sowmya nodded. “Radha Akka told us when you went to the vegetable store.”

“How can they?”

“Come on, he sounds perfect. I have someone coming tomorrow evening and he is a lecturer in a private college and looks like Brahmanandam, not Venkatesh,” Sowmya said with a broad grin.

Brahmanandam was a comedian in the Telugu film industry. He made people laugh but didn’t have anything going for him in the physical attributes department.

“That’s not the point,” I said.

“You think that you are too good for a pelli-chupulu and only people who look like me have to go through it?” she asked quietly, and my eyes flew wide open, denial dancing on my tongue ready to pour out.

But she was right. That was exactly what I thought.

I wanted to make an excuse, a good one, and that was when it slipped out; I was busy trying to make Sowmya feel better about her several pelli-chupulus and my belief that I was much better than she was.

“I have a boyfriend… a fiancé,” I blurted out.

“What?” The potato Sowmya was holding rolled away from her into the sink. She grabbed it and stared at me through her nine-inch glasses.

“Yes,” I said. I had stepped in it with one foot so I might as well dip the other one in. “He’s American.”

“Your father will kill you and, if not, your Thatha will,” Sowmya said as she clutched the knife she was using to peel potatoes against her chest. “When… how…? Priya? What were you thinking?”