Indian Maidens Bust Loose

  Indian Maidens Bust Loose

  By Vidya Samson

  Copyright (c) 2012 by Vidya Samson

  All rights reserved. With the exception of excerpts for review purposes, no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission of the copyright holder.

  This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Chapter 1

  Winning By A Nose

  Possibly, somewhere in India, there was a girl who got excited at the prospect of a “bride-seeing” meeting, but it was hard to imagine. For years my sister Vinita and I had been subjected to meetings with boys neither of us would bother to kick. All arranged by Papa, who apparently resented the food we ate. We had long since given up hope.

  So, on this hot June evening, we headed downstairs to prepare for Papa’s latest suitor pick. Since I was the target this time, Vinita should have gloated, given her nature. But we took turns at being victims, so there was some solidarity when it came to the suitor problem.

  At the bottom of the stairs we encountered a newly hung portrait of Hanuman, the monkey god.

  “Papa’s at it again,” said Vinita.

  Apparently so. From time to time, Papa would hang extra portraits of gods around the house to impress visitors, usually members of the ultraconservative Bharatiya Sanskruti Ke Rakshak, or BSR. This was a local, relatively powerless version of the Vishwa Hindu Parishad, which had passed on Papa as a member. That, in itself, spoke volumes about his desirability when it came to rabid organizations. I had always thought of him as being perfectly rabid. On occasion, anyway.

  Ma, knowing he was putting up the portraits for the wrong reasons, took them down after they had served their purpose. Like temporary help, I supposed. There remained permanent portraits of Ganesh in the living room, Krishna in the dining area, and Shiva in my parents’ bedroom. On the walls of Vinita’s room were hung portraits of famous mathematicians. I had nothing on my walls, which either meant I had no heroes or that I had saved some money.

  Along with Papa’s extra deity portraits would come BSR pamphlets, strewn on tables here and there. We found some of those on the dining table.

  “I wonder if he put the pamphlets out to impress the suitor’s family?” I hoped not, for the ultra-conservative suitors were the most unpleasant to deal with.

  Vinita stepped into the living room and checked. “I don’t see any on the side table, so the pamphlets must be for us.”

  “Lucky us.”

  “Could be worse. He could read them to us.”

  A chilling thought. “Don’t even joke about that.”

  “So, what are you wearing for this meeting?”

  “Something new. Come see.”

  We went upstairs to my room, where I laid out two cheap outfits, purchased expressly for the suitor business. Vinita glanced at them and grimaced. “Ugh.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Splendid.” Vinita’s taste in clothing was abysmal. If she saw the outfits as ugly, they really, truly were, by any standard. That was the whole idea. It made my goal of suitor repulsification easier to achieve.

  “What if the suitor turns out to be...adequate?”

  I knew she had almost said desirable, then reality had checked her. “I don’t think we have to worry. Papa may be less than competent in some ways, but he can really pick the losers.”

  “True. What was I thinking?” She pointed at one of the outfits. “The orange and yellow one is hideous.”

  I snatched it up. A two-piece suitor repellent.

  Once both of us were dressed, we joined Papa and Ma in the living room. Ma yawned, and the rest of us followed suit. We had done this so many times, we had it down to a polished routine. There would be polite greetings and some false compliments, along with some offered snacks. Then would come the sales pitches, stuffed with lies, and finally the jockeying for best advantage. In the case of Papa’s picks, said jockeying was just a way of pretending the lies went unnoticed. I would reject the boy afterward, provided he didn’t beat me to the punch. That part was always easy. For me, if not for Papa.

  The doorbell rang. Papa grinned and bustled away to let the enemy in. Ma stood by with a platter of bhajiyas.

  “Battle stations,” whispered Vinita, in a rare display of humor.

  The boy hove into sight, flanked by his parents. He looked athletic and he wasn’t short. But neither was his nose, which was the same spectacular feature worn by both parents, only much more so. The Great Indian Hornbill faced stiff competition.

  Papa moved into position to make introductions. “My wife, Meena, and my daughters Nisha and Vinita.”

  The boy cringed, misled by Papa’s reversing of our seating positions in his introduction. I could tell he thought Vinita was me. Considering my outfit, this was even less of a compliment to Vinita.

  His father introduced the players on his team. The boy’s name was Arjun. We were informed that Arjun was outstanding at cricket and had a degree in waste management. I thought that was an effective antidote to romance — not that romance was much of a factor.

  “Cricket is my passion,” said Arjun. “I am looking for a wife who shares my interest and who will remain fit.”

  A flicker of alarm showed in his parents’ eyes. It wasn’t wise to make demands so soon. It restricted the scope of the lying and forced one to backpedal should previously unmentioned finances come to light. Not that any would in our case. Naani had bequeathed her house to Vinita and me, but it wasn’t collectable until she passed on, so it didn’t have nearly the appeal of cash or gold—of which there was none worth mentioning.

  Regardless, it was a major tactical error. Were the parents amateurs at the game? Surely not, for the boy would be a hard sell, having such a dangerous-looking nose and lacking significant wealth. The parents would have started early and played the numbers game, counting on some desperate girl to say yes before he approached thirty and came across as stale. Then it hit me. The parents apparently thought his nose—being like theirs, only amplified—was within the normal range for humans. This entitled him to be picky. They deserved a quick kill.

  “I don’t understand the game of cricket,” I said. “My passion is reading. Quality romances, mainly.”

  Ma gnashed her teeth. Audibly.

  Vinita took her cue. “Being mathematically inclined, I find it interesting. The scoring, I mean. The game itself seems pointless.”

  “Well,” said Arjun, slapping his thighs in dismissal and rising. But the parents weren’t through yet.

  “There is more to the marriage than the sports and the books,” said Papa. “One can be playing the cricket while the other be reading.”

  The suitor’s father looked down his considerable nose. “If one will support the family in fine style, as MBA holder would be doing, there must be the balance, the compensation.”

  Cash in addition to the future share in the house was what he meant, not shared interests. He might as well have suggested that his son marry one sister while the other would be cooked for the wedding feast. Papa remained silent, as if “compensation” was Hungarian for gall bladder.

  “Perhaps there is not a match,” suggested Arjun’s mother, palming a couple of bhajiyas in preparation for departure.

  The father grunted and they left.

  “Greedy!” said Papa, after the visitors had left, placing the blame on the suitor family, as usual. I could imagine the other father saying, “Stingy!”

  Then Papa went upstairs and Ma turned on me. “Romance novels! What is wrong with you?”

  “He was honest, so I was honest. Besides, I said ‘quality romance novels.’”

  “No such thing! And no such thing as honest when choosing a boy. Put on the face that is best.”

  A nation of politicians. “But if I’m going to reject the boy anyway, what difference does it make?”

  “Practice, Nisha. Someday you meet someone nice. Then you know how to act.”

  I supposed she meant phony. The thrill of romance over for the time being, Vinita and I headed upstairs to our rooms. In the hallway we pumped our fists in the air and whispered, “Yes!” A rare moment of togetherness.

  Even so, there was a letdown lurking behind the feeling of accomplishment. I really wanted Mr. Right to walk through the door, unlikely as that was. I didn’t know if Vinita felt the same way. She might not even hope for that anymore. It wasn’t something she ever talked about.

  I went into my room and took stock of the shelves full of novels. Novels that contained legions of virile, confident, action-oriented males, the stuff of secret female dreams. None of them were Indians, I realized. I tried to imagine that. Let me be taking you to Bangalore, my dear, where I will make the computer programs and you will be caring for my sickly parents. At least no underdressed babe would snatch him away. He would be mine forever. I grabbed a bodice-ripper off my bookshelf and frantically searched for a “He crushed her in his powerful arms” passage.

  Chapter 2

  The Vulture and the Cash Cow

  In comparison with the suitor meeting the evening before, my day had begun with a sense of excitement, the kind of anticipation a child might experience when some event—small in the scope of the world but big in her eyes—was drawing near. Tomorrow my aunt Damini and her two daughters would arrive from America. I had never met t
hem, which made my imagination run wild.

  Papa, Ma, and my sister Vinita were of the opinion that while East and West might meet, sometimes they shouldn’t. Since Damini had run off with an American musician without benefit of marriage and had been banished forever by Pravin, my recently deceased maternal grandfather, this was one of those times. But the house belonged to Naani, my grandmother, so they had little say in the matter. Her daughter was returning, and that was that.

  This situation heightened the quality of unpleasantness that normally permeated the household. So, on this particular morning, I decided to put some distance between myself and my family by going for a walk around Mahatma Society, as the compound that housed Naani’s bungalow was called. I opened the front door and stood in the entrance, inhaling deeply and admiring a dawn complete with a lingering pale moon. And minus at least some of the ghastly pollution I suspected the government was using as a means of population control.

  “The door!” shrieked my sister, Vinita, from inside.

  I hastily stepped out and closed the door behind me. Vinita was paranoid about the door being left open, fearful that a lizard would sneak in. I never understood how I came to have such a delicate sister. Both of us had attended Gujarat University, where snakes sometimes invaded the library and lizards sought to better themselves in the classrooms. Vinita never learned that we have to share the planet with God’s lesser creatures, possibly because she was the most recent addition to the family. I realized early on that younger siblings are given to us for practice.

  Pushing both lizards and sister from my mind, I set out on my walk. I didn’t get far before I heard my name called. Gita, a middle-aged woman with hard-edged features, came out of her house.

  “Aunty,” I responded. Custom dictated I address her that way, although there were other things I would rather have called her.

  “I heard your aunt from America is coming to visit.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” Gita was always the first to know what was happening in her neighbors’ lives. Vinita suspected she paid the neighborhood maids to keep her updated on what was going on in every home.

  “After so long. She left the year before you were born. Twenty-five years, no?”

  “What a good memory you have.”

  “It’s like yesterday to me.”

  I didn’t doubt that. Gita had chosen gossip as her life’s work at an early age. Damini’s shameful departure and my now deceased grandfather’s ban on further contact with her had been grist for Gita’s gossip mill. Now that the scandal had been resurrected, Gita was no doubt eager to roll in it once more.

  “Your grandfather would be shocked your family allows her to visit,” continued Gita.

  “He’s hardly in a position to object.”

  “But in the memory of his wishes...”

  “No point in bearing grudges.”

  Gita’s eyes widened in pretended shock, then she continued. “She now has two daughters, no?”

  “So I’ve heard. I get the news later than you.”

  Gita ticked off points on her fingers. “A runaway mother, an American musician father, plus growing up in a morally bankrupt country”

  “They may be perfectly decent girls.”

  Gita grinned evilly. “A slim chance, maybe. But be careful, Nisha. Your reputation can be destroyed by association.”

  I had to admit Gita was the expert in the field of interpersonal demolition. She started to say something else, then stopped, looking alarmed. Something behind me had struck fear into her.

  “Rundhi! Gadhedi!” screamed a female voice. “Trying to ruin my marriage!”

  I turned to see one of our neighbors, a Mrs. Varma, crossing the street, a plastic bag in her hand.

  “I don’t know what you’re speaking about,” said Gita, slowly backing away.

  “Liar!” shouted Mrs. Varma. “You are filled with poison lies!” She reached into the bag and withdrew a ripe chiku.

  “You are mistaken,” said Gita, dodging as the fruit whistled past her head. She turned and ran to her door. A second fruit splattered next to the door, causing her to cry out. She yanked the door open, allowing another missile to sail into her house. Something crashed inside. The door slammed, and the next three chikus made a mess on the front of the house.

  Mrs. Varma turned to me. “Your friend?”

  “No one’s friend, I don’t think.”

  She laughed, sounding somewhat demented. I was glad my fellow citizens didn’t have ready access to firearms. “I have something on the stove,” I said, grinning as I backed away. I turned and headed for my house, wondering what pain Gita would inflict upon us for allowing Damini to return.

  “Should have a wall around this place,” said a male voice.

  I turned to see a man in my next door neighbor’s front yard. His hair was too long, he had a full beard, and he wore sunglasses, so I really wasn’t sure what I was looking at. He was crouched next to a very large, evil-looking motorcycle. Unlike those that normally plied the streets, this one looked dangerous not only to the rider, but to others as well. Perhaps to entire neighborhoods. He was cleaning or polishing something. “Actually, there is a wall.”

  “I meant a high wall. Something to keep the inmates in.”

  Did he mean me? What nerve. “I’m not sure we’re worse than the rest of Ahmedabad.”

  He stood up. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but his jeans were almost worn out, and the loose tunic he wore had seen better days.

  “Good point,” he said.

  I cleared my throat and continued on my way.

  I met Naani, my diminutive but peppery grandmother, as I entered. She smiled a greeting, lively eyes shining beneath gray hair.

  “Do we have a visitor next door?” I asked. “A man with a big motorcycle?”

  “I heard it last night. I was thinking we are at war, but no. Mr. Ambani becomes sick, so maybe there is something to do with that.”

  “A short term visitor, I hope. By the way, Mrs. Varma just attacked Gita.”

  Naani looked hopeful. “Much injury?”

  “None. She just threw ripe chikus at her, and missed.”

  Naani clucked her tongue.

  “Gita already knows about Damini coming,” I continued.

  “Of course. Gita knows all everything. Gita knows what color chuddis the prime minister is wearing, I think.”

  “She missed her calling as a government spy.”

  “We can’t be sure.” Naani looked around as if Gita might be lurking behind a settee, then motioned for me to follow her out the front entrance. She closed the door behind us, adjusted her sari, and sat down next to me on the step. I saw that the motorcycle polisher had gone inside. We had privacy.

  “You are excited about Damini’s visit, no?” she said.

  I almost asked what else there was to be excited about. “I didn’t sleep well, thinking about it.”

  “So this is some jadoo-mantar, some magic, her coming?”

  Of course it was. My life had been bone dry in terms of magic. “I don’t see what’s wrong with being excited about meeting Damini. Is she some horrible person? To hear Ma talk...”

  “No, Damini is the nice person.”

  “You’ve talked to her? Other than when she called?”

  “I called her, not so long ago. I couldn’t be speaking with her while your grandfather is alive. But Tara Aunty’s husband has the relatives there and they were making the inquiries afterward, so I get her number. I thought why to tell you and give you high-high hopes unless she is surely coming.”

  I saw why she wanted our conversation to be private. It wasn’t Gita she was worried about. “Tell me all she said.”

  “We talk about many-many things. What you want to know?”

  I thought of Ma’s dire predictions for Damini’s life. “Is she married? Is she happy?”

  “Of course married, and she’s sounding happy. Her life is busy-busy, with many friends.”

  “That’s nice.”

  My reply must have rung hollow, for Naani eyed me with suspicion. “You’re expecting something from her?”

  “Well, since Papa won’t let me pursue my goal of working as a journalist, I thought perhaps Damini could help me.”

  “How she can help?”

  “I could study further in the US, where Papa isn’t.”