the table, as Puran’s mother eyed me up and down, ascertaining if I was a daughter-in-law in the making.
No doubt, if this had been thirty years ago, my appearance would have been different. My mother went to meet my father for the first time wrapped in a blue silk sari, with jasmine flowers laced through her long, braided hair. She never looked up once. And the words ‘New York’ certainly never featured in the conversation. My father says he wanted to marry her as soon as he saw her enter the room. It was, actually, deeply romantic.
Most mothers of supposedly eligible Indian men want their sons to marry unspoiled and domesticated girls from wealthy families. That way, dowries are munificent yet the girl herself is acquiescent and non-demanding. It is the ideal. Puran’s mother was no exception. She was clearly disapproving of the living-in-America factor, but was willing to overlook it when she thought of the kind of parties my family would throw to celebrate finally off-loading me. And the images of suitcases containing silver and silks, of the red velvet boxes carrying jewellery and gold coins that would be sent over to her in the run-up to the wedding … well, what was a little independent streak in a daughter-in-law – one that could surely be quelled with marriage – in comparison to that?
‘Puran, why don’t you take Anju for a walk?’ his mother suggested, smoothly segueing into the next step in the proceedings. Please say no, I silently beseeched. That would signal that he wasn’t interested, that he had decided that I didn’t suit him, and I could go home with my family, then fly back to New York, and never have to think of Accra again.
But Puran obediently put down his glass of mango juice, and stood up, turning to me and expecting me to do likewise. I had no choice but to rise; to refuse would have been hugely embarrassing for my parents, and I would never hear the end of it. I consoled myself with the fact that it was going to be a quick stroll around the interior of the hotel, no big deal, I could do this. Quickly, I reminded myself of all the things I should not say: my mother had fudged my age a bit, so I was really now only thirty. And not a word about the travel that had been integral to my job publicizing fashion designers – boys didn’t want to hear about their prospective brides organizing back-stage interviews for Michael Kors in Paris. Say nothing unless asked, and if forced to speak of it, play it down. Doing otherwise would sabotage this from the outset, and my parents would have another ‘rejection’ on their hands. And my pride wouldn’t allow me to be turned down by someone I would never marry. Ever. Even under the most dire and desperate circumstances.
‘What time do you wake up in the morning?’ he asked as we made our way across the lounge and through the double doors leading to the corridor outside.
‘Excuse me?’
‘What time do you wake up in the morning?’
‘Um, well, here, because I’m on holiday, quite late, perhaps around ten or so, you know how it is when there’s a family wedding and you’re out every night. But in New York, generally, never later than seven. I try and get to the gym before I head off to work and …’
I realized I had revealed too much about my life already, and stopped. I mustn’t sound ambitious or successful, so I just kept visualizing the word my young cousin Namrata had used: marshmallow. I was going to be a marshmallow, just for tonight.
‘Because at home in Accra, everyone gets up early,’ he countered. ‘There is too much to do. So it’s good you are an early riser. Easier for you to adjust.’
Much energy was now being spent on squashing the words inside me that were fighting to be spat out. The poor sod thought it was a done deal. In his mind, I was his wife already.
‘We have three maids at home, and a cook, but they have to be supervised. It’s a job for the woman of the house. All the work starts early in the morning. They still don’t know how to use the vacuum cleaner. Do you know how to use a vacuum cleaner?’
I sighed. This is what my life had become. I was in one of the most beautiful hotels in Bombay, on a sultry evening, dressed in silk, sweet and smiling and basically being a delightfully charming dream-date. And walking next to me was a man who only wanted to marry me because he needed to supplement his domestic task force.
‘My mummy tells me your work in Umrica is to do with fashion,’ he continued. ‘Do you like my trousers?’ He stopped, lifted up one leg like he was a pooch about to pee, and pointed out the little embossed flowers. ‘They are the latest thing,’ he said proudly.
At some point, I phased out of the conversation, I’ll admit.
‘… and then on Sundays I take my mother to the market … we have three maids and a cook, but they have to be supervised, so it’s better we do the vegetable shopping ourselves … you can’t trust the natives, you give them money to buy aubergine, and they buy cigarettes instead and then say the money was stolen. Ridiculous! My mother sometimes doesn’t feel like going to the market, you know, she’s getting a little old now, so of course that will be a job for you. Then, every four Mondays, there’s a picnic with all their friends, and I take them there. Do you like picnics? But sometimes it’s too hot so we have to hold it in somebody’s house. We play bingo. Do you play bingo?’
‘When I’m not at a Tae-bo class, sure,’ I replied. Puran just looked puzzled, and continued nattering on about his life in Accra – how he came home for lunch, but on the days he didn’t, a ‘tiffin’ had to be sent to him at his office. His father was more or less retired now, so he had to run the business by himself, and it could be stressful, so it was time he found a wife. He needed someone he could come home to and who would pour him a whisky soda – although she wasn’t allowed to drink with him, because he thought it was very bad for a woman to consume alcohol.
‘And I like getting massage, do you know how to give massage?’
And on and on he went, not once asking me what I saw for my own life. Even if he had, I still wouldn’t have wanted to marry him, but at least he wouldn’t have come across as so ridiculously archaic. I didn’t expect him to peer into my soul, but a smidgen of polite interest would have been nice. At least I hadn’t deluded myself, as I had done so many times before, into thinking this could be Mr Right. If nothing else, this was just another story to regale the girls with when I finally got home. And they thought they had had bad dates.
‘We’d better go back now, no?’ I said to him, as we made our fifteenth circuit around the Taj lobby. He looked happy and satisfied, that perhaps after years of interviewing, he might just have found the right candidate.
‘Oh my God!’ I said to my parents, as soon as we were safely back in our car. ‘What was that? Who was that? What were you thinking?’
‘So that means you didn’t like him, Anju?’ my mother asked, innocently.
‘Like him? Like him? What was there to like?’
‘He didn’t seem that bad,’ said my father. ‘And they’re interested.’
Anil, who was sitting in the front passenger seat grinning, finally spoke.
‘Yeah, they were already talking wedding dates while you guys went off for your romantic stroll,’ he said. ‘They want to do it before they fly back to Accra, so I guess in the next couple of weeks. You’d better start getting your stuff together, didi, you’re going to be married!’ he said.
‘Mum!’ I pleaded. ‘Come on!’
‘If you’re not interested, you’re not interested,’ she said, resignedly. ‘I’ll just tell them when they phone tomorrow. Of course, they’ll tell Maharaj Girdhar that you’re fussy, and then he won’t call us if there are other boys, because he’ll think you’ve become too hoity-toity, but what can we do? You’re saying no, we have to say no.’
‘Yes but, Mum, you know me. Did you honestly think that I’d be into someone like that. Honestly?’
‘But, beti, look at your age! You’re not twenty-two any more. You’re not going to get proposals like Nina and Namrata. There aren’t