Leila felt a calm she had not expected. Even the nosy relatives didn’t bother her. She got used to people traipsing through her room, peeping into open suitcases that were quickly filling up.
“You are taking such a heavy tava to Ahmerica?” One aunty lifted the iron skillet.
Amma had bought household necessities she was sure America did not have, like dosa tavas, idli makers, and thin white cotton towels that were perfect to wrap around wet hair because they soaked up water and dried quickly.
On his daughter’s last night as Leila Krishnan, Appa limped into the room without saying a word and gently pressed her face into his chest. Standing in the circle of his arms, she breathed in the smell of Lifebuoy soap, familiar from her childhood. He had never used any aftershave. When she was Kila’s age, they used to read the newspaper together. But once she got her monthly he stopped any physical contact. It had been that long since he had touched her.
Trying not to cry, Leila continued packing until Amma beckoned her into the kitchen, ordering Indy and Kila to stay in the bedroom. The two younger girls were not used to being left out and Amma seemed a little anxious. Leila wondered if the reception was costing more than they had anticipated.
No one else was in the kitchen. A pile of banana leaves lay on the counter, and the yogurt pot was covered for the night. Three glasses stood near the kerosene stove, where milk rose to a boil. Amma kept her eyes on the foaming white liquid as she explained that the priest had chosen July 24 as the night Leila was to begin her wifely duties. Relieved her task was over, Amma lifted off the silky skin and poured the milk into the glasses.
Leila remembered that Amma had been just as peremptory—and oblique—when discussing her first period. The two of them had gone shopping, and in the short gap between the rice shop and the police station Amma explained that women bled every month, discreetly touching the box of sanitary towels they had just purchased. Still, that first period had been a shock and Leila had thought she was dying. But instead of asking Amma, she read books and talked to friends bold enough to give her information about their “chums,” as they called their menstruation.
Now, hearing about the night she was to lose her virginity made her so nervous she almost dropped the glasses of milk.
“Be careful, Leila,” Amma cautioned.
The thought of being close to Suneel excited her. She had waited thirty years for this. She had never even kissed anyone. She had sat beside Janni, and talked to him for hours, but that was all. No man had ever touched her hair, played with her earlobes, stroked the length of her body the way men did in the romance novels she and Indy still read. These boy-meets-girl-but-something-goes-wrong novels were the closest she and other girls came to knowing what happens in bedrooms, since neither mothers nor teachers divulged such information. Men cup breasts in their large hands. Kiss a girl all over her quivering face, deliberately avoiding her lips until she can’t stand it any longer and their lips lock. Most tantalizingly, they show desire by pressing their male hardness against her thighs. Leila trembled, recalling the way lovers looked at each other in the movies. Kila was of the age when she said “ chee! ” during every romantic scene, but Leila strained her eyes, trying to learn. An Anglo-Indian senior in school had taught some of the girls to recite Donald Duck/Went to fuck/Got it stuck/Cried, “I’m out of luck. ” Leila had taught Indy in turn, though neither of them understood it.
What if by this time tomorrow night she knew what it meant?
SEVEN
THE WEDDING DAY FOUND ITS WAY to dawn with no sign of rain. Leila woke to her mother’s hands gently pressing into her shoulder. It was time to bathe, and the auspicious hour was now, before sunrise, when only the naked road lights cast a dull, scratchy yellow over the
“You are taking such a heavy tava to Ahmerica?” One aunty lifted the iron skillet.
Amma had bought household necessities she was sure America did not have, like dosa tavas, idli makers, and thin white cotton towels that were perfect to wrap around wet hair because they soaked up water and dried quickly.
On his daughter’s last night as Leila Krishnan, Appa limped into the room without saying a word and gently pressed her face into his chest. Standing in the circle of his arms, she breathed in the smell of Lifebuoy soap, familiar from her childhood. He had never used any aftershave. When she was Kila’s age, they used to read the newspaper together. But once she got her monthly he stopped any physical contact. It had been that long since he had touched her.
Trying not to cry, Leila continued packing until Amma beckoned her into the kitchen, ordering Indy and Kila to stay in the bedroom. The two younger girls were not used to being left out and Amma seemed a little anxious. Leila wondered if the reception was costing more than they had anticipated.
No one else was in the kitchen. A pile of banana leaves lay on the counter, and the yogurt pot was covered for the night. Three glasses stood near the kerosene stove, where milk rose to a boil. Amma kept her eyes on the foaming white liquid as she explained that the priest had chosen July 24 as the night Leila was to begin her wifely duties. Relieved her task was over, Amma lifted off the silky skin and poured the milk into the glasses.
Leila remembered that Amma had been just as peremptory—and oblique—when discussing her first period. The two of them had gone shopping, and in the short gap between the rice shop and the police station Amma explained that women bled every month, discreetly touching the box of sanitary towels they had just purchased. Still, that first period had been a shock and Leila had thought she was dying. But instead of asking Amma, she read books and talked to friends bold enough to give her information about their “chums,” as they called their menstruation.
Now, hearing about the night she was to lose her virginity made her so nervous she almost dropped the glasses of milk.
“Be careful, Leila,” Amma cautioned.
The thought of being close to Suneel excited her. She had waited thirty years for this. She had never even kissed anyone. She had sat beside Janni, and talked to him for hours, but that was all. No man had ever touched her hair, played with her earlobes, stroked the length of her body the way men did in the romance novels she and Indy still read. These boy-meets-girl-but-something-goes-wrong novels were the closest she and other girls came to knowing what happens in bedrooms, since neither mothers nor teachers divulged such information. Men cup breasts in their large hands. Kiss a girl all over her quivering face, deliberately avoiding her lips until she can’t stand it any longer and their lips lock. Most tantalizingly, they show desire by pressing their male hardness against her thighs. Leila trembled, recalling the way lovers looked at each other in the movies. Kila was of the age when she said “ chee! ” during every romantic scene, but Leila strained her eyes, trying to learn. An Anglo-Indian senior in school had taught some of the girls to recite Donald Duck/Went to fuck/Got it stuck/Cried, “I’m out of luck. ” Leila had taught Indy in turn, though neither of them understood it.
What if by this time tomorrow night she knew what it meant?
SEVEN
THE WEDDING DAY FOUND ITS WAY to dawn with no sign of rain. Leila woke to her mother’s hands gently pressing into her shoulder. It was time to bathe, and the auspicious hour was now, before sunrise, when only the naked road lights cast a dull, scratchy yellow over the
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