all you’re going to be, a beast of burden for some man.”
“Anju, please, sit down,” says Sudha. “You’re making me dizzy.” When I sit grudgingly on her bed, she smiles a small, strained smile. She hasn’t slept all night—I can tell by the bags under her eyes. Sudha could never handle lack of sleep. Next thing I know, she’ll be falling sick.
“But we agreed last night,” I fume, punching at the ugly brown bedspread, chosen—of course—by Aunt N. “We were going to fight it together. I’ve even made a list of the arguments we’d use to get Mother on our side. How can you change your mind so fast? How can you be such a coward?”
Sudha looks at me, her beautiful eyes distressed. And right away I know it’s not fear that’s making her do this.
“Did Aunt say something to you last night?” I ask suspiciously.
Sudha shakes her head. “I don’t want to break my mother’s heart, that’s all.”
“Your mother doesn’t have a heart, let alone one you can break.”
“Anju!” Sudha says reproachfully. “Every person has a heart, but we’re not always lucky enough to get a glimpse of it. And every heart, even the hardest, has a fragile spot. If you hit it there, it shatters. I’m all my mother has. I just don’t want her to feel that I too have turned against her.”
“Fine. So you’re going to ruin your life for her? After all the plans we’d made about reading Shakespeare and Tagore together, and learning about the rise and fall of civilizations, and studying the great inventions of modern science—”
“I’ll still be learning important, useful things, Anju.”
“Right, like how to make pantua and lemon pickle.”
“I’ll learn a lot more than that. And anyway, you love lemon pickle!”
“Don’t joke about it. You’ll be wasting all your talents—”
Sudha leans toward me so I can smell the clean neem fragrance of her soap. “Anju dear, don’t be so angry. I’m not giving that much up. Really. I thought about it all last night and realized college doesn’t matter to me like it does to you. For me, there are other things that are more important.”
When I look unconvinced, she says, “Look, I’ll prove it. Tell me, what do you want to do when you grow up?”
She uses the old phrase out of our childhood, although surely at almost-seventeen we’re quite grown up already. But I know what she means. Our life after we marry. Only neither of us is ready to name that exhilarating and terrifying condition—wifehood—yet.
“I want to run the bookstore,” I say. I close my eyes as I speak and smell the place, the mysterious dusty fragrance of cardboard and old paper, the chemical scent of new-printed ink that’s been in my blood almost since birth. “It’ll be hard to persuade Mother, but I’m sure I can. After all I’m her only child, with no competing brothers. That’s why I’m planning to study literaturein college—so I can keep up with the latest writers and stock the best books.”
“What I want most,” says Sudha, “is to have a happy family. Don’t you remember the pictures?”
And suddenly I do. As children each week we’d draw pictures of our future life. Mine were different every time—a jungle explorer swinging from vines, a pilot in goggles flying a snub-nosed plane, a scientist pouring smoking liquids from one test tube to another. But Sudha’s were always the same. They showed a stick-figure woman in a traditional red-bordered sari with a big bunch of keys tied to her anchal. She wore a red marriage bindi in the center of her forehead and stood next to a mustachioed man carrying a briefcase. Around them were gathered several stick-figure children, their sex indicated by boxy shorts or triangular skirts. I’d secretly thought it all terribly boring.
“Yes, yes,” I say now, a little impatiently. “I want a happy family too. But surely there’s something else you want to do—for yourself.”
Sudha hesitates. A dreamy shyness comes
“Anju, please, sit down,” says Sudha. “You’re making me dizzy.” When I sit grudgingly on her bed, she smiles a small, strained smile. She hasn’t slept all night—I can tell by the bags under her eyes. Sudha could never handle lack of sleep. Next thing I know, she’ll be falling sick.
“But we agreed last night,” I fume, punching at the ugly brown bedspread, chosen—of course—by Aunt N. “We were going to fight it together. I’ve even made a list of the arguments we’d use to get Mother on our side. How can you change your mind so fast? How can you be such a coward?”
Sudha looks at me, her beautiful eyes distressed. And right away I know it’s not fear that’s making her do this.
“Did Aunt say something to you last night?” I ask suspiciously.
Sudha shakes her head. “I don’t want to break my mother’s heart, that’s all.”
“Your mother doesn’t have a heart, let alone one you can break.”
“Anju!” Sudha says reproachfully. “Every person has a heart, but we’re not always lucky enough to get a glimpse of it. And every heart, even the hardest, has a fragile spot. If you hit it there, it shatters. I’m all my mother has. I just don’t want her to feel that I too have turned against her.”
“Fine. So you’re going to ruin your life for her? After all the plans we’d made about reading Shakespeare and Tagore together, and learning about the rise and fall of civilizations, and studying the great inventions of modern science—”
“I’ll still be learning important, useful things, Anju.”
“Right, like how to make pantua and lemon pickle.”
“I’ll learn a lot more than that. And anyway, you love lemon pickle!”
“Don’t joke about it. You’ll be wasting all your talents—”
Sudha leans toward me so I can smell the clean neem fragrance of her soap. “Anju dear, don’t be so angry. I’m not giving that much up. Really. I thought about it all last night and realized college doesn’t matter to me like it does to you. For me, there are other things that are more important.”
When I look unconvinced, she says, “Look, I’ll prove it. Tell me, what do you want to do when you grow up?”
She uses the old phrase out of our childhood, although surely at almost-seventeen we’re quite grown up already. But I know what she means. Our life after we marry. Only neither of us is ready to name that exhilarating and terrifying condition—wifehood—yet.
“I want to run the bookstore,” I say. I close my eyes as I speak and smell the place, the mysterious dusty fragrance of cardboard and old paper, the chemical scent of new-printed ink that’s been in my blood almost since birth. “It’ll be hard to persuade Mother, but I’m sure I can. After all I’m her only child, with no competing brothers. That’s why I’m planning to study literaturein college—so I can keep up with the latest writers and stock the best books.”
“What I want most,” says Sudha, “is to have a happy family. Don’t you remember the pictures?”
And suddenly I do. As children each week we’d draw pictures of our future life. Mine were different every time—a jungle explorer swinging from vines, a pilot in goggles flying a snub-nosed plane, a scientist pouring smoking liquids from one test tube to another. But Sudha’s were always the same. They showed a stick-figure woman in a traditional red-bordered sari with a big bunch of keys tied to her anchal. She wore a red marriage bindi in the center of her forehead and stood next to a mustachioed man carrying a briefcase. Around them were gathered several stick-figure children, their sex indicated by boxy shorts or triangular skirts. I’d secretly thought it all terribly boring.
“Yes, yes,” I say now, a little impatiently. “I want a happy family too. But surely there’s something else you want to do—for yourself.”
Sudha hesitates. A dreamy shyness comes
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