THE IMMIGRANT by Manju Kapur

for an hour, she gave him tea, they talked. There was none of Nina’s indecision about the mother, she was all suppliant and appealing. To her Ananda presented himself as an eligible, well-off professional, settled in a first world country, an honest, upright citizen, a man who understood about caring and sharing, someone Nina would never regret choosing.
    Nina’s mother was so moved that she decided that Ananda was a replica of her late husband. There was that same dynamism, that same forward looking quality that had led him to emigrate, that same traditional streak that induced him to come home for a bride. A rare and unusual mix of Indian and Western. Who could ask for more?
    Zenobia and Nina sat in the darkness of Dasaprakash lingering over dosas. ‘It’s just too rushed, Zen, I don’t even know him—though he seems quite keen. And that too after living in the West for seven years. How can I be sure there is nothing wrong with him?’
    ‘You can’t,’ said the friend sapiently.
    ‘Though he doesn’t seem a murderer or a rapist, nor could he have a wife tucked away somewhere. No parents putting pressure.’
    ‘Why has he been single so long?’
    ‘His parents’ deaths, then immigration, then dental school, then settling down?’
    Were those enough reasons? Neither of them was sure. He was too unknown and giving up, they focused on the known. Nina—she wanted to settle down, she wanted children, she could continue in the same rut for years, longing and hoping. He had got her presents, showed a generous nature, was willing to like—to love. This could be her last chance. What were the odds of marrying after thirty? Did they know anybody who had managed to cross this Rubicon? And she did like him—as for romance, she had to live in the real world. It had come her way once and brought a few highs paid for by many lows. She had to remember that where God shut the door, he always opened a window. Ananda was the window, if later he morphed into a closed door she could divorce him. Risks were inevitable if one wanted change.
    The friends decided Nina would ask for six months in which to give her answer. She couldn’t rush into marriage with someone she didn’t know. Ananda lived in the West, he was sure to understand that.
    When Nina came home she was met by her mother’s freshly composed paean to Ananda. He had dropped by unexpectedly, had stayed to talk to her, so considerate, so thoughtful, so friendly. Smart, intelligent and sensitive, not like his sister. He spoke so sensibly of his life there, of what it would mean to a girl like Nina, how it would probably be easier for her than for most.
    At last, at last, her daughter had a decent offer, thank God there was somebody to take her out of this little room and give her the life she deserved.
    Nina looked at her mother. The thin face was sallow, the glasses on it were pale pink plastic, square and nondescript. The eyes behind them were large, brown and anxious.
    ‘I’m not sure, Ma, it is such a big step. And so far away. It means leaving everything, job, friends, you. If anything happens, I’ll be left with nothing. ’
    The mother ignored this nonsense. Of course, Nina would find new friends, a new job. One couldn’t stay in one place forever. ‘You like him?’ she asked.
    ‘Well, yes.’
    ‘Then beta, what is the problem?’
    ‘It’s not enough.’
    ‘Marriage is a question of adjustment.’
    ‘I feel nervous. So far away with a person I hardly know.’
    Why did her daughter refuse to recognise that it was necessary to have a man to protect one from the vicissitudes of life? Somehow she had not managed to teach Nina the concepts of safety. She didn’t know of Nina’s struggle to resist her mother’s fears, didn’t know how afraid she was of their becoming her own.
    Age and fear divided them. The mother was certain she saw the path to the daughter’s happiness as clearly as the road into Jangpura from the bus stop.
    ‘You can always