and she didn’t have the heart to puncture his joy. She just hoped this Nina would be worth that warms flushed look.
Six hours later when Ananda boarded the British Airways flight for London it was with a sense of loss. He was reminded unpleasantly of seven years ago when he had left, putting his youth and the deaths of his parents behind him. When would his life be sorted out, when would he have someone of his own? He was glad he had not told anybody in Halifax, should his hopes be dashed, the distress would only be his.
vii
No sooner did Ananda depart than Nina found her life empty. Two weeks and she had grown used to the pleasures of a romantic involvement. Away from him her own doubts seemed less substantial.
Now when his letters came, Mr Batra did not ask what was in them, Nina reacted so badly. It was useless explaining that she just wanted to know how he was, what was wrong with that?
Instead she frequently inquired, ‘What does Zenobia think?’
‘Nothing much.’
Mr Batra had spent many years fearing Zenobia’s influence over her daughter. Despite her parents’ efforts to ensure a respectable second marriage, she remained alone in her barsati, thinking independence worth the pain of loneliness.
‘You don’t know the kind of people they want her to marry,’ said Nina angrily, but was it possible there was no one suitable for the high and mighty Zenobia?
Nina usually did not take kindly to Mr Batra’s comments about Zenobia. Now she thought if only her mother knew how much Zen’s views and her own coincided, her dislike would vanish. But she would not give her that pleasure.
The months passed.
Each day brought Nina face to face with her problem, should she or shouldn’t she? She grew sick of her indecision. If she didn’t say yes, she might regret it all her life. Twenty years down the road she could see herself alone in B-26 Jangpura Extension, growing old with the landlord’s children, the spinster of the English Department, her body dry with longing for a child. Then Ananda promised her such a future, laced with choices, edged with beautiful snowflakes that glittered through the distance, promising at the very minimum change, novelty, excitement. To push her over the fence Zenobia and Mr Batra held out the tantalising option of divorce. She should not resign straightaway, she should just take leave. All doors open, escape routes planned. Now jump off the fence. Go, Nina, go.
She did jump, as they had hoped, known, predicted she would, jumped to join legions of women who crossed the seas to marry men living in unseen lands.
In the nineteenth century they departed from their northern homes in boatloads, voyaging to Australia, Asia and the Americas. They left behind countries that had offered neither men nor security, left behind hopeless futures and lonely presents. In the women of the homeland, the waiting men saw helpers, family makers and standard bearers.
In the twentieth century it was the Asian woman’s turn. The immigrant man needed a bride who would surround him with familiar traditions, habits and attitudes, whose reward was the prosperity of the West and a freedom often not available to her at home.
For his part the dentist had turned to his own kind after seven long years. His wife would share his money, body and success. She would know and appreciate the distance he had travelled, and he in turn would guide her on her journey. For what did immigrants want but a better life, not only for themselves, but for others whom they could assist and patronise. These thoughts fell into place only after he met Nina.
After Nina said yes, Ananda experienced a sense of achievement. He had courted, at the same time he had completed what his mother had set out to do. He recognised his sister’s role in this and felt closer to her.
Once she had made the decision, Nina became calmer. Her torture was over. She was moving towards a new life, and she allowed herself to feel the excitement of
Six hours later when Ananda boarded the British Airways flight for London it was with a sense of loss. He was reminded unpleasantly of seven years ago when he had left, putting his youth and the deaths of his parents behind him. When would his life be sorted out, when would he have someone of his own? He was glad he had not told anybody in Halifax, should his hopes be dashed, the distress would only be his.
vii
No sooner did Ananda depart than Nina found her life empty. Two weeks and she had grown used to the pleasures of a romantic involvement. Away from him her own doubts seemed less substantial.
Now when his letters came, Mr Batra did not ask what was in them, Nina reacted so badly. It was useless explaining that she just wanted to know how he was, what was wrong with that?
Instead she frequently inquired, ‘What does Zenobia think?’
‘Nothing much.’
Mr Batra had spent many years fearing Zenobia’s influence over her daughter. Despite her parents’ efforts to ensure a respectable second marriage, she remained alone in her barsati, thinking independence worth the pain of loneliness.
‘You don’t know the kind of people they want her to marry,’ said Nina angrily, but was it possible there was no one suitable for the high and mighty Zenobia?
Nina usually did not take kindly to Mr Batra’s comments about Zenobia. Now she thought if only her mother knew how much Zen’s views and her own coincided, her dislike would vanish. But she would not give her that pleasure.
The months passed.
Each day brought Nina face to face with her problem, should she or shouldn’t she? She grew sick of her indecision. If she didn’t say yes, she might regret it all her life. Twenty years down the road she could see herself alone in B-26 Jangpura Extension, growing old with the landlord’s children, the spinster of the English Department, her body dry with longing for a child. Then Ananda promised her such a future, laced with choices, edged with beautiful snowflakes that glittered through the distance, promising at the very minimum change, novelty, excitement. To push her over the fence Zenobia and Mr Batra held out the tantalising option of divorce. She should not resign straightaway, she should just take leave. All doors open, escape routes planned. Now jump off the fence. Go, Nina, go.
She did jump, as they had hoped, known, predicted she would, jumped to join legions of women who crossed the seas to marry men living in unseen lands.
In the nineteenth century they departed from their northern homes in boatloads, voyaging to Australia, Asia and the Americas. They left behind countries that had offered neither men nor security, left behind hopeless futures and lonely presents. In the women of the homeland, the waiting men saw helpers, family makers and standard bearers.
In the twentieth century it was the Asian woman’s turn. The immigrant man needed a bride who would surround him with familiar traditions, habits and attitudes, whose reward was the prosperity of the West and a freedom often not available to her at home.
For his part the dentist had turned to his own kind after seven long years. His wife would share his money, body and success. She would know and appreciate the distance he had travelled, and he in turn would guide her on her journey. For what did immigrants want but a better life, not only for themselves, but for others whom they could assist and patronise. These thoughts fell into place only after he met Nina.
After Nina said yes, Ananda experienced a sense of achievement. He had courted, at the same time he had completed what his mother had set out to do. He recognised his sister’s role in this and felt closer to her.
Once she had made the decision, Nina became calmer. Her torture was over. She was moving towards a new life, and she allowed herself to feel the excitement of
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