DADI’ S HEAVENLY ABODE

NITIN FLICKED THROUGH the offering of films on his Air India entertainment screen. He had the choice between old classics like Gone with the Wind, a few B-grade Hollywood movies or a solid curation of Bollywood blockbusters. He decided to go fearlessly Indian – as either acclimatisation or initiation for the journey ahead. He was nervous. He’d heard stories from Mae about his future in-laws that he would never be so unkind as to repeat to Savitri.

He flicked and swiped some more. Next he had the choice between subtitles or Desi view, and he decided to watch without being propped up by foreign words. No subtitles. Click. No chance of learning Hindi, just the language of those dramatic eyes. They paraded before him, one minute coy, enquiring about what he was doing going over to India. The next moment, he was meeting the gaze of an Indian elder: eyes deflecting light, eyebrows raised. Conservative and critical. Then there was the circus medley of colours, all saturated; then an outpouring of emotion to shrill music, made shriller still with frenetic drumming and hornblowing, together with the unlikely sound of whinnying horses, all amplified through cheap rattling earphones. Click. Off with the jaunty sounds. Now there was no sound of music, just some dancers, and a silent dancing diva, her back curving multi-orgasmically over her lover’s arms, fully clothed in swooping silks (so suggestive she may as well have been naked).

Nitin switched off his screen, thinking that sleep might be his best preparation for the real-life drama ahead of him, if Mae was to be believed. He took Savitri’s hand. ‘What was it about Mae that your mother didn’t like?’ He had so many questions that he didn’t know how to ask. And what if she doesn’t believe in … well … the religious nature of our marriage? He himself knew that there was courage in what he’d done – but how would this translate?

‘It doesn’t matter what my mother thought about Mae,’ Savitri replied. ‘And I don’t care what she thinks about you, either. I’m the one who has married you. Not her.’

Savitri knew that this trip wasn’t about her mother, her husband or her brother. It was about Dadi. She thought about her grandmother, wondering if she was still alive in the hours they’d spent up in the sky speeding towards her wavering soul. Her beautiful Dadi – she of all the people who would want to see her ‘settled’. Even the word all the elders used was right. ‘Settled’. If one thing had transformed in the past two weeks, it was the fact that she was free of her restlessness. She really had surrendered to a kind of happiness she’d never suspected could be associated with marriage – not the word as she had known it until now. That word was to be avoided like the channa bhatura she shunned whenever it was served up in her house, which was as regularly as the offers of marriage came in. Now the matchmakers could go take a siesta and some Calmpose – and they could settle down. No reason for anyone to bother her about this again. She had arrived miraculously on the other side of marriage and avoided the ugly business of it. And now … well, even the word ‘marriage’ sounded strangely lyrical from this side of the conjugal divide. It could have been a word to describe one of those perfect balanced states on the way to cosmic consciousness. There was none of the subjugation she’d grown up to imagine: nothing but blushing exaltation. (Too privately satisfying to even confess to Nitin.) She lay her head on his shoulder and the two of them fell asleep, the unlikely heroes of their own Bollywood drama, unfolding slowly now as the picture of the aeroplane (flying in slow motion across the flight path screens in front of them) started drawing closer to its destination of Indira Gandhi Airport.

Only Neel and the driver were at the airport when Nitin and Savitri arrived home as newlyweds, but her brother had brought two garlands of marigolds and roses to honour this moment. Neel touched the necklace he had given Nitin. ‘Good on you, mate, for coming over. And welcome to India and your new family.’

Savitri didn’t know quite what sort of a welcome it would be or how familial the family would be, but she was hopeful as she hugged her brother.

‘How is Dadi?’ Savitri asked.

‘Waiting.’

‘Thank God!’ But oh, the guilt of making her wait!

‘You won’t recognise her. She’s gone so thin.’

‘I’d recognise her if I saw her in another lifetime,’ Savitri replied, then added, ‘Was she happy about our marriage?’

‘Everyone is happy,’ Neel confirmed.

Savitri knew that he wasn’t really speaking for everyone – but generally, there must have been enough happy people in the world for there to be some truth in this statement, and he at least was happy.

The car pulled in at the farmhouse and Siddharth could hear three internal conversations, without any kind of harmony, approaching as if from a distance.

My God, what’s a bloody gunman doing at the gates?

Dadi, please be awake … please, please like Nitin …

Mae and I should have got married like they did – there would have been none of this tamasha …

No, you’re joking – is that Savitri’s palace? My God …

We have to see Dadi first. First I’ll take Nitin to her room, then …

In Australia, Mae could have worn a bikini to our wedding – nobody would have said anything …

I wish I’d had a chance to brush my teeth … oh shit…

Then we could have arrived here and been given a marital suite like Savitri and Nitin …

Why am I feeling guilty? Stop feeling guilty …

The car pulled up beside a long porch that stretched around the house, with fans and cane chairs strewn around, some inside a netted cage. Multicoloured bejewelled chandeliers hung from the ochre ceilings.

Savitri opened the door of the car while it was still moving. The driver braked swiftly so he wouldn’t lose his job on account of the fact that the daughter of the house had accidentally fallen to her death on her arrival back at the family home as a newlywed. Savitri didn’t wait for Nitin, or even stop to admire the exquisite welcoming rangoli floor decorations that Buddhi Ayah had sprinkled for her to step over as she crossed the threshold. Proceeding with the focus of a missionary, she flung open the heavy wooden doors to the farmhouse and walked straight around to the right, to her grandmother’s room.

Savitri wasn’t prepared. She’d wanted to see her grandmother so badly, but she’d expected to see her awake and ready to greet her, for some obscure reason. Not in a deathly sleep. And absolutely unrecognisable.

Dadi lay there, head back on the pillow, mouth wide open, her skin a sallow, powdery, deathly tone. Was she, indeed, dead? If not, then she would have to leave that body soon, as it was clearly not going to serve her for much longer. In all the years she’d watched Dadi’s deterioration, she’d never seen the moment so close. She closed her eyes and wept for the death of her grandmother, even though she was still alive. Seeing her weep, Buddhi Ayah, who was almost as old as Dadi, and who was sitting on the hard ground next to Dadi’s bed, levered herself up to hug Savitri and catch some of those tears on her sari palla – the same swatch of cloth, no doubt, that had caught Baby’s tears when she was a child. Savitri looked at her ayah, her skin like a husky coconut and a smile that was crooked and radiant. How can Buddhi Ayah sustain such joy while keeping company with the Angel of Death?

Nitin came in and held her hand, and Neel followed.

‘Come, she’s sleeping. Mama and Papa want to see you both.’

‘I’m not leaving until she wakes up,’ Savitri replied.

‘Fine, I’ll take Nitin up to meet them.’

She couldn’t have planned for this. Was it right to let Nitin face them without her? Who knows, it could be for the best. What could her presence add to this inevitable encounter except more anxiety?

‘Tell them to come down if they want to see me.’

Siddharth began to hear Nitin’s and Neel’s thoughts as they climbed the stairs.

Here goes …

The door opened.

‘Papa, Mama. This is Nitin.’

Both Tota and he stood up.

Tota turned off the super-sized television with a remote and got up to shake Nitin’s hand. ‘So nice to meet you at long last.’ (Had the wedding taken place a few years earlier, not simply two weeks ago, Siddharth might have been less surprised by this statement. Nonetheless, it did feel as if this moment had the inevitability and destiny of the words ‘at long last’.)

‘Welcome, welcome,’ Siddharth said as he reached out to hug his new son-in-law, trying to counterbalance the boy’s discomfort with warmth. ‘We’ve heard such wonderful things about you.’

‘Yes, yes. Welcome to India. Where’s Savitri?’ Tota added, extending her slightly more circumspect hand.

‘She’s with Dadi,’ Neel replied.

‘Oh, I see.’

Siddharth could hear her thoughts.

What for did she send him up alone?

Tota continued. ‘I must get you something – what-all would you like to drink?’

‘Nothing, thank you.’

‘Beta, do one thing and ask Ram Lal to bring some Rooh Afza for us all, and some mithai,’ Tota instructed Neel.

Neel left the room and Nitin took a deep breath. Siddharth could tell that his new son-in-law had now been deserted by both the crutches he’d expected to cling to – yet he could hear Nitin’s bravery. They’re lovely. What was all the fuss about? I just have to come straight out with it.

‘I’ve been so wanting to meet you, because in Australia it’s customary to ask for a girl’s hand in marriage …’

‘And in India, too,’ Tota responded quickly, but not unkindly.

Siddharth intervened. ‘But this is a love marriage, yah? Even in India, thisthing happens like it has …’ He was making his most sincere attempt to bring out the beauty of this encounter.

‘So I know it’s a bit late to ask for Savitri’s hand in marriage, but I’d still like to ask for your blessings, and I’d like to assure you that I’ll look after her …’

Siddharth could hear that Nitin was going to say ‘like a princess’, but the words trailed off. He wanted to interrupt these financial considerations: they’d all been taken care of well before Savitri was even born. ‘Of course you have our blessings. We’re so happy for you both.’

I can do this. They didn’t set up the firing squad. They’re chill …

Ram Lal arrived with the Rooh Afza. ‘Please, try this drink. It’s typically North Indian. A sherbet, with white lilies and lotus roots and herbs in it. We all grew up on this.’

Nitin took the saccharine red liquid, and as he took a sip, Siddharth leaned in to listen.

They’re absolutely lovely. Of course Savitri and Neel couldn’t possibly have horrible parents … But what a revolting drink. I’ll down it and they’ll think I love it as much as they do.

‘Have you been married before?’ Tota’s question came from the far left field of her consciousness, utterly undetectable, and with no time for Siddharth to intercept it.

Okay, here we go … ‘No, absolutely not. And I only intend to be married once.’

‘And you have no children?’

‘None.’

‘That you know of …’

‘Darling, what for to ask Nitin all of these things? He’s just come off a long flight … And he is a guest in our country.’ Siddharth was trying his utmost to invoke the image of the guest as God, his eyes widening in a warning as he looked in his wife’s direction, beseeching her to be polite. Even if Tota was too modern to have the ancient suspicion that God could come disguised as a visitor, she should at least respect the sanctity of their son-in-law meeting them for the first time. Why, they should be showering him with gifts and sweetening his mouth if they cared about how he would look after their daughter.

‘I just want to know why the marriage has gone on like this, without anybody knowing anything. Why did you have to keep this big secret? Why no invitations? Why not even a phone call to tell us? We are her parents, hey nah.’ The words flushed out as an authentic demand. ‘Do you have the wedding certificate, even?’

Siddharth found himself interrupting again. ‘Can you produce our wedding certificate, darling? Whoall can show one of these in India?’

And then Savitri walked in and saw the three of them standing together in ceremonial awkwardness, not knowing how to conduct the formalities and not knowing which cultural observances should be privileged. Siddharth observed her closely as she did a quick audit of the room, noticing that Nitin was avoiding her gaze. She clearly needed to deflect the attention onto herself. And fast.

‘And why haven’t you come down to greet me after we’ve come all this way and after all the big changes in my life?’

‘My darling beti!’ Siddharth was the first to hug his daughter. He so wanted this to be easy for everyone. ‘We have all been desperately waiting for your arrival!’

Tota reached out and hugged her daughter, offering no words of greeting or consolation.

‘Your mother has just been asking me why we didn’t tell them about our marriage, Savitri.’ Nitin was looking over at his wife, pleadingly.

Her response was instinctively indignant: searching out her only option. ‘I wasn’t going to go and have a big wedding while Dadi was dying. What were you all thinking? What kind of person do you think I am?’

‘And I’m not much in favour of the big white wedding either,’ Nitin added. ‘We wanted it to be a low-key affair. We didn’t want anyone to have to fly over or give gifts.’

There was a silence while Tota considered all of this.

‘You must tell us all about this later once you have settled. Have you seen your room? You’ll love all the work that Buddhi Ayah has done on it.’

When Savitri walked into their nuptial chamber she didn’t see the bedroom of her childhood or the dreaming place of her stubbornly single college years but a shrine to her new status as wife and goddess. Marigold flowers and dusty rose petals were laid out in decorative circles that spiralled out to the very edges of the room, and the bedcovers had so many flowers and auspicious patterns of rice laid out on the silk that it seemed almost sacrilegious to destroy such a devoted offering to love. And heavy in the air, like a nuptial aphrodisiac, was the smell of tuberoses and Raat ki Rani, with its feminine promise. If the reception committee was a little dismissive, the flowers recognised the sanctity of their marriage with perfumed grace and tantalising welcome: if ever there was a wedding certificate, it was laid out in blossoms, validated in patterns of tuberose, marigolds and roses spread on the bed and the floor before them.

Savitri took off her shoes and took the hand of her lover and husband. Nitin took off his shoes and their feet pushed down the buds on the hard terrazzo floor. By the time they reached the bed the door was closed behind them. For the first time ever in her family home, she felt like the goddess she was named after – and she knew with great certitude that there was nothing that anybody could say or do to take Nitin away from her.