clean fingernails, he practiced excellent hygiene. He maintained a busy schedule of classes and study, which made it unlikely that he would host late-night parties. He moved in three days after their meeting and very quickly assumed responsibility for preparing the evening meal for the entire household.
Within a few weeks of Vikram’s arrival, Emma-Jean had moved some school supplies from her desk to the kitchen table, where she would do her homework. She liked being as close as possible to the wonderful aroma of curry spices and garlic and steaming rice, and to Vikram, who hummed in a soft and soothing manner as he chopped and stirred.
Emma-Jean’s mother obviously enjoyed the aromas as well. She no longer seemed so exhausted when she returned from her job at the bank. “What are those heavenly smells?” she would say as she hung up her coat. “What delights do you have in store for us today, Vikram?”
Her glasses would fog up as she peeked into the pots of dal or paneer or korma simmering on the stove. Their dinners often stretched for an hour or longer, as they lingered at the table to discuss their days. Vikram would share stories about his students, which sometimes made her mother laugh. The sound startled Emma-Jean at first, so long had it been since she had heard the carefree and tinkling sound of her mother’s merriment.
Sometimes Vikram told about his childhood in the chaotic city of Mumbai, and his words would take Emma-Jean across two oceans to the shores of the Indian subcontinent. She could vividly imagine the Adwani family’s small gated house with the mango tree in the courtyard, the cement floors that cooled one’s feet on sultry days, and the sweet-scented jasmine vines that climbed up the walls. It all sounded most pleasant, and Emma-Jean hoped to visit one day.
She also hoped to meet Vikram’s mother, who wrote to Vikram every week. Emma-Jean looked forward to finding Mrs. Adwani’s letters in the mailbox, the envelopes festooned with brightly colored postage stamps showing famous cricket players and Indian dignitaries wearing high-collared shirts and somber expressions. Emma-Jean was always curious to hear the interesting news of Vikram’s family.
The most recent letter contained a picture of a young woman with light brown skin, large, long-lashed brown eyes, and a faint smile.
“Who is this?” Emma-Jean asked.
“This is Jayavanti Prakesh,” Vikram said.
"Why did your mother send you her picture? Is she a relative?”
“No,” Vikram said. “My mother believes she might be a suitable wife for me.”
“Why does she think this?” Emma-Jean said.
Vikram unfolded the letter and read what his mother had written, translating the Hindi into English. “. . . She is from a very good family. Her father is a pulmonary specialist and her mother is a second cousin of your first cousin Prayam’s wife, Raya. I had tea with the family and found this girl to be lively and bright, though not stubborn. I do not wish for you to marry a stubborn girl, nor do I wish for you to spend your life with someone who is too meek to express her views. This girl seems not meek and is quite level-headed and very outgoing and talkative. She wishes to be a research biologist, and expounded at great length on her work on cells. So you see you would have much in common.”
Vikram handed the letter and picture to Emma-Jean, who studied the Hindi lettering. A few weeks after Vikram moved in, Emma-Jean had begun teaching herself the Hindi alphabet. She had ordered a book at the library and spent long hours studying. She now knew all of the letters and sounds, and could write them capably. She had even taught Henri the traditional Hindi greeting: Namaste .
Emma-Jean examined the photograph of Jayavanti Prakesh.
“Have you met this woman?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “If I express an interest, my mother will arrange a meeting when I return home for a visit.”
“Do you have to marry
Within a few weeks of Vikram’s arrival, Emma-Jean had moved some school supplies from her desk to the kitchen table, where she would do her homework. She liked being as close as possible to the wonderful aroma of curry spices and garlic and steaming rice, and to Vikram, who hummed in a soft and soothing manner as he chopped and stirred.
Emma-Jean’s mother obviously enjoyed the aromas as well. She no longer seemed so exhausted when she returned from her job at the bank. “What are those heavenly smells?” she would say as she hung up her coat. “What delights do you have in store for us today, Vikram?”
Her glasses would fog up as she peeked into the pots of dal or paneer or korma simmering on the stove. Their dinners often stretched for an hour or longer, as they lingered at the table to discuss their days. Vikram would share stories about his students, which sometimes made her mother laugh. The sound startled Emma-Jean at first, so long had it been since she had heard the carefree and tinkling sound of her mother’s merriment.
Sometimes Vikram told about his childhood in the chaotic city of Mumbai, and his words would take Emma-Jean across two oceans to the shores of the Indian subcontinent. She could vividly imagine the Adwani family’s small gated house with the mango tree in the courtyard, the cement floors that cooled one’s feet on sultry days, and the sweet-scented jasmine vines that climbed up the walls. It all sounded most pleasant, and Emma-Jean hoped to visit one day.
She also hoped to meet Vikram’s mother, who wrote to Vikram every week. Emma-Jean looked forward to finding Mrs. Adwani’s letters in the mailbox, the envelopes festooned with brightly colored postage stamps showing famous cricket players and Indian dignitaries wearing high-collared shirts and somber expressions. Emma-Jean was always curious to hear the interesting news of Vikram’s family.
The most recent letter contained a picture of a young woman with light brown skin, large, long-lashed brown eyes, and a faint smile.
“Who is this?” Emma-Jean asked.
“This is Jayavanti Prakesh,” Vikram said.
"Why did your mother send you her picture? Is she a relative?”
“No,” Vikram said. “My mother believes she might be a suitable wife for me.”
“Why does she think this?” Emma-Jean said.
Vikram unfolded the letter and read what his mother had written, translating the Hindi into English. “. . . She is from a very good family. Her father is a pulmonary specialist and her mother is a second cousin of your first cousin Prayam’s wife, Raya. I had tea with the family and found this girl to be lively and bright, though not stubborn. I do not wish for you to marry a stubborn girl, nor do I wish for you to spend your life with someone who is too meek to express her views. This girl seems not meek and is quite level-headed and very outgoing and talkative. She wishes to be a research biologist, and expounded at great length on her work on cells. So you see you would have much in common.”
Vikram handed the letter and picture to Emma-Jean, who studied the Hindi lettering. A few weeks after Vikram moved in, Emma-Jean had begun teaching herself the Hindi alphabet. She had ordered a book at the library and spent long hours studying. She now knew all of the letters and sounds, and could write them capably. She had even taught Henri the traditional Hindi greeting: Namaste .
Emma-Jean examined the photograph of Jayavanti Prakesh.
“Have you met this woman?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “If I express an interest, my mother will arrange a meeting when I return home for a visit.”
“Do you have to marry
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