nodded.
“But not Tanuja,” I added, determined to keep Her Fatness out of the fun. “She’ll spoil everything.”
“Okay,” Radha Aunty replied.
Since she was amenable to suggestion, I recommended that the bridesmaids wear pink saris with shiny sequins; the flower girls, pink maxis and flowered hair bands; and the page boys, black waistcoats with gold buttons. Radha Aunty laughed at my suggestions, but I pleaded with her until she finally lifted her hands in surrender. I was ecstatic now, all my earlier disappointment forgotten. Things were working out better than I had anticipated. I never imagined that I would actually have a hand in deciding what the bridal party would look like. The most I had expected was to be allowed to view the wedding preparations without being chased away. Radha Aunty had turned out to be different from what I had expected, but better. She was definitely my favourite aunt.
That afternoon Her Fatness came to tea dressed up as the bride. She talked loudly about what they planned to do at the bridal ceremony after tea. I glanced disdainfully at the bedsheet wrapped around her body and the curtain on her head. Except for the bedsheet, she was wearing exactly what I used to whenI was the bride. Now I marvelled to think that I had actually found this costume beautiful. How pitiful that curtain, discoloured with age, looked attached to her head, its borders sticking out awkwardly. The garland of flowers pinned to it appeared ill-made and sparse. I glanced across at Radha Aunty and imagined what she would be like in her expensive Manipuri sari and long, long veil. I pictured her entourage in the garments I had chosen for them and I felt a glow of pride as if they stood before me. As Her Fatness spoke of the girls’ plans for the rest of the afternoon, she looked at me, searching for envy in my face. I looked at her with contempt. I had better things to worry about than her silly game. I kept my fingers prominently spread out on the table so that she would notice my nails. When she saw them, her face became clouded with jealousy.
One day, not long after Radha Aunty had returned from America, Amma said to me, “How would you like to be in a play?” I looked at her in astonishment. She told me that Radha Aunty was in a play called
The King and I
and the director was looking for young people to play the children of the King of Siam. The rehearsals would be on Saturdays and Sundays and one evening during the week.
“Well, do you want to?” Amma asked.
I nodded, thrilled at the prospect of being in a play. Last year, Amma had taken us to see a production of
The Pied Piper of Hamelin
. Although the play was boring, I found myselfenvying the children who were in it, because they got to wear make-up and costumes and dance around the stage.
I asked Amma if she knew
The King and I
. She said she had seen the film a long time ago. As far as she remembered, it was the story of an English governess who goes to the court of Siam to teach English and other Western subjects to the king’s children and wives.
“Does she marry the king in the end?” I asked eagerly.
“Marry the king?” Amma repeated. She laughed. “You must be mad.”
“Why?” I cried, disappointed that the story didn’t end with a marriage.
“Because at that time people didn’t marry outside their race.”
“And now?” I asked, determined to get a happy ending out of the story. “If it was now, would they have married?”
Amma looked at me, irritated by my persistence. “I don’t know,” she said. “Probably not.”
“But
why
not?”
“Because most people marry their own kind,” Amma said in a tone that warned me not to ask further questions.
I found my enthusiasm for
The King and I
ebbing. I couldn’t see the point of a play where the hero and heroine didn’t get married at the end. Amma must have read my mind, because she said, “You’ll have a good time. The songs in
The King and I
are very
“But not Tanuja,” I added, determined to keep Her Fatness out of the fun. “She’ll spoil everything.”
“Okay,” Radha Aunty replied.
Since she was amenable to suggestion, I recommended that the bridesmaids wear pink saris with shiny sequins; the flower girls, pink maxis and flowered hair bands; and the page boys, black waistcoats with gold buttons. Radha Aunty laughed at my suggestions, but I pleaded with her until she finally lifted her hands in surrender. I was ecstatic now, all my earlier disappointment forgotten. Things were working out better than I had anticipated. I never imagined that I would actually have a hand in deciding what the bridal party would look like. The most I had expected was to be allowed to view the wedding preparations without being chased away. Radha Aunty had turned out to be different from what I had expected, but better. She was definitely my favourite aunt.
That afternoon Her Fatness came to tea dressed up as the bride. She talked loudly about what they planned to do at the bridal ceremony after tea. I glanced disdainfully at the bedsheet wrapped around her body and the curtain on her head. Except for the bedsheet, she was wearing exactly what I used to whenI was the bride. Now I marvelled to think that I had actually found this costume beautiful. How pitiful that curtain, discoloured with age, looked attached to her head, its borders sticking out awkwardly. The garland of flowers pinned to it appeared ill-made and sparse. I glanced across at Radha Aunty and imagined what she would be like in her expensive Manipuri sari and long, long veil. I pictured her entourage in the garments I had chosen for them and I felt a glow of pride as if they stood before me. As Her Fatness spoke of the girls’ plans for the rest of the afternoon, she looked at me, searching for envy in my face. I looked at her with contempt. I had better things to worry about than her silly game. I kept my fingers prominently spread out on the table so that she would notice my nails. When she saw them, her face became clouded with jealousy.
One day, not long after Radha Aunty had returned from America, Amma said to me, “How would you like to be in a play?” I looked at her in astonishment. She told me that Radha Aunty was in a play called
The King and I
and the director was looking for young people to play the children of the King of Siam. The rehearsals would be on Saturdays and Sundays and one evening during the week.
“Well, do you want to?” Amma asked.
I nodded, thrilled at the prospect of being in a play. Last year, Amma had taken us to see a production of
The Pied Piper of Hamelin
. Although the play was boring, I found myselfenvying the children who were in it, because they got to wear make-up and costumes and dance around the stage.
I asked Amma if she knew
The King and I
. She said she had seen the film a long time ago. As far as she remembered, it was the story of an English governess who goes to the court of Siam to teach English and other Western subjects to the king’s children and wives.
“Does she marry the king in the end?” I asked eagerly.
“Marry the king?” Amma repeated. She laughed. “You must be mad.”
“Why?” I cried, disappointed that the story didn’t end with a marriage.
“Because at that time people didn’t marry outside their race.”
“And now?” I asked, determined to get a happy ending out of the story. “If it was now, would they have married?”
Amma looked at me, irritated by my persistence. “I don’t know,” she said. “Probably not.”
“But
why
not?”
“Because most people marry their own kind,” Amma said in a tone that warned me not to ask further questions.
I found my enthusiasm for
The King and I
ebbing. I couldn’t see the point of a play where the hero and heroine didn’t get married at the end. Amma must have read my mind, because she said, “You’ll have a good time. The songs in
The King and I
are very
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