Inheritance by Indira Ganesan Page A

refused, saying it wasn’t anything much. I noticed that he was older, about thirty, I thought, with short blond hair and green-grey eyes.
    “I’ve been here so long, it’s funny that someone would try to swindle me,” he said so the vendor wouldn’t hear.
    I smiled and turned to buy my mango. When I turned back, he was gone. I was a little disappointed, for I would have liked to talk to him a bit. I didn’t know any Americans, except for Mary Ann, a girl at school who said “okay” a lot. Wiping away the golden juice that dribbled over my chin, I made my way home. I passed a foreign couple, Japanese, in a cuddle. All around me, people were cuddling—Indians, islanders, Pakistanis, Singhalese. Was the world love-mad? Or had it always been this way, and I was just suddenly more acutely aware of it? March was warm, the tail end of spring. There were rains in the north, and we’d be getting our share of them in a few months. But the island seemed to be monsoon-crazy already, affecting couples with lovesickness early. “Cheap display,” elder lookers-on would mutter, like in the song by Joni Mitchell. “Amour” would whisper others.
    I had a book of Indian miniatures and was enthralled by the pictures of decorous courtly love, royal couples in royal pavilions, faithfully attended by respectful servants, always in a garden with a small deer or two in the background, trees dripping with leaves and fruit over the bower, a fountain in the foreground. I thought I would fall in love like everyone around me, respect my husband, and have many children. Someone I could look up to, someone tall, but not too tall. Someone I would cherish. Toting the groceries, I wandered home.

Seven

    The next two days it rained. Everything was drenched. There had been no news of Jani’s suitor.
    “Do you think you’re in love with C.P.?” I asked, unable to stand Jani’s silence any longer.
    “Love? No, I don’t think so,” answered Jani.
    “But could you grow to love him?”
    “I don’t know.”
    We were in our room, in bed, but not talking. Usually, Jani would tell me straightaway what was in her heart, but now she was on guard. She was afraid of something, and I dearly wished I could make it all right for her.
    “Are you going to marry C.P.?”
    “I suppose I have to—unless—”
    “Unless what?” But she just laughed.
    “Unless one of your heroes arrives and rescues me, In guess.”
    “Why can’t C.P. rescue you?”
    I wanted to rescue her. I was ready to be Jani’s knight, to wear her favor upon my sleeve and fight for her.
    “There’s so much you don’t know,” she told me.
    I guess it was true. One by one, Jani refused to meet any other suitors selected for her. At first she complained that she didn’t like this one’s nose, this one’s hair, when she was presented with their photographs, but then she started to say nothing, becoming glum and silent. Grandmother became exasperated, sometimes trying to coax her nicely to give one a try—here, this one is a genius, and he is loved by his three sisters—but Jani would have none of it. Then Grandmother would lose her temper, stamp her foot, appeal to the gods. Jani would close her ears and retire with a devotional.
    I became distracted by the rain. It pounded on the roof and gushed across the windows; the trees would sway back under its assault. I caught a little cold and had to stay in bed. Jani brought me trays of orange juice and toast. The entire household was a firm believer in bed rest and vitamin C. I was agonizingly bored.
    “Come, now, it’s not so bad,” said Jani, but she didn’t like to sit at the window while it poured and listen to the singing of the wind. She didn’t like to lie under the awning of the balcony where the water dripped into saucepans and watch the villagers make their waythrough the puddles, protecting their heads with plantain leaves. Not for her the vibrant pounding that made you want to dance in imitation of the