to feed Nick was amusing. Once in the matrimonial section of a Silicon Valley Indian magazine there was a girl’s profile that had made quite an impact on Nick.
23-year-old, beautiful, BA-pass Telugu Reddy girl looking for handsome and financially settled Telugu Reddy boy in the U.S. Girl is 5’4", fair, and is domestically trained. If interested, please apply with photograph.
After that Nick started complaining that I was not “domestically trained.” It was a joke between us, but a woman not knowing how to cook was unacceptable to Sowmya.
“I’ll just find a husband who can cook,” I said to her, and changed the topic to matters that were raising my curiosity. “What’s going on with Lata?”
“Don’t mind Lata, she . . . is just . . .” Sowmya poured milk into a steel saucepan and added an equal amount of water and set the saucepan on the gas stove.
I got up to pull out the steel coffee glasses from the cabinet next to the sink; they were exactly where they had always been. Shining, washed, and thoroughly dried by Parvati.
“No, we use cups now; steel glasses are only for morning coffee,” Sowmya said, and I put the glasses away surprised.
Everyone at Ammamma ’s house used to drink coffee only in the steel glasses. The hot coffee was poured into the glasses, which would be put in small steel bowls. Then the hot coffee was poured in small amounts into the bowl to cool, and was drunk from there. It was an interesting South Indian ritual that I had almost forgotten. It appeared some things had changed here as well. They used coffee cups now.
The coffee cups were actually teacups, white with a golden lining around the rim of the cup and saucer. I set the cups on the saucers and placed a teaspoon alongside each one of them.
Sowmya leaned against the wall next to the Venkateshwara Swami temple in the kitchen and looked at me with obvious relief. “I am so glad you are here,” she said. “At least now they can concentrate on you for being unmarried and leave me alone.”
“Thanks,” I retorted in good humor and then I quieted. “Has it been very bad?”
“Terrible,” Sowmya sighed. “It was getting better, but then . . . Now Nanna doesn’t even bother to ask me if I like the boy; he just says if the boy likes me, that is it.”
My grandfather was getting up there in the age department and I knew he was worried that Sowmya would be unmarried for the rest of her life. Who would take care of her after he died?
“You know that’s not how he means it. He’d never ask you to marry someone you didn’t want,” I tried to reason.
“I know,” Sowmya said, and shrugged.
“How did they react to Anand’s marriage?” I asked, changing the direction of the conversation.
Sowmya rolled her eyes. “It was a nightmare. They went on and on, and when he brought Neelima home the first time, Amma actually asked her to leave. Then Amma and Nanna went to Anand’s flat three days later and asked them to come back. They even paid for their wedding reception, but I don’t think she has forgiven them for throwing her out of the house the first time Anand brought her here.”
“Can’t blame her for that.”
Sowmya straightened, pulled out a bottle of instant coffee from the open cabinet next to the gas stove. She opened the bottle and poured one teaspoon of coffee into each of the cups I had lined up by the stove. “But she comes back; Neelima keeps coming back. I think Anand makes her because he wants her to get along with Amma and Nanna . I don’t think anything is going to get better until . . . maybe they have a child.”
“Are they planning to have children?” I asked the natural question.
Anand and Neelima had been married for over a year now and by all Indian standards they should at least be pregnant. It always boggled me, the lack of contraception and planned parenthood. Most of the married couples I knew from India had a child within a year of their wedding, which meant that they never
23-year-old, beautiful, BA-pass Telugu Reddy girl looking for handsome and financially settled Telugu Reddy boy in the U.S. Girl is 5’4", fair, and is domestically trained. If interested, please apply with photograph.
After that Nick started complaining that I was not “domestically trained.” It was a joke between us, but a woman not knowing how to cook was unacceptable to Sowmya.
“I’ll just find a husband who can cook,” I said to her, and changed the topic to matters that were raising my curiosity. “What’s going on with Lata?”
“Don’t mind Lata, she . . . is just . . .” Sowmya poured milk into a steel saucepan and added an equal amount of water and set the saucepan on the gas stove.
I got up to pull out the steel coffee glasses from the cabinet next to the sink; they were exactly where they had always been. Shining, washed, and thoroughly dried by Parvati.
“No, we use cups now; steel glasses are only for morning coffee,” Sowmya said, and I put the glasses away surprised.
Everyone at Ammamma ’s house used to drink coffee only in the steel glasses. The hot coffee was poured into the glasses, which would be put in small steel bowls. Then the hot coffee was poured in small amounts into the bowl to cool, and was drunk from there. It was an interesting South Indian ritual that I had almost forgotten. It appeared some things had changed here as well. They used coffee cups now.
The coffee cups were actually teacups, white with a golden lining around the rim of the cup and saucer. I set the cups on the saucers and placed a teaspoon alongside each one of them.
Sowmya leaned against the wall next to the Venkateshwara Swami temple in the kitchen and looked at me with obvious relief. “I am so glad you are here,” she said. “At least now they can concentrate on you for being unmarried and leave me alone.”
“Thanks,” I retorted in good humor and then I quieted. “Has it been very bad?”
“Terrible,” Sowmya sighed. “It was getting better, but then . . . Now Nanna doesn’t even bother to ask me if I like the boy; he just says if the boy likes me, that is it.”
My grandfather was getting up there in the age department and I knew he was worried that Sowmya would be unmarried for the rest of her life. Who would take care of her after he died?
“You know that’s not how he means it. He’d never ask you to marry someone you didn’t want,” I tried to reason.
“I know,” Sowmya said, and shrugged.
“How did they react to Anand’s marriage?” I asked, changing the direction of the conversation.
Sowmya rolled her eyes. “It was a nightmare. They went on and on, and when he brought Neelima home the first time, Amma actually asked her to leave. Then Amma and Nanna went to Anand’s flat three days later and asked them to come back. They even paid for their wedding reception, but I don’t think she has forgiven them for throwing her out of the house the first time Anand brought her here.”
“Can’t blame her for that.”
Sowmya straightened, pulled out a bottle of instant coffee from the open cabinet next to the gas stove. She opened the bottle and poured one teaspoon of coffee into each of the cups I had lined up by the stove. “But she comes back; Neelima keeps coming back. I think Anand makes her because he wants her to get along with Amma and Nanna . I don’t think anything is going to get better until . . . maybe they have a child.”
“Are they planning to have children?” I asked the natural question.
Anand and Neelima had been married for over a year now and by all Indian standards they should at least be pregnant. It always boggled me, the lack of contraception and planned parenthood. Most of the married couples I knew from India had a child within a year of their wedding, which meant that they never
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