“I wonder where Nanna went.” I sighed.

Sowmya sat up and looked at me. “I need your advice on something.”

“What?” I sat up, too.

“I want to talk to Vinay… all alone. How can we do it?”

“Why?”

“They said they would make a proposal. They need to look through the horoscopes or something before they-”

“When did this happen?” I asked.

“They called right after you left,” Sowmya said in exasperation. “Things have never come this far before so Nanna is very happy, ready to give anything to get rid of me. But… I want to talk to him and if he is not to my liking, I don’t want to marry him.”

I stared at her and blinked. “What?”

“What do you mean, what? Just because I am thirty years old doesn’t mean I will marry any man who comes my way. He is nice. He seems like a good person, but I want to talk to him,” she said, strong determination in her voice. “What do you think?”

“I think you definitely should talk to the man before you-”

“I have his phone number. I need for you to call him and set up a meeting for tomorrow,” Sowmya said, talking over me, as if she had it all planned. “We can meet at Minerva. And you will have to come along. I need you for support.”

I sat up and blew out some air. “If they find out…”

“You are already in trouble, this won’t make things any worse for you,” she said with unfailing logic. “So will you call him?”

“Sure,” I said. “First thing tomorrow morning.”

“Good. It is a Sunday so he will be at home,” Sowmya said, smiling. “I am going to change my life, Priya. I am going to change it. I am not just going to sit down and let them do what they want… I am going to decide what I want to do.”

I was amazed. This was not the Sowmya I knew. But the Sowmya I knew was seven years in the past. This Sowmya had had experiences and epiphanies I didn’t even know about. This Sowmya was a revelation.

“What happened?”

“You,” she said sincerely. “You are like me, Priya. We come from the same background, same place, but you have a different life. I want to have a different life, too. I don’t mean I want to marry an American or anything, I just want to do the things I want to do.”

“Like?”

“Work. I got a job offer to be an assistant at this doctor’s office. She is a friend of mine and she needs help. Nanna said there was no way I could do it, but now, I think I will,” she said, her face lighting up with the new life she was dreaming up. “And I want to stop wearing saris. I want to only wear salwar kameez. This sari is so uncomfortable. And I want to go to America to see your house and see that country.”

“You are very welcome to visit,” I said, enjoying this new Sowmya.

“So you will call him, right?”

“Absolutely.”

Part Five – Leftovers

Perugannam (Curd Rice)

2 cups cooked rice

1 ½-2 cups thick curd (yogurt)

½ cup milk

salt to taste

½ cup fried peanuts

1 tablespoon finely chopped coriander leaves

Ingredients for the Seasoning

1 teaspoon oil

½ teaspoon mustard seeds

½ teaspoon Bengal gram (yellow dal)

½ teaspoon split black gram (black dal)

1 dry red chile, broken into bits

1 green chile, finely chopped

1-inch piece of ginger, finely chopped

5 curry leaves

In a wok, heat oil and when the oil is very hot, add the mustard seeds. Once the mustard seeds start to crackle, add the rest of the spices and fry until they are golden brown. Be careful not to burn the spices. Add the thick curd to the wok and stir until it liquefies and mixes well with the spices. Put all the rice inside as well and mix thoroughly so that it is completely coated with the yogurt and spice mixture. Garnish with peanuts and coriander. Serve warm or cold with lime or mango pickle.

Bridegrooms and Boyfriends

I woke up to the sound of metal crashing against cement. I sat up, zombielike, when there was another sharp crash. I looked around with blind, sleep-ridden eyes.

Who the f-?

Sowmya was still sleeping and from what I could make out from my wristwatch, which wasn’t much, considering I was still half-asleep, it was almost six in the morning.

I rose unsteadily and walked to the edge of the terrace and leaned over to investigate the noise and see if I could yell some sense into the noise-maker.

I smiled sleepily. How could I have forgotten?

Thatha was standing by the tulasi plant in his white panchi and looking like he belonged in the fifteenth century or some old-fashioned Telugu movie. His fingers were strumming the white thread that crossed his chest and hung loosely on his body, as if it were a guitar. Like every devout Brahmin, Thatha invoked the Gayatri mantram every morning to welcome the day. I watched him circle the holy tulasi plant and pour water into the cement pot with the offensive brass mug that had fallen on the cement floor and woken me up.

His deep voice boomed to me and even though I couldn’t hear the words, I could feel them, words that were forbidden to women. Sanskrit, sacred words from the Vedas, passed from generation to generation, secretly, to men, by men.

Om

Bhur bhuva swah

Tat savitur varnyam

Bhargo devasya dhimahi

Dhiyo yo nah prachodayat

Om

The words were Sanskrit, unadulterated by bad pronunciation or lack of knowledge. He knew what he was talking about, but I don’t think he really understood what the mantram stood for.

I knew; I had asked Nanna and he had explained to both Nate and me. The mantram stood for enlightenment. It was the way a Brahmin man could become a better person. It was to invoke the sun god and ask the light of the generous sun to enlighten the reader of the mantram, so that he could love all, wipe away hate, and start taking the journey that would bring him closer to the supreme god.

“Why can’t girls say it? Why only boys?” I’d asked Nanna.

“I don’t care if you want to say it,” he said. “Do you want to wake up at six in the morning every day and say the mantram?”

Considering that waking up at seven-thirty in the morning to catch the school bus at eight-thirty was a trial, I shook my head and decided that maybe it was okay that Nate would have to be the one to wake up early, not me. As things turned out, Nate refused to have his thread ceremony done and was planning to never have it done.

“If I don’t feel like a Brahmin, then why should I follow this farce?” he asked my mother, who had then blistered his ear about tradition and culture. He responded to that by saying that just yesterday he’d had beef biriyani at an Irani Café in Mehndipatnam and didn’t care all that much about tradition and culture. Ma was so shocked she never brought the topic up again, mostly, we believed, out of fear that Nate would disclose the meat… no, no, that could even be overlooked, but the beef-eating incident to Thatha and the others. That couldn’t and wouldn’t be overlooked.

“Didn’t the boy know that the cow was sacred?” Ma had demanded of Nanna, whose job it had suddenly become to instruct Nate on how to be a good Brahmin.

“Maybe if you read the Gayatri mantram like my father does, your son will learn something,” Ma had told Nanna, who had turned a deaf ear to her demands and pleas in that regard.

But reading the mantram was just a formality. Thatha didn’t really believe in what it was telling him, to hate none and love all. He did what he did because it was expected of him, because his father before him had said the same mantram in the same way with the same passion and lack of understanding. If Thatha understood and abided by the mantram he would not have a problem accepting Nick or anyone else that I might want to marry.