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Aunty Vimla, insistent as only Indian relatives know how to be. He was not content to suggest an idea; he had to complete it with an itinerary. Neel didn’t want to go on a honeymoon. He just wanted to get back to the States—and Caroline. He thought of her constantly, and had even tried calling, but the operator could only patch him to Bombay, at which point he heard, “I’m sorry, sir, but the lines they are down. Must be from the monsoon. You must please to try again.”
    “Too far,” Ashok scoffed. “You sound just like an old man. Anyway, Australia is on the way to America.”
    “I’m not sure what atlas you’ve been looking at, but, at any rate, I’ve already been there. I gave a paper at a conference in Sydney two years ago.” He dangled the tidbit, wondering if Ashok would surprise him and change course.
    “Maybe you have seen Australia,” Ashok ignored the last sentence. “But I am quite sure, in fact, hundred percent positive, that Leila has not.” He looked at Neel’s parents and proclaimed, “I think my younger cousin Suneel has become old-fashioned living in America. We are more modern here in India.”
    Neel resisted hitting Ashok, who was as pleased with himself as if he were a thoroughbred. Yet all he had was an MBA from XLRI, an American-style college in North India, a desk job with a company headquartered in England, and a wife who was fair, MA-tried-but-failed, from a rich family that had sent them on the “funtahstic” honeymoon. When they were young, Ashok had capitalized on the three-year age difference to strut the part of Mr. Know-It-All. Not anymore. Now everyone except he and Aunty Vimla realized that Neel had surpassed him. Neel didn’t even know why he was having this ridiculous conversation.
    He wouldn’t be in this boxy, overstuffed living room but for Aunty Vimla. He would be confirming his ticket to the United States instead of requesting a change as he had this morning. A week ago, he had gone to bed an American (“I’ll be polite when I go see the girl tomorrow”) and had woken up an Indian (“I have to marry her because otherwise it will ruin the family name?”).
    Now Aunty Vimla was behaving as if she knew him better than anyone else, ordering Smita to pour Neel more coffee he didn’t want. “Our Suneel misses our cahffee in Ahmerica. My daughter-in-law makes the virry best. No ahrdinary milk. She only uses condensed milk. You must to tell your Leila that.”
    Mrs. Krishnan, too, had added a liberal swig of condensed milk to the coffee Leila served him that confusing morning. His teeth were aching from the unaccustomed sugar when they finally left the small house that didn’t want to let go of him. Aunty Vimla, one step behind Neel, couldn’t wait to leave the garden before panting, “So, did you like her? Did you like her?”
    Afraid the Krishnan parents, smiling anxiously from the verandah, could hear them, he responded, “Fine, she was fine.”
    “I told you,” Aunty Vimla stated loudly, “I only have first-class girls for you. So there is nothing wrong with her?”
    There was nothing obviously wrong with the girl, except for her age and the fact that she represented an arranged marriage. She was pretty, fair, and spoke excellent English. He knew she was somewhere in that house, wondering about his answer. But perhaps he had made that clear to her.
    Neel pushed open the wrought-iron gate. It creaked forward reluctantly, only moving wider when he pressed his foot on the bottom rung. The idiot driver had parked the car down the road and was sitting under a tree, smoking a cigarette. He hurriedly stubbed it out and started the engine when he saw them emerge. “Aunty, I told you. She’s fine.”
    “Not too tall?”
    “No, not too tall.”
    “Ah, that is because you are also tall. How could I forget? Mr. Basketball Team Captain. Good, good. I told you she will to be extremely virry fine.”
    “Mrs. Rajan, your umbrella.” Mrs. Krishnan waved the