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Authors: Amulya Malladi
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sound of knives coming down on wooden boards and paring knives scraping against the hard coating of the mango stone, the house seemed like a mango pickle sweatshop. They were good at what they did and they all did it with ease. Their eyes focused on green fleshy fruit and the knives in their hands gleamed with juice while their mouths gossiped.
“When is the boy coming to see Sowmya?” Lata asked conversationally.
This would be boy number 65 according to Ma’s scoreboard.
“Tomorrow evening,” Ammamma said, as she opened her brass betel-leaves box.
That box had fascinated me since I was a little girl. I liked paan , when it was sweet, but my grandmother liked it bitter. She was an expert at making it and I watched in childlike fascination all over again as she put together a paan . She opened a green betel leaf that was slightly darker on the edges because of sitting in an uncomfortable position in the box. Then she opened a small box of light pink paste and applied it on the betel leaf with her leathery fingers.
“So, he is some lecturer at some college?” Lata asked mockingly. I couldn’t understand why Lata was being so antagonistic toward Sowmya. Granted Lata and Sowmya were not good friends, but Lata usually didn’t go off quite like this. What was really shocking was how my grandmother was not supporting Sowmya anymore.
Had they given up? When Anand got married it had been a blow, not only because he had married a woman from another state, but because he had married before his younger sister had. The rules were clear about this, too. The brother closest in age to a sister has to wait to marry until his sister does. If that doesn’t happen, the chances of the sister getting married are pretty slim. In the olden days when girls were married before they hit puberty this rule was put into place so that the brothers would not spend all the dowry money set aside for their sisters.
“Not at some college, at CBIT,” Sowmya blurted out. “And he has already seen my picture,” she added.
“So did that homeopathy doctor,” Lata countered.
“Hush,” my mother said. “Just because you are pretty and married doesn’t mean you have to talk like this. She will get married when it is time. God has it all planned. ”
Yeah, right! Poor Sowmya, caught in a society where she couldn’t step out of the house and couldn’t stay in.
A crackling sound dragged my attention back to my grandmother who was crushing betel nuts with a small brass nutcracker. She spread the nuts on the betel leaf, wrapped it up, and popped it inside her mouth.
“Want one?” she asked me, her mouth dripping with red saliva.
I nodded gleefully and ignored the look Ma gave me. When I was a child there was no way she would have allowed me to eat paan , but now I was twenty-seven years old and I could have betel nuts and more.
“My older sister didn’t get married until she was thirty-one,” Neelima offered in support.
“In our family we don’t let our daughters chase and marry men from other castes,” Ammamma said as she chewed noisily on the paan . “Here. ” She gave me a paan that I stuck inside my mouth with the hope that I would not speak up against the injustice.
“She had an arranged marriage,” Neelima countered, and let her knife drop on the wooden cutting board. I saw the tears in her eyes and once again forced myself not to say anything. I was here for just a few days and I didn’t want to get into any unnecessary fights. In any case once they heard about Nick, Neelima would start looking really good to the family. At least she was Indian and I knew that counted for something.
A friend of mine, who had now been relegated to being only an acquaintance, had been appalled when I told him about Nick. His instant reaction was “How can you, Priya? He’s not even Indian” as if that made him a cat or a dog.
“If your sister had an arranged marriage, why didn’t you?” Lata asked Neelima. “You married Anand
“When is the boy coming to see Sowmya?” Lata asked conversationally.
This would be boy number 65 according to Ma’s scoreboard.
“Tomorrow evening,” Ammamma said, as she opened her brass betel-leaves box.
That box had fascinated me since I was a little girl. I liked paan , when it was sweet, but my grandmother liked it bitter. She was an expert at making it and I watched in childlike fascination all over again as she put together a paan . She opened a green betel leaf that was slightly darker on the edges because of sitting in an uncomfortable position in the box. Then she opened a small box of light pink paste and applied it on the betel leaf with her leathery fingers.
“So, he is some lecturer at some college?” Lata asked mockingly. I couldn’t understand why Lata was being so antagonistic toward Sowmya. Granted Lata and Sowmya were not good friends, but Lata usually didn’t go off quite like this. What was really shocking was how my grandmother was not supporting Sowmya anymore.
Had they given up? When Anand got married it had been a blow, not only because he had married a woman from another state, but because he had married before his younger sister had. The rules were clear about this, too. The brother closest in age to a sister has to wait to marry until his sister does. If that doesn’t happen, the chances of the sister getting married are pretty slim. In the olden days when girls were married before they hit puberty this rule was put into place so that the brothers would not spend all the dowry money set aside for their sisters.
“Not at some college, at CBIT,” Sowmya blurted out. “And he has already seen my picture,” she added.
“So did that homeopathy doctor,” Lata countered.
“Hush,” my mother said. “Just because you are pretty and married doesn’t mean you have to talk like this. She will get married when it is time. God has it all planned. ”
Yeah, right! Poor Sowmya, caught in a society where she couldn’t step out of the house and couldn’t stay in.
A crackling sound dragged my attention back to my grandmother who was crushing betel nuts with a small brass nutcracker. She spread the nuts on the betel leaf, wrapped it up, and popped it inside her mouth.
“Want one?” she asked me, her mouth dripping with red saliva.
I nodded gleefully and ignored the look Ma gave me. When I was a child there was no way she would have allowed me to eat paan , but now I was twenty-seven years old and I could have betel nuts and more.
“My older sister didn’t get married until she was thirty-one,” Neelima offered in support.
“In our family we don’t let our daughters chase and marry men from other castes,” Ammamma said as she chewed noisily on the paan . “Here. ” She gave me a paan that I stuck inside my mouth with the hope that I would not speak up against the injustice.
“She had an arranged marriage,” Neelima countered, and let her knife drop on the wooden cutting board. I saw the tears in her eyes and once again forced myself not to say anything. I was here for just a few days and I didn’t want to get into any unnecessary fights. In any case once they heard about Nick, Neelima would start looking really good to the family. At least she was Indian and I knew that counted for something.
A friend of mine, who had now been relegated to being only an acquaintance, had been appalled when I told him about Nick. His instant reaction was “How can you, Priya? He’s not even Indian” as if that made him a cat or a dog.
“If your sister had an arranged marriage, why didn’t you?” Lata asked Neelima. “You married Anand
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