Read Arranged Marriage: Stories for Free Online Page B

driveway on which sat two shiny motorcars. And Akron isn’t even as big as Chicago. And Aditi’s chachaji only works in an office, selling insurance.
    This apartment smells of stale curry. It is crowded with faded, overstuffed sofas and rickety end tables that look like they’ve come from a larger place. A wadded newspaper is wedged under one of the legs of the dining table. Uncle andAunt are watching me, his eyes defiant, hers anxious. I shift my gaze to the dingy walls hung with prints of landscapes, cattle standing under droopy weeping willows looking vaguely bored, (surely they are not Aunt’s choice?) and try to keep my face polite. My monogrammed leather cases are an embarrassment in this household. I push them under the bed in the tiny room I am to occupy—it is the same size as my bathroom at home. I remember that cool green mosaic floor, the claw-footed marble bathtub from colonial days, the large window that looks out on my mothers crimson and gold dahlias, and want to cry. But I tell Aunt that I will be very comfortable here, and I thank her for the rose she has put in a jelly jar and placed on the windowsill.
    Aunt cooks happily all afternoon. Whenever I offer help she says, “No no, you just sit and rest your feet and tell me what-all’s going on at home.”
    Dinner turns out to be an elaborate affair—a spicy almond-chicken curry arranged over hot rice, a spinach-lentil dal , a yogurt cucumber raita , fried potato pakoras , crisp golden papads , and sweet white kheer —which has taken hours to prepare—for dessert. I have a guilty feeling that Aunt and Uncle don’t usually eat this way, and as we sit down I glance at Uncle for confirmation. But he has already started on the food. He eats quickly and with concentration, without raising his head. When he wants more he points silently, and Aunt hurries to serve him. He has taken a shower and put on the muslin kurta-pajama I brought him as a gift from India. With his hair brushed back wetly and chappals on his feet, hecould be any Indian man sitting down to his dinner after a hard days work. As I watch Aunt ladle more dal onto his plate, I have a strange sense of disorientation, and for a moment I wonder whether I’ve left Calcutta at all.
    “I think he is liking you,” whispers Aunt Pratima when we are alone in the kitchen. She stops spooning dessert into bowls to touch me lightly on the wrist, her face bright. “See how he is wearing the clothes you brought for him? Most nights he does not even change out of his overalls, let alone take a shower.”
    I am dubious. Uncle’s attitude toward me, as far as I can tell, is one of testy tolerance. But I give Aunt a hug and hope, for her sake, that she is right. And as I help her pour tea into chipped cups of fine bone china that look like they might have once been part of her dowry, I make a special effort. I offer Uncle my most charming smile.
    “I can’t believe I’m finally here in the U.S.,” I tell him. “I’ve heard so much about Chicago—Lake Michigan, which is surely big as an ocean, the Egyptian museum with mummies three thousand years old, and is it true that the big downtown stores have real silver mannequins in their windows?”
    Uncle grunts noncommittally, regarding the teacups with disfavor. He stomps into the kitchen where I hear him rummage in the refrigerator.
    “I can’t wait to see it all!” I call after him. “I’m so glad I have the summer, though of course I’m looking forward to starting at the university in September!”
    “You will do well, I know.” Aunt nods encouragingly. “You are such a smart girl to be getting into this universitywhere people from all over the world are trying to become students. Soon you will have many many American friends, and—”
    “Don’t be too sure of that,” Bikram-uncle breaks in, startling me. His voice is harsh, raspy. He stands in the kitchen doorway, drinking from a can which glints in his fist. “Things here aren’t as