Everything Happens for a Reason. Kavita Daswani
just to look at her? You know? Anyway, she snuck her boyfriend in here, and was caught making out with him on the desk of the photo editor, who now wants to move out of his office because he says he can’t imagine using that desk again! Can you believe it? Hysterical!’ she said, as I stared at her, baffled at the things that went on in corporate America.
‘And,’ she continued, pausing for emphasis, ‘that overweight movie reviewer – you know the one, really serious, thinks he knows everything, total snob – he’s about to get fired because they found out he was taking money from a studio to write good reviews. Isn’t that outrageous?’ she screamed, giggling.
‘Not really,’ I replied, whispering. ‘In India, everyone does that.’
If everything were exactly according to the order of Hindu cultural law, I shouldn’t really be living in America.
I shouldn’t really even be married.
I am the youngest of four girls – which some would say is a disaster in itself. But, until a couple of months ago, I was also the youngest of four unmarried girls, which is something that parents with a weaker spiritual constitution than mine might forever be on Prozac for.
Where I come from, these things happen chronologically. Sisters get married in succession. The youngest waits her turn.
But by the time I was twenty-four, and my sisters still weren’t married, my parents just didn’t see how they could turn the offer down.
My mother never listened when she was told she had been cursed. Multiple girls, no sons, everyone kept saying, as if she needed reminding. But she simply shrugged, smiled, shook her head and patted ours. She called us her ‘little Laxmis’.
‘Just you see,’ she said to all those who tut-tutted at her perceived misfortune. ‘My girls will bring us great luck and joy. Just you see.’
She was right, and she was wrong. The luck came as my father’s small construction business grew at a steady pace, and he was able to provide somewhat comfortably for us. But the joy faded as we grew older and our hands remained, mostly, unasked for, our hearts unattached, our dowries ready-in-waiting for years upon years.
We are all exactly two years apart in age, all of us born in the same last week of December, which made birthday parties convenient, if rather chaotic.
According to my grandmother, at the naming ceremonies for each, our family priest had cautioned my parents against giving any of us names that began with an R.
‘It doesn’t match your own initials,’ he’d said, consulting his almanac. ‘It will surely spell disaster on some level.’ But my mother, who pooh-poohed anything to do with the occult, stood her ground. She adored the idea of having a gorgeous, voluptuous ‘Rrrrrr’ trip off her tongue each time she might call her girls to her.
But by the time I came along, my mother relented and listened to the priest. ‘P,’ he said to her, calmly. ‘Pooja, Payal, Pinky, anything like that will do.’
‘Priyanka,’ my mother announced. She had decided to name me after the only daughter of Rajiv and Sonia Gandhi, the beloved assassinated prime minister and his white-skinned wife. But growing up, it was clear that nobody could see any resemblance between me and the charming, strong-willed scion of a legendary political family, so it didn’t surprise me that, eventually, ‘Priyanka’ became simply ‘Priya’ – smaller, softer, far less regal-sounding.
I am convinced that the reason I am married today, and my sisters are not, is because of the name I was given at birth.
The letter had arrived at our home from a family friend in Bombay, telling us about a particular family in Los Angeles with a son about my age, who happened to have matrimony on his mind.
‘I don’t know, Chandru,’ my mother had said to my father. ‘Priya is our baby. She’s our youngest.’
But my grandmother, whom everyone lovingly called Kaki (her given name was actually Kiku, but it required quite a deft use of the tongue to refer to her as Kaki Kiku) immediately demurred.
‘Saras, our Priya is twenty-four already. She is hardly a baby. I hear this family that is asking for her, they are quite good people. They have their own business. I think you should definitely consider it.’
Later that day, I heard my grandmother on the phone with the go-between in Bombay, as if she needed to convince him further of my virtues. I watched her small, grey-haired head bobbing in enthusiasm, her slim spectacles sliding down a perfect and pointed nose.
As far as Kaki saw it, I had inherited a little bit of everyone’s best. Radha was born beautiful, Roma was blessed with what is often described as ‘a good nature’, and Ria had copious quantities of spirit. Kaki always told me that these characteristics seemed to have been distilled and diluted and poured into me.
‘Oh, and our Priya is quite pretty,’ I heard her say, ‘and really rather positive in terms of outlook, always smiling and that. And a straightforward sort of girl, no nonsense and hanky-panky. Quiet, but outspoken if she has to be, which is rarely. Touch wood, touch wood, she is a lovely girl.’ Kaki reached over and laid her hand on the teak coffee table. She did so frequently, at every opportune and necessary moment, like when letting people know that my father had secured another construction project – ‘God has been good to him, touch wood.’ She knew, and had taught us all, that trumpeting our accomplishments and singing our own praises without then fingering something derived from a tree to ward off the evil eye would no doubt result in calamity and downfall.
‘Everybody knows, darling,’ she used to say to me, ‘that for good fortune to remain, humility must always be present. No matter what wonder life brings you, do not ever be boastful.’
Now, as Kaki made her grandmotherly efforts to sell me over the phone, my mother and I took a jug of lime water and went out into the small garden behind our house, where yesterday’s washing still flapped in the breeze. My mother ran her hand through her long, full hair and turned to look at me as I swung lazily in the old rusty swing.
My mother was, in many ways, quite modern. She resisted the stereotype of Indian motherhood, shunning saris in favour of trousers and long tops when she was at home, and lassis for gin and tonic when no one was looking. But when it came to us girls, she tacitly agreed with my father about the most appropriate way to bring us up, the concealing clothes we should wear and the restrictions we were to put on our own minds. She nodded when my father said that the only way for us girls to remain ‘unspoiled’ was to be sheltered from anything that lay beyond our house in Delhi’s Defence Colony, where we knew all the neighbours’ names. The city had its society girls, the ones with the halter-tops, who went disco dancing. They lived on the leafy streets of Nizamuddin East and inside the grand houses of Jangpura Extension, with their sprawling lawns. They sat in imported cars, windows slightly lowered, atop which peeked cigarettes suspended between manicured fingers. They were Indian girls like us, yet as foreign as anything.
Despite all the protection and purity, however – or perhaps as a result of it – we had remained single. My parents had been keen to keep us close by, so initially had sought out boys only from Delhi. They had envisioned a life for us where we would be able to stop by at our natal home, our babies in our arms, and have clattering Sunday family lunches, a mélange of sons-in-law and grandchildren. But then Kaki insisted that the radius be extended to the rest of India, and then, a couple of years later, pulled out even further to other parts of Asia – Bangkok or Hong Kong maybe, some place just a few hours by plane away, with little jet lag involved.
But when the letter came from my father’s friend in Bombay, speaking of a boy in America, of all places, my father’s first instinct was to ignore it, before Kaki changed his mind.
‘Houses are big there,’ she said. ‘And everything is available. And no blackouts and rations like we still have here. It is far, but it could be a