Everything Happens for a Reason

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 good life for our Priya. At least let the boy and girl exchange photos.’

When his arrived, I thought Sanjay looked like the kind of boy who might still be living on our street, the boy-next-door type I might have fallen in love with. He had a sweet smile, beautiful features, hair that fell into his eyes with an endearing innocence. I remember nodding in agreement, which is why he called me one day, at a prearranged time. I blushed as I heard his voice echoing down the static-filled telephone line, my sisters and parents gathered all around me. Sanjay told me a little of his life in California, and it seemed respectable and appealing. He had been there since he was five, so was more American than Indian.

Afterwards, I wasn’t sure what to think or how to respond. I was a twenty-four-year-old jobless virgin, who had hardly been trained to make decisions and have ideas and know truth from fantasy. But everyone around me was so excited – sisters talking about buying new saris, mother planning on sending out baskets of sweets in celebration, grandmother doing prayers of gratitude in the temple – that I got swept along with it. Without ever really planning it, I found myself engaged.

Sanjay and I met for the first time a week before our wedding, at the engagement ceremony. He came straight from the airport, a baseball cap on his head and bright red socks on his feet. He looked happy and excited, as if this was going to be like a day at Disneyland. He reached out his hand for mine and shook it, eagerly looking at my face.

‘You are very pretty,’ he said, looking relieved. ‘Even prettier than your photo.’ I smiled, taking in his handsome features and easy smile. We exchanged garlands in front of a large marble statue of Lord Shiva and his consort, Parvati, and I thought that, like the heavenly beings, we made quite a match. We may have only just met, but I was quite sure that I would love him in no time.

The six days between our meeting and the wedding were mostly happy. We shyly avoided kisses, but occasionally allowed our fingers to touch as we stood behind the pillars in my home, while my relatives golden-fried sugary jalebis and florists fussed around the rooms. The neighbourhood children would show up at our door for the chocolates and foil-wrapped hard-boiled sweets that were generously distributed at wedding times. They would gather around and gleefully sing the childish tunes that they always brought out for these occasions: ‘Sanjay and Priya sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G, first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in a golden carriage!’ before scampering off, their pockets bulging with sweets. Their mischievous exhortations aside, Sanjay and I observed cultural norms and restrained ourselves from overt shows of affection. Even so, everyone told us we looked as happy as two toddlers playing in a park on a summer’s afternoon.

My delight notwithstanding, the presence of Sanjay’s mother always weighed me down. I appeared to have been the last one to find out about her bitter nature. ‘Oh, she’s marrying Nita’s son, is she?’ people would ask my parents, trying to hide the astonishment in their eyes. ‘The boy is very handsome, yes, yes. And the family is quite well off, we believe. But that mother …’ I overheard one of my many interfering, melodramatic aunts warning my father that eventually Nita’s miserable temperament would manifest in her children.

‘The milk that flowed through her breasts must surely have been sour, smelling like lime,’ said the aunt. ‘How do we know that Sanjay did not receive this bad milk, which must have fizzled in his stomach like bad curd? How do we know he will not grow up to be like his mother? Our Priya will have to work extra hard to keep him sweet.’

To me, my mother-in-law was often mean and critical, condemning me a few days before our wedding because my outfit was ‘too revealing’ and my collarbone was showing.

‘My parents are very conservative,’ Sanjay had said to me. ‘They want you to dress only in Indian clothes. You understand, no?’

Two days prior to wedding, when we were out being showered with good wishes by friends, dining and dancing and drinking (Sanjay had beer, I stuck to Shirley Temples), Sanjay announced that he had to get home early because he had promised his mother. And that whole week long, she would call and demand extra additions to the dowry, the supplying of which had taxed my parents enough.

I should have taken that as my cue to end things.

But I couldn’t.

My family had already been through enough with so many unmarried daughters, and I was not about to bring more shame on their heads.

Plus, the neighbourhood children were right. I felt as if I loved Sanjay. And following love must come marriage.

And as my Aunt Vimla would insist: ‘All Indian families are the same. Mothers want the best for their sons. Be obedient and homely, and everything will be fine. Things always get better after marriage.’

At the wedding, I was surprised that they didn’t make me change my name. Hindu brides don’t simply take on their husband’s surname, but a new first and middle appellation as well. I was to go from Priyanka Chandru Mehta to something else entirely. My original middle name was my father’s name, now to be replaced by my husband’s name, for as Kaki had explained to me, this was a significant indicator that Hindu girls are ‘to go from their father’s house to their husband’s house, and nowhere in between’. And the point of changing my first name was simply to show that my identity – or what little of it I had – would be shed alongside my virginity. With a slim gold band on my finger, and the black-beaded mangal sutra necklace that all Hindu brides are given, I was to become a brand-new person. As Sanjay and I sat in front of the fire, its grey smoke twirling overhead, I waited for the priest to whisper my new name into my ear. But he did not. As it turned out, Priya was the perfect fit, as far as names go, for Sanjay. I would be Priya Sanjay Sohni. One out of three wasn’t bad.

Right after the wedding, the dholi was waiting for me outside the temple where the nuptials had taken place. I used to dream about being carried off in this palanquin, excitedly anticipating my life ahead with a new husband; only, I had always thought that I would have watched all my sisters make the journey before me. Instead, now, they each hugged me in turn, their cheeks wet with tears against my own. Aunt Vimla, who was a distant cousin to my mother but seemed to have turned herself into the family know-it-all, elbowed her way towards me and whispered in my ear: ‘Something will happen to you when you are alone together. Don’t cry, even if there is pain. We have all done it. And remember, you have married not just Sanjay but his entire family. You must do everything to please them. Only then will you have blessings on your head.’

My mother, however, had pushed Vimla aside, and clasped her strong arms around my neck. ‘My darling daughter, you are my first child to be married, but, please God, may you not be the last. May you stay happy. And if ever you are not, remember you always have a home with us.’ But then my mother paused, cupped the back of my head with her hand, stared straight into my eyes, and said: ‘But, Priya, darling, do try and be happy.’

Inside the dholi, I hugged my knees towards me, and fingered the coarse, wiry golden threads of my sari. I pulled aside the strings of jasmine that quivered in the warm evening breeze, and waited quietly as everyone paid their respects to a young, departing bride. Vimla and her entourage were meant to cry at the sight of me leaving, but instead they were rejoicing. They were waving and cheering, as if suddenly relieved of some monumental burden. I could swear that I even heard one of them yell out: ‘See ya!’

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