The Taste of Ginger(32)
That warm December morning, I also learned it was fortunate the wedding could go on as planned because it already was scheduled for the last possible day before the unholy period began. If the naming of children was done according to the stars, it was no surprise that marriage was also. Had the wedding not continued, Hari and Laila would have had to wait at least two months for the next “auspicious” period in February at the earliest.
“This is ridiculous,” I said to Neel after we had both sat through another discussion about what time of day, down to the minute, would be most propitious to hold certain ceremonies. He was the only person in our family with whom I could share these views, and these conversations gave me a sense of normalcy, even if only for a few moments.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. He had been understandably distant since Uma’s funeral, but I still tried to engage him where I could and offer whatever help I thought would ease his suffering.
“Seriously, getting married at the right times hasn’t really made anyone in this family very happy. Maybe the trick is to get married during nonauspicious times!”
“I’ve been happy,” Neel said. I’d forgotten he and Dipti had abided by the auspicious times when planning their wedding.
“Sorry. I meant everyone other than you guys.” I immediately felt guilty for suggesting that anything was wrong with their marriage, especially because lately, it seemed clear something was.
I played with a stray thread coming loose from a seam on the couch cushion. “So, how are you and Dipti doing?”
Neel’s shoulders were already slumped. He opened his arms in a gesture of defeat. “I don’t know how to help her.”
“Maybe it’s better to just give her space right now until she’s ready for help.”
He didn’t react, but I could tell he was pondering my words. I reached out and touched his arm. “I’m here if you need someone to lean on.”
He gave me a rueful smile. “That’s always been my job with you. And with Dipti.”
“I know. And you’ve always done it well. But you also taught me well.” I leaned close to him. “You are doing the best that you can with her right now. And I know she’s your top priority, but you lost your baby too. You have to heal yourself as much as you have to help her heal. You always want to fix everyone else, but lean on us while you grieve your loss too.”
“I’ve seen so many parents go through this when I’ve had to deliver them bad news at the hospital. It’s completely different when it happens to you,” he said.
“I can’t even imagine. But it doesn’t mean I can’t listen.”
He nodded. He wasn’t ready, and I could see that, but I hoped that my words had gotten through to him.
My bond with Neel had been the most consistent relationship in my life. While we fought often, in large part due to him being more obedient and thus our parent’s favorite while I felt like the black sheep, we had a shared history that kept us close. I couldn’t blame him for how our parents responded to us. My parents gave him more leeway because he was a boy. As a girl, and a headstrong one at that, I was always under a microscope. It wasn’t fair, but it was tradition.
The next week of wedding festivities passed by like a blur. While we were happy for Hari and Laila and their good fortune, it was still hard for my immediate family to distance from the great loss we had just suffered. Dipti had skipped the entire affair, and while my mother worried about what people would think about Dipti’s absence, even she knew not to push further. While attending was hard for Neel, it also seemed like he and Dipti having some space apart was what they needed to process their own feelings about their loss.
By the time we got to the day of the actual wedding, I felt like I had nothing left in my tank. The sun beat down on me, causing me to sweat as if I were running a race. The elaborate sari I was wearing grew heavier on my body as the fabric collected the moisture sliding down my skin. I tried not to squirm while kneeling on the mandap as the maharaj, dressed in simple white cotton clothing that was in stark contrast to our elaborate formal wear, chanted mantras and took items from the steel bowls full of red powders, grains of rice, flower petals, and sticks and tossed them into the ceremonial fire in the center.
A young, lanky photographer in faded navy slacks and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up was scurrying around capturing photos of the wedding. Back at my law firm, the cuffed sleeves would have been trendy, but in this setting, I could tell the lack of formality in his attire signified he was working the event rather than attending as a guest. His camera clicked rapidly as he adjusted and snapped from different angles.
I ignored the sound and concentrated on tossing grains of rice into the fire when instructed by the maharaj, dotting Hari’s forehead with vermilion, and carrying a coconut that had been blessed with a vermilion Hindu swastik for good luck.
It had been nearly a decade since a rough, hairy coconut rested in my palms. My parents had helped me move into my apartment in Los Angeles when I started law school and insisted on doing a religious ceremony to protect my home, including leaving a similar coconut outside the front door. The minute they left, I had pulled it inside, fearing that neighbors walking by in my heavily Jewish neighborhood might mistake the Hindu swastik for a hate symbol.
The photographer smiled at me as I descended from the mandap when directed by the maharaj. Before I could return his kind gesture, he leaned in to take a close-up of my face, leaving me disoriented, seeing dots from the harshness of the flash, so I couldn’t check out what type of camera he was using.