The Taste of Ginger(87)

“He has come to ask our permission,” Virag Mama said matter-of-factly.

“Ask permission?” I said. “For what?” I could not have sounded more American as the words flew out of my mouth.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Carrie wanted to slap some sense into me.

The tips of Tushar’s ears looked red, like they were burning up. I searched his face. Then I realized what was happening. No, it can’t be. It didn’t make any sense. My father’s words rang in my ears like the repetitious ding-dong of a bell tower chiming twelve o’clock: First you marry, then you date, then you fall in love. First you marry, then you date, then you fall in love. First you marry . . .

Tushar’s face was expectant, and mine softened in response. I didn’t think he was in love with me, but I could see he wanted to be someday, and for him, that was enough. It was probably more than he had expected from the woman he would marry.

For me, this was a far cry from wanting a kiss on New Year’s Eve or even in his shop a couple hours earlier. A marriage proposal came after time spent together and feelings of love had formed. None of that had happened for us. This was a crush! Crushes hardly ever led to marriage in America. With him sitting in my family’s living room, I knew I was not ready for this—not even close. Regardless of whatever feelings I was or wasn’t having for him, I’d never thought he’d be willing to break out of the caste system, and I would never have asked him to. Especially after seeing everything Biren had gone through, I realized how deeply ingrained this culture was in those who were raised here.

I felt helpless as I stared at the room full of people who, in turn, were staring at Tushar and me. I hated being forced to consider this with my relatives sitting there. This tradition that allowed families to be present for what should be a very private and intimate moment in a couple’s life was totally impractical.

A couple? What was I thinking? We could hardly call ourselves that. We had never kissed or displayed any intimacy toward one another. I reminded myself that this was a crush. Could I ever agree to a marriage proposal without having dated? I turned to my right, where my mother remained quiet. I realized this was exactly what she had done when she had agreed to marry my father—except she hadn’t even developed a crush—and now appreciated how terrifying it must have been for her.

Surprisingly, given the forces working against Tushar and me, I did not find myself saying no. It scared me that I was actually thinking about his proposal rather than dismissing it instantly. I stared at Tushar, trying to find some meaning in his eyes, something to show whether he genuinely cared for me so much that it was worth going against society, or whether he was just worried that he might feel that way after I returned home and this was the best way to keep me in the country.

“Tushar, maybe you and I can talk in the other room,” I said.

Indira Mami and Virag Mama immediately tensed at the impropriety of my suggestion.

Mom was used to seeing far more improper things from me, so she didn’t balk. “Let them talk for a few moments,” she said.

I squeezed her hand to thank her.

Tushar and I went to the room that had been Nana’s bedroom. It now served mostly as a prayer room. The adults probably felt more comfortable knowing we’d be under the watchful eyes of Bhagwan. After closing the door, I waited for Tushar to offer me some explanation.

“I know this must seem odd to you,” he said.

“Odd doesn’t even begin to describe it. I just saw you, and you said nothing to me.”

His face looked sunken and gaunt under the harsh yellow light of the single bulb dangling from the ceiling. The smell of sandalwood from a burnt stick of incense lingered in the air. A small clock sat on a table, ticking off each second.

He avoided my eyes. “I’m sorry. After you walked out of the shop, I realized I could not let you go to America. Not without considering me.”

I threw up my hands. “A marriage proposal is a hell of a lot more than asking for consideration.”

“You know the way our culture works.”

Our culture. He said it so matter-of-factly. Was I part of this culture now? Did he now see me as the same as him and not NRI? It was so confusing when I was on the inside and when I wasn’t.

“You hardly know me,” I said.

“I know you are different from girls I’ve met here. I know you have a good heart.”

I sighed. “I’m different because I wasn’t raised here.”

“Of course, I know you are American,” he said. “But you are Indian too.”

I looked at him. “You make it sound so easy.”

“What?”

“Like I belong to two places. Like I can be both Indian and American.”

“Is it not true?”

I shook my head. “Everyone wants it to be that simple. That immigrants have two homes and can seamlessly pass between them. I don’t feel that way. I feel adrift. Like I’m an outsider wherever I go.”

He moved closer to me. “You are not an outsider to me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before? When we were alone and could have discussed it privately?”

Tushar was clearly hurt by my tone.

I dropped onto the bed. “Sorry.” I stared at the tiles. After a long silence, I said, “How could we ever agree to marry without dating?”