Page 30 of Six Days in Bombay

“We need the money,broucku. The rent is overdue,” Filip said.

“And whose fault is that? I’m not the one buying expensiveclothes—” She flicked a wrist at his three-piece suit. “Everything I have is five years old.”

“You could buy something nice for yourself.” His voice neither rose nor fell.

“With what? I make all the art, and you spend all the money. I—” She gasped.

“Are you alright, Mira?” Now he did sound concerned.

“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “I’m fine. I’m working on a plan for the money. Let’s just go enjoy the party.”

We watched them walk around the perimeter of the stairs and into the far side of the drawing room. They hadn’t seen us. Dr. Mishra and I looked at one another. I felt a little guilty and embarrassed at witnessing such a private moment. I wondered if he did too.

The band stopped playing. Someone was tapping a drinking glass. We filed into the drawing room with other guests who’d been on the terrace. There, on a dais, stood Dev and an older gentleman, whom I assumed was his father—so much did they resemble one another. An older woman in fine regalia, whom I guessed to be Dev’s mother, stood to the side. Guests on the terraces began to join the crowd inside.

“Friends, thank you for joining us tonight for this most auspicious occasion—at least that’s what the astrologer has guaranteed or we may have to ask for our money back…” Dev’s father paused for the laughter to die down. He was holding a cocktail glass in one hand. His other hand was firmly on his son’s shoulder. “This one has made us proud with his studies at Oxford. Soon he will be one of India’s leading architects. A man like that needs a wife by his side who is intelligent, kind, compassionate and supportive. It doesn’t hurt if she is beautiful also.” His chuckle cued the guests, who complied, the men more so than the women. Dev hid a smile as he lowered his gaze to his embroidered shoes. “Which is why we are honored to add the family of Krishna Kaur and their intelligent, compassionate,beautiful daughter Gayatri to ours for what we know will be a long-lasting and happy marriage.”

The musicians started up again, the sitar taking the lead. The gathering made way for a formal procession of the father and mother of the fiancée, their daughter behind them, her head covered by a red-violetpallubeaded with tiny seed pearls. I stole a look at Dev, whose lips had parted. He was as curious to lay his eyes on the woman he would marry as the guests were. Everyone had squeezed in closer to catch a glimpse of the soon-to-be Mrs. Singh. Dr. Mishra had been pushed forward as I had, the two of us pressed together in a way that should have made me uncomfortable but did not. He placed a protective palm against my exposed back. His warm touch sent a pleasurable ache between my legs. He must have felt my body relax against his touch because he turned his head to look at me. I returned his gaze. My breath quickened. For a moment, it seemed as if we were alone in this drawing room and he might reach for me. I would have let him. In the end, he cleared his throat and broke off eye contact. He removed his hand from my back. Was that a look of guilt on his face? Did I mistake his gallantry for interest?

With an effort, I turned my attention to the dais where the fiancée’s father, dressed as elegantly as the Singh men, was making his remarks about the favorable joining of their two families. Finally, he stood aside to let his daughter, Gayatri, stand face-to-face with Dev. The guests craned their heads for a better look. Slowly, the young woman removed herpallu. But instead of casting her eyes downward like a coquette, she tilted her chin up and looked him in the eyes. From the way she carried herself, I could see that pride was her birthright. Here was a woman who thought well of herself. She would be defiant. She would insist on being treated like an equal. They smiled at each other. Was it one of happiness or relief or bravado? Two people who didn’t know one another would start a journey of discovering how to be with one another and in what measure they would love and lie.

Dev took her hand in his and turned toward the crowd, whostarted clapping. Now I saw the black arches of her eyebrows, the large kohl-lined eyes. Her lips, plump and inviting, her easy sensuality. Her mouth had been painted violet to match her sari. Heavy earrings laden with cut amethysts dangled against a jeweled choker that spanned the top of her neck to her shoulders. She did them justice, as if she were used to wearing such adornments daily. I touched my bare neck, aware that such finery would never be in my future. Even though Gayatri Kaur was on a dais, she lifted her chin, looking down at the crowd. Was it so she could appear more imposing? Or was it because she thought herself better than us?

I heard the guests behind me whisper, “I thought she would be younger.”

Another gentleman to my right wondered, “Why did they wait so long to get her married? Is there something wrong with her?” The crowd was dispersing, some heading toward the food and drinks tables, others congratulating the families and greeting the young couple.

A matron ahead of me was saying, “I heard the Singhs’ first choice for a wife fell through.”

Her companion said, “What I heard was that the Kaurs had to get the older daughter married before they could arrange something for Gayatri. The older one ispagla. She fell off a swing when she was little.” The woman made a face. “Finally, they found a family who took her off their hands for a substantial dowry. So now it’s Gayatri’s turn to be married. Although twenty-four is really the limit.”

Twenty-four? Gayatri was only a year older than me. If people thought she was too old for marriage, what did they think of me? Did they all talk like this behind my back?

I followed Dr. Mishra to stand in line and give my regards to the families. Mira joined us.

“Isn’t Gayatri too beautiful? And so masterful!” Mira imitated a Rani of Jhansi stance, the feisty Maharani who dared to go against the British in the 1857 rebellion.

Mira’s enthusiasm and high spirits were evident in the color of her cheeks. “I must ask what Dev’s fiancée thinks of the Ajanta Cave sculptures. Her family apparently lives near there.” I watched the painter closely for signs of fatigue or waning energy. I’m sure Amit—now I was calling him by his first name in my head!—was doing the same. She had only been released from the hospital this morning and she should have been resting. But other than the gray hollows under her eyes, she seemed fully recovered.

As we approached Gayatri and Dev, who were surrounded by well-wishers, it was obvious that they were very much a modern couple, the kind India adored. Both spoke fluent English, displayed Indian grace and Western manners in equal measure, and talked of books and politics. They seemed at ease with businessmen and academicians alike, discussing India’s future. Yes, I thought, they were a good match for each other. Perhaps Gayatri would be the one to curtail Dev’s roving eye.

When it was our turn to congratulate the couple, Amit was whisked away by someone, and I was left alone with Gayatri. Her eyes, so large they dominated her face, regarded me with curiosity. For some reason, I blurted, “My mother is Indian.” I’d assumed she wanted to know about my coloring, but I realized she was looking at my dress.

“Was it your mother’s sari?”

I nodded.

“Remarkable.”

I didn’t know if I should be flattered or insulted by her comment. She’d already turned to greet another guest. I didn’t even get a chance to congratulate her on her engagement.

Dev, who had taken his place next to her again, grinned at me. “Hey, Old Fashioned.” He leaned close to my ear. “Your dress is making the oldsahibsin here very uncomfortable.Shabash!”

***

On the back lawn, bearers were serving plates heaped with meat and vegetable curries or hearty English fare, whichever the guests preferred. They brought rose sherbets,falooda, cocktails andlimewater as requested. Mira drank every cocktail put in front of her. She kept up a brilliant patter with everyone at our table.

The Indian minister of cultural affairs sat to Mira’s right. He was urging her to try her hand at a series of paintings showing the glory of Indian architecture. “Perhaps the palace in Udaipur? Or, since you prefer to paint in South India, what about the Mysore Palace? They’re both stunning.”

---