chapter IV

The monsoons seem to be lingering this year. Although it is September already, it is raining daily. Durga Puja, the largest festival in West Bengal, is coming in less than two weeks and the rains still continue. It is hot, but not unbearably so. The rains bring a relief from the humidity, which is welcome, but keep us from getting as much accomplished as we had hoped.

Resident Calcuttans don't seem to be too bothered by it and everyone seems ready for the impending holidays. Pandals, temporary bamboo and cloth temples for the puja, are already starting to be built despite the rain. Some [such as the one pictured right, from Mudiali] promise to be grand affairs and everyones' anticipation grows.

After several days spent arranging the help, greeting visiting family members, and getting the flat organized, we get a phone call. The acquaintance in Atlanta has arranged for us to visit her house and see her niece. We set a time for the following day to receive the girl’s uncle, who will take us to their residence.

Shyamal, the uncle, arrives on time and has his lunch with us. He is tall, medium complexioned, and smartly dressed in Western day wear. Every so often he excuses himself to answer his cell phone. I am unimpressed, but everyone seems to take a liking to him, so I keep my mouth shut. The entire family is here illegally as refugees from Bangladesh. They are staying at the residence of the aunt we know in America.

He tells us that he has a taxi waiting for us, so we prepare to leave. Time is short this trip, so I tag along, although normally the prospective groom would sit-out the first visit.

The taxi drive takes us through the outskirts of Calcutta. It is afternoon and the streets are busy. We pass a mosque surrounded by hundreds of men in their little round hats; it must be prayer time. Finally, after half an hour or so, we arrive at Sonarpur, the “Golden City.” I wonder if I will find my treasure here.

The area is quite attractive and the house is large with a small, well-kept garden. We meet the family members and have a small tour of the house. The view from the roof is lovely as the sun is just starting to set. Finally we are ushered into a large bedroom and are offered green coconuts to drink.

A brief explanation of how I came to be a member of the Mukherjee family begins the discussion. Baba, my father-in-law, sits quietly sipping on his coconut as Ma does the talking. She explains that I wish to return to India in the near future and if, God willing, I one day have children, I would like them to have a traditional Indian education. After a few minutes, Manju, the girl’s aunt, brings in plate after plate of dried fruits, nuts, and an assortment of exotic fresh fruits. She fills an entire small table with the serving plates. I eye them hungrily, but don’t make a move to eat any until it’s kosher to do so.

Again Manju leaves, only this time to bring her niece. When Shilpi finally arrives, it is a comically tense scene. Before I have the nerve to look at her, she is bent over, touching my feet. She is wearing a starched orange Sari that ruffles as she walks. It is clearly a sari that has come from Bangladesh. A trained eye can always tell from where a sari has originated.

Sitting on the bed next to my mother-in-law, whom I call Ma, Shilpi keeps her head lowered. I sneak a look at her and can not help but to be attracted. She is much more fair than her two uncles and one aunt who are also here tonight. I am pleased that she looks better in person than in her photos, yet I keep my poker face on. No one speaks. No one breathes. No one knows what to. Only Ma smiles. She is clearly amused by it all. It’s as if she has heard the funniest joke in the world and can’t keep it in, while the rest of us are sitting mute, staring at our shoes as if they had a small television screen mounted on top of them.

Finally, after a few agonizing moments of nerve-racking tension that hangs in the air like a cloud of tobacco smoke in a billiard hall, Ma asks us all to leave the room. I know that she is going to be tough on the girl and I feel sorry a bit for her. The examination begins, and it I know by the end of it, Shilpi might prefer to have sat for the SAT.

Outside I sit with the family around the dining table and they have many questions for me. Manju, who has on a small pair of reading glasses, looks just like her sister in Atlanta, but appears more serious and intellectual. “Why do you wish to return to India?” begins the session. I begin to wonder who is going to have it worse, Shilpi or me.

Maybe fifteen minutes later, I am called into the bedroom. Shilpi still sits with her head lowered as she was before. I notice that she has two beauty marks on her face. Large gold earrings swing from beneath her head cover. As she shyly answers my questions as translated by Ma, I can see that her teeth are somewhat crooked. No, they are seriously crooked. Even with her head down and her mouth only half-opening as she tersely answers our questions, I can see the dark spaces between them. In the photos I have of her back in Atlanta, she has her mouth closed in every one of them. No wonder why.

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chapter V