Everything about an Indian wedding is significant-the mantras, the sacred are in the middle of the altar, the seven rounds around the are, and the colors of the bride's sari. This day of an arranged marriage for the Sharma family is drenched in heavy rain, but far deeper problems lay within this particular Indian family, who has lived in Canada for the last thirty years. For Gangga Sharma, marrying Subash has been her dream-until her wedding day, when her dream turns into a nightmare. For Jamuna Sharma, the wedding is sacred; she vows if she gets married, it'll be an Indian wedding. She's not certain, though, that it will be with an Indian man. For Kaveri Sharma, the sacredness of her marriage meant nothing. For Menaka, her marriage destroyed the life she'd always dreamed of living. When she discovers Ajay's afair, she believes she's failed at being a good wife. For Ajay, his daughter's wedding opens a can of worms that could potentially destroy his life and his relationship with his daughters. The Sharma family must analyze what marriage means to each and reconcile their expectations with the old culture of India and the diering culture in Canada.
Barish
One Rainy DayBy Punitha MuniandyiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Punitha Muniandy
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4620-3095-8 Chapter One
Ajay
The tent Wallahs were coming at eight. So were the caterers, the cleaners and the rest of the help. The flowers would be arriving around the same time. All the house-guests would be up plus the guests who'd be showing up for the big breakfast. Ajay hoped Menaka, for once, had planned the breakfast menu.
The bed creaked softly as Ajay Sharma pushed himself up. He crossed the room and gazed out of the water spotted window at the indolent drops of rain that fell to the ground. Usually Ajay liked the rain, especially the loud and heavy ones with the booming sound of thunder in between. He found it therapeutic. He liked the noise it made on the roof, as if someone were dropping thousands of marbles. It lulled him, took him to times he thought of fondly, of lost times. But the rain here, in Canada, could never compare to the ones in India, dripping idly like water from a loose tap. The Monsoon rain was what Ajay missed most about India.
But that day, the rain annoyed him. It added to his anxiety. His insides curled up in one tight big knot every time he thought of the day ahead.
"Go to bed, Ajay," Menaka's voice startled him. He turned to look at his wife. All that was visible was the mob of messy hair at the end of the earthy brown duvet.
"How can you sleep when there's so much to do today?"
"It's five in the morning, Ajay. The wedding's not for another twelve hours. Please go to sleep or let me sleep." The mass of black hair didn't even budge as she grumbled.
"Fine."
Ajay draped an old robe around him and exited the bedroom. The hallway from his bedroom to the kitchen was dark. Ajay groped the wall and found the familiar rectangle shape of the switch. As the oval shaped lamp brightened the hallway, Ajay's eyes fell on the framed pictures adorning the narrow wall; their glass frames reflecting the newly lit light. His lips curved upward when he saw the pictures, mostly the smiling faces of his three daughters.
Ajay's gaze lingered on his middle daughter Gangga. His fingers traced the contour of Gangga's moon-shaped face and his eyes moistened. In a little more than twelve hours she'd be someone's wife. Where had all the time gone? When did his daughters grow out of their cribs? Wasn't it only recently he was teaching them how to drive around the block? And shopping for prom dresses?
First it had been his eldest daughter Kaveri who got married two years ago.
"To a useless fellow!" he shook his head.
Ajay had his reservations when it came to Raj – Kaveri's husband. He still remembered telling Kaveri to re-think her decision, but she had been adamant, as she had been in everything else in her life. And now look at where they were. Only two years of marriage and it was already on the rocks. It was as if those two didn't care about each other anymore. He wondered if they ever did.
Ajay wished Kaveri had listened to him. But it didn't help that his wife had been on her daughter's side as well. She had fought Kaveri's battle, defying Ajay along the way. It was Raj's parents The Dhillons came over with their proposal that Ajay finally gave in. With parents that polite surely the son would have inherited some of the goodness. Now looking back, Ajay sighed. What goodness? All Raj had inherited were the father's good looks and arrogance that went with being a Dhillon. He hoped Gangga's fate to be different. He knew it would be different. Gangga's fiancé, Subash, was the son of Ajay's childhood friend.
He had grown up with Subash's father in India. They went to the same school. They had both migrated to Canada at different times, each following his destiny and belief that life would be better in the foreign land. And fate brought them together a year ago when they had bumped into each other at a wedding. That was when Subash's father had suggested both their children meet. Ajay was happy with Subash and he knew Gangga would be happy too. She obviously liked Subash, agreeing to the arranged marriage. He only had Jamuna, the youngest daughter, to worry about after this. Then he could finally rest. Maybe go back to India for a long vacation.
Thinking of India made his heart flutter like a teenager meeting his first love. He breathed deeply in anticipation of his journey back to India. Already the spicy smell of pungent dried chilies on the verandah of his childhood house filling his nose, the cooling sweetness of sugar- cane juice from the road-side vendor lingering on his tongue.
His eyes fell on another face, a younger one than Jamuna's, a face not very unlike his three daughters, a face that held so much resemblance to his children but yet one that caused much turmoil within him.
"Priya –" he whispered.
But that was for another day. Ajay forced his gaze and mind away from Priya and proceeded to the kitchen, but not before glancing at his image on the full length mirror by the door. The mirror was placed there to make the narrow hallway look wider. But it was often used for self grooming in his household. Ajay stood tall in the image behind the mirror, with broad shoulders and a slim waist. His still thick hair combed back neatly displayed streaks of black and white. Ajay smiled and rubbed his cheeks, the morning stubble pricking his palm mildly. Not bad for a middle aged man, thought Ajay with a smug. He knew he looked good for his age. If not for the pair of glasses, his face would probably look much younger. With a slight bow of his head, as if acknowledging himself, Ajay walked into the kitchen.
He put the kettle on to boil and, out of habit, brought the round orange pekoe tea-bag to his nose before dropping it into a mug. The bitter fragrance of black tea always woke him up in the morning, especially the smell of orange pekoe, with no added aroma like some of the more refined teas. It was the only tea he had come to like, the only one that came close to tasting like the tea from India. He spent many years in Canada finding the right tea for his palate - but nothing came close. Orange pekoe was not his first choice but the taste grew on him, like many other things in his life, many other things that were not his first choice, including Menaka. Only Menaka didn't grow on him, like orange pekoe did.
He worked quietly, lest he wake the household. He glanced at the old grandfather clock by the dining table, hoisted against the pale yellow wall that its rich cherry brown wood stood out prominently in contrast. It was his only possession from India, a material linkage that chained him to his past. The needles were pointing at half past five now. Ajay had a little more than two hours to himself before the excitement began and work started. So much to do and so little time. He hoped Menaka had planned the meals.
Ajay brought the middle of his palm to his forehead. Great, he thought, and she's still sleeping like a queen. The kettle screeched loudly, as if in agreement.
With a pre-occupied mind, Ajay swirled some brown sugar into his tea before adding the cream. He prayed Gangga's wedding would go as planned and with little drama. Gangga was thirty years old. If she was back in India, she'd be equivalent to an old maid. He struggled and tried very hard to overlook the demands of his society, tried very hard to condone the gossips that crept through their lives until eventually forcing them to adhere. He looked around at...
