Vermillion Vows

As we hurried up the steps of the imposing white brick house, the only stark white brick house in a neighborhood of neo-classical red-brick, custom-built, and turret adorned stone colonials, he said to me, "You will stick out like a sore thumb!", to which I replied, "Thats exactly the point, my dear". The door opened and Uma greeted us at the door. Her eyes widened in surprise as she took in my appearance. She was glad that we could make it that evening and as she took our jackets she inquired if we were coming in from another party, to which I promptly replied in the affirmative. It was easier to make up an excuse than to explain why I was donned in a sari. Uma's quizzical look ushered us into eve of our nineteenth wedding anniversary.

As I took in the tastefully decorated foyer and formal living and dining rooms, the carefully chosen modernist pieces of furniture, the breathtaking floor to ceiling drapes and the canary yellow leather couch that I caught glimpses of on my daily walks in the cul de sac, my eyes were drawn to three striking paintings on the living room wall. The dark silhouettes of the Taj Mahal, the Charminar and Jaipur fort set against the fury of the setting sun in the paintings were the only hint of the couple's Indian origin. Otherwise , the house could have been a showcase for post modernist metro-glam design. This was the first time we were visiting the Ravulas. As I admired the paintings, my thoughts wandered off to the earlier part of that evening, to when I was getting dressed. After having worked all of Saturday, my husband and I had decided at the last minute to accept the invitation to our neighbor's "Beat the winter blues" cocktail party. On the spur of the moment, I decided to wear a Sari to the party. Normally I would not have ventured to mix the two, a sari and cocktails just didn't seem to fit together, atleast not in my mind. But this night I was in an especially daring and playful mood. It was the eve of our nineteenth wedding anniversary and I wanted to celebrate. Nothing measured up to the festivity and regal sensuality of a sari. When I wore it, I felt beautiful and sexy. I picked out a new favorite, a silky smooth georgette in shades of green and smoke blue with little silver sequins sowed all over the "pallu" of the sari that gave it an air of understated elegance. With an aporetic raise of his eyebrow, my husband said, "You would look out of place! A sari to a cocktail party with mostly white people?" he questioned. "Why not?", I challenged. "Who says one can't mix a sari with alcohol or white people?" He was quiet. "You never wear one when I ask you to and then you pick the most improbable moments to do so!, Its your wish, do as you please!", he said in a tone that was both resigned and indulgent at the same time. Resigned to the fact that he had to accept my spontaneous and sometimes maverick ways and indulgent of my child like insistence. I was so sure that it was the right thing to do. "We have known our neighbors long enough now," I said, "I am sure they will accept me and my wardrobe as is"
It had been a couple of years since we moved into our new house. We loved the house and the neighborhood. Finally, I had mature trees in my backyard. We quickly struck a close bond with some of our neighbors. We were all in our early forties, ambitious and cosmopolitan. We bonded many a weekend over wine and cheese, over bullish and bearish markets and along republican and democratic party lines, conferring on our political views , cherishing our children's accomplishments and our generally happy and upwardly mobile lifestyle. Yet I felt that there was something amiss, something that didn't quite fit. I could not put a finger to it but it was undoubtedly there, that feeling of not completely belonging. I was uncomfortable and could not reconcile with the fact that I had two distinct sets of friends, divided along race. We never mixed the two. The neighbors were never a part of our "Indianness". We never included them in our celebrations during Diwali or the Dasara or Holi. Were we afraid that they would not accept that part of us? Was it necessary to divorce ourselves of our original identities to be accepted by and into a new one? That night I chose to make the wearing of the sari an instrument of reconciliation between these two disparate worlds, the hosts being another Indian family helped.

"Integration should be about acceptance," I said. "Does a melting pot have to mean that one has to sacrifice one's identity for the sake of the uniform assimilation! Could I not be my own person and still be part of the whole?", I said indignantly. It occurred to me that a sustainable long term relationship with a life partner and that of an immigrant with his or her adopted country was not all that different. Both require a healthy balance of freedom of expression and acceptance to mature and flourish and give birth to a new identify. The result is not the smooth and fluid vision of a melting pot but that of a beautiful mosaic.

He knew better than to argue with me when I got into these grand philosophical musings. We had reached that comfortable juncture in our marriage where such
issues were better laid to rest quickly than be allowed to flare up into an argument.
But it was partly true, what he had said about me not wearing a sari upon his wish. On occasion in the earlier years of our marriage, I would get upset when he would ask me to wear a sari "for him". The idea of getting dressed to please him seemed old fashioned and submissive. I would promptly remind him that when I dressed up, it was solely for the purpose of my own pleasure.
"Can I get you something to drink?", the host's deep voice cut into my thoughts and veered them back to the party. I ventured deeper into the room, as several pairs of eyes turned towards us. Some in admiration and others in surprise. "How gorgeous you look tonight!", said Marie, our Home Owner's association president. "You wear it so well", said another neighbor and friend, Kayla. "I have never seen you in an Indian outfit!", said another. The compliments kept coming and I gave my husband that "I-told-you-so" look as he and I split up and started mingling with all the guests. We had a good time as we caught up with friends and the breaking news of the week, how a group of sixth grade boys had beat up a friend at the local middle school. Shocked moms were discussing the sorry state of modern morality at middle schools. The pace of the conversation kept up with the flow of food and drink.
When the party had thinned out to just a close group gathered around the kitchen table, some inebriated and others just bored, my husband announced that it was our anniversary the next day. More spirit was served up at this and everyone pledged to stay till the clock struck twelve so they could wish us. "A toast is in order!", someone said. "Say a few words about your partner of nineteen years!", they pleaded. My husband raised his glass and said, "To an eclectic, intelligent and beautiful woman, with whom I look forward to spending the next twenty!" Bravo! they cheered, and now it is the Lady's turn! What was the verdict on the state of the holy union, they wanted to know. I looked deeply into my husband's eyes, raised my glass to him and then turned to everyone and said, "I am Free to Love, for this I am thankful!"
At the mention of that opportune word, Varun, with the flowering prose of a drunken poet, reminisced about the first time he saw Uma, behind a curtain and how he was smitten ever since. Uma followed with her story of quiet certainty with which she told her father that this was the man she was going to marry. They fondly recollected their elaborate five day wedding, and before we knew it we were explaining arranged marriages, dowries, the mangal sutram and the significance of the "bottu" to Tom and Barb, the only non indian couple left at the party. I shared with them the story of my own marriage, about how it was arranged, how my husband swept me off his feet with his good looks and charm and the promise of a great life in a far-away land, all in three weeks and under the watchful eyes of two sets of parents, how we were deprived of an engagement period lest we changed our minds about the alliance. We remembered the stolen glances , the secret hugs and the disapproval on my mother-in-law's face the morning after she caught the reflection in the mirror, of newly-weds caught kissing in the aisle, only to be interjected by questions from Tom. Being the inquisitive man he is, intrigued by what he had heard and saw, wanted to understand how we could have agreed to marry after just a few weeks of getting to know each other. I looked at my husband to see if he was going to say something and he smiled knowingly at me. The same thoughts had crossed both our minds when we heard Tom pose the very question my husband had once asked of his mother, when he said, "Go ahead, you tell it better." It was then that I shared with my neighbors, the story I called, "The Grain of Rice Prophecy".

Twenty some years ago, my husband's parents had set about the most important task in their life at that time, that of finding their eligible son a bride. In the tradition of forward looking and rebellious children and trailblazing in matters of love, my husband was disinclined to the idea of shopping for a bride and dismissed any proposals sent his way. When his mother was exhausted and disillusioned after meeting several prospective daughters-in-law, she demanded to know what exactly it was that he was in search of, to which he replied "Ganta kottali". Loosely translated, it meant that his heart bells had to toll, he needed to "feel" the chemistry. This only made his mother ever more disheartened until a chance meeting with my parents at the Presidential tea, on January 26th, Republic Day, 1990. When the car drove away from out of my father's bungalow on a chilly february night, his mother looked at him with all hope. That is when he turned to her and said he had heard the distant sound of bells! After three weeks of courting, romantic evenings spent walking in Nehru Park, shopping along Janpath, sweet lunches at my favorite dhabas and long telephone conversations that stretched into the wee hours of the night, we decided that we would get married. Even then, there was that peripheral doubt that plagued both of us. Would it ever work? Choosing a life partner based just on a three week test drive with a family guarantee and no returns policy? To which, my mother-in-law reassured us in terms she was more familiar with than buying a car. She likened it to checking the done-ness of rice. She said, "One does not have to check every grain of rice to see if its done, it is sufficient to test the top grain. Messing with the entire pot does not make for a fine presentation!"

To Tom, the Grain of Rice Prophecy, and watching two loving couples share the stories of their marriages arranged or otherwise, replete with rituals, seemed a powerful, mystical and magical force. Barb begged to understand the practicality of the arrangement. I started to explain how in an arranged marriage, the macro compatibility factors were sorted out by families matching partners from a similar socio-economic backgrounds and education levels. And how the compatibility at the micro level was sometimes sacrificed to uphold the institution of marriage or in the words of the rice story, the "fine presentation". If one was fortunate, like we had been, we would find compatible partners, where each was allowed to be their imperfect selves but was required to nurture the relationship by feeding it with love and respect and accepting one and another's quirks.
While Grain of Rice Prophecy" makes for a charming story for the fortunate to share at cocktail parties, I know of less fortunate couples that are not blessed with such acceptance, where one or both are controlling and as a result the freedom to truly love one another is lost or they let the interference from the extended family take over their relationship and ultimately destroy it.
We walked back home, hand in hand, feeling serene and secure. We made plans on how we would spend the next day. To start with, we would visit the temple to renew our Vermillion Vows.