A Good Indian Wife: A Novel Read Online Free Page B

more difficult to hold on to the hope that he liked her. But, she consoled herself, he had confessed to jet lag, laughing about the dark circles under his eyes. When the third morning dawned, she woke with the certain knowledge that he had chosen elsewhere.
    Still, when the rejection came, she cried for days. Indy, sweet, kind Indy, had declared her hatred for Mr. British. “Imagine living with a people we kicked out of our country. There will be others,” she whispered. But Leila knew that “good catches” had so many choices they never settled for a dowryless bride.
    Mr. British was only an engineer. On credentials alone, this doctor was more impressive. And he lived in a country that was the number one destination for Indians. It was a proposal worth the long and despairing wait.
    If it worked out.

THREE
     
     
    NEEL GOT HIS FIRST TASTE OF India in Frankfurt as he waited to board the plane for the final leg to Bombay. There were Indians everywhere. He had forgotten that brown came in so many hues and textures—fleshy, hirsute, pale, dark—that now surrounded him in the waiting area. His ear caught phrases of languages he had not heard in years. Malayalam—“ Ivede va ,” yelled at a little boy who was scampering down the corridor. Bengali—“ Jol khabo, na ,” as a young girl handed a bottle of water to an elderly woman. Only the announcer’s German told him where he was.
    Wanting to make an unapproachable impression, Neel set out a stack of articles as soon as he took the window seat he had requested. He deliberately did not make eye contact with the man across the aisle. Neel had long practice—almost in one glance—at decoding travelers and recognized Mr. Rolex as a fellow Non-Resident Indian who would want to launch into a “clubby” conversation. The couple in front were an unlikely match made possible by America: The fat, balding man had parlayed his foreign status to acquire a pretty wife who would never have considered him had he held the same job in India. The old woman beside Neel would probably need help during the flight, something he found himself doing on every trip now that so many Indians lived in America and were visited by elderly parents who did not speak English.
    “Oh, no,” he sighed when he heard a crying child—an Indian couple proudly taking their progeny home to be admired and doted upon. The parents were equally loud and Neel could hear every word of their conversation with Mr. Rolex. He had been mistaken, after all; they were an Indian-American couple, the dark-haired wife of Italian origin. And they were returning for good. “Harry has lived in my country, so now it’s my turn,” the woman said enthusiastically. “That’s just one reason,” husband Hari said. “It is difficult to be neither fish nor fowl in America, and I told Lisa our daughter will be more accepted back home. I mean, when the British came, our kings greeted them with open arms. America is not such a welcoming country.” Mr. Rolex agreed, but Neel thought the man was a simpleton. After that he concentrated on the articles, relieved that neither-fish-nor-fowl proved to be quiet, sleeping till touchdown in Bombay.
    About twenty hours later, he stepped off the tiny Indian Airlines plane he had boarded at Bombay and was immediately embraced by the heat. It clung to him like the suit he wore to go deep-sea diving, both familiar and uncomfortable. Airport workers unloaded luggage on the grass-and-weed, dog-gambolled strip that served as the runway. The sun didn’t seem to affect them as they laughed and tossed the baggage: cardboard boxes tied with string, suitcases with oddly shaped bulges, each well plastered with the owner’s name and address.
    Neel heard his name and turned to see Mummy, her high noon yellow saree blending in with the crowd of brightly dressed people. She was waving, shouting, “Suneel, Suneel!” He was so used to his one-syllable American name that for a moment he did not respond