The Full Moon Bride

Standing before the oval mirror in my elegant bedroom with its lushly modern furnishings, I gave myself a once-over. In spite of the clever use of cosmetics, the face staring back at me looked rather homely—ordinary nose, full mouth, curious eyes fringed by dark lashes, tweezed eyebrows . . . Nothing beyond plain Miss Siya Giri.

Being the potential bride in yet another bride-viewing was hardly pleasant. The mild fluttering in my tummy was gradually escalating into an anxiety attack at the thought of meeting yet another eligible man.

With a damp palm pressed against my belly, I waited for the latest bachelor and his family to arrive. I stood in all my expected finery—a soft, glossy Kanjeevaram silk sari, diamond necklace with matching earrings, gold bangles, and a red bindi, looking even taller than I was—and I was rather tall to begin with.

Like most second-generation Indian-Americans, I too had, in my youth, dismissed arranged marriage as a ridiculous and antiquated custom. Tying oneself to a man one hardly knew and pledging life-long love and fidelity on top of that didn’t sound sensible to me. ‘‘For a modern woman it’s nothing short of insanity,’’ I’d mocked many a time.

But after reaching adulthood and realizing that everybody in my big South Indian Telugu family had been married in that fashion and looked surprisingly content—except for my uncle Srinath, whose wife was suspected of being a hermaphrodite—the concept didn’t seem so absurd. I figured even I’d give arranged marriage a try. That is, if there was a man willing to marry me—and it was a huge if.

So far I’d acquired an Ivy League education and moderate success as a big-city attorney, but come away empty-handed in the marriage department, perhaps because I’d distanced myself from the madness of the dating scene.

If it weren’t for the fact that I really and truly wanted to get married, I wouldn’t have ventured into the old-fashioned Indian form of torment called bride-viewing. Fortunately it wasn’t as bad as it was in some places and certain communities in India, where girls were often put on display and expected to tolerate their potential in-laws’ scrutiny like cows at a cattle auction.

Here it was just a matter of boy meeting girl and family meeting family in an informal setting. There was generally no undue pressure exerted on either party to marry. But convention required them to be polite and respectful to each other. However, the system was biased in our male-worshipping culture. The reverence shown by the girl and her parents to the boy and his family often bordered on sycophantic.

My suitor and his family were coming all the way from Kansas City, making the occasion all the more unnerving. Looking outside the picture window, I contemplated if I should make a quick and silent escape into the backyard.

Right now the weather was perfect for lounging around our kidney-shaped swimming pool, which was shimmering like a sheet of turquoise glass in the balmy afternoon sun. Mom’s lovingly-tended zinnias, marigolds, and impatiens were bursting with vigorous colours. The copse of pine trees in the distance looked cool and darkly forbidding, but no more forbidding than what perhaps awaited me in the coming hour.

Fleeing was tempting, but I couldn’t summon the courage to do it. In fact, I’d never had the stomach for it. Good Hindu girls didn’t indulge in blatant disregard for convention. Conformity and duty to family above all else were deeply embedded in our DNA. All the Americanization in the world could not eliminate what was intrinsic to the Hindu psyche.

Although Indian-American kids are often branded as ‘coconuts’—brown on the outside and white on the inside—girls and boys like me can talk, eat, socialize, work, and think like Americans during the adolescent years, but once past teenage, our Indian-ness starts breaking through the brittle plastic façade.

I had discovered I was a plump, dark-skinned Telugu-American some ten years ago, no matter how much imported-from-India Fair & Lovely fairness cream I rubbed over my skin.

Besides, our community was small and close-knit, and rumours of my wayward behaviour would spread fast, humiliating my parents, my grandmother, who happened to live with us, and me, in the process.

I could picture Dad frowning down at me with his enormous arms folded across his equally enormous chest. ‘‘Siya, I am appalled at your behaviour. Did you have to ruin the family name in such a reckless manner? If you weren’t interested in meeting the young man, you should have told us in the first place. We could have saved those folks and ourselves a lot of grief.’’

Mom would put on that wounded look, with her head tilted to one side and her big eyes blinking. ‘‘Baby, did we do something wrong? Is that why you are behaving in this strange manner?’’

My paternal grandmother, Pamma to me (short for Papa’s Amma), was too deaf to know what was happening around her most of the time, but even she would have a seizure at my shocking behaviour. ‘‘If I do this kind of nonsense when I was a small girl, my father squeeze my throat and throw me in river,’’ would be her reaction. Then she’d remind me that in my next life I’d have to pay very dearly for bringing such shame upon the family. ‘‘You do bad-bad things in this life, you get bad-bad things in next life.’’

Taking into consideration family honour and dignity combined with bad-bad karma in my next incarnation, running away was definitely not an option.

The doorbell chimed downstairs, sending a mild ripple through my system.

‘‘Siya, they have arrived!’’ announced Mom from below. She sounded excited.

I listened while my parents welcomed the visitors and ushered them into the living room. After a minute I quietly tiptoed down the stairs and slipped into the kitchen. I would wait there until the time was right for my planned and practiced entrance.

With nothing else to do, my gaze bounced off the kitchen. The pistachio coloured curtains looked fresh and crisp from the recent wash. The appliances and the newly-waxed hardwood floor gleamed in the sunlight filtering in through the towering sunburst windows. A garland of fresh marigolds was strung around the picture of Lord Balaji in its silver frame. Tastefully arranged multi-coloured roses sat in a Waterford crystal bowl on the kitchen island.

Everything looked warm and welcoming. Mom, the perfectionist, didn’t leave anything to chance.

Voices in the living room were clearly audible and the Telugu accent unmistakable—each R rolled around with relish and the dialogue flowing in the present continuous tense. ‘‘We are coming for the first time to New Jersey. Do you always have so much traffic congestion here or what?’’ asked a male voice.

A few other voices, including my parents’ and grandmother’s came to mingle with the man’s.

My father’s accent was a shade less pronounced as he proceeded to respond to the guest’s comments. ‘‘Newark Airport and the main highways are naturally congested, but our vicinity is quiet—no apartment buildings and condos here.’’

Dad loved to throw that in—the fact that we lived in an exclusive area of New Jersey. Bergen County was more like an upscale suburb of New York City. God forbid we should have mundane apartments within a ten-mile radius!

Catching my image in the smooth surface of the stainless steel refrigerator, I couldn’t help adjusting my pallu. The green sari with a red border, embellished with gold jari, had me looking like a Christmas tree decorated with tinsel, but Pamma and Mom had convinced me that green and red were auspicious colours.

My lips still looked glossy. My shoulder-length hair looked salon-perfect.

But the gold thread of the sari abraded and itched where it touched my neck. I scratched at the ugly welts that were getting larger and redder by the second. Damn!

Mom came prancing in from the living room, a hundred-watt grin illuminating her face. ‘‘They seem like nice people, Siya. And so cultured,’’ she informed me, and then went to open the oven door.

The aroma of fried food came at me with a whoosh as she deftly removed a loaded pan of snacks from the oven and placed it on the granite counter. Whatever lay on that pan continued to sizzle for a few seconds.

I offered no response to Mom’s statement. I preferred to reserve my comments until after I had met the folks from Kansas. Instead I discreetly scratched my hives and inhaled the curly wisps of aromatic steam travelling towards me.

Mom threw me a concerned look when she noticed the hives on my neck. ‘‘Itchy, huh? You remembered to take your antihistamine?’’

"Yes, Mom. I’m fine’’ I assured her. Physically I was indeed fine, but mentally I was on edge.

After countless times, I should have become a pro at this bride-viewing ritual. But no such luck. I was still reduced to a nervous glob at the thought of being on parade before strangers. Oh Lord, I couldn’t even recall their name. ‘‘Mom, what did you say their name was?’’

"Vadepalli.’’

Vadepalli—a nice, old-fashioned Telugu name. My mother had a knack for discovering them—families that had similar backgrounds to ours in terms of language, religion, and culture.

"They are good people with healthy genes according to your Prema aunty. And you know Prema is very smart in matchmaking.’’ Mom opened the refrigerator and retrieved a crystal bowl covered with plastic wrap.

"Yeah, I know. She’s arranged the marriages of no less than thirty-two people.’’ I was quite aware of Prema aunty’s impressive record.

"Actually it’s thirty-three now,’’ Mom boasted. ‘‘And every one of them with healthy genes.’’

"Good for her,’’ I mumbled. My aunt’s idea of healthy genes included almost anyone who wasn’t dying of some terminal illness. On the other hand, heart disease, hypertension, diabetes, and even mental afflictions were considered minor and were to be overlooked, especially when the lack of marriageable young men was reaching dire proportions, as in my case.

"First you get married, afterwards you discuss all those unpleasant genetic things,’’ my aunt had said to me once, after having lectured me on the advantages of marriage.

I couldn’t imagine how such grave health inquiries could be put off until after marriage. But I wasn’t in any position to argue with my aunt, who was like a runaway steamroller when it came to arranging a match. Thirty-three successful matches was a remarkable number, though.

I watched Mom as she carefully lifted the hot snacks off the metal pan and arranged them on a sterling silver platter—crisp masala vadas and vegetable samosas.

The crystal bowl filled with bright green mint-coriander chutney sat in the centre of the arrangement. I knew how it would taste: tangy and fiery hot—pungent enough to strip the top layer off one’s tongue. Beautiful . . . and oh-so enticing!

A carved silver bowl held luscious-looking gulab jamuns. I eyed them with longing. They were a definite ‘no-no’ on my latest diet. I lived on salads, fruits, select cooked vegetables and sprouts, skim milk, diet sodas, and plain non-fat yogurt. It wasn’t easy losing weight, I thought, and sighed.

"Mom, is my sari still all right?’’ I cocked an eyebrow at her, hoping to force my attention away from the food. Mom had patiently wrapped the sari around me in the traditional style with lots of safety pins to keep the complicated pleats and pallu in place. My mother studied me critically for a moment. ‘‘It looks fine, dear.’’ Then she offered me a warm, reassuring smile. ‘‘You look nice, baby, really pretty.’’

"Yeah, right, and Mars is inhabited by little bald men.’’

My wry comment earned me a tight frown from Mom.

Laughter floated in from the living room. Dad was doing his part in keeping the Vadepallis sufficiently entertained while Mom took care of the food. He could be quite a lively host, especially when it came to impressing important people. Like potential in-laws.

Gregarious and witty, Dad was often the soul of the party, especially after consuming a couple of stiff martinis garnished with his favourite pearl onions. But there was no liquor on this afternoon’s menu. What if the Kansas folks were teetotallers? One had to be politically and culturally correct in such situations.

Mom placed the platter and bowl on an oblong wooden tray alongside the rose-patterned Lenox plates and pale pink cotton napkins. Then she filled the silver coffeepot with coffee—strong and thick, with loads of frothy whole milk and sugar. ‘‘Be an angel and get the matching cups and saucers, dear,’’ she said to me.

I gathered up the necessary items and stacked them on another tray, and then took a deep fortifying breath. In a minute I’d have to make my grand entrance.

At least the previous bride seekers had come from within the tri-state area—near enough to make a hasty exit and drive home when I didn’t measure up to their standards. But these folks had come from a very long distance, a fact that made me doubly tense.

However, Mom’s eyes twinkled with barely-contained excitement behind her plastic-framed glasses. As a wealthy woman, Mom should have been wearing stylish designer eyeglasses and elegant clothes, but her humble Indian background still lingered inside her. Her wardrobe was mostly furnished by discount department stores: slacks in different colours topped with coordinated short-sleeve tops in the summer and pullover sweaters in the winter.

Somehow the heavy gold, diamonds, and silk saris that were considered solid investments didn’t quite go hand-in-hand with the plain shoes and the inexpensive watch, which were viewed purely as consumer goods; not worth throwing good money at.

Mom habitually looked for special end-of-the-season sales at the local department stores. A deeply discounted clearance event could make Mom giddy with delight.

That philosophy didn’t extend to my dad, though, since he was a prominent doctor and had to look the part. He always wore designer labels, drove an expensive car, and had his offices lavishly furnished. They were all investments. Mom’s life on the other hand, was an eclectic mix of cheap and pricey, elegant and tacky, drab and colourful.

"So, what do you think of the boy?’’ my mother asked in a conspiratorial whisper, as she placed the lid on the coffeepot.

"I haven’t even seen him yet.’’ I’d been trying to postpone the inevitable as long as I could.

"You mean you haven’t taken a secret peek yet?’’ Mom looked shocked. She always assumed I was as wildly excited about these occasions as she was.

"No. I don’t spy on people.’’

"It’s not spying, dear; it’s simple curiosity. Every girl does that, you know. When your Dad came to see me, I hid behind the wooden screen in my parents’ home and took a good look at him. He looked so nice. He was a lot thinner then, too.’’ She giggled. ‘‘Your Pamma caught me at it, but she didn’t seem to mind.’’

"Good for you, Mom.’’ I couldn’t help smiling.

"Just wait till you see this Kansas boy, and tell me if he’s not handsome.’’ Mom looked like an eager little girl waiting for my reaction to her first kindergarten project. Except, in place of pigtails she sported a short bob that was dyed a shade too dark. Mom’s bathroom cabinet held a jumbo pack of hair colour.

"Handsome? Well . . . looks like Dad and you have outdone yourselves this time,’’ I said. This was the first time I’d heard any suitor described as handsome. But then, in Mom’s opinion, practically every fourth man she came across was nice-looking or distinguished-looking, so I had serious doubts about this guy.

Mom’s face settled into a troubled frown. ‘‘I hope you’re not going to be difficult about this, Siya. You will behave properly, right?’’

"Yes, Mom,’’ I said with an exasperated sigh.

Mom’s tone softened. ‘‘I know this is tough, dear, but they have come a long way to meet you.’’ Good thing Mom was a forgiving sort and had overlooked the first few bride-viewings when I’d deliberately worn faded jeans and sweatshirts or short skirts and tank tops that revealed my rolls and bulges to the point of driving away any potential young man and his family.

Those were the days when I didn’t want to marry and get saddled with a husband and kids. But along with maturity had come the slow realization that I did want all those sentimental and wholesome things. My thirtieth birthday some months ago was a sobering experience. Many of my girlfriends were married, and a couple of them had babies. Even my best friend, Amy Steinberg, a rebel who’d denigrated marriage for many years, was now engaged.

All of a sudden, I wanted a husband, too—a guy who’d bring me flowers, help me chop vegetables for the salad, shovel the snow, warm my bed, and hold my hand when I went into the delivery room to bring his babies into this world. Besides a fabulous career, I wanted marriage. I wanted a family.

But all that meant landing the right man first, or at least letting my parents find him for me. And that’s why I stood there dressed in a sari, wearing diamonds and make-up . . . trying not to let it get to me. Nonetheless, my bland reply to Mom was, "Kansas isn’t the end of the world. I’m sure they can hop on the next plane and go home.’’

I had subjected myself to this torment since I was twenty-three. Not that I counted the bride-viewings anymore. The occasions were too numerous to keep a tally, too humiliating to acknowledge, and too frustrating to ponder.

It wasn’t Mom and Dad’s fault, though—this was the only method they knew. If I were to find someone on my own, they’d accept him wholeheartedly. In fact, they had hoped I’d find someone and get married. They had dropped enough hints on the subject. Since I hadn’t succeeded, they were trying their level best to get me to the proverbial altar, or in my case, the mandap.

Each time a potential groom came to meet me, the outcome was the same: rejection—for one reason or another. I was either too tall or too heavy or too dark-skinned or some combination of these three. After the barrage of negative responses, I’d become even more apprehensive about going out and finding a man on my own.

I often wished I could summon enough nerve to go to bars and parties, get myself a boyfriend and put an end to this husband hunting. Amy had managed to find her perfect Jewish man in David Levine through the Internet. But I couldn’t. I had learned my lesson as a teenager when no boys in school had noticed me.

My fear of dating was pathetic for a grown woman whose spirit was intrepid in every other sense, but I was too damned afraid of rejection to seek out the romantic and sexual experiences that other girls my age seemed to enjoy. I dreamt about love and sex often enough. And yet I was afraid to fail. At least when my parents tried to find a man for me, any failures were as much theirs as they were mine. And I found comfort in that . . .

Initially, I believe what enticed the would-be grooms and their families to come bride-seeking to our house was the Big Dowry sign around my neck—my father’s flourishing medical practice. He owned three clinics around New York City, where he performed his own brand of magic: cosmetic surgery.

My father’s clients included a long list of celebrities—movie stars, models, singers, business moguls, and sports heroes. Dad had, perhaps, played God more times than he could remember—he had probably adjusted, reshaped, rearranged, and remoulded more body parts than anyone on the East Coast. His list of famous patients and their fascinating stories could fill a book. Too bad Dad’s charmed scalpel could do little for his only child.

Unfortunately, I had inherited his looks, and he had inherited his from his father. But to his credit, he had tried very hard to use every ounce of his medical and cosmetic skills on me in conjunction with other specialists who’d given my looks a boost.

In the end, after a few layers of fat had been surgically removed from my hips and belly, my nose cleverly restructured, teeth aligned with orthodontics, hair removed permanently from my upper lip and arms, and some elaborate beauty treatments, I had made the happy transition from unappealing to better than plain.

"Look, baby, Dad made you so lovely!’’ Mom had clapped her hands with girlish delight and held the mirror before me when the last of the procedures was over. I was twenty years old then.

Pamma had nearly lost her dentures from grinding them too much and shedding tears of joy at the sight of her granddaughter’s improved appearance.

Alas, I would never be beautiful, not even pretty. I had always known that. Nonetheless, my latest birthday resolution had been to do whatever it took to look the most attractive I could.

"Siya.’’ Mom’s voice pealed like a bell to shake me out of my depressing thoughts. ‘‘It’s about time you came out and met them.’’

"Can’t you and Dad entertain them and send them on their way?’’ I pleaded with her.

"The boy seems very friendly, honey. I’m sure you’ll like him. He’s different from the other boys you’ve met.’’

"They’re all very friendly until they meet me, Mom,’’ I murmured. Even our eye-popping mansion, complete with fountain, swimming pool, hot tub, and Dad’s steel-grey Porsche sitting in the garage, didn’t appear to matter once they laid eyes on me. Then they all seemed to panic and run like hunted rabbits.

The irony was, even the ugliest suitors wanted a pretty bride. The potential groom could be short, overweight, bald, or even disabled, but the prospective bride had to be perfect in every way. Centuries of technological and cultural changes hadn’t managed to bring about a shift in the double standards of our culture.

"But his horoscope and yours match beautifully, Siya. And by a happy coincidence today is purnima, an auspicious full moon,’’ Mom chirped. ‘‘Maybe this time it will click.’’

Mom always found something auspicious about everything. She was the eternal optimist, cheerful as the lark that heralds the dawn with a burst of song. But her temperament had its advantages. Thanks to her boundless faith in me, I had excelled in school, college, and then law school, and eventually become an employee of a prestigious Manhattan law firm at a young age.

Of course, one of the reasons I got hired at the firm was Matthew McNamara, or Mac, the firm’s senior partner and one of Dad’s most grateful clients. Despite knowing the job was granted as a favour to Dad, I knew I deserved it. I wasn’t just a good lawyer, I was an outstanding one, and an asset to Mac and his august team of legal professionals.

Mom finally thrust the coffee tray into my hands and picked up the other one loaded with snacks. ‘‘Okay, baby, let’s go,’’ she announced.

Heaving another deep breath I followed Mom’s slim figure down the hallway towards the living room. Even after three decades of knowing and loving Mom, I still felt this slight pang of envy whenever I noted her trim hips and slender arms. Why couldn’t I have inherited her petite genes?

Although not exactly pretty, my mother was nonetheless petite and generous and charming in her own way. Her sweet, munificent personality drew people to her like bees to her prize roses.

The potent scent of coffee on the tray rose to meet my nostrils, reminding me to walk upright and smile.

Okay, Siya, this too shall pass, I assured myself and proceeded to check out the man who was waiting to meet me.

Entering the living room, I took quick note of the people seated on our floral-patterned furniture. Mr. and Mrs. Vadepalli seemed normal enough—typically dressed in their own conservative discount store apparel.

Mr. Vadepalli was a lanky man, wearing a pale blue shirt and grey pants that had gone out of fashion some five years ago. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back with oil. His skin was the colour of glossy ebony, with a few deep lines etched on its surface. Sitting on the couch next to my dad, Mr. Vadepalli looked almost gaunt.

Mrs. Vadepalli, seated beside Pamma on the other couch, was a small woman with buck teeth. She wore glasses and a ruby-red lipstick that emphasized the teeth. She was lighter skinned than her husband. Her long hair was braided but looked as black as Mom’s. If nothing else, the two women could discuss hair colour and exchange tips on buying it at wholesale prices.

At a second glance, I realized these people were rather thin. They were likely to dislike me on sight. Slim individuals invariably had this disdain for heavy people.

Looking at Mrs. Vadepalli’s periwinkle-blue pantsuit and black sandals, I wondered about the dress code. If the old lady was wearing American style clothes, why had Mom and Pamma insisted on my wearing Indian attire and heavy jewellery?

But old folks aside, it was the son, if that young man sitting in the recliner by the fireplace was indeed their son, who nearly caused me to drop my coffee tray.

Oh my God!

My mouth went dry. The cups rattled ominously in