(Source : The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri)
Gogol and Moushumi barely talked to each other all evening ;throughout the ceremony she'd kept her eyes lowered, and during the reception, each time he'd looked at her, she'd been deep in conversation with people he didn't know. He wanted to be with her alone suddenly, wished they could sneak off to her room or his, ignored the rest of the party as he would when he was a boy. "Come on," he urged motioning toward the glass elevator, "fifteen minutes. No one will notice." But the dinner had begun, and table numbers were being called one by one on the loudspeaker. "I'd need someone to redo my hair," she said. The heated silver chafing dishes were labeled for American guests. It was typical north Indian fare, mounds of hot pink tandoori, aloo gobi in thick orange sauce.
They sat at the head table in the center of the room, with his mother and Sonia, her parents and a handful of her relatives visiting from Calcutta, and her brother, Samrat, who was on his orientation at the University of Chicago. There were awkward champagne toasts and speeches by their families, their parents' friends. Her father stood up, smiling nervously, forgot to raise his glass, and said, "Thank you very much for coming," then turned to Gogol and Moushumi : "Okay, be happy." Forks were tapped against glasses by giggling, sari-clad mashis, instructing them when to kiss. Each time he obliged them and kissed his bride tamely on the cheek.
A cake was wheeled out. "Nikhil weds Moushumi" piped across its surface. Moushumi smiled, as she always did for a camera, her mouth closed, her head tilted slightly downward and to the left.
He was aware that he and Moushumi were fulfilling a collective, deep-seated desire, because they both were Bengali, and every one of both the families could let hair down a bit. At times, looking out at the guests, he couldn't help but think that two years ago he might have been sitting watching her marry another man. The thought crashed over him like an unexpected wave, but quickly he
reminded himself that he was the one sitting beside her. The red Banarasi wedding sari and the gold had been bought two years ago, for her wedding to Graham. This time all her parents had had to do was to bring down the boxes from a closet shelf, retrieve the jewels from the safety deposit box, find the itemized list for the caterer. The new invitation, designed by Ashima, the English
translation lettered by Gogol, was the only thing that wasn't a leftover.
Since Moushumi had to teach a class three days after the wedding, they had to postpone the honeymoon. The closest they came was a night alone in the Double Tree, which they were both dying to leave. But their parents had gone to a great trouble and expended to book the newlywed suit. "I have got to take a shower," she said as soon as they were finally alone, and disappeared into
the bathroom. He knew she was exhausted, as he was ; the night had ended with a long session of dancing to Abba songs. He examined the room, opening drawers and pulling out the stationery, opening the minibar, reading the contents of the room service menu, though he was not at all hungry. If anything he felt slightly ill, from the combination of the bourbon and the two large pieces of cake he'd had because he had not any dinner. He sprawled on the king-sized bed. The bedspread had been strewn with flower petals, a final gesture before their families withdrew. He waited for her, flipping through the channels on the television. Beside him was a bottle of champagne in a bucket, heart-shaped chocolates on a lace-covered plate. He took a bite out of one
of the chocolates. The inside was an unyielding toffee, requiring more chewing than he'd expected.
No comments:
Post a Comment