Twice a week, a very kind gentleman comes by with a nifty vacuum cleaner strapped to his back, to spruce up the floors. I say nifty because it looks more like a jet-pack or something a lot more fun than a mere appliance. Anyway, when he strolls in with his trademark, “Hell-oooooo!”, I know it is time to stand up and get out of his way. I usually just move to the other side of my desk and prepare myself for a minute or two of nothingness, but apparently, today will be…something. I hear a familiar voice, but I can’t make out the words above the din of the machine.
I turn around to see who is speaking to me. It is the one Pakistani man I work with, an uber-sweet coworker who likes to make halwa to bring to work, which he then guilts me in to eating—not the first portion, mind you; that goes to our other, “grown-up” coworkers. Oh, no—he comes by towards the end of mithai-madness and always authoritatively says, as he spoons at least three servings on to a paper plate he has helpfully brought with him, “I make you halwa. Eat.”
When I protest meekly, saying, “It’s too much!”, because I don’t want to waste food, he gives me the exact same look I get at home, from my Mom at the end of dinner.
“It’s so little. Why you make me put back in dish? If dish is empty, I can wash. Finish it. Be helpful. So I can wash. I not have all day.”
So, much in the same endearing, parental way he force-feeds me food which my tummy has no room for, he often comes by to “check on” me, the youngest brown member of the team (nine desis work here, total). To see, as he inimitably pronounces it, “how you arrrr DEW-wing!” When I moved away from my desk to facilitate vacuuming, he saw an opportunity and approached.
“Hallo En-ah!”
“Hi…Mm-…hi” I stammered, just barely resisting the urge to call him Uncle. I can’t bring myself to call him by his first name, which is Mohammad, so I just…well, call him nothing. Who cares if it’s a work environment? The man guilts and keeps tabs on me. Being on a first-name basis ain’t happenin’.
“How is your Mum? She in Kelly-for-nya? Or she visit home, maybe?”
I have always loved that: home. My heart immediately softens. No matter how many decades my late father lived in this country (three, if we’re counting), despite the American flag planted dramatically in our front yard, when he wasn’t communicating mindfully, he always said that about Kerala, too. Home.
“No, she is in California. She is well, thank you for asking.”
“Good. Good. When you last talk to her?”
“Yesterday, actually.”
“What she say?”
“Oh, the usual…ranting about Sarah Palin, asking if I was playing tennis, inquiring about when she’d be getting some grandchildren.”
Zomg. Did I? I did. I so just went there. Damnit! THIS conversation was about to get…interesting.
Mohammad’s eyes lit up, behind tortoiseshell glasses. He clapped his hands together gleefully, and leaned in…
“Acha! You have to get married, fust! No baby before the shaadi, okay?”
“Yeah, she’s assuming that’s already happened. Wouldn’t be having kids until AFTER marriage, you see…”
He cackled, “Oh, that is funny! She makes good point.”
“She’s efficient like that…why ask two questions when you can pose one, which assumes the other-“
“Well? What you say?”
“Uh…”
“Let me see…who is this picture?”
He leans over the partition we are standing next to, and looks at the frame on my desk.
“Is this? Nooooo. This is not…same boy? I told you was not good for you? Last year?”
“No, it’s not the same boy.”
He beheld me joyfully.
“You ARE a good girl! You listened to me, because you know I know best!”
“Oh…that’s actually not-”
“Doesn’t matter. He was not a good match for you. This, this one better. Very good. I am excited.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Beta, I KNOW. I just KNOW. These are things which you will not understand until you are older. Wiser. You no have a father, correct?” He looks at me, sadly and sincerely. I shake my head.
“It is a father’s duty to get his daughter married. That is our culture. If you no have father, then I should help you. That is the way it is.”
I stare at him, mutely. This is what people whisper about me when I’m at home, when I attend the rare Malayalee event. “You know, if her father were alive…she’d be m-“
“This boy is better. I like him.”
“Why?”
“Look at him! Such nice teeth. He come from good family, too, I guarantee it.”
“How do you know? His hairline? Tear ducts? What?” I smiled at Mohammad, mischievously. “He’s got nice skin, too,” I added, innocently.
He peered at the picture again.
“Yes. Much more fair than other one. But not too fair. But you are not fair either. So it is good.” He looks at me quickly, and immediately adds, “don’ worry, though. You are sanwla. (sp?)”
“Okay.”
“He match you. Similar color is good. Smile is good. You two look right together. Much better match. I can tell.” He head-waggles, for emphasis.
“And he’s tall,” I added, faux-dreamily.
“How tall!”
“6’1?”
“Veddy good. You not too short. Good. What his parents do?”
I pause, because I tell myself this shouldn’t matter, and yet…“They are doctors.”
“Oho! Very good. Prestigious. And he is doctor?”
“No.”
“Where he go to school? These things…important, you know? So I can calculate…”
Calculate?!
“He went to (good school).”
“Acha. Acha. Well, you should give good dowry.”
“WHAT?!”
“Oh yes. Not too much, because he is not doctor too, but you must.”
“For WHAT?”
“Well, you must…how to say…balance things out.”
“What am I balancing? Am I a tire?”
“You know, you are getting middle-age. Still! You are very, very pretty. You no look your age, but I am trying to help you…face the realities, so you are prepared.”
“You’re kidding me, right? No dowries. I would harm someone who asked for a dowry. Shit, he should be paying my Mom…you have no idea what level of shenanigans I tolerate. I dutifully go fetch him take-out, so he doesn’t have to miss a minute of the 49ers getting beat by the—“
“You make good wife, no doubt, because you good girl. I know. I know you. I see you every day.”
“Okay, I know you’re kidding. I’m sorry, I should have realized that—“
“Listen, beta. I no kid about your future.”
Speechless.
“I got all my nieces married. I have done this. You listen to me, you will be healthy, vealthy, vise. In this country, okay fine it is called vedding ‘gift’,” he says, using scare quotes. “Back home, it is dowry. Simple as that.”
“Oh…”
“One thing I tell you. You must be similar. You remind me of one niece…she married…but it…ah, rocky now, you know? Difficult. I not want that for you.”
“That’s nice-“
“You must understand. You must be on same level. Sure he go to good school but so what? Otherwise there is fight. Jealousy. If he not professional and you are professional, you fight.” He smashed his fists together, to punctuate his point.
“He’s-“
“If you think these things in advance, you plan. You know. Then smooth sailing. Marriage will last forever. You will see.”
“I believe you.”
“You trust me?”
“I trust that you only have my best interests-“
“You see, Enah…I can tell you this. Your mom even cannot tell you. It is okay. It is same way with my kids. But I can tell you these. She no see you every day. I see you. I know what you need to do. You good girl.” He shuffles paper I had just set down, on the partition, until they are aligned and stacked flawlessly.
“Thank you.”
“No problem. I just want to see you get marry, have the children…you know, live your life.”
“Okay.”
“You going to get married?”
“Uh…if we…are on the same…level?”
“Good! Good. Make sure first, then no divorce later.”
“Yes.”
“You listen to me, I will help. I tell you only good things for you. Okay, En-ah. You work. I check on you later.”
