"I don't really like anything else. Not enough to make Mom and Dad upset."

"Pretend Mom and Dad don't care. Then what would you do?"

She untwisted herself and sighed. "I don't know, Abhay." She looked like a rag draped on the chair.

"Remember, Seema. The whole world is open to you."

She rotated herself again, this time in the other direction. "I just want to pick something and get it over with. I don't want to leave things open and have to keep figuring it out, like you're having to do."

He'd thought he was setting a good example for her by trying to figure out what he really wanted to do, and the whole time she was trying to avoid ending up like him.

Chapter 3.

Amma. Be sure to use the toothbrush on your hair," Rasika shouted into her mother's bathroom on Sat.u.r.day morning. She spoke in Tamil, except said the word toothbrush in English. The family was getting ready for Viraj and his parents, who were coming over for lunch. Rasika was proud of her mother's beauty, and she'd inherited Amma's high cheekbones and smooth skin. But her mother sometimes went too long before touching up her hair dye, and the gray showed through.

Rasika sat on her mother's bed in a plush pink robe, looking at her outfit choices. She'd already showered and washed her hair. She still wasn't sure what to wear. Amma wanted her to put on a sari and jewelry, as was appropriate for a traditional bride viewing, but Rasika felt a silk sari and gold jewelry were too much for a daytime event. In India the women wore their fancy clothes at any time of day, if the situation warranted. Still, Rasika felt odd, decking herself out for lunch. Also, Viraj might be put off by a sari. He didn't want to marry a traditional Indian girl, after all, but a modern Indian-American.

She considered the green salvar kameez with sprays of flowers embroidered over it; and a pale saffron salvar kameez printed lightly and tastefully in gold. She had chosen these with care at an Indian clothing store in a Cleveland suburb. So often, Indian clothes were made to show off fancy needlework or beadwork, and not for a good fit. She had to try on so many to find one that draped well and showed off her figure without being revealing.

Rasika looked around her parents' bedroom, which was one of her favorite rooms in their home. Like the rest of the house, it had just the right touches of Indian and Western decorations. The bed, dresser, and other furniture were sleek and modern, in a light maple finish. The bedspread and curtains were done in Indian textiles: a tan background with a pattern of lotuses. A few years ago Rasika had helped her parents redecorate this room, as well as the entire house. She'd had to use all her charm to get her father to pay for the makeover. He was mostly concerned about saving his money for retirement or to guard against every possible disaster. She hoped Viraj also enjoyed luxury and would feel comfortable allowing her to spend their money as she saw fit.

The bay window let in the morning light through the sheer curtains, and the king-size bed made the room very inviting. Rasika lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. She didn't want to think about Viraj any more. She didn't want to think about anything. Since yesterday, her mind had been full of Abhay, and she definitely wanted to forget about him. She loved to sleep, and she allowed her mind to lull and drift. She knew she ought to feel nervous. Instead, she felt tired despite the two cups of coffee she'd had.

The bathroom door opened. Rasika sat up.

Amma, wearing a robe, threw her dirty clothes into the bin in the closet and looked at the outfits Rasika had laid on the bed. "You won't wear a sari?"

"Should I?" Rasika asked.

"A sari is always appropriate. It is both traditional and modern." Amma opened a dresser drawer and lifted several saris folded in neat rectangular packages.

"If I wear a sari, Viraj might think I'm too old-fashioned." Although she was speaking in Tamil, as she normally did with her parents, she said the words old-fashioned in English. This was the way they spoke: her parents and relatives often mixed English words with their Tamil.

"Right now, you worry about impressing his parents. Viraj will see you are beautiful even in a sari. You can wear one of your own, or one of mine. Later this afternoon, when you and Viraj go out on your own, then you can wear whatever you like."

Rasika nodded and picked up the rectangular packages, looking for something light and cheerful. Amma was right. She couldn't go wrong by wearing a sari.

As she considered her choices, an unhappy thought struck her. "Is Appa going to wear a suit?" Her father was eager to see this marriage go through, and a suit at an informal at-home luncheon might broadcast this eagerness in an embarra.s.sing way.

"I don't know what he will wear." Amma unfolded one of the saris so Rasika could see the glistening gold on the palloo.

"Tell him to wear one of his silk jubbas. It's summer. It's Sat.u.r.day. We're having lunch at home."

"He does not like me to meddle with his clothes." Amma lifted petticoats and blouses out of a drawer.

Would Viraj allow her to "meddle" with his clothes? She hoped he would be open to her suggestions. Or, better yet-maybe he would have a fine fashion sense of his own.

"I don't want one with gold," Rasika said. "Maybe a printed silk." She leaned over the drawer to find something that wasn't so fussy.

"Why not gold? You are meeting your future husband. You must get dressed up!" Amma displayed a bright red, heavy silk sari with a green plaid pattern and a wide gold border. It looked like a Christmas tree, or a winter scarf.

"I won't wear that one. It's too heavy and dark. I'll burn up in it."

"You will be in the air-conditioning. No one is asking you to go outside. We used to wear this Kanjeevaram silk all the time, for any festival or wedding. No one complained." Nevertheless, Amma refolded the sari and put it back in the drawer.

Rasika picked up a light green rectangle printed with watercolorlike flowers.

"That is too old." Amma grabbed it from her. "If you want something light, wear a Benares silk." She opened another red sari printed with paisleys and scrolls.

"You really want me to wear red," Rasika said.

"Red is festive. The astrologer said it's your lucky color."

"I don't want to look too gaudy."

"You won't have to look at it." Amma's eyes were wild with frustration. "We will all be looking at you. Who knows? Maybe red is Viraj's favorite color."

Rasika took the sari from her mother's hands and rubbed a layer of fabric between her fingers. It was thin and light. The gold embroidery was subtle. The color wasn't as bright as she'd originally thought, and she did look good in red.

Amma pulled out a red blouse to match and laid it on top of the sari. "I think this will fit you." She gave Rasika a red cotton petticoat. "Try it on, raja. Then we can select your jewelry. I will go and wake up Pramod. He must be ready. We want to show ourselves in the best light."

Amma left the room and closed the door. Rasika laid her robe on the bed and began dressing. She could hear her mother knocking and shouting at Pramod's door. Her mother had insisted that he come home from Cleveland Clinic Medical School especially for this bride-viewing. Pramod's presence was necessary to prove that her family produced not only beautiful young women, but also medical students with bright futures.

Viraj really was handsome. Rasika had been afraid his photo might have been altered to show him in a better light, but as soon as he stepped in the door, she could see he really did have the thick, wavy hair, the large, dark eyes, and the dazzling smile that appeared in his photo.

The entryway of the house was full of smiles, greetings, taking-off of shoes. Rasika stayed behind her parents-she didn't want to appear too forward, too pushy-but put on a high-wattage smile, so they wouldn't think she was shy. Pramod sat on the steps behind her, and while everyone else was occupied with greetings, she kicked him on the shin with her bare foot to persuade him to stand up, which he did.

The men reached across each other to shake hands all around, and the women pressed their palms together in namaskar. Viraj put his palms together to greet her mother, and Amma smiled with pleasure at this traditional greeting. As everyone made their way into the living room, Viraj held out his hand to Rasika. She put her hand in his, and their eyes met. His gaze was steady, almost businesslike. And then he turned his right hand palm up, so her hand was lying in it, and patted her hand. She was so startled by this strange gesture that she giggled. He smiled back, let go, and turned away to follow the others. She felt silly standing there, alone, in the entryway.

Amma appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Come and pa.s.s out the drinks," she stage-whispered. In the kitchen Rasika recovered her composure. She walked, smiling and balancing a tray of soda gla.s.ses, into the living room. When they'd renovated a few years ago Rasika had suggested her parents buy furniture with simple lines and bland colors, so as not to compete with the Indian rugs and decorations.

Everyone was dressed just right. Viraj's mother was wearing a sari as fancy as Rasika's mother's, so that was OK. Rasika had persuaded her father, in the armchair next to the sofa, to put aside his dark suit and wear a white silk jubba and dress pants. Pramod wore a jubba over jeans, and other than the fact that the back of his hair was still a little wet from his shower, he looked reasonably awake and involved.

Viraj's father was wearing slacks and a dress shirt. Viraj, at the other end of the room, sitting on a sofa next to his father, was in a pair of dress pants and a silky-looking light blue shirt. Nice, she thought. Dressy, but not too formal. She wished she wasn't wearing a sari. She'd left her hair loose and had worn makeup, so hopefully Viraj wouldn't think she was too traditional.

As she walked around the room offering fruit juice punch to everyone, she felt Viraj's gaze following her around the room. She glanced back at him, but instead of averting his eyes, he kept his gaze steady. It made her feel as though she were some kind of painting or artwork.

She was glad to see Appa looking happy. Or at least, appearing calm. His body was almost free of the tics he had when he was worried or stressed. Almost every evening after work, his eyes squeezed shut and open rapidly, and his shoulders twitched. Appa had wanted to be a surgeon, but these tics-something he had since birth-prevented him from having a steady enough hand, so he had settled for anesthesiology. Today even his hands, which often picked at his nails until the cuticles were b.l.o.o.d.y, were still, clasped together on one knee as he listened to Mr. Shankar.

After Rasika returned the tray to the kitchen and came back into the living room, the only empty seat was next to Viraj's mother, across the room from Viraj. Mrs. Shankar's graying hair was pulled into a simple ponytail, and she wore no makeup. Rasika put on a friendly smile and sat down. What could she talk about to this woman, who seemed so much more old-fashioned than her own mother?

She needn't have worried; Mrs. Shankar started speaking immediately. "Viraj's future is very bright," she said. "He will be in top management soon. He wants a girl who is able to keep up with him." She spoke in Tamil and said the words top management in English.

Rasika wondered if this meant he wanted a girl who would also be in top management? Or someone who would be able to comfortably mingle with other top management and their spouses? She glanced in Viraj's direction and found him still looking at her.

"He wants someone who knows how to keep a beautiful house, and to entertain," Mrs. Shankar said.

Rasika murmured her agreement.

"He is not interested in a girl who is too forward." Mrs. Shankar had a way of lifting her upper lip when she talked, which exposed her long front teeth and made her look like a rodent. "She must be able to adapt to his way of life. He was raised to be decent. He will treat his wife like a queen. But he will be her king. And she must know that."

Rasika's mother appeared at the doorway, a large ap.r.o.n over her sari. "Come and have lunch."

"Let me help." Mrs. Shankar stood up and wrapped the palloo of her sari around her shoulders.

"There is nothing to do." Amma led them into the dining room, which had been set, the previous night, with the best china. When Amma shopped for china a few years ago, Rasika had recommended a simple, starkly elegant pattern with a thin rim of platinum. Amma wanted something more decorated, and they had compromised on this pattern: still simple, but with a wider design in platinum, almost like a sari border. It was beautiful against the white tablecloth embroidered in a subtle cutwork design. Amma had ordered a fancy floral centerpiece, like something belonging on a bridal table: a large triangular spray of roses and ferns, with three white candles sticking up from the middle. There was hardly room for the platters of vaday and raw vegetables, and the jars of pickles and chutney pudi.

Rasika managed to place herself at the other end of the table from Viraj. She was reluctant to get too close to him. There would be plenty of time for closeness later on, she reasoned.

Amma appeared with a pot of rice and went around the table serving everyone, as was traditional in India.

"Why should you be serving us?" Mrs. Shankar stood up. "Let us all go into the kitchen and get our own food."

"No, no. This is the way I like to do it," Amma insisted. "Rasika will help me with the rest. Come on, Rasika."

In truth, Rasika had never seen her mother do this before. Amma's parties were always buffet style. Rasika followed her mother into the kitchen, where Amma handed her a pot of avial-vegetables in coconut sauce-and a serving spoon.

The talk droned on. The fathers were discussing Indian politics.

"The U.S. is finally paying attention to India," Appa said as Rasika spooned avial onto his plate.

The men were talking in English, maybe because Viraj didn't understand Tamil-he had never lived in India.

"Yes. Yes." Mr. Shankar nodded his long head, like a cow's head. She wasn't sure if he was agreeing with her father, or her offer of food. She served him.

"All these years, U.S. is sending the arms to Pakistan," Mr. Shankar said. "Now only they realize they must also pay attention to India. India is having high-tech boom. India is becoming economic superpower." He mixed his rice and avial into neat b.a.l.l.s and popped them into this mouth.

Eating with fingers was traditional in India, yet it always looked awful to Rasika, especially at a beautiful table like this.

Viraj glanced from one older man to the other, nodding.

"Over thirty percent of India's population lives on less than one dollar a day," said Pramod, the lone liberal in the family. "If Mahatma Gandhi were alive now, I don't think he'd see India as economically successful."

"We are long past age of Mahatma Gandhi," Mr. Shankar said. "We are now in different era."

As soon as Rasika sat down, Mrs. Shankar, who was also eating with her fingers, said, "Viraj prefers vegetarian. He will eat meat outside, to be sociable. At home, no. He is not picky about food. He will eat Indian, Italian, Chinese, Mexican. Anything at all. But a good home-cooked South Indian meal is best for his digestion."

"Rasika is learning to cook South Indian food," Amma said.

Rasika smiled and nodded. Amma had been writing down recipes on index cards for Rasika and had already filled a whole box of them, but Rasika had not looked at even one.

"She helps me cook every day," Amma said.

This part was truer. Rasika sometimes cut vegetables for her mother.

As Rasika ate her rice and vegetables and dal neatly with a fork, she glanced once or twice in Viraj's direction. He seemed completely absorbed in his meal and in the conversation. Which was worse, his constant stare, or his obliviousness?

After lunch, as everyone made their way back to the living room, Rasika picked up plates and carried them into the kitchen where Amma lifted them out of her hand. "Go and change," she whispered. "I will clean up. You are going to the mall with him." Amma said the word him as though it were capitalized. "You can have your coffee there." Then, before Rasika left, Amma grasped her upper arm. "You let him drive," she said.

In the garage, Rasika pulled her car keys from her purse and held them out to Viraj. "Would you like to drive?"

He grabbed them from her hand. "Sure." He slipped behind the wheel and ran a palm over the leather seat. "Nice." He flicked his fingers at the GPS screen, and Rasika winced. "Your parents buy this for you?"

"I bought it myself," she said.

He raised his eyebrows. "I just asked. You don't need to get huffy about it."

She hadn't realized she was being "huffy."

The car whined as he backed out of the driveway with far more force than Rasika used, and she involuntarily pressed her right foot against the floor.

"Ohio's not a bad place." Viraj veered onto the main road from her parents' housing development. "I was in Cleveland a couple of years ago, to visit Deepti Auntie, but I've never been down in this area. It's more, I don't know, modern than I thought it would be. I guess, being from the East Coast, I pictured a lot of cornfields out here. But, your parents' house is really nice. Much nicer than I expected."

She wasn't sure what to say to this. "Make a left here," she said. "And then another left after we go under the highway."

"I guess real estate is a lot cheaper out here than in New Jersey. Still, I wasn't sure what to expect. I know Akron's got some major corporations, like Goodyear, right?"

"Here's where you want to make a left," she said.

"Goodyear's not a bad company, as far as I can tell, although I believe it used to be doing better than it is now."

"You just missed it," Rasika said.

"What? Why didn't you tell me? You have to give me some advance warning."

Rasika had him backtrack and this time was more insistent with her directions. "Sorry about that," she said.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "No one's perfect."

They hummed along the black roadway. "I think you'll find that I'm pretty easy to get along with," he continued. "I don't think you'll have any complaints. As I said on the phone, I don't have any bad habits. I do drink occasionally. Who doesn't? We can have a drink together every day after work, just to relax. I'm into enjoying myself. I don't know about your parents, but my parents have always worked really hard. And I've done that. It's gotten me to where I am now, and so I'm finally ready to enjoy things. I like the very best. I can afford it, so why not? I know what I want, and I go for it."

Rasika wondered if she was something he wanted, and was going for. They pa.s.sed a Chevrolet dealership hung with streamers and displaying a large sign with blinking words: GET PRE-APPROVED IN SECONDS! "We need to make another left pretty soon," she said loudly.

"I'll be making a very good living, and I know you'll enjoy that. You're free to work until we have kids."

"A left is coming up," she repeated.

"After we have kids, you can stay home and enjoy yourself. You'll be busy enough taking charge of the house. I'm not saying you have to clean. We can hire all the help you want. My home should be my oasis. I have enough stress at work. I want a happy wife and happy children, and I'll be making enough money so we can have that. But if you're off working, then it's not going to jive."

"Here it is!" she shouted.