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1It Is Arranged

Anjalee

“Anja, you must be calm.” This is Mamma, in Hindi. “You are only getting married, child. You are not being sent to the moon.” This last part is in English.

I’m not calm.

I’m far, far from calm.

At least a dozen aunties are swarming around me, fitting bangles on my wrists, bands around my arms.

“I do notwantto marry this man, Mamma.” I say it again, just in case saying it for the five millionth time might be the repetition that breaks through and gets me out of this. “I will not.”

“You must, Anja. It is arranged.” She moves into my line of sight, taking my hand in both of hers, pressing my palm between hers. “He is not a bad man. He will provide a most luxurious life for you. You will make the most beautiful of children.” All of this in English.

“I do not want to make any kind of child with him. I do not want to meet him. I do not want to see him. I do not want anything to do with him.”

“Anjalee, darling.” Another hand press. “It isarranged.”

Meaning, set in stone. Done.

Jiwan Vardhamana. Thirty years old to my twenty-three. He is, I suppose, handsome enough. He is rather famous, back home in Mumbai. A very eligible bachelor. Very wealthy. Three years ago, Jiwan moved his business operations from Mumbai to Las Vegas and has spent those years building his business here—real estate and gambling technology innovations. He is Americanized. Wears Western suits, speaks only English with a very faint accent he is trying very hard to get rid of. He is very successful. I know many women back home who would jump at the opportunity to be in my shoes, but they are not in my shoes.

I met him once, a month ago, when I first came to Las Vegas from Mumbai. He has a dazzlingly white smile and wears his suit as if he expects me to be impressed by it. By the gold on his fingers and at his neck, by the fact that he has his own Wikipedia page. I am not impressed. I did not choose him, and I do not want to marry him, no matter how handsome or wealthy he is.

But, no matter how many times I have told Mamma and Pappa this, they do not listen, and do not care. So, here I am, in Las Vegas, counting down the minutes until I am forced into a marriage with a man I have met one time, who creeped me out very badly with his sly smirking and roaming eyes.

The aunties swarm away, stepping back. Mamma smiles, claps her hands. “Anja,” she breathes. “You look simplyradiant.”

She turns me by the shoulders to face the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

Idolook amazing. Deepest red saree trimmed in gold, short gold filigree cloth sleeves ending mid-bicep. My hands and wrists and fingers are hennaed. The hem swirls around my feet, drapes behind me, over my left arm. Gold bangles stacked from wrist to forearm. A serpent in gold biting its tail around my arm, below my sleeve. Gold necklaces of dizzying variety draped concentrically from my chest up to my throat, so much gold it weighs heavily on my chest. Earrings as well, of the finest gold, with priceless red stones in the center. The final piece, which Mamma places on me herself, as I face the mirror, goes over my head. It weaves into my hair, following my center part, a fine, elaborate gold braid liberally dotted with more expensive red jewels, ending in a round pendant so big it would occupy most of my palm—the pendant is a work of art, serpentine gold and fine filigree swirling around teardrops of garnet, all of this orbiting a ruby as big as both of my thumbs together.

My hair is done in a series of elaborate, complex braids, into each of which is woven a strand of pearls.

Every piece of jewelry was custom-made.

The whole outfit custom-made, hand sewn. Even the shoes.

I hate it all.

I mean, I lookincredible.Never have I looked so good as this.

But it’s all for Jiwan.

I look at myself in the mirror again, and my blood boils.

I meet Mamma’s eyes. “I am telling you right now, Mamma. I…will…not…marry—THAT MAN!” I end up shouting. “Willnot! Do you hear me?”

She gasps—I’ve never raised my voice to her. “Anjalee Sharma! You speak to me this way?”

“Yes, I speak to you this way. I do not care what the traditions are—if I am going to marry a man,Iwill choose who he is.”

Her eyes go hard, her tone harder. “You are behaving like a child. You will do as you are told.” This is in Hindi.

I respond in English. It bothers them, which is part of why I do it.

“Mamma.” I try soft, cajoling. “I love you. I do not want to upset you. I know this is important to you and Pappa, but…can you not see what it is doing tome? I have cried myself to sleep every night this whole month. Do you not want me to be happy?”