The Immigrant Wife

By Madhu Bazaz Wangu

The Immigrant Wife: A Spiritual Journey

Sixteen-year-old gifted SHANTI is desperate to attend Shantiniketan -- the art school of her dreams. But her father, BUBB wants her to marry a boy of his choice. Kamal’s doting mother, MAJI, her older brother GAURAV and happy-go-lucky sister, GANGA persuade Bubb to let Kamal fulfill her desire. Before he agrees a rejection letter from Shantiniketan changes her fate.
At the Delhi University Shanti befriends LILA and HEMA and in the art department learns tools and techniques. In four years of college she hones her skill and learns art demands passion and grinding work. Two tragedies make Shanti aware of the fleeting nature of life. She weaves her pain and sorrow in her compositions. Creativity strengthens her determination to become even better than what the college has taught her.
Shanti returns home. Maji has a houseguest for summer named SATYAVAN. He has a teaching job at the Kashmir University. Before he moves out Kamal realizes she is in love with him. Soon she discovers he loves her too.
Shanti has her first person show to successful sales and excellent reviews. Satyavan goes home to Madras to see his sick father. Something has shifted in him. Yet they marry and have two children, a daughter NALINI and son AMRIT. Shanti’s time is devoted to raising the young family.
Satyavan is preoccupied with his teaching, research, writing and related academic work Satyavan is clueless about Shanti’s work. Still dissatisfied with his position at the university, Satyavan immigrate to the United States. He finds a teaching job at the University of Pittsburgh in Pennsylvania that has potential for growth. Reluctantly and to keep her family together, Shanti follows her husband to the new country.
While Satyavan gets busier than before and children slowly adapt to the new culture, Kamal struggles to get back to painting. She is in the middle of creating enough paintings for her one-person exhibition when her brother dies in an accident.
A feeling of emptiness creeps in. Upon her return from her brother’s cremation, Shanti paints frantically. Painting helps her externalize her emotions, helps her heal. She organizes a show of her paintings. Satyavan, indifferent towards her work, lest she become independent and leaves him, is conspicuously missing on the opening night of her show.
Shanti gets an opportunity to teach art to college students for a semester aboard a ship. She accepts the job even though she knows it would intensify her marital strife. While exploring the outer world as she excavates the inner, Shanti experiences spirituality in spurts.
Nalini dies in an accident. The sudden shock emotionally paralyzes Shanti. When she finally revives from the cloud of her traumatic experience she discovers that the flow of her creativity has transcended to a level that is beyond pleasure and pain, life and death. She realizes that true companion in life one’s own Self within.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Madhu Bazaz Wangu
• Release date: Apr 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310961809

Madhu Bazaz Wangu

Madhu B. Wangu is an award-winning author and the founder of Mindful Writers Groups and Retreats. She has a doctorate in the phenomenology of Religion from the University of Pittsburgh (1988) and a post-doctoral Fellowship from Harvard University (1989-1991). For fifteen years she taught Hindu and Buddhist art history at the University of Pittsburgh, Rhode Island College and Wheaton College. She joined Pennwriters Organization in 2005 and served as a Board member from 2007-2012. In 2020 she won Pennwriters Meritorious Award for being “a valuable asset to the writing and publishing world.” Dr. Wangu has also serves as a board member for Books Bridge Hope, the non-profit organization with a mission to promote reading, writing and literacy to community members residing in shelters and on the streets of Pittsburgh.More than three decades of meditating and journaling led Dr. Wangu to teach meditation and to journal. The work resulted in a practice she calls Writing Meditation Practice. You are welcome to join her every morning at Online Mindful Writers Group.Madhu Wangu’s CDs, Meditations for Mindful Writers I, II & III, inspire professional as well as novice writers to improve focus, remove blocks, and increase writing flow and productivity. Her CDs include: Meditations for Mindful Writers: Body, Heart, Mind (2011), Meditations for Mindful Writers II: Sensations, Feelings, Thoughts (2017), and Meditations for Mindful Writers III: Generosity, Gratitude, Self-Compassion and Trust (2019)Dr. Wangu has written books about Hindu and Buddhist goddesses: Images of Indian Goddesses: Myths, Meanings and Models, (Abhinav Publications, New Delhi, 2003) and A Goddess Is Born, (Spark Publishers, 2002). Her illustrated books for young adults are, Hinduism (Facts on File, Inc., New York, 1991) and Buddhism (Facts on File, Inc., New York, 1993). Madhu has also held five one-person shows of oil paintings and prints and has exhibited with art groups in India as well as USA.Dr. Madhu Bazaz Wangu's fiction includes Chance Meetings: Stories About Cross-Cultural Karmic Collisions and Compassion (2015), two novels, The Immigrant Wife: Her Spiritual Journey (2016) and The Last Suttee (2017), and a second collection of short stories, The Other Shore: Ordinary People Grappling with Extraordinary Challenges (2021).This year, 2023 she published her magnum opus, Unblock Your Creative Flow: 12 Months of Mindfulness for Writers and Artists. Currently, she is writing her third novel, Meaning of My Life.Read the daily posts about meditation, journaling, reading, writing, walking in nature and related topics Online Mindful Writers Group at facebook.com/groups/706933849506291/

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Copyright © 2016 Madhu Bazaz Wangu

All Rights Reserved

Website: http://www.madhubazazwangu.com

Blog: https://www.facebook.com/MadhuBazazWangu

Twitter: @Madhu_Wangu

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design: Jenny Quinlan

ISBN 13: 9781523492954

ISBN 10: 1523492953

Smashwords Edition ISBN: 9781310961809

Early Praise for

The Immigrant Wife: Her Spiritual Journey

In her debut novel, Madhu Bazaz Wangu, conjures a mysterious time and place. The protagonist, Shanti, begins her life as an idealistic but naive girl from the valley of Kashmir. As the story unfolds in America, she learns to heed her desires and shape her life, no longer rolling along like a stone turned in the tide. Wangu creates rich, dynamic images of India, comparable to her watercolors, evoking every sense. The indigenous sights, sounds, and smells are so vivid that I swear I could find my way to Shanti’s home. Wangu’s style is gentle and quiet like the protagonist, and deeply powerful. This tale of love and nurturing, loss and growth, and transformation will stay with readers long after they finish the novel.

Kathleen Shoop

(IPPY Award Winner of The Last Letter)

A winner. The Immigrant Wife: A Spiritual Journey is beautifully written. The story weaves many small strands into an intriguing tapestry, much like the paintings of our heroine, Shanti. It paints two pictures, one of the beautiful valley of Kashmir and the beautiful hills of Western Pennsylvania. Shanti’s quiet determination to stay true to herself, her art, and her family is inspirational. I loved it!

Professor Laurence Glasco

(University of Pittsburgh)

An Immigrant Wife reminds me of Emily Alone by Stewart O’Nan. The story spans a much greater time period, but both novels deal with personal growth and life lessons, big and small. The author, Madhu B. Wangu, has written an enjoyable story and created unforgettable characters, especially the beautiful descriptions of art and the wonderful food descriptions. The author also skillfully portrays the artistic growth of the protagonist, Shanti, through her painting and cooking. This is a lovely, quiet story written lyrically.

Meredith Cohen

(Author of Aftertaste)

Beautiful and lush, The Immigrant Wife takes the reader on one woman’s touching, turmeric-drenched journey from naive but determined art student in India to longing-filled American wife and mother. The author Madhu B. Wangu has written a maharaja’s banquet for the senses.

Gwyn Cready

(RITA Award Winning Author)

Table of Contents

Without: Book One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

In Between: Book Two

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Within: Book Three

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Acknowledgements

WITHOUT

BOOK ONE

Chapter 1

Late 1959, the Valley of Kashmir, India

I don’t want to marry a stranger! I want to study art! Shanti Bamzai was seated cross-legged on the balcony that jutted from the study room to draw the view of the lower Himalayan ranges and the River Jehlum that sunny summer morning. The familiar landscape changed with the seasons, replenishing her heart with delight and inspiring her to draw the scenes of the valley in different phases.

The valley of Kashmir was often compared to Switzerland. Locals and visitors who came in throngs throughout the year were enchanted by its four distinct seasons. In winter, snow covered the peaks and valleys. But in early spring, purple crocuses sprouted through the melting snow, giving way to almond and cherry blossoms. Then came the season of blooming tulips, daffodils, and gladioli. In summer, dahlias and chrysanthemums covered the ground until the chinar trees turned from green to gold to rust, and once again the valley returned to the stillness and silence of white. The rust and pewter leaves floated under the seven bridges over Jehlum. The bridges joined the riverbanks like lovers holding hands. Shanti thanked the Great Goddess, Devi, for creating the glorious valley that was her home.

She wanted to draw but her morning was spoiled like a plate of steaming white rice upon which a housefly sat. Her father, Bubb, had commanded she marry the boy he had found for her. Caught off guard, the usually quick-witted and assertive Shanti could not think of a single thing to say.

I don’t want to marry someone I have not even met and live like a caged bird! I want to go to Shantiniketan! She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and tried to focus on drawing. If she married this stranger, as Bubb required, everything would change. She would have to live with her husband’s family. Her freedom would be replaced by drudgery. She would have no time to make art. She would be bogged down with cooking and cleaning and sewing and shopping, the way her mother, Maji, had been since she married Bubb.

Maji spent the best hours of her day doing routine household chores with dedication. She had no time to finish embroidering the dining cloth she had enthusiastically started a year ago. She had drawn a design of flowers, birds, and butterflies, selected silk threads in rainbow colors, yet she could not externalize what was in her imagination. The drudgework and her family responsibilities always took precedence. Maji did not have a single moment of her own.

Ganga, Shanti’s older sister, whom she called Didi, was in some ways like Maji. Didi liked to shop and clean and cook but had no other ambition. She would love being married and would be a great wife and mother. But that was not what Shanti imagined her own life to be. She wanted to become an artist.

Shanti’s troubling thoughts floated away as she became absorbed in drawing the row of three-storied, uneven mud houses on the opposite bank of the river. The rooftops were sharp against the late morning skyline.

The river, splashing gently against the foundation of the houses, was clearly visible. Over the blue water floated shikara boats, and decorative water taxis carried passengers across the river. A few boats sailed toward the seventh bridge while most sailed in the direction of the business district—the heart of the capital city, Srinagar. The river Jehlum flowed through the heart of the valley of Kashmir. Rivulets gurgled under the swishing chinars and poplars as myna and koel birds nested in their branches. A year ago, Gaurav, Shanti’s brother, had given her an artist’s kit. Since then, the family—except Bubb—had viewed with pleasure the semblances of their surroundings on her drawing pad.

She completed the riverscape and tilted her head to examine it. She found its composition improved and laid it aside. Resting her hand on the drawing pad she stared at the distant peaks.

Shanti did not know where her desire to become an artist came from, but it was deep and drove her to draw every day. She loved to draw and paint—not to become famous or wealthy or leave a legacy, but to pour out on paper that which surfaced in her imagination. She saw what others did not see; her vision was different from theirs. Her family members seemed jaded by the familiarity of the surroundings. They seemed to see nothing where Shanti saw beauty. Where they saw ugliness, she saw shapes and colors. In the river below, she noticed shimmering reflections, receding water, surfaces glittering from the sun’s rays. The others were too busy walking, talking, reading, and listening to the radio to notice these things. How could they not see all this beauty?

The gnawing in her belly, which she had managed to ignore, returned. I’ll marry when I’m ready, after I graduate from Shantiniketan. I don’t want to sacrifice my dream to the fire of marriage. I love Bubb, and it pains me to disappoint him. But giving up painting would be like ceasing to breathe. No wedlock for me.

What about Ganga Didi? Shanti had asked Bubb when he made his announcement. I thought you and Maji were on the hunt for a boy for her?

Bubb thumped his head. We are indeed looking for a boy for your sister. With the grace of the Great Goddess, we’ll receive an offer. But this offer is for you. He is a good match. Why refuse?

Shanti looked straight into her father’s eyes. But Didi is seven years older than me! She is ready. I am not!

We can’t wait for seven years! Such offers don’t come every day. Bubb was agitated. "This boy is too young for Ganga, but he is perfect for you. He has a government job and will get a good pension. He is a Sarasvat Brahmin, same caste as ours, and good looking. You’ll be set for life!"

But it is not you who is getting married, Bubb. It’s me, and I refuse! Shanti wanted to scream but restrained herself. She wished her father could read her thoughts.

I want to go to college like Bhaiya and Didi did, Shanti said, louder than she needed to.

Being a man, your Bhaiya had to go to college. But what good did four years of college do for your sister? She is getting married and will lead a life like your mother. Your mother never went to college!

Maji got married when she was twelve—she was not given the choice, she didn’t know better.

And you do? Calm down, daughter! Be warned: as soon as we find a boy for Ganga, you should be prepared. Bubb added fondly, Wouldn’t it be nice if we had a double wedding?

Shanti stared at the father she no longer recognized. She knew that Bubb cared deeply and worried for his children, especially his daughters. What if they didn’t find suitable matches? What if they remained unmarried and lost their way? What if they ended up marrying out of caste? What about his family status, social values, traditions? And what was happening to stri dharma, woman’s responsibilities? Like parents of so many other girls, his faith was blind. Even before their daughters reached puberty, parents were ready to send them away. The daughter’s opinion did not count. A marriage for Bubb’s convenience? So that his two responsibilities are met with one shot? Did he consult Maji? Maji often said Bubb was like a bolted door. Once his mind was shut, no force could open it. Except, perhaps, her brother Gaurav, whom she called Bhaiya.

She knew if she refused, Bubb would not talk to her for days. It was better to get her brother’s advice. Bhaiya was nine years older and a forward-looking and open-minded man. He taught math and physics at the University of Kashmir. His values and beliefs clashed with those of Bubb, who followed traditions, whether they were reasonable and logical or not. No exceptions. No questions asked.

Gaurav encouraged Ganga and Shanti to read Hindi and English literature: Premchand’s Godaan, Tagore’s Gitanjali, and Thoreau’s Walden and Life Without Principles and Irving Stone’s Lust for Life and The Agony and the Ecstasy. Maji and Bubb read scriptures in Hindi. Maji’s favorites were goddess texts, Devi Mahatmya and Devi Gita. Bubb read the Bhagavad Gita and epics, Mahabharata and Ramayana.

Gaurav Bhaiya said neither the ancient texts nor the modern books had anything to say about arranged marriages. They reflected on such matters as the nature of gods and goddesses, fulfilling responsibility, leading a meaningful life, and death and the afterlife. The enticing goddess myths and legends inspired courage and confidence. They were exemplars of divine females who were mentally and physically powerful, charming and audacious, determined and assertive.

Reading the Devi scriptures empowered Shanti. The goddess Radha, Lord Krishna’s beloved, was passionate and daring. She traversed serpent-infested paths at night in a thunderstorm to meet her lover. Shanti meticulously drew the entwined bodies of Radha and Krishna, attired in yellow and red and embellished with gold jewelry. Drawing such images stirred pleasurable feelings in her.

Maji had placed miniature statues of gods with their consorts in her shrine: Radha and Krishna, Sita and Rama, Shiva and Parvati, Vishnu and Lakshmi, and Durga. Made of walnut wood, the shrine sat in the corner of the family dining room facing the kitchen.

One day when Maji was humming songs about Radha’s longing for Krishna, Shanti asked, "Maji would you be upset if I left home in the middle of the night to meet a boy like Krishna?"

Maji’s jaw fell open and she became still. With her hand on her mouth, she looked at her teenage daughter and said, Precocious child! The union of the divine couple Radha and Krishna is a metaphor for the union between a devotee and a deity. Radha is no ordinary woman. She exemplifies the impediments a devotee confronts on the path to God. Her story is not meant to encourage you to run away from home in the middle of a thunderous night to meet your imaginary boyfriend!

Maji’s rebuke had simply made her smile.

Shanti heard Bhaiya enter the main door to the house. She gathered her drawing materials, waited for him to enter, and then stepped from the balcony into the adjoining study, shared by Bubb and Bhaiya.

Bubb sat cross-legged in his woolen pheran, knee-length woolen gown. He felt most comfortable wearing it over the pajama pants that Maji had stitched for him. He was leaning against a cylindrical cushion behind his low desk. A handmade carpet woven by the famous Kashmiri craftsmen covered the floor. The lidded desk stored a holder with pen nibs, an inkpot, pencils, a stack of blank paper, and textbooks reminiscent of his years as a middle school teacher. In the wall facing him was an alcove enshrined with the miniature statues of Hindu gods and goddesses. In the left corner, a four-foot walnut lamp illuminated Bubb’s desk. A lit hookah sat to his right.

Gaurav entered the room and nodded at his father and sister. Shanti was emboldened. In his presence, she could talk fearlessly. With her voice firm but her eyes lowered, Shanti announced, I don’t want to marry, Bubb!

Hmm, Gaurav said, pulled out the chair from his study table, sat, and swiveled to face Bubb and Shanti. His generation of Kashmiris did not sit on the floor, but had Western-style tables and chairs. Gaurav’s table held two stacks of books, a pile of file folders, a typewriter, and a papier-mâché penholder with several red and blue pens and pencils. Prominently displayed on a side table was a bust of the Buddha.

Bubb took a long puff from the hookah beside him. The smell of sweet tobacco filled the room. What do you want to do with your life? Remain unmarried?

I want to go to Shantiniketan. Shanti lifted her chin and looked at her brother. Her sole desire was to go to the art school in Bengal. Just saying the word Shantiniketan transported her to a place of mystery and beauty, a world of vast open spaces, palm trees, and brilliant constellations. Rabindranath Tagore, India’s first Nobel laureate poet, had founded the school. Every year, some of the world’s most creative minds gathered there. Shanti imagined herself communing with nature, enjoying the companionship of talented art students, and learning from the best teachers.

Bubb sneered, replacing his hookah pipe. Shantiniketan? In Bengal? He sat up, looking straight at his son.

Have they opened another one elsewhere? Gaurav winked at his baby sister.

Hee Divi! Bubb said, invoking the Great Goddess. You put all these ideas into her head. Why would a smart girl like her want to go to a college so far away? Why can’t she put her energy to good use, get married, make a home—happy husband, happy boys, stable life? He frowned.

That’s what Maji did, and look . . . Shanti began, but seeing her brother’s raised eyebrow, she stopped talking.

Instead of encouraging her to learn cooking and household chores from her mother, you encourage her to scribble. Rejecting a fine match! When did she get so bold and rude?

She has been always bold, Bubb, but I would not say she is rude.

Rejecting a suitable boy for some faraway place to learn to doodle!

Gaurav shrugged. Education cultivates minds, Bubb. Besides, what are you afraid of? She has a good head on her shoulders.

Why does she want to go so far away? Things would be different if she were . . .

Gaurav rested his chin between his thumb and index finger. Because she wants to learn from the best teachers and hone her god-given—no, goddess-given talent.

Who knows whom she’ll meet there, Bubb replied with disgust, his forehead creased with consternation. Will you be happy if she ends up marrying a Muslim boy? He rose, shaking the daily paper in his hand.

What are you talking about? Gaurav asked as Bubb put the newspaper on the floor, still holding it.

Bubb replied, "We Brahmins are only five percent of the total population of the valley. Don’t you understand? As it is, it is hard to keep the marriage alliances strictly confined to our own kind. What if she wants to marry one of them? A low caste—no-caste people—destitute, dirty, labor class."

I understand! How could a Sarasvat Brahmin family like ours have anything to do with them? The sooner Shanti is married to a boy of your choice, the less chance there is of a scandal like that happening, right? said Gaurav.

Bubb tapped at a news item in the paper. A Hindu girl has run away with a Muslim boy she met in college. The whole city is in an uproar. Bubb handed over the newspaper to Gaurav and grumbled, You know how they are!

Why do you hate Muslims, Bubb? Shanti asked ignoring her father’s comment to her brother.

Bubb ignored her.

He has his reasons, Shanti, some quite understandable, Gaurav explained, and then lowering his voice he said, and some because of his stereotypical image of non-Hindus.

Which one’s are understandable? She asked.

They have historical roots such as in 1947, at the time of the partition, thousands of tribal mercenaries were sent from Pakistan to India to seize the valley of Kashmir. They came in throngs burning buildings, looting businesses, raping women. Everyone waited for the Indian army to arrive from Delhi. They had reached as far as the edges of Baramulla. If the army had not arrived Bubb’s friend Mr. Kaul’s family would have been killed, their house burned to ash and who knows what. Gaurav said sympathetically as Bubb nodded in agreement.

But all Muslims are not mercenaries. Shanti protested.

Of course not! Good Muslims, middle class, affluent and poor, live in the Valley, just like Hindus do. Gaurav said. Then he chastised his father, Simply because you do not interact with them other than the ones who come to serve us-cleaning our latrine, washing our laundry, you consider the whole Muslim race lowly or criminal minded.

What kind of Aryas are we? Gaurav added in exasperation.

"Hee Divi! Why was I born in the Kali Yuga? Why am I living in the age of vice and wickedness? That’s what it is! Our daughters marrying their sons, Hee Divi!"

Gaurav clicked his tongue. I’m sure somewhere out there, a Muslim just like you is bad-mouthing Hindus.

What can they say about Hindus? Bubb said.

"I don’t want to get into that argument, Gaurav said. Believe it or not, fine Muslim boys do exist. So what if Shanti marries one of them." He looked sideways at her.

Get your head examined! Bubb snapped, raising his right hand in a fist as his eyes flashed. "Hee Divi! Why have you kept me alive in this dark age?"

I would have married Radhika even if she was a Muslim, Gaurav sighed.

If you had married a Muslim girl, do you think I would have let you enter this house? Bubb paused. When neither of them responded, he broke the silence by turning to Shanti.

Until yesterday, you couldn’t even raise your eyes at me. Today, you are talking back to me. Where did you learn all this?

Shanti gazed at the floor.

Taking a long puff from his hookah, he addressed his son. Do you want me to return the marriage proposal? Is that what you want?

Gaurav did not say a word.

Is this how a good daughter treats her father, talking back to him? he said to Shanti. Pausing for a few moments, he said, Have you talked to your mother?

Maji wants me to go to college! Shanti said in one breath.

"Hee Divi, Hee Divi! I raised you, and this is how you treat me? " Bubb shouted, a vein in his neck pulsing.

Raised me? Like a tree growing in the forest!

What? What did you say? Bubb said.

Gaurav motioned Shanti to leave the room. Nothing, Bubb. Nothing important!

Bubb took another long puff from his hookah. The coal in the terracotta chillum burned red and the water gurgled. Maji always kept a window slightly open to let the stale smoke escape. Through the crack, Shanti heard the river flow.

It was no use. She would talk to Maji and let her talk to Bubb. Thinking thus, Shanti turned and left the study without another word.

A garden patch separated the study from the main house. In one half of the garden, Maji planted marigolds and roses, and in the other, mint and chilies. She harvested the former for the adoration of her deities and the latter for the pleasure of her family. On the first floor of the main house were the dining room and the kitchen, Maji’s domain. The kitchen shelves held earthenware and stainless steel cooking vessels, jars of grain, and stone and wood mortars and pestles for grinding and husking. On the second floor were bedrooms overlooking the river.

Walking up a few steps to the main house, Shanti inhaled the aroma coming through the dining room’s bay windows. The wooden lattice shutters on the windows were beautifully carved and offered a view of the garden patch and river, which was the family’s favorite.

At dinnertime, the Bamzai family, except for Gaurav’s wife, Radhika, who was visiting her parents, sat cross-legged around the dinner spread on the straw floor mat. Maji had embroidered the cotton spread with a charming multicolored border of birds and flowers the year she was married; it had yellowed over the years. Furniture was unnecessary. How could one eat seated on a chair? Ganga, who looked glamorous even in her home clothes, sat in front of Shanti.

Shanti, did you hear? Maji said from the windowless kitchen. "Priyanka is getting married to a boy from Amreekah."

Bubb gave Shanti a hard look. I am sure, a nice Hindu boy from her community. The way it should be!

Priyanka wants to marry, Bubb. I don’t, Shanti said with her head lowered.

"He lives in Amreekah, but the marriage was arranged the way you like, Maji said to Bubb, The old-fashioned way."

Gaurav was quiet, not particularly happy about Shanti’s childhood friend marrying so young. He took pride in watching his sisters get educated and working at becoming self-sufficient.

That’s the way to do it! Like a good Hindu girl, Bubb said.

Shanti raised her head, glanced at Maji and Ganga, and then turned to Bubb and said, Why are you forcing your wish on me?

I want the best for you. You are a good Kashmiri Hindu girl. Don’t let your brother brainwash you, Bubb said.

But Shanti thought good girls were like puppets. Too afraid to express their true feelings, letting their budding dreams and desires be smothered by tradition, snatched away by conformity. Since she had turned sixteen, some of the girls in her class had been persuaded to quit school and marry. Most accepted their fate. A few were pained at sacrificing their carefree youth, but they could not or would not do anything to keep their freedom. Shanti admired Ganga’s attitude. At the ripe old age of twenty-three, she had announced that she was going to live a life she desired. So will I.

Ganga was placing bronze dinner plates and glasses on the floor. She turned to her father and said, Why don’t you let Shanti go to Shantiniketan, Bubb? I went to college.

Shanti beamed.

This is nothing to smile about. Bubb glared at Shanti. Then, turning to Ganga, he said, "But, kuri, you did not leave the valley. I think Shanti’s going away is a big mistake. If you ask me, sending girls to college is a big mistake. Now, I don’t want to talk about it anymore." He took a few big gulps of water and pointed to his glass for more.

By the way, Ganga, I have not talked to your mother yet, but I have someone in mind for you, too.

Maji poured water into Bubb’s glass.

Bubb! No more marriage proposals, please! Gaurav said.

You’ve someone in mind for me, Bubb? Ganga looked wide-eyed at Bubb and turned to Maji.

Listen, you all! Thanks to Lord Ganesh and Ganga’s good luck, I’ve good news! Maji said as she served the steaming rice.

Ganga’s good luck? What are you saying? Bubb asked.

What I’m saying is that college was not a ‘big mistake’ for Ganga. There she met the Razdan boy.

Who? Bubb sounded confused.

With a smile on her face, Maji looked at each one of them and said, Bansi Pandit brought a marriage proposal for Ganga from the Razdan family.

Bubb thumped his head. What? When? Why am I the last one to know?

This evening, when you had gone for your evening prayers to the temple, the matchmaker paid us a visit. The room fell silent. Everyone looked at Ganga, whose face was flushed and gaze was lowered. In any case, he brought the proposal because the Razdans’ son Neel insisted that it be sent right away.

"Who? Hee Divi?" Bubb mumbled to himself and smiled.

Bansi Pandit, the matchmaker, had come to the Bamzais’ home with a marriage proposal on the Razdans’ behalf. This proposal was an easy deal for him. He did not have to work for it. The Razdans knew exactly what Neel wanted. They wanted what their son wanted. And Ganga had already told her mother about Neel.

Shanti was as surprised as Bubb. They all burst into conversation. Shanti went to her sister and hugged her from behind. Gaurav, seated next to Ganga, put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her gently.

Maji served fresh kale, fragrant with mustard oil, and lamb rogan josh, the color of roasted pomegranate. White rice and glasses of frothy buttermilk completed the meal.

What has a marriage proposal to do with going to college? Bubb asked before putting the next morsel of rice into his mouth.

If Ganga had not met Neel at college, how would a retired schoolteacher’s daughter receive a marriage proposal from a prosperous family like the Razdans? Maji said.

Bubb nodded thoughtfully. Shanti knew that the idea of a connection with the Razdan family through marriage and the elevated social status it would bring their family had pleased him greatly.

At breakfast the next morning, Ganga asked Bubb, So what have you decided?

About what?

About letting Shanti go to the college of her choice, the way I did.

"But, kuri, you came home every evening, Bubb pointed toward Shanti. She wants to leave the valley—Maej Kasheer—to go to some godforsaken place! Where does she hear about places like this?"

Ganga grunted. "Like Mother Kashmir, Shantiniketan is in India, Bubb."

Maji served sweet black tea from a steaming samovar with chot and unleavened bread lathered with hot butter. When something gets stuck in your head, you refuse to think beyond it, she whispered to him.

As a young girl, Maji had not known about art schools. She would have attended one if she’d had a choice. Betrothed at nine and married at twelve, she saw herself in her daughters. She wanted them to follow their dreams, as she and Bubb had allowed their son to do. Gardening and embroidering were her way to paint her dreams.

What do you know? Bubb said to his wife, raising his voice. Your world revolves around your kitchen. When she glared at him, he turned to Shanti. Why do I waste time talking to you all?

Aren’t you glad, Bubb, that Didi found her own match? Shanti asked timidly.

Somewhat defeated, he waved his hand and ignored her. She’d been expecting something like this, yet was saddened.

Do whatever you people want, Bubb said in an admonishing tone.

In the coming days, Bubb did not say much to Shanti. How could she convince him that more than anything going to Shantiniketan for studying art was what she wanted, that that was the best way for her?

Chapter 2

The following day, Shanti’s best friend, Priyanka, was not in school. The preparations for her upcoming marriage were perhaps keeping her busy. Yet why would she miss school? The few remaining school months were her last opportunity to be with the friends she had known all her life. So after returning home, Shanti unloaded her book bag onto the study table in her bedroom, replaced it with a shoulder bag with drawing materials, and told Maji she was going to Priyanka’s home. While on her way, Shanti thought how her best friend was soon to leave for a faraway land and she might never see her again. This was Shanti’s opportunity to capture Priyanka’s face in the sketchbook.

When Shanti arrived, Priyanka and her mother were in the middle of packing her trousseau into large suitcases. Spread on the bed were carefully folded Banarasi and Kanchipuram silk saris with their intricate zari borders of gold-and-silver threads, Kashmiri pashmina shawls, and gold jewelry sets, all waiting to be packed. Touching the bridal treasures, Shanti oohed and aahed over them, then settled down to sketch the mother and daughter in action.

You and your drawing! Priyanka’s mother said. Sometimes, I worry about you.

Worry? Why, Auntie? Shanti said.

You should be happy, Ma, Shanti loves to make art, Priyanka said.

How is she going to manage her husband’s house once she marries?

The girls ignored her.

Is it true what I hear? Auntie asked Shanti. Ganga is to be married soon?

How fast news travels! Shanti thought. The matchmaker must have spread the news.

I didn’t know your family knew the Razdans.

We didn’t! Ganga Didi met Neel Razdan at college. He was her choice! Shanti saw Priyanka’s mother steal a glance at her daughter.

That’s good! Auntie said, pushing down the clothes loaded in the suitcase. Very good! After a pause she asked, Is Ganga’s marriage going to be a big affair, lots of pomp and show?

I don’t know. Maybe. What if Didi’s and Priyanka’s weddings are on the same day? Shanti said.

Auntie nodded. "Not to worry! Our celebration is going to be a quick half-day affair. That’s how Ashok Duggal, our Amreekan boy, wants it." She frowned as she sat on the overstuffed suitcase and asked Priyanka to sit next to her. With effort, they latched the lid.

Auntie, aren’t you happy with a simple wedding? Shanti said.

I don’t want relatives and neighbors to say we are sending her away without proper ceremony.

Why do you care what the relatives say? Priyanka said.

The boy wants a simple ceremony and has no monetary demands; I should be happy. We were able to buy all these beautiful things for her. My child deserves everything! Auntie said, pinching her daughter’s cheek.

Oh! Priyanka rubbed her cheek. Much more than I need, Ma!

Too much more, Auntie, Shanti added.

You sound like twins! Auntie said as she headed to the kitchen to prepare evening tea.

The girls talked about their graduation results, due within weeks. Shanti was nervous about hers. Priyanka didn’t care. She was seated on the second suitcase, trying to squeeze everything inside.

Do you really want to get married, Priyanka, or you are marrying just to get away from home? Shanti asked.

I’m marrying because I want to. She latched the suitcase and stood up. Why do you ask?

I know you better! Shanti insisted. Seriously. Tell me.

"Well, I’m sure I don’t want to go to college. I want to marry, but I don’t know about this man from Amreekah. I don’t know any other boy, so I might as well marry him." Priyanka put the rest of her packages in a large handbag and zipped it closed.

Aren’t you afraid to go away with a stranger? Shanti said. Do you like Ashok Duggal?

I have only seen his picture. He must be nice. He doesn’t want any dowry and he wants the ceremony to be simple, but . . .

But what?

What if . . . you know . . . She bit the nail of her little finger. He has been in Amreekah for ten years. What if he has an Amreekan wife?

"Nai, he won’t," Shanti said, but she had not thought of that possibility. However, she had thought of the possibility of him being a male chauvinist or an alcoholic, like Priyanka’s father.

Carrying cups of hot sugary milk-tea and biscuits, Auntie overheard their conversation. Handing cups of tea to the girls with a biscuit on the side, she said, Things will work out fine; take care of your responsibilities and obligations as a wife, be devoted and faithful, and he will love you. Hasn’t our family withstood the test of time?

Ma, that is because you fulfill your obligations and take care of your responsibilities and do not expect anything in return, Priyanka said with concern, but also as a complaint.

Her mother glared at her daughter. Then, glancing at Shanti, she changed the topic, saying that it was getting late, she must prepare dinner, and left.

The two childhood friends sat on the bed facing the window. They calculated how many sunsets they must have watched while doing their homework together. Soon their paths would part. One would turn far west, to Amreekah, and the other to the near east, to Shantiniketan.

Shanti hoped Priyanka’s husband would not make her his doormat the way her father had made her mother. The advice Auntie gave her daughter was based on her own experiences. It didn’t make any sense. When he was drunk, Auntie’s husband beat her and said things to Priyanka no daughter should have to hear. Yet Auntie remained submissive. Not only that, she also wanted Priyanka to be blindly devoted to her husband. But there was also the uncertainty of where Auntie would