When she recognized Ramesh crossing her parents’ threshold （right foot first as he was, she’d soon find, didactically superstitious） she was neither pleasantly nor unpleasantly surprised. She was just surprised. She’d seen him around; he caned chairs and fixed other broken items. But here he was, in her living room, taking a biscuit from her proffered tray and vying for eye contact. It was an attempt to reassure or relax her. But tradition and values—sanskaar—were not to be ignored. She refused to look at him because his parents were looking at her. Just as they watched her pour the tea and would, in half an hour, inspect how she prepared the papadam.
Geeta’s own parents were betrothed after her mother did not burn the papadam. Her paternal grandparents had heard whispers of a girl of suitable caste and color, and called upon Geeta’s mother’s home to verify these qualifications. Once seated, they partook of the usual tea and biscuits, but the visit’s real motive was, of course, the papadam performance.
While Geeta’s father sat, his plate full, a bolster pillow uncomfortably lodged above the small of his back, her mother was outside, partaking in neither the chai she’d prepared nor the biscuits she’d selected that morning. His parents stood, watching as Geeta’s mother, perched on two bricks, rotated and flipped the disc over the clay chulha stove, taking care to sacrifice her fingertips before the papadam. The ends curled and yellowed like a love letter set ablaze. Once they saw that she did not singe a single seed or grain, the matter was settled. They nodded above her bent head: she was patient enough to serve as a daughter-in-law.
Decades later it was Geeta’s turn. She was handed a raw papadam and nudged toward the sigri stove. Ramesh entered the kitchen to see about some more biscuits, his parents having already consumed an entire package. He found Geeta there, her long braid heavy as a bell rope. She wore her mother’s nicest sari, the small of her back revealed to him like a secret. She sensed his eyes, of course, and while they didn’t exactly send her wild with desire, they unnerved her enough to burn the papadam. Before she could throw it away, he was there. After disposing the ruined disc, he plucked a new one from the tin and began roasting it, his parents still in the other room.
He worked methodically, like she might have, had his eyes not ruined her earlier attempt. But now that his gaze was focused and they were alone, she was free to observe, to discover whether the face before her was appealing or frightening or, worse yet, induced nothing. He flipped and rotated, the corners crinkling and bubbling but never charring. Then he set the papadam on the plate, closed the flame and left the kitchen.
So Geeta was betrothed after the papadam did not burn.
Ramesh’s kindness excited her. The story they’d crafted in that kitchen was different, and that excited her as well. Until then, Geeta did not realize she shared a universal, impossible desire with every other woman: to be unique. Ramesh had seen her braid, the thick coil neatly tapering to a slice of forbidden skin and knew, simply knew, with the kind of steadfast, stubborn humility that sends modern women sighing behind clandestine romance novels, that he wanted her.
It never occurred to Geeta that Ramesh and Saloni might not get on. But as the wedding date neared, she became territory to be staked and claimed by their dueling flags. If Saloni liked her in red, Ramesh preferred orange. If Saloni suggested marigolds, Ramesh insisted upon roses. Saloni thought a bridal nath was essential; Ramesh thought it too provincial.
“Never in my life have I seen a man with so many wedding opinions,” Saloni grumbled.
“It’s sweet he’s so involved, though, right? He, like, cares.”
Geeta was a bride while Saloni was still plotting to secure her own future. A fact Geeta forgot, but Ramesh did not.
“This isn’t your wedding, Saloni,” Ramesh said.
“I know that, Ramesh. But I also know Geeta. Orange doesn’t suit her. She’s dusky so the red works better.”
“Do you see what I mean?” Ramesh demanded of Geeta, who watched with dread as Saloni’s green eyes narrowed; she now knew they’d discussed her privately. “Do you see how she talks to you? Stop putting her down, Saloni.”
“She doesn’t even like orange!”
“I like orange! Plus, she’s not supposed to design her own dress—it’s bad luck!”
“No one cares, Ramesh! Just like no one cares about black cats or if you cut your nails after sunset. It’s all backwards bullshit.”
“See how she talks to me?”
“How about this one?” Geeta said, lifting a random silk. “It’s red and orange, kind of, depending on the light.”
They ignored her.
When they were alone, Geeta asked Ramesh: “Did something happen between you two?”
“Did she say it did?”
“No, I just— Why don’t you like her?”
“I just hate how she talks to you. Like you’re lesser. You’re not, Geeta. Without you as a friend, she’d be nothing. And she has the nerve to say you’re ugly in orange.”
“Did she? I thought—”
“She did. Remember? She said you were too dark to pull off such a pretty color. It makes me sick, really.”
“I— That’s just how Saloni is; it’s just her way. She’s blunt, yes. But she means well.”
“See how you make excuses for her? She doesn’t deserve you defending her, that’s all I’m saying. Friends should be nice to you.”
“She’s been through a lot.”
“And you haven’t?”
“Not like her, Ramesh. You don’t know. You didn’t grow up here.”
He bristled. “I’m sorry for wanting more for you. I’m sorry that I can’t stand by while someone abuses you and you just take it.”
“Abuses me?” Geeta laughed. “Saloni doesn’t abuse me!”
“Just because she doesn’t hit you doesn’t mean it’s not abuse. You can abuse someone with the things you say or don’t say or…” He waved his hand, losing steam.
“She doesn’t—”
“She does. Because she’s jealous.” And here Ramesh averted his eyes at the perfect time, looking humble and honest and as though he genuinely regretted telling her this, as though his imminent confession weren’t self-inflating and presumptuous and ridiculous. “I see her looking at me. She…she wants me, Geeta.”
Of course she didn’t believe him. Saloni was hers. They weren’t just on the same team, they were the same player. Their victories doubled, their losses halved; loyalty was as given as gravity. Even failing their friendship, there was the undeniable truth that Saloni was stunning. There were film stars who’d claw her face if they knew she was roaming about, potential competition. If Geeta and Ramesh were ordinary mango people, Saloni was a goddamn custard apple.
Geeta did not, however, make the mistake of scoffing. Nor did she say the humorous proverb that leapt to her mind, the one about an ugly guy nabbing a gorgeous girl: grapes in the hand of a monkey. She simply told Ramesh, her diplomacy and tenderness ruling, “Saloni wouldn’t do that to me.”
Still, she sensed what life would be like if she didn’t unearth and destroy the root of their animosity. Torn between her best friend and her husband, she’d never know peace. She needed them both to be happy. One would give her children, but the other would help her raise them. One would make her cry, and the other would comfort her. So she asked Saloni, “Did something happen between you two?”