He’s lost in her smile and late to respond. “Yes, yes, I did! I broke all kinds of rules by asking. Yes, I wanted to talk. Honestly, may I tell you why?”
“Honestly is better than not-honestly.”
“After we . . . After the train . . . I hoped. I mean, it felt like fate that after all those years we were on the same train, the same cubicle, same bench, same . . . We parted too soon. Ever since, I . . . daydreamed about marrying you. But I was someone who wasn’t going to finish college. Bent and broken. I worked hard and I’m not bent or broken anymore, and that’s when I asked for Broker Aniyan. The thing is I remember on the train you said to Meena you weren’t ready for marriage. Elsie, I want this. I wanted to be sure that . . . that you want it too. That it’s not being forced on you.”
She considers this. Then she turns and smiles, wordlessly conveying, Yes, I want this.
“Oh, thank God! I feared your father would want someone like . . . someone more—”
“I wanted this. You.” It’s as though she just kissed him. He feels himself tumbling into her gaze, into the explosion of browns, grays, and even blues of her iris. He wants to leap up in celebration. He grins at Odat Kochamma, who winks back at him. She slips off the bench, tossing the tail of her kavani over her shoulder and into the faces of the ammachis. With her nose held high, she rejoins Big Ammachi, grabbing a piece of halwa on her way.
He says, “I’m so lucky. Why me?” Now she’s the mute one, uncharacteristically reticent. “Is it a secret?”
She says, “Secrets tend to be hidden in the most obvious place.” He’s flattered. It’s the last line from his first Unfiction, “The Plavu Man.” “You really want to know, Philipose? Shall I tell you, honestly?” She’s teasing, but then she turns serious. “It’s because I’m an artist,” she says simply. He doesn’t quite understand.
“You mean like Michelangelo? Or Ravi Varma?”
“Well, yes, I suppose . . . But also not like Ravi Varma.”
“Then like who?”
“Like me.” She’s unsmiling. “If Ravi Varma had been born a girl, do you think he’d have been free after marriage to study with a Dutch tutor? Or to exhibit in Vienna? Or to travel all over India? He bought a press in Bombay. A smart move. That’s why his prints are everywhere. He met and painted all the famous beauties of his day, the maharanis and mistresses. Got close to one or two of them.” Is there nothing she won’t say? thinks Philipose with admiration. “Philipose, what I mean is that if Ravi Varma had been a woman, there’d be no Ravi Varma.”
He understands her point, but not how it relates to him.
“Philipose, you’re an artist too.” It’s flattering to hear this. “You can spend most of your day on your art. There’s no one to tell you not to write, or when to write. Marriage won’t change that.”
He can’t argue with that.
“My father had others in mind from the moment I got back. A boy in the estates … another who owns textile mills in Coimbatore. I refused. I thought that of all the men I might marry, you would take my art, my ambition seriously.” Her expression is grave as she recounts this. “I’m well provided for. My father isn’t pushing me out. But if something happens to him, everything except my dowry, I mean everything goes to my brother. That’s how it is with our community, isn’t it? It’s unfair but that’s how it is. If I were unmarried, I’d have no home to belong to after his time. That’s why he was so anxious to have me married. For my future.”
“Men are under pressure to marry too. To please family.” He’s thinking of Joppan.
“Yes, but after marriage, no one will say, ‘Philipose, put aside your writing. Your duty is to serve your spouse and her parents for the rest of your life. Manage the kitchen, raise the children.’ ” She adds, with a hint of bitterness, “My brother will have the life I should have had. I hope he makes good use of it.”
They glance in the brother’s direction. His belly swells under a fine double mundu; his face is puffy, with dark circles that will soon be permanent under his eyes. He could pass as his father’s gluttonous understudy, and for the same reasons, but only at a younger age: cigarettes, and too much brandy. But the face lacks Chandy’s humor, his humanity and vitality. Feeling their gaze, the brother looks over with flat, soulless, eyes. There’s no love lost between the siblings, Philipose thinks.
Elsie moves her head closer to him. “I’m only telling you because you asked. It’s hard to explain how much a girl loves her father. Getting married is the best gift I can give him. Then I become your worry. I thought, if I must marry, who will respect me as an artist and allow me to be what I think I was meant to be? I thought you would.”
He’s flattered. But her words are also a little deflating. Where is love? Where is desire in this explanation? She reads his thoughts. “Listen, if what I said disappoints you, I’m sorry. This is just the pennu kaanal. You can say you came, you saw, and it’s not for you. You can call it off. Or I can. You did ask. So I’m telling you honestly.”
Such brutal honesty! Would he ever have had the courage to say what she has said?
“Elsie, the last thing I want to do is call it off—”
“When I drew you that morning on the train, I thought I saw into your heart. I was no longer the schoolgirl who rode in that car with you. And you were no more the brave boy who saved that child. I saw a man struggling to find his way. You’ve found your way—I see it in your stories. When the proposal came, I was happy. I thought, here’s someone who sees the world the way I do. Who hungers to interpret it as I try to do. Tell me I didn’t get that part wrong.”
“No. You got that right. Just so you know, I don’t want to get married for the sake of being married. I want to get married to you. And when we are married, I’ll do everything to support your art. How could I not?”
She’s pleased. “You’re sure? Your dear mother is hoping that I’ll take over the kitchen, keep the keys to the ara, make a good fish curry. She’ll be scandalized when the fishmonger comes and I don’t know mathi from vaala—”
“Wait, you don’t? In that case—” He pretends to stand. Her wing-like eyebrows shoot up and then she bursts out laughing, a lovely bell-like sound. The perfect line of her teeth, the sight of her tongue, the back of her throat make him dizzy. “Elsie, as long as you laugh like that, I won’t care. I promise you. You’ll have the same time and opportunity to pursue your art as I have to write. You don’t know my mother yet, but she’s a gem. She’ll understand.”
“Philipose . . .” she says softly, grateful, dropping her head, and sagging against him. He leans back against her, supporting her weight, the ancient ammachis be damned. His arm where it touches her is on fire. His heart leaps, his pulse pounds, not in fear or panic but in recognition of having found what it sought. He’s proud of himself. The Ordinary Man has managed something extraordinary.
CHAPTER 46
Wedding Night
1945, Parambil