An Obedient Father by Akhil Sharma Read Free Book Online Page B

lightbulb in the kitchen. I had only the stove's blue flame to see by. The icy wind swirled around my feet. Nearly thirteen years later I can still remember that wind. We ate in the living room. Rajinder and Ashok spoke loudly of the farm, gasoline prices, politics in Haryana, Indira Gandhi's government. I spoke once, saying that I liked Indira Gandhi. Ashok said that was because I was a Delhi woman who wanted to see women in power.
    Ashok left after dinner. For the first time since the wedding there wasn't anyone else nearby. Our voices were so respectful we might have been in mourning. Rajinder took me silently in the bedroom. Our mattress was before the window. A full moon peered in. I had hoped that this third time together my body might not be frightened. But when he got on top of me, my arms automatically crossed themselves over my chest. Rajinder had to push them aside. Then I lay looking at the heavyhearted tulips in the window grille. Once Rajinder was asleep, my body slowly loosened.
    Three months earlier, when our parents had introduced us, I did not think we would marry. Rajinder's ambiguous features across the restaurant table held nothing significant. Ashok on one side of him, his mother on the other were more distinctive. I sat between my parents. I did not expect to marry someone particularly handsome. I was neither pretty nor talented. But I had believed I would recognize the person I would marry.
    Twice before, my parents had introduced me to men, contacted through the matrimonial section of the Sunday Times of India. One received a job offer in Bombay. Ma did not want to send me that far away with someone we did not yet know. The other, who drove a Honda motorcycle, was handsome, but he had Hed about his income.
    Those introductions, like this one, were held in Vikrant, a two-story dosa restaurant across from the Amba cinema. I liked Vikrant, for I thought the obvious cheapness of the place would be held against us. The evening that I met Rajinder, Vikrant was crowded with people waiting for the six-to-nine show. We sat down. An adolescent waiter swept bits of dosa from the table onto the floor. Footsteps upstairs caused flecks of blue paint to drift down.
    The dinner began with Rajinder's mother, a small round woman with a pockmarked face, speaking of her sorrow that Rajinder's father had not lived to witness his two sons reach manhood. There was a moment of silence. Pitaji tilted slightly forward to speak. "It's all in the stars. What can a man do?" he said. The roughness of his voice, the danger that his enormous body always projected, sharpened my anxiety. I shifted toward Ma.
    The waiter returned with six glasses of water, four in one hand, with his fingers dipped into each. Rajinder and I did not open our mouths until ordering our dosas. At one point, after a long silence, Pitaji tried to start a conversation by asking Rajinder, "Other than work, how do you like to use your time?" Then he added in English, "What hobbies do you have?" The door to the kitchen in the back was open. I saw two boys near a skillet, trying to shove away a cow which must have wandered off the street into the kitchen.
    "I like to read the newspaper. In college I played badminton," Rajinder answered in English. He smoothed each word with his tongue before letting go.
    "Anita sometimes reads the newspapers," Ma said.
    The food came. We ate quickly.
    Rajinder's mother talked the most during the meal. She told us about how Rajinder had always been favored over his older brother—a beautiful, hardworking boy who obeyed his mother like God Ram. Rajinder had shown gratitude by passing the exams to become a bank officer. Getting from Bursa to Delhi was three hours in the bus every day. That was very strenuous, she said; besides, Rajinder had long ago reached the age for marriage, so he wished to set up a household in the city. "We want a city girl. With an education but a strong respect for tradition."
    "Kusum, Anita's younger