Their Language of Love by Bapsi Sidhwa Read Free Book Online Page B

considered Shirley pretty. Shirley had high cheekbones, a small nose and long blond hair. The girls were not a bit like Zareen’s preconceived notions of promiscuous American girls: even if Feroza had made that crack about being the only nineteen-year-old virgin in America. And these pretty girls did not have boys hovering round them—giving their mothers heart attacks.
    Zareen stayed home the next day. She sorted out her shopping and packed a suitcase with gifts. It was expected of her—that she should return like a female Santa Claus. She did not see David or either of the girls all day. Feroza returned at about six in the evening, announcing: ‘I’m so hungry!’ She was in high spirits. Zareen turned off the TV and followed her into the kitchen, saying: ‘I’m hungry too. I’ll make us a pora.’
    Zareen rinsed a light plastic chopping board and collected the ingredients for the spicy omelette. ‘Only five days to go. By next Tuesday I’ll be in Lahore,’ she remarked, expertly chopping onions and jalapeno peppers.
    Feroza looked up from the mail she was reading. ‘Is that all? But you only just got here!’ They could both hear David moving about in the garage.
    Zareen sighed heavily and turned to Feroza. Holding the knife, plastered with cilantro and onion, she passed the back of her hand across her forehead in a weary gesture. ‘If youfeel you must marry that man … I have only one request.’
    The introduction of the subject was sudden. The capitulation was unexpected. Feroza opened her mouth in an O, and affected a visibly theatrical start. ‘What?’
    This is what she loved about Feroza. Even as a child—after the red-faced shouting rages, the surly shut-ins—by the time Feroza emerged from her retreat, all was forgotten and forgiven. She rarely sulked. And even after their epic quarrel the day before, she was not above a little clowning.
    ‘Get married properly,’ Zareen said. ‘The magistrate’s bit of paper won’t make you feel married. Have a regular wedding … Don’t deprive us of everything!’
    Feroza remained silent and raised questioning eyebrows.
    ‘If you and David come to Lahore, we will take care of everything.’
    ‘Don’t you think you might talk to David about it first?’
    Zareen shrugged. ‘Then call him.’
    David came into the kitchen looking unkempt, unshaven and grim. Feroza noted the gold chain hanging from his neck, the Star of David prominent on his chest. Her mother, by constantly flaunting their religion, had provoked this reaction. The top buttons on his plaid shirt were open, and part of it hung out of his pants. David turned the chair and straddling it, faced Zareen defiantly. Zareen was taken aback by the change in his behaviour and appearance. His breath smelled of beer.
    ‘Since you two are so determined to get married,’ she said, concealing her nervousness, and striving also to keep her tone light, ‘I want you to grant me a little wish.’
    David looked wary. ‘Feroza said you want me to come to Lahore … to get married?’
    ‘Oh, not only you … Your parents, grandparents, uncles. They’ll all be our guests. I want you to have a grand wedding!’
    David remained silent and grimly unenthusiastic.
    But marriages were the high point in Zareen’s community life—and she was talking about her daughter’s wedding. ‘We’ll have the madasara ceremony first. You will plant a mango; it’s to ensure fertility: “May you have as many children as the tree bears mangoes.” In all ceremonies we mark your foreheads with vermilion, hang garlands round your necks and give you sugar and coconuts—symbols of blessings and good luck.’
    David, if anything, looked more wary. Zareen had expected him to at least smile, but his sense of humour had vanished with his courtesy and sensibility. She felt she was seeing him in his true colours; and she remembered her initial reaction to his photograph.
    ‘After that is done, we break a coconut on your head,’ she