The Inheritance of Loss - Kiran Desai [44]
Ambition still gnawed at him, and Brahmin cook he might have, but he knew that there was a wider world and only very rarely did history provide a chink allowing an acrobatic feat. A week later, he got into his landau drawn by two white mares, drove past the British Club on Thornton Road he could never join no matter how much money he had in his pocket, all the way to the other side of town, and there, he stunned the residents of the Patel warren with the offer of Bela, his most beautiful daughter, who lay with her sisters in their big bed complaining of boredom under a crystal chandelier that provided the luxurious look of ice in the summer heat.
If Jemu succeeded in his endeavor, she would be the wife of one of the most powerful men in India.
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The wedding party lasted a week and was so opulent that nobody in Piphit could doubt but the family lived a life awash in ghee and gold, so when Bomanbhai bent over with a namaste and begged his guests to eat and drink, they knew his modesty was false—and of the best kind, therefore. The bride was a polished light-reflecting hillock of jewels, barely able to walk under the gem and metal weight she carried. The dowry included cash, gold, emeralds from Venezuela, rubies from Burma, uncut kundun diamonds, a watch on a watch chain, lengths of woolen cloth for her new husband to make into suits in which to travel to England, and in a crisp envelope, a ticket for passage on the SS Strathnaver from Bombay to Liverpool.
When she married, her name was changed into the one chosen by Jemubhai’s family, and in a few hours, Bela became Nimi Patel.
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Jemubhai, made brave by alcohol and the thought of his ticket, attempted to pull off his wife’s sari, as much gold as silk, as she sat on the edge of the bed, just as his younger uncles had advised him, smacking him on the back.
He was almost surprised to discover a face beneath the gilded lump. It was strung with baubles, but even they could not entirely disguise the fourteen-year-old crying in terror: “Save me,” she wept.
He himself was immediately terrified, frightened by her fright. The spell of arrogance broken, he retreated to his meek self. “Don’t cry,” he said in a panic, trying to undo the damage. “Listen, I’m not looking, I’m not even looking at you.” He returned the heavy fabric to her, bundled it back over her head, but she continued to sob.
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Next morning, the uncles laughed. “What happened? Nothing?” They gestured at the bed.
More laughter the next day.
The third day, worry.
“Force her,” the uncles urged him. “Insist. Don’t let her behave badly.”
“Other families would not be so patient,” they warned Nimi.
“Chase her and pin her down,” the uncles ordered Jemubhai.
Though he felt provoked, and sometimes recognized a focused and defined urge in himself, in front of his wife, the desire vanished.
“Spoiled,” they said to Nimi. “Putting on airs.”
How could she not be happy with their brainy Jemu, the first boy from their community to go to England?
But Jemubhai began to feel sorry for her, as well as for himself, as they shared this ordeal of inaction through one night and another.
While the family was out selling the jewels for extra money, he offered her a ride on his father’s Hercules cycle. She shook her head, but when he rode up, a child’s curiosity conquered her commitment to tears and she climbed on sideways. “Stick your legs out,” he instructed and worked away at the pedals. They went faster and faster, between the trees and cows, whizzing through the cow pats.
Jemubhai turned, caught quick sight of her eyes—oh, no man had eyes like these or looked out on the world this way….
He pedaled harder. The ground sloped, and as they flew down the incline, their hearts were left behind for an instant, levitating amid green leaves, blue sky.
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The judge looked up from his chess. Sai had climbed up a tree at the garden’s