Imaginary Men Read Free

manner of speaking,” I say. “He’s the perfect man.”
    â€œWhat does he look like?”
    â€œTall. Dark, wavy hair. The most beautiful eyes—he’s a dream.”
    â€œSounds a little too perfect,” Kali says.
    â€œWhy is this man not with you?” Nikhil snaps.
    â€œHe travels all the time. Here and there. Riding elephants into the jungle, touring his palaces, several properties—”
    â€œHow can you stand being away from him?” Kali asks. “Don’t you miss him terribly?”
    â€œLike the devil.” I sigh. “But he sends postcards.”
    â€œE-mails? Love letters?”
    I nod. “He embeds photos and poems in the messages—”
    â€œAll this was happening, and you didn’t tell?”
    I smile. “Isn’t the Internet amazing?”
    Mrs. Ghose huffs. “Come, Nikhil.” She grabs his arm and yanks him away in search of another victim. My shoulders relax.
    Auntie nearly swoons. “Congratulations are in order. We must summon your parents—”
    â€œThey don’t know yet,” I say quickly. “It’s a love match, not arranged.”
    â€œThey don’t know?” Auntie’s eyebrows rise, and her cheeks puff outward.
    â€œThings are different in America. Parents don’t chaperone their daughters on dates.”
    â€œAh, yes, this can’t be helped. All the same, this is good news. Marriage is marriage. Is it an auspicious match?”
    â€œI believe the stars are aligned just right.”
    â€œWho is he? What’s his name?” Kali asks.
    â€œIt’s a surprise. He’ll be traveling for … a few more weeks.” With every lie, I dig a deeper hole. I might as well climb in and let the dirt fall on top of me.
    Auntie clasps and unclasps her hands. She’s in planning mode. “I must meet this man and make sure he is more suitable than Nikhil.”
    â€œMore suitable? I already know he is—”
    â€œ
I
must know!”
    â€œOf course, Auntie. Your approval will honor me.”
    She smoothes her ruffled sari. “
Bhalo
. You’ll bring him to India?”
    Bring him? “He has business in San Francisco.”
    How will I maintain this charade? Soon I’ll have to say Mr. Perfect and I have split up. He found a girlfriend in Germany or Italy, on his travels. He’ll go when I want him to go. But I can’t marry Pee-wee. What to do?
    â€œYou’ll bring him to India for a Bengali wedding, of course,” Auntie says.
    â€œWhen the time comes.” No matter how long we’ve lived in America, we must return to India for this rite of passage.
    I slip into the house to the bathroom. I lean my elbows on the sink and focus on breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I can’t afford to have a panic attack here, in a Kolkata bathroom with a concrete floor and old-fashioned toilet with a chain hanging down.
    I gaze into the mirror, at the black kohl smudged beneath my eyes. My hair, cut to my shoulders, is frizzy in the humidity.
    â€œLina, Lina, on the wall,” I say to my reflection, then let out a crazy giggle. “Who’s the biggest liar of them all?”

Two
    I
pull myself together and return to the courtyard in time to witness the
sindoor daan
. Durga’s handsome groom applies the symbol of marriage to her hair part: a red stain of henna called the
sindoor
. If she’s a good Hindu woman, she’ll wear this symbol until her death.
    Durga has a
sindoor
now. Ah well, who wants to wear henna on her scalp all the time and endure Americans asking, Why do you have blood in your hair? Did you cut your head?
    I’m happy for her. May she and her groom, Amit, live a long and blissful life, have many tall, fair-skinned children—all of whom will be married off before the age of twenty—and live happily ever after.
    The bride and groom rise to take the traditional seven steps