The Mistress of Spices by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni Page A

involved with some foreigner.”
    “But
dada
, this is America after all, and even in India women are now working, no, even in Jamshedpur.”
    “
Hai
, you are talking like Ramu now, and his wife, that Sheela who brought up her girl too lax, never a slap even, and see what has happened.
Arre baap
, so what if this is America, we are still Bengalis, no? And girls and boys are still girls and boys, ghee and a lighted match, put them together and soon or late there’s going to be fire.”
    I give him a bottle of
brahmi
oil to cool his system.
“Dada,”
I say, “you and I are old now, time for us to spend our time with our prayer beads and let the young ones run their life as they see best.”

     
    Still each week Geeta’s grandfather comes in with newly indignant tales.
    “That girl, this Sunday she cut her hair short-short so that even her neck is showing. I am telling her, Geeta what did you do, your hair is the essence of your womanhood. You know what she is replying?”
    I can read the answer in his furrowed face. But to soothe him I ask what.
    “She is laughing and pushing all those messy ends back from her face, saying, Oh Grandpa I needed a new look.”
    Or. “That Geeta, how much makeup she is using all the time.
Uff
, in my days only the Englishwomen and prostitutes are doing that. Good Indian girls are not ashamed of the face God is giving them. You cannot think what all she is taking with her even to work.”
    His tone so full of outrage, I want to smile. But I only say “Maybe you are over-imagining. Maybe—”
    He stops me, hand held up triumphant.
“Imagining
, you say. Hunh! With my own two eyes I have looked into her purse. Mascara blusher foundation eyeshadow and more whose names I am not remembering, and the lipstick so shameless bright making all the men stare at her mouth.”
    Or. “Didi, listen to what she is doing this last weekend. Bought a new car for herself, thousands and thousands of dollars it is costing, and such a shiny blue it hurts the eyes. I told Ramu, what nonsense is this, she was using your old car just fine, this money you should save for her dowry. But that blind fool, heonly smiles and says, It’s her money from her job and besides, for my Geeta we’ll find a nice Indian boy from here who doesn’t believe in dowry.”
    “Geeta,” I call silently when he is gone, “Geeta whose name means sweet song, keep your patience your humor your zest for life. I am burning here incense of the
champak
flower for harmony in your home. Geeta who is India and America all mixed together into a new melody, be forgiving of an old man who holds on to his past with all the strength in his failing hands.”
    Today Geeta’s grandfather comes in, but without his usual striped plastic shopping bag, his hands swinging aimless, his fingers splayed stiff and awkward with nothing to grip. Stands for a while at the counter staring down at the
mithais
but he is not seeing them, and when I ask what he needs today, he bursts out “Didi you will not believe.” His voice is loud with calamity and righteousness, but underneath I hear the raw rasp of fear.
    “Hundred times I told Ramu, this is no way to bring up children, girls specially, saying yes-yes every time they want something. Remember in India how all you brothers and sisters got one-two good beatings and after I never had troubles with you. Did I love you less, no, but I knew what was my father-duty. Hundred times I told him, get her married off now she has finished college, why you are waiting for misfortune to knock on your door. And now see what happened.”
    “What?” I am impatient, my heart tight with misgiving. I try to look in, but the tunnels of his mind are awhirl with dead leaves and dust.
    “Yesterday I am getting a letter from Jadu Bhatchaj, my old army-days friend. They are looking for a match for his grand-nephew, excellent boy, very bright, only twenty-eight and already a district sub-judge. Why not send details of Geeta and