LITMIR.BIZ

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previous occasions Mia had failed to turn up for meetings, devising arguments against arranged marriages and citing various cases where Indian brides had been abandoned or murdered by British Asian men.

      ‘Talk to her,’ urged Tiger. ‘Talk to her.’

      ‘How did you find the boy?’ Mithu asked. ‘How did you find the boy so suddenly?’

      ‘I got his reference,’ chuckled Tiger, ‘from Mars. Mars. Which is at the moment in transit to Venus. It told me that he is in London in connection with his business. He’s in business. Moksha Herbals. Selling herbal make-up to film studios as well as to top-notch places. He sells to all the major Mumbai film studios. Also to Body Shop, Selfridges – all stock his stuff. About fifteen outlets all over the world. Starting a retail at Heathrow as well. He’s been here for a whole year. I’ve been talking to him. He’s perfect, believe me. Perfect. Doing very well. Giving stiff competition to Kama Sutra and Lush. What a line he has. Nirvana massage oil, Ahimsa paint, Vedic eyeliner.’

      ‘Sounds niche,’ said Mithu in a moment of marketing doubt.

      ‘Niche?’ exclaimed Tiger. ‘What do you mean niche? Totally mainstream. How d’you think Max Factor built the business in the Twenties? By supplying to film studios only then to the general public. High returns. And,’ Tiger paused dramatically, ‘only thiry-five.’

      ‘And is he agreeable to this? Does he know?’

      ‘He knows everything,’ chuckled Tiger again, mysteriously this time. ‘Knows how sad she is after Anand’s…passing. That moving back with you isn’t working…knows that she mopes around all day. He knows.’

      ‘He knows? What do you mean he knows? How does he know?’

      ‘Simple,’ Tiger chuckled again, even more mysteriously. ‘The stars told him. He saw it. The stars are good, Mithu, the time is good.’

      When Anand had been alive Tiger had crept about meekly with his digests, tarot cards and charts locked in his briefcase, intimidated by Anand’s philosophical paintings. Now he was unabashed about planetary explanations for everything – from sour milk to delayed trains.

      ‘He’s not like the normal types, darling,’ said Tiger. ‘He’s not going to lock her up in the house and make her cook for his mother all day. College education, fully from America. Wharton School. A-me-ri-ca. No hitting, beating, no dowry,’ Tiger repeated. ‘And best of all, no clothes. No problem with clothes. Any clothes. Jeans. Strap tops. Only thing is’ – Tiger paused – ‘India-based. She’ll have to’ – Tiger coughed – ‘go there.’

      ‘Oh no!’ lamented Mithu. ‘Why India? Why not Singapore or Hong Kong?’

      ‘Hey, Mithu memsahib,’ cried Tiger. ‘Don’t do chik chik like a fool. He has to live in India because that’s where the suppliers are, that’s where the laboratories are and the biggest buyers are. All the big film production companies. Raw materials. Herbs, aloe vera, eucalyptus oil, all that wonderful stuff. Hey, d’you know the fortune there is these days in aloe vera? Aloe vera is the new gold, lady. Aloe vera is the one stock I want to buy. And think of it. Going out: no problem. Working and having a career: no problem. Parties: no problem. Dowry: no problem. If all this is no problem, then what’s the problem with India?’

      ‘But why has he not found a girl for so long?’ demanded Mithu. ‘If parties are no problem?’

      ‘Busy,’ reasoned Tiger. ‘Even his mother doesn’t live with him. She lives in Goa where she owns a hotel. Beach hotel. Mother owns a big beach hotel. Really top-end stuff. It’s called Sharkey’s. Very sort of old-world classy, know what I mean? Shabby sophistication. I’ve seen the pictures.’

      ‘Hotel?’ Mithu frowned suspiciously. ‘In Goa? There’s a lot of drug taking in those places.’

      ‘Mithu, Mithu,’ Tiger moaned. ‘You people are all getting left behind. They are more upper class than your entire family put together. Mother was a civil servant, understand? IAS officer! Even his grandfather was an IAS officer and his dad was in the army. What more d’you want? He got happy when I said Mia’s dad was also dead. He said they’d have dead dads in common.’

      Mithu put the phone down and stared accusingly at Mia.

      ‘There is a chance,’ said Mia, placing her coffee cup on the table, ‘that the Indian Max Factor, may not like me. I may not be pretty enough. My skin may not be polished enough. Or I may not like him. It may not work out.’

      ‘Work out?’ cried Mithu. ‘What do you mean, work out? What is there to marriage but more and more workout?’

      ‘What if he kills me in a fit of rage? Face down in a village well?’

      ‘What nonsense!’ yelled Mithu. ‘What sort of animals d’you think Indian men are? Don’t make up these fancy stories about India just to make yourself feel good. That Indians are abnormal and only the British are normal. That Indians kill wives. Don’t be an Orientalist!’

      The great Edward Said, author of that heartfelt manifesto Orientalism, had been Mithu’s ally in many a household battle with Anand. Her understanding of the book was rough but passionate and the word always shut Anand up and made him introspective about his paintings.

      ‘Kills you!’ she shouted again, triumphant at Mia’s silence. ‘Isn’t that at least better than moping about and staring at me all day?’

      ‘I’m not staring at you!’ Mia cried.

      ‘Then stop making faces at me. Always looking and judging and god knows what else. Boka mey. He may be very nice. And still you keep staring at me. Punishing me with your aging face!’ Not even her worst enemy would say my daughter had an aging face, thought Mithu, the instant she had said it but people said funny things when they sensed they were on the threshold of a breakthrough.

      ‘Fine, Ma,’ snapped Mia. ‘If that’s how you feel, I’ll meet him. I’ll meet him and marry him and go away to India so you can be rid of me forever.’

      ‘Good!’

      ‘I’ll do it. I don’t care. You won’t have to see my aging face again!’

      ‘I’ll fix it for the evening, Goldie,’ Mithu’s voice trumpeted after her as Mia ran out of the flat, ‘This time it’ll work out. I’m getting the feeling. Aamar chotto Shona!’

      She felt light on her feet on her way to the tube. She had jumped off her high wall of grief and entered a charmed zone where astonishing things were happening. Her father had sent her his dream, she had met his muse who had turned out to be a renunciant monk. Now her mother was pulling her into her own dreams of a wedding and she was walking in, as if she too wanted to enter the charmed circle where the unexpected took place, and anticipation took flight.

      Drs Rosenthal and Silver wouldn’t approve. They would diagnose that she was experiencing a euphoric high which was only a prelude to a dark low; that her mind was racing ahead hyperactively and she was seeing connections where there were none. She was too light-headed to care, absurdly thrilled at this forthcoming proposal of marriage.

      She spent the morning losing things, forgetting her mobile phone and drifting away from conversations. At lunchtime, she went down to Speaker’s Corner to see Karna. A largish crowd had gathered and was listening with shifting attention to the red-haired leader’s speech. Tourist cameras flashed and a policeman strolled around. Karna smiled and waved at her.

      ‘Hello,’ he said.

      ‘Hello.’

      ‘I’m glad to see you again.’

      ‘Yes,’

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