Would they have been happy if they had bought the artist’s house instead? The one with butterflies on the powder room walls, upside-down wine glasses glued to the dining room ceiling, a disco ball hanging over the breakfast nook, and hopscotch stenciled into the kitchen floor—what a stupendous house it was!
The question about their choice of residence popped into Maya’s mind like a bright yellow balloon against a dreary sky, unexpected, uplifting. She turned to look at Sanjay, her decade-old husband. He was smiling at the earnest, quick-fingered girl interviewing them, typing with practiced efficiency on her laptop. She glanced at them every few seconds as if to say, keep going; you guys are doing great. Sanjay’s smile was a tight, performative exertion that neither betrayed nor conveyed any real feelings as he described their Colonial Revival-style mansion to the girl. Maya felt the impulse to close the distance between them and whisper in his ear, hey love, do you remember the artist’s house? The one with the butterflies on the walls and the hopscotch in the kitchen?
But she didn’t. They didn’t whisper to one another anymore. And when was the last time they called each other love? She couldn’t remember. Maya slipped back into the bubble of a blithe memory, back to the hopscotch, as Sanjay fielded the girl’s questions. She turned her mind’s eye to the treehouse across the kitchen of the artist’s home. It was wedged between the muscular branches of a majestic oak facing the balcony that ran along the length of the house in the rear. In the umbra of the oak was a long picnic table dressed for summer-scented gatherings in the backyard. Riotous blooms were everywhere.
You have a beautiful home, the girl chirped, likely fantasizing about a similar home and husband in her future. She was the Indian ambassador’s daughter writing an article about successful parentally orchestrated marriages in the community. Maya and Sanjay had reluctantly consented to the interview, given Sanjay’s father’s association with the ambassador.
When did you move into this house, she asked, taking stock of a well-appointed family room. Unread leather-bound tomes juxtaposed between family photos and tall crystal vases with poised white lilies. Heavy, raw silk curtains in emerald green held apart by gold rope curtain tiebacks giving the room a regal flair. Maya could not tell if the girl had begun the interview about matrimony by talking about their house as an icebreaker, or because the house served as a metric of marital success.
We bought it almost ten years ago, Sanjay said. We love the house.
Do we? Maya thought to herself. Didn’t we love the other house, the artist’s house? During the showing, Maya and Sanjay had held hands, skipped in and out of the hopscotch, and walked over the bridge connecting the balcony to the treehouse. Standing between gently billowing white linen curtains, they looked at one another and thought, we will be so incredibly happy in this house. You know, Sanjay whispered when the realtor was out of sight, we could make love out here at night. In spring. In summer. In fall. And in winter. I promise I will keep you warm. He kissed the nape of her neck. Would you like that? Maya’s cheeks flushed to match the deep pink of the bougainvillea trailing off the treehouse. Yes, she breathed. I would like that very much.
They spoke about the hopscotch house long into the night. How many butterfly molds do you think there are in that powder room? Sanjay asked, nuzzling up to Maya in their compact, one-bedroom apartment near Dupont Circle, their first home as a couple.
I don’t know. Two hundred, maybe?
Two hundred sounds about right, Sanjay estimated.
The realtor said the artist put up the molds with her three children. I bet they read books about butterflies and learned about different species. What a fantastic way to have fun with your kids while teaching them stuff.
Yep, Sanjay said, resting his chin on her bare shoulder as he held her from behind.
Do you think they went on family road trips in that crazy minibus? Maya asked. The brightly muraled minibus parked in backyard harked of happy trails.
I bet. Terrible mileage, but high on fun, Sanjay laughed. Maya loved to hear him laugh.
Maybe we could ask the realtor if the artist will sell the bus with the house!
You know, that’s a great idea! He turned her over and kissed her deeply. He whispered, let’s never forget to have fun.
Yes. Let’s have fun together forever! When Maya uttered the words ten years ago, she had secretly wondered if they were free to steer their life in the direction of their choosing. Theirs was an arranged marriage choreographed by their parents, Indian immigrants who clung to hand-picked norms. Maya and Sanjay were a perfectly matched pair, as decreed by their horoscope scrolls. The two felt fortunate on their first meeting to detect sufficient attraction to hope for a happy union. Maya found Sanjay’s Heterochromia, different colored eyes inherited from his grandfather, very sexy. And Maya’s light skin, uncommon for Indians, had stirred Sanjay’s desire.
Though Sara, their daughter, was born within the first year of their marriage, surely, they could live with some measure of youthful abandonment. All their lives, they had dutifully walked the paths ordained by their parents. Now, they were bound in matrimony, but being free together was a choice they could make.
The following morning, they went back for a second showing. What do you think of the house? It’s quirky and fun, isn’t it? Sanjay asked his parents, whom he had brought along. He was conditioned to seek their approval for all decisions involving academics, career, finances, matrimony, and selecting restaurants for customary family dinners every Sunday night. She understood this. She, too, grew up with parents who scripted her life for as long as she could remember.
Sanjay’s father circumvented the hopscotch, grunting as usual when he was displeased, which was almost all the time. Maya’s father was not much different. Disapproval, it seemed, was the mark of an Indian patriarch. Disgruntled snorting articulated dominance.
Sanjay’s mother stepped in to translate the sounds of her husband’s dissatisfaction. My son, she said, taking him by the arm, you have a new job. You need to network. You need a proper house to entertain.
Years of playing the dutiful wife to a diplomat husband who hobnobbed with ambassadors and high commissioners had schooled her in the ways of a class into which she was not born.
Sanjay had recently joined the World Bank, a position his father had groomed him for since he was a teen. At the threshold of adulthood, Sanjay perforce accepted the Stern business school offer over Amherst and Swarthmore’s liberal arts curriculum without rebuttal or rebellion. The prospect of living in the city rattled him, but Sanjay confessed neither fear nor preference to his father.
Sanjay’s father picked up where his wife had left off. When people from the bank come here, your bosses, what kind of impression will they get? These silly glasses on the ceiling and this… this silly hopscotch on the floor? He chuffed like a lion whose mane had been forced into pigtails with bright yellow pompom hair ties. It’s ridiculous, he declared, rubbing the sole of his Oxfords across inlaid lines, determined to erase the impertinence out of existence.
Maya pictured playing hopscotch with Sara and Sanjay in the kitchen as a pot of spaghetti bubbled away. They could walk their dinner over to the treehouse in plastic bowls, spin stories about wizards, twirl spaghetti with forks and make it magically disappear into their bellies.
You can’t use Noritake and Waterford in this bohemian doll house, Sanjay’s mother said in a superior tone that irked Maya. Your home must be classy.
Oh, come on now, Ma. It will be fun. See, you can play hopscotch with Sara right here in the kitchen while making samosas for her.
Grow up, Sanjay, the time for fun and games is over, his father decreed.
Why, Maya thought, why must it be over? What is the cut-off age? 21? 25? Who decides that?
Maya sought Sanjay’s gaze across the hopscotch and held it. We don’t care about classy, do we? We want to be happy. You, me, Sara. And maybe another child someday. This could be our very own playground, she wanted to say. The look in Sanjay’s eyes—one brown, the other hazel—spoke of two worlds. And the burden of choice.
A week later, with funding from his parents, Sanjay put a down payment on the Colonial Revival mansion in the elite Foxhall neighborhood of D.C. His parents, pleased with their son’s customary acquiescence, declared the new purchase perfectly suited to their stature. A mature choice, they called it, a perfect home.
It’s a classy home, the interviewer went on, admiring the crown molding on the vaulted ceiling. Sanjay’s mother had taken it upon herself to furnish and embellish the living areas with an ostentatious flourish—housewarming gifts, she said, expecting exuberant gratitude. Perhaps because she had married into money, she found extravagance exciting.
The spacious home accommodated the family ego just fine, but there was no room for levity. Heavy walnut paneling, ornate light fixtures, dense drapery—one breathed wood and silk, not wild roses, and sage. The contours of their young marriage were chiseled to conform to the stately abode. Family money had been spent. A foundation laid. Looking back, Maya wondered if she could have done more to make this house their happy home. But how does one build sandcastles in the Taj Mahal?
They had moved into their new home lugging a corrosive disappointment that clung to the walls like mold. You breathed in the invisible spores. The rays of playfulness she loved about her husband disappeared under the debris of work and exhausting networking. He became obsessed with rising up the rungs at the bank, possessed with the aspiration of making his parents proud, desperate to be worthy of the mansion they had financed.
From the chrysalis of their matrimony emerged a dung beetle. Biting conversations about the mundane and mandatory, perfunctory kisses around guests, sparkless sex once a month, were the muck that provided the nutrients necessary for survival. Dark by day and weary by dusk, this home is where laughter goes to die, Maya thought to herself.
So, the girl said, tell me how your parents arranged your marriage? Did you have any choice in the matter? Maya let Sanjay do the talking.
She had had a long day at the Montessori school she worked at. The parent-teacher conferences were exhausting, but she enjoyed talking about her students—their small but significant achievements with the pink blocks, the abacus, and the golden beads. Conversing with involved parents, she understood why parents become overly invested in their children’s futures. Maya hoped she had the courage and grace to wean off of Sara when the time came.
An hour later, satisfied with the flowery false narratives, the interviewer finally left. Dinner—broccoli soup, chicken nuggets, and a day-old salad—was as dull as the effort Maya had put into preparing it. She stood at the sink, rinsing dishes while Sanjay was hunched over his phone, tapping away with characteristic ferocity. If only he saved some of that vigor for the bedroom, she wished. She looked over at Sara. The child looked bored, destructive.
Sara! Stop waving that ladle, Sanjay scolded, pausing after each word to insinuate a severe reprimand. You’ll knock over the wine glasses. The Baccarat wine glasses had arrived yesterday—an anniversary gift from Sanjay’s parents. You don’t want them to break, do you? Sanjay’s impatience grew in tandem with Sara’s self-soothing whines. She had no brother or sister for company, just dried-up grownups who had grown too much.
She’s just playing, Sanjay. You don’t need to scream at her.
First of all, I am not screaming, he hissed loudly. Second, do not interrupt me when I correct her.
Fuck you, Maya said in her head at the exact moment Sanjay thought it. Unspoken insults colliding in midair, crashing like crystal exactly where the hopscotch should have been. Sanjay picked up a wine glass. For a second Maya thought he was going to throw it. Against the wall? At her? Sanjay had never thrown anything in anger or hurt her. Maya stood frozen, anticipating a crash. Sanjay turned the glass over, rolling the stem between his fingers. He just looked at the crystal as if to find something, understand something, unearth something, she could not tell. All she knew was in that moment she felt sad for them. For him. All the long, grueling hours at work, all the soul-sucking networking. For what?
***
The article is out, Sanjay said, tossing the magazine on the kitchen counter.
Are you happy with it? Maya asked, wiping her hands on the kitchen towel.
I haven’t bothered to look at it. I don’t really care.
What do you care about?
What do you mean? Sanjay asked.
Exactly what I asked, what do you care about?
Are you trying to be funny, Maya? You know what I care about. I care about our family. I care about providing for us. For this, this picture-perfect life, he said, pointing at the unopened magazine. I care about selling this house and buying the new one.
The new house Sanjay was thinking of buying was in Bethesda, adjacent to the Croatian ambassador’s residence. It was large enough to accommodate Sanjay’s aging parents in a stately master bedroom on the ground floor. As the only son, the onus was on Sanjay to take his parents in and care for them until death did its part.
Sanjay’s phone rang before Maya could say something snappy about their next home.
How is that possible? We’ve taken such good care of this house! How can there be termites in the goddamn basement? Sanjay listened for a few minutes, nodding, and then hung up the phone. As far as he was concerned, minor fixes and sporadic therapy had held up their mansion and marriage steadfast over the years.
Inspection declared otherwise.
How is that possible, Sanjay screamed at the walls. We’ve taken such good care of the house for years. He paced up and down the confines of the kitchen. When they bought the house, Sanjay dismissed Maya’s proposal to open up the cloistered space. His screeching was contained and compressed in the enclosure with no release, no enchanted treehouse for escape.
Well, it is what it is, Maya said flatly.
That’s it? That’s all you have to say? Sanjay shirked. At least he wasn’t a grunter like his father; she had to give him that. What am I going to tell Ma and Pa? They are so excited about moving in with us.
Tell them the truth, Maya suggested listlessly.
Do you think this is a trivial matter? They are getting old, Maya. They are my responsibility. We need a master bedroom on the ground floor for them.
We need a hopscotch on the kitchen floor for us, Maya whispered. Sanjay stopped pacing and looked directly at her. What the hell are you talking about?
Maya took a deep breath. Had he really forgotten? Before she could fling anything hurtful in his face, she saw his jaw relax, his look softened. The hopscotch, he whispered, the treehouse. Maybe we should have… he did not complete the sentence. Instead, he just looked at her, held her gaze, and then looked away as if wafting into a memory. They stood there for a long while, unspeaking. A tear trickled down Maya’s colorless cheek. She wiped it away with a damp dishcloth.
Sanjay turned to look at her again. For a long minute, he just looked at her, not saying anything. His eyes were sad and bright all at once. Hey… love, he whispered, holding out a hand for her. She took it. I have an idea, he whispered, even softer, and gently pulled her towards him, closing the distance between them.