By CHRISTINE CHITNIS
Special to the Times-Union

He hadn’t even made it down the aisle before the marital drama began.

“This is the worst place I have ever stayed,” sobbed my mother-in-law as she checked into the hotel I had chosen for her — and for our other 90 wedding guests.

Considering that she had grown up in the slums of Mumbai, this was a pretty harsh statement.

On top of the hotel fiasco, the plane ride had been stressful, the morning coffee served cold, the drive to the wedding location too long … and clearly I was to blame. She brought me, the mild, no-drama bride, to tears. I was completely freaked out, wondering what kind of family I was marrying into.

Did they expect a subservient daughter-in-law who would bend to their every whim? Was this going to be the reality of my cross-cultural marriage?

This was not how I had imagined it.

When I first met Vijay, I was drawn to his tousled black hair, tawny skin and gorgeous, deep brown eyes, but I quickly noticed a thin gold band on his right ring finger. Upon further investigation, I discovered that this charming, seemingly modern man was in an arranged dating relationship, entered with the understanding that it would lead to marriage. His life path, up to this point, had included a seven-year stint of monastic celibacy while living in the remote Indian state of Assam — not exactly conducive to dating.

Nearing his mid-30s, with the threat of bachelorhood looming before him, Vijay had asked his father to sound the alarm. In the Indian community, this means informing friends and family members that you have an eligible son on your hands. Shortly after the word went out, they received a response. But sparks and butterflies and all other signs of love cannot always be arranged, and in Vijay’s case, there wasn’t so much as a single stomach flip when he met his arranged match.

He persevered, imagining that perhaps love can grow and thinking that a man of his age shouldn’t be picky.
And the sparks did eventually show up, just not as his parents had planned.

This is where I come into play.

With my mousy brown hair, Midwestern accent and mastery of one lowly language, I managed to capture Vijay’s heart. We fell hard for one another, so much so that we were married six months after meeting. We shared common goals, values and hobbies, all of the things solid marriages are built on, but there was one thing that we did not share, and that was a common culture. I felt left out when conversations took place in Hindi or Bengali. I bristled when dinner conversations with our Indian friends inevitably turned to the hilarities of white culture.

I felt shame that my family knew nothing of India, its people or history. But I brushed it off when Vijay expressed concern. “We can form our own culture, the culture of our family,” I naively assured him.

But my hollow reassurances quickly tapered off. Our biggest issues, from the wedding onward, continued to stem from his parents. I felt that they tried to own Vijay, constantly barraging him with their needs. He was theirs. Like many Indian families, they held their son on a high pedestal. Daughters, especially daughters-in-law, tend not to elicit quite so much excitement. But I wanted to be noticed, included and appreciated as well. I complained bitterly to my husband, “Your parents haven’t even tried to get to know me. They have no interest in their beloved son’s boring [read: white] wife.” Vijay would listen and quietly remind me that I could also try reaching out to them. His words fell on deaf ears.

One month into our marriage, my mother-in-law was diagnosed with a rare form of leukemia, and her health went into a steep decline. We went to visit her shortly after her diagnosis and with Vijay’s words echoing in my mind, I made an effort to get to know her, asking questions about her childhood in India, her favorite foods, the difficulties she faced as an immigrant.

She knew her life was coming to an end, and she was no longer interested in petty squabbles. I found her to be a gentle, sweet and fascinating woman. Less than a month later, she succumbed to the cancer. I am grateful for those few days I spent getting to know her, days that strengthened my belief that acute feelings — of love and loss — could help me and Vijay to cross our cultural divides.

Shortly after her funeral, Vijay and I went out for curry. The dish seemed especially spicy that night and as Vijay watched my taste buds cry out for mercy, he quietly ordered me a lassi, a drink whose gentle, milky sweetness served to drown out the spice. As I sucked down the coolness, I glanced up at my husband, grateful for his understanding. That night, even if it was only at our small table, the mild and the spicy seemed to mix and, surprisingly, there was ample room for both.

Christine Chitnis is a freelance writer based in Providence, R.I. She is currently confronting her growing addiction to chicken tikka masala.