Wife [antikvár]

Dimple Dasgupta had set her heart on marrying a neurosurgeon, but her father was looking for engineers in the matrimonial ads. Mr. Dasgupta was an electrical engineer (he called himself a "high-tension" man) with the Calcutta Electric Supply Company, and lived in a narrow pink house on Rash Behari Avenue. His neighbors on either side were engineers. Dimple wanted a different kind of life — an apartment in Chowringhee, her hair done by Chinese girls, trips to New Market for nylon saris — so she placed her faith in neurosurgeons and architects. She fantasized about young men with mustaches, dressed in spotless white, peering into opened skulls. Marriage would bring her freedom, cocktail parties on carpeted lawns, fund-raising dinners for noble charities. Marriage would bring her love. "It will be a short engagement," Mrs. Dasgupta said. "Life is hard enough for our Calcutta boys without the added burden of a long engagement." Dimple was happy about that decision; she thought of premarital hfe as a dress rehearsal for actual living. Years of waiting had already made her nervous, unnaturally prone to colds, coughs and headaches. Wasted years — she was twenty — lay like a chill weight in her body, giving her eyes a watchful squint and her spine a slight curve. "Why are you worrying?" Mrs. Dasgupta often asked.