Free A Breath of Fresh Air by Amulya Malladi

quasi love with her, knowing her, respecting her before I married her, seemed wise. However, intelligent women were scarce and I couldn’t imagine spending the rest of my life with a bubbly little girl who had her heart set on a professor. The girl would have to be incredibly stupid, too, if she wanted to marry a middle-aged professor—our kind didn’t make a whole lot of money and I was thirty-one. Most young women wanted to marry the wealthy M.B.A. types or the doctors or the army officers. Professors were one of the last resorts for most girls and their parents.
    By the time a man reaches my age, people start wondering why he is still single. Maybe he is impotent! Maybe he is already married and isn’t telling anyone, and so on and so forth. It was a standard question people asked me: it started with “Where is your wife?” and ended with “Why aren’t you married?”
    Gopi’s wife Sarita had tried to marry me off and had given up. Sarita would warn me, “You will die alone, ever thought about that?” and I would tell her that we all die alone.
    Gopi and Sarita had an arranged marriage and, for the most part, they seemed content. They too lived on campus and I visited them often. The professors’ accommodations were decent. The roof never leaked (well, it did once), but they fixed it before the monsoon ended and the overhead water tank saved us from waking up at four in the morning to fill buckets of water—especially in the summer when water was scarce. To me it was a luxury to have a water tank that collected the water whenever the Hyderabad municipality released it. All my life, I remember waking up at strange hours, filling up every empty utensil we could find at home with water.
    The university provided me with a one-bedroom flat—a pigeonhole—because I was a bachelor. Gopi was elevated to a two-bedroom house because of his married status. I spent many nights in Gopi’s house, not because it was better than mine, but because Gopi and Sarita were the closest I had to family in Hyderabad.
    I had been leading a good life; when I met Anjali—it got better.
    I saw her again, two or three weeks later at Gopi and Sarita’s house. She had come over for dinner and I realized that Gopi and Sarita were trying to fix us up.
    They had it set up well, though they were not subtle about it. Sarita went inside the kitchen and refused Anjali’s offer to help. Then she called out to Gopi, who instantly left for the kitchen. They were probably peeking out of the kitchen door, watching the two of us. We both knew what was going on. I was trying to feel outraged but the amusement in Anjali’s eyes made me wonder if Gopi and Sarita were off the mark. I had expected she would be demure and eager; instead, she was casual and not at all eager.
    “If I’d known, I would have worn my nice salwar kameez ,” she said with mock sweetness, and I laughed.
    “And I would have worn something nicer myself,” I joined her, looking disparagingly at my worn black nylon pants and white cotton shirt that used to have blue stripes several years ago.
    “I am sure your parents wouldn’t want Sarita and Gopi to find a husband for you,” I said seriously.
    What were Gopi and Sarita thinking? Anjali’s parents would be extremely upset if they learned of Gopi and Sarita’s machinations. I didn’t even know if we were from the same caste. Not that it mattered to me, but it could matter to Anjali and her parents.
    “My parents wouldn’t care,” she said, which surprised me.
    “They must be very broad-minded.”
    She made a sound that was halfway between a genuine laugh and hysteria. “They would have a seizure if they knew I was getting married—” She paused gently and then looked into my eyes. “—again.”
    I slumped into my chair. “Oh, you are married. I think we misunderstood our friends.”
    She shook her head, biting her lip nervously. “I was married.”
    “I am so sorry. When did he pass away?” I was relieved to