Fiction: An older Indian man wants to marry a Japanese woman, but she sets an unusual condition

I’m not sure if I qualify to be called a much-married man. I’ve been married twice, and both times it ended in disaster.

My first wife, a white American blonde with an hour-glass figure, was money mad – the greedy, materialistic bitch. No matter how much I earned, it wasn’t enough for her. Within two years of our marriage, she decided that for a woman with her looks and figure my earnings weren’t enough. She dumped me, and ran off with a Texan with oil interests.

My second wife, whom I married five years later, after the wounds from the first had healed, was of Gujarati Indian stock, like myself. Nevertheless, she cheated on me with a friend less than two years into our marriage. It wasn’t a one-nighter; she’d been having it off with him for a period of months before I found out. I’m not the forgiving kind, and it was the end. After the second divorce, I thought I was finished with marriage, though not with women. I had stuck to this resolve and been single for the past fifteen years. And yet, after having known Katsui for barely three months, I started to entertain thoughts of a third marriage.

I had met her only half a dozen times, and had experienced no physical intimacy with her beyond the occasional hug and kiss, but I knew that she was the woman I wanted to be with for the rest of my life. She was younger than me by almost two decades, so I didn’t think I had much of a chance, but one evening after a late candlelit dinner at one of the restaurants that had a view of the Bay, with the soft notes of a violin playing in the background, I proposed to her. She didn’t seem at all surprised. And, for my part, I was both surprised and encouraged that she took my proposition in her stride.

She didn’t respond to me at once, but sat quietly, her eyes downcast, and apparently concentrating on her miso soup, but I knew she was tossing the idea around in her mind. After we had finished dessert, which was a greenish Japanese ice cream – her favourite, and one that I pretended to enjoy, she said softly: “I like you very much, Mohan. Age is not an issue with me, if that is your concern. I could certainly consider marriage with you, but I have a condition.”

A condition?! My heart leaped at her statement. Surely I could meet with a simple condition. As someone used to negotiations, I noted with guarded optimism that she had used the singular. “You have to eat whatever I allow,” she said, “and not eat what I forbid you. Is that too difficult for you?” Seeing the nonplussed expression on my face, she went on to explain that American men ate all the wrong things, and led very unhealthy lives in general.

“We have an average life expectancy of 82 in Japan,” she said, “which is far higher than what you enjoy in your country. I would like you to live long and to be healthy. Even if you were not my husband, but more so if you were.” She pursed her lips, and then made a face. “The way you are going now, you won’t live long. You may be of Indian origin, but have very unhealthy eating habits – like most Americans. All that fried stuff: eggs, sausages, bacon. My god! I’ve seen what you have for breakfast. You’ll have to give up all of that.”

I said that I was happy to accept her condition.

“If you eat what I tell you to eat,” she continued with a sly smile, “you’ll lose a lot of weight – and that is also important to me.” I was taken aback at this remark, and a little offended, because I believed I was in better shape than most of my contemporaries.

“You’re good for your age,” she conceded, almost reading my mind, “but not good enough for me. You have to lose a lot of weight, and if you start eating what I say, you will lose it.”

“How are you so sure?” I objected. “I actually keep a close watch on my calories.”

Katsui explained that she knew of many Japanese men who had gone to live and work in the States and had become obese. These same men started to lose weight within months of returning to Japan. It was the Japanese diet and lifestyle.

“I will eat whatever you say, sweetheart.” I pressed her hand earnestly. It would be a small price to pay, even though I am a person who loves his food very much.

“There is one more thing,” she said, her face turning a shade of red, as if she were embarrassed about what she was going to say.

Excerpted with permission from Trading Flesh in Tokyo: Nine Short Stories and a Play, Rajesh Talwar, Bridging Borders.