Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood (9 page)

“We are almost home.” Thomas shakes me out of my wandering thoughts.

I’ve anticipated this moment all my life. Meeting my father, the person who made me. My hands are clammy and my mouth feels dry. This is, of course, nothing like I thought because my imagination hadn’t flown me halfway around the world.

The car slows in front of a fifteen-foot wall that hides most of the house behind it from street view. All I can see a small curved balcony on the second floor. On the other side of the road, the pitch black Arabian Sea roared. I have goose bumps on every inch of me. Even at this late hour, a group of people is gathered outside the gate. I wonder who they are. Tall, ornate gates swing open without a creak and the group rushes to get a glimpse inside.

Our car glides in. My heart beats faster than the speed of light. The gates close behind us.

The car stops in the driveway, and I step out of the car, clutching my backpack.

The front yard is paved with slate tiles, and a fountain stands quietly in the center. Red bougainvilleas pour from huge lush pots that line the wall. An ivory house with modern-looking stucco sits in front of me. It has an enormous, ornately carved front door with brass knockers. The outer walls are like a fortress keeping out the rest of the city. It feels like a completely different world.

The night air is humid and I’m dizzy with excitement. I’m barely aware of the flurry of activity behind me. Thomas runs to get my luggage, a man in uniform emerges and nods at me, and yet another man opens the front door.

He steps out—my father, in flesh and blood. Real, in this unreal moment.

The father whose absence has defined my life, whether I like it or not.

The string quartet soars.

I remember all the moments when I yearned to know him. At Doughnuts with Dad, at father-daughter dances, in family pictures, and across the kitchen table each evening for dinner. The wait is over. This moment will always divide my life into before I met my father and after I met him.

He stands with arms outstretched. He’s wearing jeans with a white T-shirt. “Abby!” he says.

For a moment I’m paralyzed.

Dad? Could this be happening? Or is he a hologram?

He comes toward me and I step into his arms. Maybe there should be awkwardness but there isn’t. Strangely I feel safe.

In that moment he becomes real. He becomes my dad. “Dad!”

Then he holds me at arm’s length and looks at me. His eyes mist. He blinks and brushes his eyes.

“Wow! You look like a clone of Meredith with dark hair.

You take me back years!” he shakes his head in disbelief.

Thomas and Shiva hover around. Dad thanks Thomas for meeting me at the airport, and he leaves. Shiva, I learn, lives with Dad.

We walk into the house. It’s unreal. The floors are lined with silk carpets, huge windows and cathedral ceilings make the space light and airy, and the sound of sea waves provide a natural sound track. Tall bamboo plants with their waxy leaves sit in gleaming bronze pots. Museum quality bronze sculptures of Ganesha and the Buddha adorn various corners. The beautifully blended décor is at once ancient Indian and modern. I’m no art dealer, but the stuff on the walls scream real!

I’ve never been to a movie star’s house before, and now the one I’m in belongs to my dad. Crazy! I’m certainly not in

my middle class, homey house in Houston anymore. I read that Mumbai is the wealthiest city in India and therefore a magnet for people seeking a better life. People from rural India come to Mumbai every day to try to find job. I’ve seen both the poor and the rich within minutes.

Before I can absorb anymore of the house, Dad says, “Abby! I know it’s late and you’re exhausted, but you have to meet your grandmother. She refused to sleep. She had to meet you.”

I’m surprised. It’s past midnight. I expected to see her the next day. I know she lives with Dad. Mom explained that in India elderly parents often live with their children.

Dad leads me through the foyer into the living room. An elderly woman sits in a cozy-looking armchair, watching TV. She’s dressed in a loose-fitting blue tunic that grazes her knees over matching loose pants.

As soon as she sees us, she rises to her feet. She holds a cane for support in one hand and the other hand reaches out to welcome me. Dad rushes to steady her weak, shuffling gait.

“Abby, I had to get better. I had to meet you.” Her English is deliberate and accented.

I’ve been worried that she might speak only Hindi. She lets go of her cane, holds my face in both her hands, and kisses my forehead. Happiness lights up her eyes.

“Grandma Tara, it’s nice to meet you,” I say.

“I like that name. Grandma Tara,” she repeats and smiles at Dad and me. “You say it differently than we do, but I like that, you know.”

“How do you say it?” I ask. When I say Tara, it rhymes with Sarah.

“Ta-ra.” She says it with a soft
T
and it rhymes with Lara. I say it her way.

Grandma Tara laughs. “No. Say it the Abby way.” Shiva steps forward. “You have to rest,” he says.

Grandmother waves him away. “Seeing my granddaughter doesn’t tire me,” she says in a regal voice. The she turns to Dad and they speak in Hindi.

“She says you are beautiful, and she’s glad she didn’t die,” Dad translates for me. He shakes his head and bursts into a huge guffaw of laughter. He raises his hands and claps. Genuine happiness pours out of his smile.

I shrug away fatigue. Oh, I am glad too!

Chapter 12

Weird trivia learned in Science: experts who know stuff say that human babies learn more in their first year than ever again in their life. I can argue with that. Like a baby who has entered a new world, I’ve learned new stuff every minute since I left home on my own. The sights, sounds, smells, tastes, Dad’s presence, and Grandma Tara’s hugs are all brand new.

“Abby, wake up,” I hear Dad’s muffled voice as he knocks on the closed bedroom door. “Your mom called to check on you twice already.” After all my traveling and family introductions, I crashed and slept forever like Sleeping Beauty.

I struggle to open my eyes and emerge from my sleep marathon. I’m in India—in Mumbai! And I wasted my first

morning sleeping! I jump out of bed and smooth my bedhead. I open the door, and Dad steps in. It feels a bit weird. He’s my dad, but he’s also a stranger.

“Abby, I hope you slept well,” he says. I assure him that I did.

“I want you to be careful to not drink any unbottled water,” Dad reminds me. “It’s not safe, and you can’t fall sick on my watch. Use bottled water to brush your teeth and don’t drink the water when you shower.” Then he smiles. “It’s good to have you here. I’ll see you when you are ready.”

“Give me five minutes,” I say to his retreating back.

Last night I was too exhausted to take in my surroundings, now I soak them in. Sunny, almost sheer cotton curtains hang from the windows, which have wrought iron grills on them. A window unit air conditioner hums. Everything is different. My bed is a twin and has a futon-like mattress covered with a pink and green paisley cotton sheet. Instead of a comforter, there’s a softer sheet more suitable to the weather. It’s not Houston hot, but the temperatures are in the low eighties and it’s still humid. Dad says I’m lucky; the temperature is cooler than usual.

There’s a wardrobe across from my bed, like the one in the Narnia books. The tiled floor feels cool under my feet. A patterned cotton area rug sits between my bed and dresser. The cream walls are concrete. There is a picture on the dresser of Grandma Tara, a young boy, and an older man.

I walk into the slate-tiled bathroom. I need more light. I can’t find the switch then remember seeing a panel with several unmarked switches on the bedroom wall just outside the bathroom. I’m sure which one turns on the bathroom light and I end up turning on the two lights and the fan in the bedroom before I find the bathroom switch. The toothpaste—neem flavor, which tastes woody—and the sandalwood-scented soap have a tropical feel. The water doesn’t gush out like at home but is more of a medium-speed stream.

As I step out of my air-conditioned room onto the landing, the temperature changes. The windows are open and the sheer curtains flutter in the breeze. The house doesn’t have central air.

A crow outside screeches, “Caw!” I can hear the gurgling of pigeons on the windowsills and the hum of traffic. The house sits on Carter Road, which faces the ocean. Across the street, no more than five hundred feet away, I can see craggy, coal-black rocks, which merge with the loud ocean. I step to the window and soak in the sight of the ocean hurling itself at the rocks.

“I love the waves. It’s why I bought this house.” Dad steps out of his room down the hall and joins me.

“I would rather hear the waves than the hum of my air-conditioning unit,” I say.

“In November, that may be true. I turned the unit on in your room so it felt more like your home.” He turns from the window to look at me. “My team is waiting for me. They come over quite often, especially when I am reading scripts or doing interviews or photo shoots. I want you to meet them.”

We walk down a spiral staircase with a polished wood banister that opens onto the impeccably decorated first floor. A group of people waits in the living room.

“This is Abby,” Dad says. “Her mom, Meredith, was my best friend when I studied in America. This is her first time in India.”

Smooth introduction, Dad. Back then Mom was your best friend? I guess you could say that! I feel a little twinge of annoyance but brush it away. I wonder who knows I’m Naveen Kumar’s daughter and who doesn’t. Obviously, not everyone does. I want my parents to hurry up already and tell the world, but the saner part of me knows it’s easier for me to not be the focus of media attention as I get to know Dad and Mumbai.

Remembering last night, I join my hands and say namaste. They all say hi.

Jeez, I’m going to get this right before I leave!

But Dad beams at my namaste. “Abby, you know Thomas,” he says, indicating his publicist.

I nod.

“And this is the rest of my team—Shankar, my hair and makeup whiz, Asin, my manager, and Salima, my gatekeeper.” I remember Salima. She is a worthy buffer—it took Mom weeks and multiple calls to get through her. Even the way

she drapes her long scarf around her middle says efficient.

I’m meeting my father’s peeps. I’m familiar with a few Indian names thanks to Priya; otherwise, I’d be totally lost. I still struggle to remember all the introductions.

Dad turns and talks to the gang. He switches from Hindi to English and back to Hindi. Now I get it, now I don’t, now I get it, now I’m lost!

It’s like
Hinglish
, a curious combination of Hindi and English like Spanglish is a combination of Spanish and English.

“
Hanji
,” I hear them say a lot between head nods. “
Hanji.
” They continue to do whatever they were doing before Dad and I arrived, and Dad takes me into the family room

through a corridor lined with pictures of his career. “What does
hanji
mean?” I asked him.

“Oh! They mean yes, sir.
Ji
is a respectful suffix.” “They said that a lot.”

“Did they? Sometimes I feel like all I hear is no or
nahi
!” Grandma Tara sits in a rocker next to a couch and a love seat, watching TV. Across the seating arrangement are

windows that look onto the backyard. Shiva sits with her. They both turn toward me with huge smiles.

“I go to see you room,” Shiva says slowly and then turns toward Dad and speaks fast in Hindi. The way Shiva says my name it sounds like he’s saying A-B. I’m probably saying some of their names all funny too.

Dad laughs. “Shiva says your grandmother sent him to your room a dozen times to check on you to see if you were awake. He also apologizes for his English.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for sleeping forever! Please tell Shiva that his English is miles better than my Hindi so he doesn’t need to apologize.”

“Abby, we’ll eat in an hour. I’m listening to a pitch for a new movie script today in my home office. I’ll leave you with Grandma Tara and Shiva. They’ve been waiting to take care of you. While you’re here, you can teach Shiva English, and he’ll teach you Hindi.” He reminds me to call my mom before it’s too late at night in Houston. Then he’s gone.

Mom answers on the first ring. “Abby, how are you? Did you sleep in? How was your flight? How is Naveen? How is his mother? Oh, Abby, it’s so good to hear your voice.”

“I’m fine, Mom, really I am. It’s so new and different though,” I whisper.

Mom’s questions soon become less frantic. Before we

hang up, we decide that she’ll call again in a couple days. She seems so far away. I miss her already.

“You hungry?” Shiva asks when I re-enter the living room. Grandma Tara worries that I haven’t eaten in too long.

“Airplane food!” she says with disdain. “It’s not fresh.” Shiva and Grandma confer.

Shiva is a small man, maybe an inch shorter than my five-foot-four. His wizened face has pockmarks I hadn’t noticed last night, and his white hair is thinning. He reminds me of a taller, thinner Yoda.