Born Confused (15 page)

—What’s different?

—Just…your…
way.

—I don’t get it, I whined.—You get to wear that, but I have to dress like some leftover from the Stone Age?

—Dimple, one day you will understand, said my mother. But I wasn’t so sure. When was this much-talked-about day when the flash would suddenly go off in my head and I would say,
Ah! This is why I eat all my vegetables, eschew secondhand clothes, and don’t talk to strangers!

—So I’m looking that good, heh? she grinned.

—Yes! I said.—It’s embarrassing. Why do I have to look all traditional and you get to be so modern? I mean, come on, isn’t it the other way around?

Then I got it. Sort of. I had a feeling my answer was in my question, though I didn’t know quite how to explain it.

—Enough yak-yak, said my mom.—Now please give me a pleasure in this life and get changed. It is such a lovely khamees—Japanese fabric, of course, and all the fashionable girls will be wearing it at Garbha this year; the salesgirl told me herself.

I didn’t move. But she did, plunking her fists into her wraparounded hips.

—Dimple Rohitbhai Lala, she said, dropping the sales pitch.—Just put the damn thing on.

My mother seemed a formidable opponent with her new Goth look. And I was exhausted. So I did as I was told. In any case, they could dress me up, but they were definitely not making us go out.

Of course, everything was ready well ahead of schedule, so we retired to the living room. My father was now in the rather maroon and certainly daring suit he wore to give speeches at the hospital, no tie—“to keep it casually elegant,” said my mother, something she’d seen on a wedding invitation once (not an Indian wedding, that was for sure). The three of us sat stiffly as if we’d been starched and then slipped into our outfits. As if for a portrait. I felt ridiculous in my Arabian Nights getup—like I was about to embark on an all-trick notreat Halloween.

Let me tell you something about our living room. This term was false advertising taken to the max. I didn’t understand why it was
called this, as (a) we never went in it, and therefore it was far from “living,” and (b) with the nearly ninety percent of all our Indian possessions that had taken up residence there, it was jam-packed (as in, no “room”). These lived together in not so perfect harmony with a few American items, such as the faux leather couches creating a corner at the rosewood statue of an Indian classical dancer in a jiglike pose, part of her shoulder chipped from shipping, breasts honeydewed over the protruding belly. A pastel painting of boats in a Cape Cod harbor—which my father bought because it was so “pleasant”—stared a hand-sewn Rajasthani mirrored wall hanging in the face with quiet menace, the kind implemented in TV commercials for female douching products. On the elaborately carved writing desk serving and lobbying tennis player figurines proclaimed World’s #1 Dad and World’s Greatest Tennis Player (Father’s Day gifts from me when I was little); the cut-blood green-stippled ashtray I made and glazed in art one year, even though smoking is anathema in the house (or out), teetered on the edge of a teak table inlaid with elephants entwining trunks. And dizzyingly the partially glassencased sandalwood chariot with Krishna explaining the Gita to Arjuna perfumed the air beside the wildly untuned piano.

My mother was squinting at my face now, as if my eyebrows had disappeared or something. She snapped her fingers.

—I know what’s missing, beta! Why don’t you put a bindi on?

—Mom! Why would I put a bindi on? Aren’t I looking B.C. enough?

—Why do you put it on for artsy wartsy boys and not for a nice Indian boy? she said.

She had me there.

—What did he ever do to you? she continued, striving to look wounded.

He did nothing
for
me already, and he wasn’t even here yet. And he would certainly never do anything
to
me, I was about to retort when the bell rang, firing off like the start to a boxing match. In one swift move my mother unpeeled her bindi from her forehead and pressed it smack in the middle of my own.

By swipe two/ring two a dupatta unraveled on my shoulders and my mother was wrapping it around me. By ring three my father was already ushering our guests in the door, and I could hear a woman’s voice smoky like a shot cannon.

—Bloody bollocks it’s good to see you, Rohitbhai! Getting a bit paunchy around the middle, old fellow, but as adorable as ever! How long has it been? No, don’t tell me.

A muffled exchange followed; I couldn’t hear my father’s response to this astoundingly indelicate greeting. Then I could see them, shadowly approaching in the hallway. I tensed, preparing myself.

In walked The Boy. My mother lunged forward to greet him and for a moment I worried that she would tackle him and pin him to the ground and make him swear never to leave us. But she restrained herself at the last moment, like a car suddenly braking, and lunged back, extending her hand in greeting.

—And you must be Karsh! It is such a pleasure to meet you.

And he—get this!—put his two hands together and said, in a faintly accented voice:

—Namaste, ji.

Eek! That was about as far from a
Whassup
as you could get on the audible greeting spectrum.

My mother had told me namaste means
my respect to you.
But my father said it was just easier to put your hands together than always having to remember to shake only with the right in India (the
left was used in place of the Charmin, or, as he put it, “for daily ablutions”). His translation of the prayering palms: You don’t touch my hands, I won’t touch yours, and everyone will be happy.

And I was certainly going nowhere near this boy’s hands, or any other part. He was nothing to write home about (we were home already, but still): He was tallish for an Indian guy, but pretty average for an American. He wore a pair of chinos (pleated!) and a loose white shirt that had definitely been made in India. If he had a marital ad, it would have said this: Strikingly average guy seeks fashion consultant. Average height, average weight, average features (save the brows, which were bushy and close to his eyes, giving him a glowering look). Average style sense—okay, the Nikes were slightly on the cool side of average, being the ones with the boingg and a racy red, but I quickly wrote that off as trying too hard.

Vaguely more interesting was the woman beside him. Duncolored flats. A pair of crisp khakis (what was it with these people and khaki?), belted in tight around a dragonfly waist. Pin-striped oxford, behind which a string of brown acornlike beads hung. Bob of black hair gone wack with double cowlicks. One cowlick was almost working for her, though, and swung a solidly silver chunk of hair across a side of her roundish face, which was balanced on a surprisingly delicate chin. Her eyes were as merrily intent as the squirrel with the nut. And she was now focusing them on me.

—Dimple, I’d like you to meet Radha, said my mother.—Radha, this is our daughter, Dimple.

No namaste for me; I made a point to shake Radha’s hand. Her grip was swift and strong and she pumped my hand once as if drawing water from a well. Her nails were unpainted and tidy, the whites beginning low down on the pinks, a sure sign of a one-time biter. This detail pleased me for some reason.

—Dimple, it is a most wonderful pleasure! she smiled brightly.—And this is my son, Karsh.

—Hi, I said, shoving my hands quickly into my pockets. Karsh had extended one of his, and it hung now uselessly in the air before finding its way back into his own pocket, where it dug deep. Then he pulled it out in a quick fist and said:

—Once, twice, three—shoot!

Dork! I just stared at him.

—Well, hi, Dimple, he said, finally. One side of his mouth was up in a smile, as if he wasn’t really sure how he felt.

—Hey, I said.

—Dimple, aren’t you going to show everyone in? said my mother, which seemed odd, considering we were all in by now, crowding the entry to the living room as if blocked by an invisible bouncer.

—Well, here we are, I said.

—Great place, said Radha.

—Come in, come in, said my father.—Make yourself at the home.

My mother made a great show of taking off her shoes before stepping back into the living room (though they’d been on a moment before), which she does sometimes to encourage non-Western guests to do the same. But there was no need to hint with these people. Karsh had already boingged out of his sneaks and Radha kicked off her mules. My father placed all the footwear on the porch with ours, and then we were all barefoot and stagnant in the living room.

My parents sat on the sofa, coy at opposite ends, politely leaving room in the middle for whoever dared join them. Nobody did. I took the love seat, then immediately regretted it, wrought as it was with
implications, but much to my relief, Radha bounded over and joined me. Karsh headed towards the piano.

—Oh, no! my mother cried.—Not the bench for you, Karsh—please, come sit here and be comfortable.

—I’m fine, Aunty, said Karsh, straightening his spine as if to prove it.

—No, no, I will not have this. You know the guest is god in an Indian household. I insist.

Karsh smiled that half-smile again, where I couldn’t tell if he was pleased or teasing, and went over and sat between them. My parents must have been about to pee in their pants for joy: Here I was, cozily sardined in beside my future mother-in-law; there he was with his future folks. And the two of us, face-to-face over a replete table. It couldn’t have been more perfectly orchestrated if there had been place settings.

A small silence rose up into the room, which my mother immediately and nervously broke.

—Eat, eat! she cried, leaping up and whirling around the table as if casting a spell. She carefully chose the fattest juiciest pakoras for Karsh, scooting them onto his plate, and the next best for Radha, and then whatever might be left over for my father and me. Finally, the overfrieds went into her own dish.

—Sit down already, Shilpz, said Radha.—We’re not invalids, my dear, we can help ourselves. This is just a casual little
snack,
right? Nothing fancy schmancy—you said so yourself.

My mother thunked down sheepishly, looking uncomfortable, as usual, being still. Her hands twisted in her lap as if she were knitting.

—Now that’s better! said Radha.—I can take a good look at you!

She cocked her head.

—Did you change your hair or something?

—No, said my mother too quickly.

—It looks…reddish.

—It’s always been like that, said my mother.

—I never noticed back home, said Radha.

—The summer sun here brings it out, said my mom.—Karsh, beta, kachori?

—Versus the sun in India? said Radha.—I must be going colorblind. I didn’t even notice in CVS the other day. In any case, it looks smashing.

—Um, thanks, said my mother. She was looking a lot less Goth. She gestured now to Radha’s silver chunk.—And
your
hair’s changed, too.

—Indeed, I’m going grey as a geezer, said Radha.—But I quite like it. My son here refuses to let me dye it.

—It shows off her tan, said Karsh, smiling.—And the blessed day it goes all white maybe people will stop confusing her for my sister. It gets kind of embarrassing when we hang out at NYU.

—They confuse you for his sister? said my mother.

You guys hang out at NYU?
I thought, but what I said was:

—They do that all the time with us, too.

Silence the sequel ensued, which made my father scratch his leg.

—So! he said.

—So! said Radha.

—So, said my mother.

It sounded like part of a rap. I nearly wanted to join in with a
So! Yo! Ho!

—So tell us what you’ve been up to, Shilpa! It’s been a long time.

—No, no, you tell me what
you’ve
been up to, Radha! said my
mother with exactly the same intonation. She had on that fixed smile that made the words whittle through her teeth.

—Oh, you know, same old ob-gyn deal. I’ve delivered so many grandchildren at this point—maybe one of these days I’ll have my own?

She looked twinklingly at Karsh, who rolled his eyes.

—And I’m doing some volunteer work with Shakti—that New York shelter for Asian women who are victims of domestic violence. It’s really a fantastic group.

My mother nodded politely. Radha leaned back and popped an entire pakora in her mouth.

—And you? she said in the middle of full-on mastication.

—Oh, you know, said my mother, tittering nervously.—Keeping busy. This and that. I don’t know where my day goes, I seem to always have so much to do.

She had a funny tight look on her face, like when we run into the neighbors in the supermarket, or see friends with not-so-cute babies.

—But enough about me. And anyways, Dimple keeps me busy, don’t you, beta? You know what it’s like with a daughter.

—No, I don’t, said Radha, swallowing the last morsel and smiling broadly.—But bloody hell, I would very much like to.

She stage-winked me, biting down on an imaginary carrot on the winking-eye side of her face. Then she picked up the tray and handed it to me.

—Laddoo?

I took one, just to have something to hold on to. The milk sweet rolled heavily, smoothly in my palms.

—So I understand your field of study is the computers, Karsh? said my father. Karsh nodded, confirming his status as Strikingly Average Boy Who Is Also Computer Geek.

—Is it the software you are doing? my mother joined in, venturing into unknown territory.

—I do 3D renderings and graphics. And I’m trying to squeeze in as much time as possible on midi and sound production, too.

My parents nodded as if they got it. Me, I’d dropped the compass.

—So far so good—I’m really enjoying it all, he went on, like I really gave a frock.—There’s still time to change my mind, but I doubt I will. Technically, I don’t have to decide till next year.

—By which time I will have lost my baby to New York City, sighed Radha dramatically.—In just a couple months, in fact.