Born Confused (19 page)

Streaks of restaurants lit up as if it were never too early to start your Christmas decorating, lights blinking even in the sun. Alleys
hectic with Hindi movie posters, the long-haired, elaborately dressed actresses half-heartedly running from men at their sari tails, brusque modern skylines oddly backdropping lush hilly foregrounds, sun and rain, all types of weather and foliage coexisting in cinematic harmony with close-up shots of the cast. A paan maker with black teeth rolling the icy thandak in betel nut leaves that my mother said my father used to hoard in his mouth like a hamster in India. Chai vendors ladling Styrofoam cups smoky with masala tea. Sweetshops smelling like nurseries with all the milk-based confections; in the windows pink mounds of coconut cutlets, iceberg slabs of burfee, and sticky sun bright coils of jalebi, a nearly glow-in-the-dark fried dough that your teeth would crack into, releasing impossible quantities of rosewater syrup; I could taste it through the window. I’d suckled on it in India, where it was one of the few things I could enjoy worry-free because it was so deep-fried no bug could survive the cooking process. I wondered for some reason if Karsh liked jalebi, too.

On a stretch of sidewalk with cheap giddy accessories and tops, Gwyn started snagging up goods left and right. And then I couldn’t hold back any longer, either—there was something here I wanted for myself. If I couldn’t learn to develop color with the vibrant scene before my eyes nothing would teach me.

At this point Chica Tikka was attached to my face like a new feature. And no sooner did she come on full force than the proof that Bollywood is in the blood did as well: An entire brood of wannabe film stars detached themselves from table and lamppost and brick and leaped, landing in dramatic poses in my viewfinder—these were mostly men, and sometimes they even blocked Gwyn out, unbeknownst to them (though they usually stood back in awe when they saw her, looking like some hallucinatory ivory-turbaned goddess).

We were now on a strip that must have been the somewhat
more expensive stores (gone were the socks-in-chappals, replaced by bronze and silver sandals). Gold stores raucous with thumbsmudged cases of bright yellow chains and earrings and black-and-gold mangal sutras, the marriage necklace, and with women already so adorned, nevertheless gasping deprivedly and crowing down prices like thrifty birds in a gilded nest, a few men waiting outwitted with their wallets outside.

Sari stores shimmered with silks the sheen of fish skin, bird wing, petal wet, crying iris, broken yolk, brushed tooth, oil slick. Men eagerly unfurled them from banners to display like enormous flags of unimaginable nations to the salivating clientele…then rolled them up, annoyed upon the “just looking only”s.

We ducked into one of these stores, one that seemed slightly funkier, not least due to the heavily hennaed salesgirl. Her hightop ponytail bobbed as she scooted around in her salvar khamees, but this one with great gaps in the fabric, revealing sorrel stripes of skin all across her back and midriff. Gwyn went to town, trying on all sorts of combinations and doing some serious strutting for my Chica. The salesgirl, Ajanta (so her tag claimed) even got into it, and helped her go Bollywood with her poses. I have to say, I was having oodles of fun—Gwyn was a real entertainer and the film would certainly be thanking me later. With my camera loaded up and in my hands and all this confusion of color and odor and touch around me I was just beginning to feel at home. This could be my place if I let it.

It was when we went outside that I noticed. I don’t know how I had missed them before, but now I stopped short when I saw the window mannequins. What was shocking was not the clothes they were adorned in, which were the choicest of the lot, rivaling even my birthday khamees in beaded and baubled embellishment. Nor were their poses unsettling—these were fairly typical: strutting girls
clustering in towards each other in self-conscious configurations, all too aware of being looked at, like pretty girls at parties. Nor the expected bindi and bangle, the slim smiles.

What was incredible and across the board with this flock of Indian-attired coquettes, these women dressed straight off my mother’s dream runway—was the fact that they weren’t Indian at all! Arms ivory as cameo pendants bent and beckoned, creasing into milky fists just a hair off scant hips. Lemonade locks, champagne curls, and on occasion V-8 manes hung in stiff styles of beyond-round-brushable perfection, framing the fair insouciant faces, the enormous vacant blue eyes. It was as if they’d been cast from a Gwyn mold. Even here. In Jackson Heights, Queens.

No one would believe it; I hardly did myself. I turned off the flash, switched to panoramic, and snapped a stretch of vitrine after vitrine and, between the last two encased mannequins, Gwyn, in nearly the same pose as one of them, hip out, fist on it, neck stretched like a proud inquisitive bird, other hand casually curled round the nape of her neck. She wasn’t mimicking them. It was one of her natural positions—the way her bones fell together when she relaxed. She owned it. Looking at her through the viewfinder I realized: In fact, she owned the whole place. There was only one queen here, and it was her.

When I turned a small crowd of onlookers had gathered around me, gazing at my object of focus, mostly men, though a few girls who might have been our age and a couple older women hung back, faces twisted in a tangy mix of disapproval, curiosity, and craving. But this time no one dared enter the frame of vision.

—Ye kya model hai! one of the Dominican hip-hop boys declared, catching me off guard. That certainly didn’t sound like Spanish. A Dominican boy fluent in Hindi? The world really was becoming a global village.

—You could say so, I said.

—I am knowing it! cried a grandfatherly man with admirable prowess through a sticky mouthful of paan.—I am seeing her in
Sports Illustrating
swimming suits!

—They think you’re a model, Rabbit, I called out grinning.—Give ‘em what they want.

And in so doing she gave me what I wanted, too. Through the lens it was a joy to see her pleasure; it lit up the place like a halogen. As soon as she noticed her audience she dropped her bags and did what Gwyn could do: Rather than come clean, deny it, tell us to talk to the hand, she began to vamp it up in her brand-new bangles and scarves and I Love New York T-shirt, posing, preening, vogueing. The street music created the soundtrack and I clicked away, even getting on my knees for a couple shots. In this little neighborhood it was as if we were hitting the big time; I felt like a pro and liked how it felt.

It took a while to lose our entourage after that, but following a zigzaggy route back to the train we managed to leap unadorned onto the express. Gwyn looked radiant, taking up an entire bench with her bags and parcels.

—Wait till Dilly sees me, she said.—I can be the Indian bride of his dreams.

—Wait till he sees you, I said.—The man is too lucky.

—Speaking of which! she said suddenly.—How was the meeting with your future husband?

—Frock, I thought you’d never ask, I smiled. But to be honest I’d forgotten all about it those moments with my camera.

—Well, why didn’t you say something then instead of just sitting there? she chided me.—So was he dishy?

—Total goober, I said.—In fact, I think the candy was named after him.

—I like Goobers. Come on—give me the d’s.

—Well, first of all he listens to the same music as my parents. In fact he and my dad own the same records.

—Your parents are even hipper than I thought, Dimps!

—No, no, no! I’m talking the Ice Age Top Forty. And he’s totally tight with his mom—he hugs her in public and didn’t seem in the least upset about her trying to organize his love life. He still
lives
with her—not like in the Village or anything cool like that.

Not like Julian, I was thinking.

—He even hangs out at NYU with her! I added when I got no appalled response from Gwyn.

—That’s
sweet,
Dimple!

—What’s sweet about it? Wouldn’t you just shrivel up and die? I mean, at
college,
where everyone’s so independent?

—If I could be seen in public with the Lillian to that extent I’d thank my lucky star. Where’s his father, by the way?

—Finishing up business in India or something.

—So he’s being the man of house. That’s chivalrous.

This was turning into a battle to make her see my point.

—Okay. Check this: He doesn’t drink when offered.

—Look at the pro talking! Come on—it’s a good move for scoring points with the ‘rents. And better for performance, if you ever get that far: one less cup, faster up.

Gwyn began to sift through her purchases.

—On the aesthetic front? she asked, now mooning over a teal angel-sleeved raw silk shirt.—Style?

—Zilch. Geeky. Chinos.

Gwyn wrinkled her nose.

—Pleated,
I added dramatically.

—Oh, I see what you mean. This could be a prob.

She contemplated a sheet of bindis.

—But nothing a makeover can’t take care of, she concluded, sticking one on.—Is he tall at least?

—Tall for an Indian. But not tall for a Dylan.

—At least your kids will have a chance at seeing over the counter.

—Kids? Gwyn, my eggs crack at the thought of him. Don’t you get it? We have nothing in common. It’s doomed. It’s like
Titanic.
Without the romance.

—I thought we agreed there was nothing to lose.

—Nothing to lose, yeah, except my mind. Let me put it this way: It was not a kamasutronic experience. I’d rather pick the lint out of my belly button than go through it again.

Gwyn giggled.

—Well then, she said.—Since your Bombay boy is out of the picture maybe I should mention someone who might be back in. Does the name Julian Rothschild mean anything to you these days?

—Julian? What about Julian? I said hopefully.

—Headline news: He told me just last night that he’s actually been feeling really bad about the whole Chimi’s thing, just bailing on you like that.

—He did
not!

—I swear on the Madonna de el ciudad de New York, she said, crossing her heart, and no fingers crossed.

Gwyn repacked her bags and slumped back against the slippery cushion of them. She sighed so contentedly I was surprised; she seemed so truly happy for me, for my renewed future with the filmic one. She closed her eyes, a little smile dancing on her lips.

—Did they really think I was a model? she asked.

We decided to stop for a mochafrappafiesta before jumping on the train and heading home. Gwyn went off to order and I sat guard.

She returned, setting down two mysteriously foamless cups.

—Chai, she explained.—I’m feeling inspired.

—You are such a suitable girl, I grinned.—Karsh would be proud.

—Karsh? she said, sipping through her teeth to keep her lipstick intact.—Oh, is that his name?

—Yeah. It’s Karsh. Um. Karsh Kapoor, I said. For some reason I lowered my voice. You never know who might be watching. Or perhaps, I thought, the nape of my neck prickling—it was because I actually
was
being watched. I looked up. Affirmative. Isn’t it funny how you can feel it? A certain someone was looking in this general direction. There on the sidewalk, navigating the yappy sea of dog walkers and scooterers and baby girls in high-tech strollers and fast approaching…was Julian.

I was getting all fireworked when I saw the specimen accompanying him and Dylan, who I now made out curbside: a honey-long glidey girl, an absolute stunner. Even from here I could see that: Fresh-tressed cornrows swung to her shoulders, a few magenta strands mixed in with the deep brown-black. She gleamed like polished onyx and a red denim minidress clung defiantly to her curvy compact figure. So Julian had already replaced me! Julian, who, unfortunately, was looking poker-hot. At least everyone else would say so.

—I thought he was solo, I whispered, hunching way down in my seat. Of all the Starbucks in the city, nearly two to a block these days, why did he have to pick this one? I’d never imagined we’d run into the Rudes here, but I should have realized that in New York City starving artists are at least two to a block as well.

—So did I! Gwyn replied.—I’m so sorry, Dimple. But don’t worry—just play it cool. You have nothing to be embarrassed about.

I heard the heavy push of the door opening and felt the heat skulk in, letting a slice of fresh, expensive air-conditioned air thunk out onto Seventh Avenue. From below my downcast lids I watched Julian amble on in. I contemplated the exit signs, but it was too late. He was waving.

—Hey, Gwyn! Fancy meeting you here at Fourbucks!

His voice was silly with surprise, even though I was pretty sure he’d seen us, or at least her, through the glass. And then, at last, he turned to me. His smile stuck on a little too long, strained his cheeks. I could feel my blackheads biggen and was certain a pimple was forming volcanically on the tip of my nose, that Rudolph the Red-Nosed stress spot always curdling just below the surface.

—Oh, uh, hey, Dimple, he said finally, going all fidgety for some reason.—How’s your stomach doing these days?

Was he going to humiliate me in front of his new flame, who was just pocketing her change from their cab driver and entering a step behind Dylan? Oddly, though, he actually looked like he gave a frock. But then, I suppose love can put anyone in a good mood.

—Uh, hi, I said.—Yeah, it’s all right, thanks for asking.

—I should have asked a long time ago, he said.

These dynamics were a little bizarre. I looked to Gwyn for a filler, but she’d already hopped up grinning and I could see she was about to do the salty pretzel around Dylan. But then a very perplexing thing happened. Julian’s love interest leaned in alarmingly close
to Dylan, her hand slithering with an almost audible hiss up into his hair to rake it. Her blue-black eyes went cagey on Gwyn and even her razzle-dazzle nose ring seemed to flare. Gwyn stared from one to the other, confused as I was, hanging back and trying to look as if she’d meant to hop up for another reason, like her chair was on fire.