Born Confused (41 page)

—So, what, he came by to ask you out or something? I said hopefully.

—Of course not, Gwyn sighed.—He’s a
professional,
Dimple. Anyways, he asked me if I had really been serious about wanting to be on the other side of the camera—that’s what I told him, you know, at HotPot: I wanna be in pictures, and the whole kaboodle and cat.

She had certainly been efficient those few moments on the sidewalk.

—Anyways, he tells me—get this: that he would
love
to work with me. That he would be
delighted
to get my input on the magazine. He says I’m their
target audience.

I was stunned. As she double-locked the double doors and we headed out, she went on to give me the d’s on a Central Park shoot she’d been asked to participate in at the end of the summer. Things were really picking up for her, and I wished I could get involved. But I guess they hardly needed another photographer.

—Wow, I said.—That’s great, Gwyn. Maybe I can come along and watch when you do the shoot?

—You betcha! She nodded, making the jackpot gesture.—This could be our ticket to real jobs, Dimps. There could be a
future
in this. You know how many people will be reading the magazine? Well, I don’t either but. But a
lot.
A lot of people read magazines. I could get discovered. And Karsh—imagine once Karsh sees my photo in it?

I didn’t want to tell her he already had seen (and loved) one of her photos, but being the kind of person who feels guilty about this sort of thing, it was already coming out of my mouth, which at these moments morphed into an independent state with its own currency, public transportation system, and village well.

—Oh my god! Why you didn’t
tell
me, Dimple?

—I just did. It, it was sort of a surprise.

For me, I didn’t add.

—Well, this is inspiring—my quest to be a suitable girl seems to be working after all! she declared.—Now I need to move on to the next step: the nosh. So I was thinking—you know the Lillian is leaving for a romantic weekend in the Hamptons with, you know, that little chap of horrors she’s been hanging with? Of course, that’s the night she was actually supposed to stick around for this mythical mother/daughter rain date, but who’s counting? You know, even when I’m famous I won’t forget her. So anyways, I was thinking of throwing a big bang at my house—like a sort of beat-the-heat housecooling party. Get it? Housecooling instead of warming. So here’s
the plan: I whip up an irresistible Indian feast to woo Mr. DJ—and to wow the other guests while I’m at it, you know, like our caf table posse and the Starbucks crew and all, but Shoshannah can’t make it because it’s her grandmother’s eightieth…

She’d already invited them?

—Thanks for mentioning it to me.

—Of course! said Gwyn, gallantly slinging an arm around me.—I wouldn’t not invite you! And Sabz and Kavs are bringing their henna kit.

—You invited Sabina and Kavita!

—I thought you’d be happy.

—Well, I’m happy, yeah, I’m just—

—Besides, they’re my only lesbian friends and I’m really proud to know them.

—They’re not toys, Gwyn.

—Exactly. And I want to show that to the world. It’s gonna be a great night, Dimple. There’s just one minor problem. I’ll need to borrow your—

—Entire wardrobe?

—Well, it’s a little more serious this time, said Gwyn. She squared me in the eye.—Your mother.

—My mother?

—I don’t know a thing about cooking. Actually, I’m meeting her today after work. Do you want to come, too?

—Where?

—To your house. You’re totally welcome. She’s gonna show me how to do a few dishes—I took total mental notes on what Karsh was digging that day at East Is Feast. Well, actually, I told her
you
wanted to learn these dishes for Karsh…so I guess you’ll have to come with me.

Now I was being invited into my own kitchen? And my mother,
with all her sixth sensory perception, hadn’t even been an itty bitty idlee suspicious about this request?

—Gwyn, I can’t believe how you just take over everything!

—Aww, Dimps, don’t be jealous about the modeling career, she said.—I’ll never forget my roots.

She pinched my cheek like my relatives do sometimes when they’re noting how I’ve grown.

—Proof? I got us both officially on the guest list for the big Flashball launch party in August—it’s for the Disorientation issue, “subverting notions of place” or something like that, and all the media bigwigs will be there. Once they figure out somewhere subversive to have it, that is.

Now I knew a way to get involved.

—Well, that’s a no-brainer, I said eagerly.—They should have it at HotPot—that’s a pretty subversive place, isn’t it?

We were at the end of her street, where it forked off towards my house on the right, stationward on the left. Gwyn had been about to take the train way, but turned back to me now instead.

—I mean, it’s all about subcultures, right? I went on.—And you can just tell that place is about to explode; it’s an undiscovered gem. Well, not undiscovered by Indians, but undiscovered by pretty much everyone else.

Gwyn gave a little gasp of delight and hopped up and down in place.

—You are so on! she cried. Her enthusiasm, and my own, multiplied as I spoke. My mind was suddenly percolating with ideas.

—They could even, like, project pages from the issue on that wall where they do the movie clips and videos of the crowd and all. And they could name the drinks after stuff in the magazine. You know, the way they did the Delhi Bellies. Like Wicked Mix of the East and Wicked Mix of the West and all that.

I was nearly hopping now, too.

—And of course, the cherry on top? I said giddily.

—What, what?

—Karsh should DJ it! I grinned.—It’ll pull in that mixed crowd he was talking about. He’ll get so much exposure he won’t know what to do with it.

I was thrilled at the idea of him reaping such a big gig.

—You are such the Phi Beta babe, Dimps! cried Gwyn.—That is a fantastic idea—can you imagine the smile on his face when he hears about it?

I was already imagining it as we said our goodbyes. I couldn’t wait to tell him. I couldn’t wait to see him smiling like that. At me.

When Gwyn arrived after her shift, my mother was to be found alarmingly attired in an apron that she must have purchased especially for the occasion; I’d never seen it around before. It was covered with clawing lobsters and a bisque recipe and hung stiffly past her knees.

—So I am not being invisible in the kitchen anymore, heh! she beamed, victoriously ushering us in as if into Betty Crocker’s inner sanctum.—Suddenly everyone is wanting my expertise, is it!

—It is, indeed, Aunty, smiled Gwyn.

Aunty? As they went to it I have to say I felt more than a little betrayed, lollygagging on the kitchen outskirts while they mixed and measured.

My mother usually cooked with her body, feeling her way through the proportions by how much weighed well in the palm of her hand or clenched between two fingers, guarding a discerning artist’s eye on the changing shades of the frying spices, an ear on the
maracas of the mustard seeds. She rarely tasted to test, her other senses were so well attuned. But today she actually cooked with measuring spoons and cups; odd, as on the blue moon when I’d ask her how to make something she usually replied with the mystical near-adage
You look and you see.
I supposed she was just making things easier for Gwyn and the upcoming shindig, which hurt a little. I tried to act like I was into it at first, but neither of them seemed to be taking stock. So I gave up and sat dejectedly down at the table.

My mother had tossed the East Is Feast menu out the South window and gone with a robust gust of Northern inspiration: In the course of an hour, a chicken was curried, a bhaji butter-fried, and basmati rice plumped with raisins and cashews into pulao. My stomach was growling like a vexed pup and it was torture standing by as my mother Tupperwared the vast majority of it for Gwyn to take home. She even created a sort of dubba for her—a spice box with the former pepper jars (instead of thali bowls) arranged in a dusky array that rivaled only her own, all the labels in all caps. She never printed; I’d seen her doodling script in
TV Guide
and book margins and calendars and birthday cards. And making up a spice tin seemed to me a strictly mother-daughter pass-the-message-through-the-generations genre of activity. She’d never made
me
one. Granted, we lived in the same house and I’d never shown any interest in cooking other than occasionally watching the Food Channel, but still. Who was she trying to set up with Karsh, anyways?

Gwyn exited, carrying the dubba like it was a piece of Atlantis, or Versace.

—Aunty, thank you so much for letting me sit in, she called fervently from the porch.—And Dimple, thanks a mill for cooking up the idea in the first place! Get it?
Cooking—

—Got it, I said.

We watched her descend the driveway, and as soon as she was out of earshot I whipped around.

—Mom! I can’t believe you did that!

—Did what? said my mother, all innocent-eyed as she latched the door in place.

—Made Gwyn a
dubba.

—What do you care? You are not keen, so why should you mind that I show somebody who is?

—It’s just. It’s like now you’re—I don’t know. It’s like you’re setting
her
up with Karsh. I mean, giving away your killer curry recipe—that’s serious business!

—So! Are someone’s eyes turning green, my dear? said my mother, smiling amusedly at me.

I was embarrassed and looked down, in case they really were.

And then she leaned into my ear.

—Do not forget I am Kshatriya, she said.—We are warriors.

I didn’t know what that had to do with it, but I nodded, still tileeyed. She’d already turned away to finish loading the dishwasher. And as she set the dials, she said one more thing, and in an unsettlingly ominous voice.

—And one bit of advice for this housecooling schmousecooling, she whispered, even though there was no one here but us.—Do not be tasting the chicken, beta.

I didn’t dare ask. The machine whirred into action.

The night before the party Gwyn called me up from the bathtub where she was in the middle of a beauty ritual prescribed in one of her old women’s mags: soaking in a color therapy bath and lighting candles and the whole shebang.

—Dimple, she said, and I could hear the water hitting her shoulder; she’d always liked sitting in the tub with the faucet running over one side, a liquid sari.—You’ve got to do me a favor. I told Karsh to go by and get you first because you need help carrying the pots—so you’ve got to fill a pot with something and, well, carry it. And make sure neither of you come over before eight o’clock, either.

—Why not?

—Just. Just do it. I don’t want him to catch me in the kitchen in the middle of things. But promise me you won’t be later than half past, either. I don’t want everything to get cold.

—Promise, I said.

The night of the party, on the dot, he did ring my bell (but then, he’d been ringing my bell for a while now). I’d had monarchs cruising my belly for hours before and had changed every quarter stroke of the grandfather clock, but then figured it was all a little foolish since he’d already obviously succumbed to Gwyn’s charms, and I reverted to jeans. Now, I just managed to grab a mega pot and go out to greet him.

—Hey, you, he said smiling from the porch.—Gwyn mentioned you might need some help.

He took the cauldron from my hands. But I’d forgotten to fill it with anything and now it felt a little silly, him holding a very manageable piece of no-stick and me nothing. So, in order to maintain Gwyn’s cover, I reached for whatever was nearest—and found myself gripping a bag of charcoal for the barbecue we didn’t yet own (my father had bought the briquettes under the false impression that we already had one, somewhere in that study that seemed to spawn more and more gadgets and appliances as the years went on).

—So this is a cookout? he asked, now taking the charcoal from me as well and thereby totally undoing the entire purpose of my grabbing it in the first place.

—Well, I guess you never know, I said.

My mother came to the door now and tried to inveigle Karsh into a feeding, as if he were a recalcitrant pony. He declined politely, saying he had promised to save his appetite for the fête.

—Just do not be eating too much, er, curry, she advised with a near-remorseful look in her eyes.

—Curry? Karsh asked.—I thought it was a barbecue.

—I do not
know,
my mother said very quickly.—I just have
a—feeling.
A—six sense.

She threw up her hands.

—I have nothing to do with this, she added.

My mother was acting very strange indeed.

Kavita and Sabina still hadn’t shown up, but since I’d promised Gwyn to be there on time, we headed off.

When we got to her dead end and were looping up the double drive, I saw that her house was unremittingly dark. At first I thought there was a blackout—but the neighbors’ lighting systems all the way through to the Bad Luck House seemed to be intact. I wondered if she’d run out on an errand.

I rang the bell anyways and Karsh kicked out of his chappals. I heard the chimes go off down the hallway, and then the door wedged a snitch open—still no light nor Gwyn in sight, but the space kept crevicing wider. So we stepped tentative into the eerily silent house.

—
Surprise!

The lights flashed on. And it took my eyes a moment to adjust to the crowded vision that greeted us: Bright balloons intermingled with familiar faces, arms laced in streamers as they waved. It was as if my life were passing before my eyes: cafeteria posse peeps, friends from the hood, coffeehouse crew, HotPotters. And in the forefront, Gwyn—grinning ear to ear, hair coiled in glittered-up braids on her head and decked out in one of my tiny sari tops and the airy ankleclinched pants from a salvar khamees combo. Thus attired I’d look like a midget Aladdin with a gender complex. But she was all genie.