Motherland (7 page)

“I'm going to do that at school the next time the girls say something rude. It looks scary enough they might think I've put a curse on them,” she said.

“Brindha, don't say such things,” Reema auntie said, tucking Brindha's hair back into some kind of order. “You have to start out the school year thinking positively.”

“Speaking of school, I took the children to temple on their first day of school last week, and we still have some prasadam. Let me bring it for you,” Aruna auntie said.

“We probably should have gone today, too,” Reema auntie said.

“There's a Vishnu temple not far from here, if you want to go now,” Aruna auntie said, unfolding a banana leaf tied up in string. Inside was a sweet sticky crush of sugar and raisins and lentils. She put some in my hand ("right hand, right hand,” she murmured when I unthinkingly extended my left) and then in Brindha's and Reema auntie's. Aruna auntie herself had a bit, then licked the last of the stickiness from her palm.

“I don't think we have time,” Reema auntie said. “We're making the drive back tonight, so I don't want it to get late.”

“Shall I give you some tea in a thermos or are you stopping again?” Aruna auntie asked.

“We are stopping for tea in Ooty, so Brindha can change into her uniform there. But thank you,” Reema auntie said.

We got back in the car and Reema auntie sat in the front with the driver so Brindha and I could lie down together in the back and sleep for awhile to make the time go faster.

When I sat up again and looked out, everything was green and lush. We'd already gone through the first set of hairpin bends climbing Ooty, my aunt said. And while this summit was higher than the one we lived on, the roads were not carved as steeply or as narrowly. Also, it was cooler up here, chilly even. There was tall grass and soft curves of meadow near the road.

“Stop, stop,” Brindha screamed. She was peering out the window on her side.

“What is it, Brindha?” my aunt said.

“Look over there, see behind those trees. I think Sushmila Jain is there!”

“Who's Sushmila Jain?” I said. The driver had stopped short and leapt out of the car and was standing at the edge of the road. In the clearing outside Brindha's window, a herd of people came into focus. There were women wearing full peasant skirts and carrying baskets of vegetables on their heads. There were men wearing turbans and white kurta pajamas with their hands clasped behind their backs holding hoes. They lined up in two rows facing each other, not moving.

“What are they farming?” I asked.

Brindha and Reema auntie burst into laughter.

“It's a movie, Maya,” Reema auntie said. “Many movies are filmed in Ooty—that's all that's up here besides boarding schools and summer resorts.”

Brindha said, “That's Sushmila, over there, the tall beautiful one. Amma, can we get out of the car, please, so we can see better?”

“We need to get going,” Reema auntie said, even though she said this without herself turning away from the window.

“Just for one song?” Brindha asked. Reema auntie nodded and we all got out of the car.

The crew was trailing behind the actors and still setting up their equipment, and the director shouted for a run through of the scene. The two lines of men and women began a dance routine, the women dancing around their baskets, the men running off with them, the women running after the men, the men returning the baskets but only in exchange for a chance to hold their hands. Meanwhile, the star Sushmila Jain, who was wearing a sari rather than a peasant skirt, danced amidst her entourage, accompanied by a man with slick hair and black knee-high boots. They mouthed verses to each other, and then the peasant men and women mouthed the refrains. The songs would be added in later, but to help the dancers keep time, loud instrumental music crackled from two speakers. Sushmila Jain shrieked when one of the cameramen came up to her and dumped a bucket of water over her head. They started the dance routine over again, Sushmila's pink chiffon sari now stuck to her body, her long untied hair gleaming wetly in the sun.

“I guess the water was cold,” Brindha giggled.

Reema auntie snorted, “Honestly, these movies are ridiculous.”

“Jayalalitha wants Sushmila to join her party,” Brindha said. Jayalalitha, who had been a film star before becoming a politician, had become Chief Minister of the state of Tamil Nadu last week. The previous state government had been dismissed because it was suspected of aiding the Tamil Tiger cause. Jayalalitha and her party were suspected only of general corruption.

“I wish some of our film stars would just stay film stars and do what they know how to do,” Reema auntie said.

“Amma, won't you let me ask for Sushmila's autograph since she might even become our next Chief Minister?” Brindha asked.

Reema auntie snorted. “Definitely not. Let's go,” she said.

W
E TUMBLED OUT
of the car an hour later, in front of a trim white bungalow. It was a guesthouse of Sanjay uncle's company, where my aunt and uncle stayed when they made overnight trips to visit Brindha at school.

My aunt said, “It might be occupied by some other company people right now, so be polite. We'll just stop in and have tea and change.”

Reema auntie walked onto the porch, and a servant came to the door. He took our things and brought us inside. The sitting room had a high ceiling with two overhead fans swirling lazily.

“Do you know who's staying here right now?” she asked.

The servant said, “It is a Mrs. Sangeetha Ayengar and her mother, mem.”

“Sangeetha's here? How lovely, I didn't know. Please tell her she has some surprise visitors then. And I think we'll have our tea now—we're in somewhat of a rush.”

The servant came back with tea things, and then a woman wearing a housecoat floated into the room, hugging each of us effusively.

“God, I'm not even dressed, I was just napping, but how wonderful to see you, Reema!” Sangeetha auntie tried to smooth out the many creases in her housecoat. Her eyes were lined with thick black kajal that had gotten smudgy in sleep and, on her unusually sallow skin, gave her a haunted quality. Sangeetha auntie's husband had worked with Sanjay uncle some years ago.

“Brindha's so grown up, I haven't seen her in at least a year. And, Maya, do you know, I saw you last when you were such a little girl, three I think, living with your grandmother—you would hide in her sari folds when anyone new came to the house. Do you remember?”

I shook my head and smiled. I didn't remember her. I did remember being shy, not liking new people.

“How is Grandmother now, 1 hope she's keeping in good health? We all adored her in our old neighborhood.”

Reema auntie said, “She's doing well, she had some heart trouble last summer, and high blood pressure generally, but she's been living with us up in the mountains, and it seems to suit her.”

“My husband says that's one of the best postings, he's put it on his list for his next transfer. And my mother, too, is living with me, perhaps we will all be in the same place one day again.”

Brindha made funny faces at me over the top of her teacup.

“It's boring here, there are no kids to play with,” she whispered.

“Brindha, why don't you and Maya go get dressed in auntie's room,” Reema auntie said. “I'll be in in a minute.”

Brindha changed into her uniform, blue stiff cotton, with a white shirt underneath. And black buckle mary jane shoes with white socks. Reema auntie changed from a sal-war kameez to a sari and put on lipstick and powder and lined her eyes in black. I changed to a new salwar kameez, and wore the earrings that Brindha had asked me to wear, two big sparkling silver stars.

“I don't think this looks good with Indian clothes, Brindha,” I said. I undid the clasp to remove them.

“The girls at school will think it's cool. Trust me, Maya, okay?” Brindha said. “Don't you want to make a good impression for my sake?”

I thought of how I interrogated my mother on what she was going to wear before each swim meet she came to.

“And look, Maya, I brought your scarf,—I knew you'd forget it and I want you to wear it.”

“Brindha, that's not going to look right.” It was a red silky scarf that she must have taken from my suitcase. I often twisted it through my belt loops at home and occasionally wore it over my shoulder. I gave in and let her tie it around my neck the way she wanted, Cub Scout-style.

Sangeetha auntie had come into the bedroom too. “Reema, you almost let me forget, I was going to show you the fabulous necklace that new jeweler made for me. If you like it, ask San jay and then let me know if you want to meet him next time you come down here. I'll just get it.”

Sangeetha auntie brought from her closet a bright green plastic box. Inside on two pins lay a heavy gold necklace with paisley cuts.

“My mother has that same box, maybe she's been to the same shop,” I said. I had seen green boxes like that cluttering her dresser at home.

“This box?” Sangeetha auntie held it up. “These are just cheap plastic, all the jewelry stores use them.”

Reema auntie said, “Sangeetha, you should see the beautiful boxes Maya's mother brings me from New York, stores there wrap everything so handsomely, with ribbons and velvet and tissue, even if you've just bought a barrette.”

Sangeetha auntie did not look impressed. “With our jewelry, you aren't paying for fancy decor in the jeweler's shop or fancy packaging. You pay by the weight of the gold. Feel this.”

She took the necklace off the pins and put it in my hands. It was heavy, like a whole rollful of quarters from the bank.

“When I was your age, I had necklaces already, as fine as this, from my father and mother. But only now, after buying for our three daughters, now that they are married, have I accepted my first one from my husband. “

I hoped the collar of my salwar kameez covered the thin gold chain I was wearing. It was so thin it was more like a shiny piece of thread, really. Steve had given it to me last Valentine's Day. I'd never seen him so bashful before, and I was too surprised seeing him like that to be as appreciative as I should have been. He couldn't have known that in our tradition, necklaces are more important than rings, my mother would take off her wedding band to do dishes or check the oil in the car, but she never took off her wedding necklace. I wore my necklace almost all the time, sometimes at night I reached up inside my T-shirt to glide the tiny links back and forth between my fingers.

“I hope your mother has been putting away some things for your special day?” Sangeetha auntie said, holding the box open for me to put the necklace back.

“I don't know,” I said.

“You don't know? Well, what does your horoscope say? When is the right year for your marriage?”

“I don't know, I don't think I have a horoscope,” I stammered, looking to Reema auntie for help.

“Nonsense, everyone has a horoscope; your mother would have seen to it when you were born. Reema, what does her horoscope say?”

Reema auntie didn't look at me, “Actually, Maya doesn't have a horoscope, her mother didn't want it done.”

Not having a birth-chart, or horoscope, in India was like missing a basic appendage. Families commissioned a horoscope based on the date and time of their children's birth to guide them in every endeavor: what subjects to study, what medicines to take, what gods to propitiate, what husbands to marry. My mother had not made one for me, and I hated when it came up in conversation.

Sometimes I lied and made up a horoscope for myself, I knew what star I was born under, and I would just adapt the formulaic things I'd seen written in cheap Indian tabloids. But I couldn't lie to Sangeetha auntie, not with Reema auntie right there who knew the truth.

“Oh,” Sangeetha auntie said. She looked perplexed. “But then how will she marry?”

Reema auntie said, “Hopefully, we'll find a family who doesn't follow these things.”

“Oh,” Sangeetha auntie said again. She looked unconvinced and patted my cheek in a pitying way. “Oh, well, then 1 can't really help. But I'm sure you'll find someone suitable.”

W
E DROVE INTO
the carport at Helena's and were greeted by a line of tall girls, most wearing saris, some salwar kameezes.

“I can't wait to be in the upper school and not have to wear this stupid uniform,” Brindha complained. One of the upper-school girls was dispatched to take us to Brindha's hostel and introduce Brindha to her bunkmates for the year. There was silence among eleven watchful girls while the upper-school girl helped Brindha open her suitcase. A teacher checked off a list of requirements—three white shirts, two blue skirts, two blue dresses, two sweaters, one exercise outfit, etc.—and the girl held Brindha's clothes up for inspection. The teacher and the girl conferred over a few items, and when they were in agreement on everything, Brindha was allowed to put her things away in her assigned bureau.