The Hindi-Bindi Club (11 page)

W
hen Yash comes home, he tries to keep the mood light, easing into things with Kiran. She proceeds with the same caution. They are two porcupines in a fragile soap bubble, afraid to get too close. That evening at the dinner table, we three sit together for the first time in more than five years.

“Mom? Dad?” Kiran speaks first. “Here’s a crazy idea…What would you think about me…potentially…”

When she doesn’t finish, I glance up to see her pushing food around on her plate. From the corner of her eye, she watches her father, who’s occupied with his eggplant
bhaji
. Deftly, he mixes milk, rice, and eggplant with his agile surgeon’s fingertips.

Kiran’s never been much for rice, preferring to eat
bhajis
and
daals
with
chappati,
pairing her bites just so. I prod her, “Potentially what?”

“Um, moving…to this area…when my contract’s up?”

I suspect this isn’t the question she originally intended, but I can’t contain my joy. “We’d love it! Wouldn’t we, Dad?”

Yash just took a bite. He stops chewing, looks at me, then Kiran. With a casual nod, he drops his gaze to his plate and resumes eating. “That would be nice,” he says. “Better late than never. Meena,
dhai,
please.”

I reach for the container of plain yogurt, spoon some onto his plate.

“So, while we’re on the topic of better late than never…” Kiran says.

“Bas,”
Yash says. Enough.

I look at Kiran, waiting. Yash keeps eating.

She clears her throat. “What would you think about me, um, having a semi-arranged marriage?”

My mouth drops open. I snap it shut. Swallow.

“Ten years too late for that,” Yash says.

With my foot, I nudge him under the table.

He grunts.

“Kiran? Did you mean…? Was that a joke?”

“No joke. I’m serious. Is it a possibility or not?”

“Not,” Yash says.

I nudge him again, harder this time.

“What, Meena?” He makes a helpless gesture toward me. “She asked a question, I gave her an answer. Ten years ago, she had her pick of boys, all good boys. We always told her it would be better, easier for the families if she married a nice Indian boy. Someone like her—born here, with the same background and values. Look at Vivek and Anisha. Her brother listened to us, but did Kiran? No. She said all Indian boys felt like cousins to her. She said we were too conservative,
narrow-minded
. She said it was her life and her decision whom to wed.

“Fine, we certainly weren’t going to force her. We aren’t
that
old-fashioned. But did she choose wisely like Preity? Or Rani? No. And if we didn’t approve, too bad. She didn’t give a damn what we thought.
Now,
when she’s messed up her life, when she’s too old, when she’s divorced…
Now
she comes to us. What can we do
now
?
Jyacha haat modla to tyachaach galyaat padla
.” A Marathi proverb, meaning: One who breaks his arm must carry it in a sling. He shakes his head. “She’s leftovers. All she can get is leftovers, if that.”

I feel sick. Want-to-keel-over-and-vomit sick.

Our daughter sets her jaw in a steely line, wads up her napkin, and tosses it onto her plate. “On that encouraging note…” She shoves back in her chair.

“Kiran, wait.” I reach across the table. “Don’t leave.” When she bolts, the familiar, metallic taste of fear fills my mouth.

I remember five years ago when she stormed from the house after a fight with her father. After confiding in us: She’d caught her husband with another woman and filed for divorce.

“Did he ever raise a hand to you?” her father had asked. Learning no, he’d looked visibly relieved and advised working things out. But Kiran was adamant: Their trust was shattered, the marriage was over, she wanted out.

“Just like that?” he asked.

“Just like that,” she said.

Yash’s face twisted with disgust. “These American kids,” he said. “No respect for family. You live in a disposable society. Bored with your clothes? Throw them out, get new ones. Your electronics and other luxury goods become outdated? Throw them out, get new ones. Dissatisfied with your marriage? Throw it out, get a new one. It’s all the same to you, isn’t it? You have so much, yet you’re never satisfied. You obsess over what you
don’t
have. You want it all. You believe it’s your right. You think only of yourself, your own happiness, and nothing of duty. Duty to family is an oxymoron here. Family is optional. You’re spoiled. Selfish. Self-gratifying.”

And then there was Kiran. Kiran who never lowered her eyes or her neck. Kiran who stood with her arms crossed, jaw cocked, and fire blazing in her direct gaze. “Don’t hold back, Pops. Go ahead, tell me how you really feel. Respect doesn’t apply to subordinates, does it? And on the subject of double standards, God forbid if the tables were turned and
I
was the unfaithful one and
Anthony
wanted to divorce me. You’d say I deserved it, wouldn’t you?
Wouldn’t you?
”

I wanted to gag them both and send them to opposite corners to cool off, but before I could calm either of them down, Kiran packed her bags, slammed the door shut, and left without saying good-bye.

I will
not
let that happen again.
I will not.
I stand, my head swimming with the abrupt motion, ready to referee. “Please don’t leave,” I say again, glaring a warning at Yash, who keeps his mouth shut this time.

“I’m not leaving, Mom.” Kiran gives a tight smile. “I’m just going upstairs. I seem to have lost my appetite.”

I’m relieved, but numb, watching as she takes her half-eaten dinner to the counter.
R-r-rip.
She tears off a sheet of foil, covers the plate, and puts it in the refrigerator. Yash resumes eating. After Kiran goes, I sit.

“Meena,
dhai,
please.”

I don’t move.

“Meena? Please may I have more
dhai
?”

I stare straight ahead at Kiran’s vacated spot. Yash sighs and reaches across the table; I move the container of yogurt out of his reach.

He slumps back in his chair. Sighs. “Okay, what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?”
I echo. For an otherwise brilliant man, he astounds me with his blind spots in relationships. “
This
is how you try to get along with your daughter?”

He shrugs. “When there’s a difficulty, she falls. When not, she goes on jumping,” he says in Marathi, an expression meaning Kiran humbles herself only when she’s faced with a problem she can’t solve alone, otherwise she’s independent.

“And every time she falls,” I reply in Marathi, “you kick her.”

“I don’t—! I—!” he stammers in English, then appears to question himself.

“Yes, Yash,” I say softly, also switching to English, “you do. You kick her when she’s down.”

He scowls. “What was I supposed to do? You tell me.”

“You can’t just say whatever you want, however you want.”

“Why not? I’m her father. If I don’t say these things to her, who will? She
asked
our opinion. Did I lie? Did I say a single thing that wasn’t true? We have to be honest, don’t we?”

“Kamaal aahé!”
Unbelievable! “You keep doing what you’ve always done, and you’re surprised when you get the same results you’ve always gotten.”

We mix languages midsentence, sometimes midword, tapping all our available vocabulary in our attempt to
best
convey what we mean. It isn’t always possible. My thinking is different from my children’s because of culture, my husband’s because of biology. What’s obvious, simplistic, to me isn’t necessarily to them. And vice versa.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Yash says, frustrated, and it dawns on me he
really
doesn’t know. He excels in complex, delicate surgery but flunks at taking a person’s emotional pulse.

I used to get so fed up, having to explain myself over and over, trying to be understood. Often, I just gave up. What was the point? They obviously weren’t going to understand
any
words in
any
language. I might as well have been talking to the walls. But this year, in therapy, I learned how to take something big and scary, something overwhelming, and break it down—one, two, three—into small, manageable chunks. Much easier to chew on. Digest. Let go. That’s what I must do now, for my husband.

I take a breath, find my center, soften my voice.
“Aho…”
I respectfully ask him to listen and tick off specifics on my fingers. “One, I need you to
please
avoid criticizing Kiran—”

“But—”

“Even if you think it’s constructive. It doesn’t help her. It only pushes her further away. Two, if you feel the need to vent, to get something off your chest, then please vent to me, not at her. Three, if you want a better relationship with our grown-up,
American
daughter, you must learn to balance honesty with diplomacy.
Compromise.
”

“In other words, censor my speech.”

“If that’s how you define it, yes.”

These are the words his supervisors used on his performance evaluations. Words that made sense of what previous supervisors had tried and failed to convey. Words that
finally
communicated their intended meaning.

Yash makes a face, as if sucking on a wedge of lemon. “I shouldn’t have to censor myself with my children.”

And I shouldn’t have to
verbalize
my feelings. My needs.
That’s what I always thought, before therapy.

“Right or wrong, the fact remains, you
do
have to,” I say. “Our ways don’t always work, certain ones never will—not here, and not with those born and brought up here. Please, on this, with Kiran, will you try a new way, for me?”

“It’s not so easy, Meena.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, the way he used to when he removed his glasses—before contacts, before corrective vision surgery. “I’m an old dog. How can I learn new tricks?”

“You can if you try. Just
try
.”

“Okay,
baba
. I’ll try harder.”

“Thank you.”

“But not tonight. Tonight, I’ll go back to the apartment—”

“No! Yash—”

“Yes, Meenu. I’m making things worse here. You know I am. You and Kiran need to spend time together, just the two of you.”

He’s right, but I’m nervous. I dread having to tell Kiran at all, more so by myself.

Yash lays his left hand on my arm. His touch is strong, capable, reassuring. “The worst is behind us. Remember that.”

I nod, but in the distance, I hear the rumble of thunder. The monsoon approaches. One prays for the best, but one never knows for sure what
is
best….

I remember how as a girl, I watched my mother attend to my father’s every need, from serving his meals to helping him dress.
Subservient
we call such women today.
Chauvinistic
we call such men. Yet if you ask
Ai,
she’ll tell you she wouldn’t have it any other way. She
prefers
a division of male-female domains and responsibilities—complementary, rather than repetitive, often
competitive
roles.
Ai
derives immense pleasure and satisfaction from managing the household, being a dutiful wife. “He would be lost without me,” she says with pride, and
Baba
wobbles his head in agreement.

To them,
Baba
isn’t an oppressor but a provider;
Ai
isn’t a caged bird but a revered partner. They believe interdependence makes for solid marriages. For them,
need
equals
love
. And for most of my adult life, I believed their equation, definition, was the only one, hence:
My family’s independence means I’m unneeded, unloved.

I was wrong. Love, like God, takes many forms.

No one can be certain if
this one
or
that one
is best. God alone determines; God gets the final word.

Meenal’s Mango Lassi

SERVES 4

2 cups Alphonso mango pulp or fresh ripe mango, mashed

1 cup ice cubes (adjust to desired liquidity)

4 cups plain nonfat yogurt

4 fresh mint leaves (optional garnish)

1 cup water (adjust to desired liquidity)

1. In a blender, whirl mango, yogurt, and water until smooth.

2. Add ice cubes a few at a time. Whirl until smooth.

3. Pour into tall glasses with straws, optionally garnish with mint.

4. Serve immediately.

Saroj Chawla: Partition: A Division of Hearts

B
eta,
last night I dreamed of Lahore again…Of running barefoot through the fields to the banks of the Ravi, of kites tangling high in the bluest of skies, the
kulfiwallah
ringing his bicycle bell, and my best friend Zarkha and I abandoning the wedding ceremonies of our dolls for the old-fashioned, pistachio ice cream.

I dreamed I rode in a
tonga
along the Mall, past the old Mughal cannon Zamzama and the cricketers playing in Gol Bagh. When the
tonga-wallah
dropped me off at Kapoor Road, I paid my fare with Cadbury chocolates and skipped home with the breeze rippling the white, embroidered
dupatta
covering my head.

A lock hung from our iron gate; I rang the bell and waited, but no one came. Cupping my hands around my mouth, I called to my mother, “
Biji!
Open the gate!” Hot, humid wind blew leaves of
peepal
and
shesham
trees and brought the perfume of
raat ki rani,
“queen of the night,” to my nose. I leaned in, stuck my face between the rungs to smell the tiny white blooms, when I noticed a cobra sleeping underneath the bush and jumped back. “
Biji!
Open the gate!”

“Go away!” An irritable shout. Not
Biji
. No one I knew.

Squinting, I spotted an old, weather-beaten woman squatting on the veranda. “Who are you?” I demanded. “What are you doing there?”

“Who am
I
?” the crone asked with equal indignation. “Who are
you
?”

“I live here!”

At that, she threw back her head and cackled. Her lips, tongue, and few remaining teeth were stained bloodred from
betel
-nut juice. “
You
don’t live here.
I
do. Now, scram! Before I call the police!”

Then the mustachioed police were there, dragging me away.

“But it’s
my
house,” I cried. “It’s
my
house, not hers!”

E
very few years, I have these kinds of dreams. These and worse. Since I had one just last month, I’m surprised another came so soon.

Sometimes you know what triggers a bad dream. Eating too late. Cold medicine. A disturbing movie. Last month, I knew: It was Meenal.

She reminds me lately…of things I don’t want to remember. And though I feel awful about it, I find myself avoiding my best friend. I drop off a care package with the
samosas
I promised Kiran and make excuses not to stay. “I’d love to, but my errand list’s a mile long. You know the holidays. Crowds, crowds, crowds.” I give Meenal a quick, one-armed hug, glad for the bag of
samosas
between us. “Engine’s running. See you on New Year’s if not sooner.”

Halfway down the street, I pull over and flip open my cell phone.
Please answer. Please answer.
Damn, voicemail. I drop my head against the leather upholstery and wait for the beep to leave a message. “Hello, darling. Any chance you’re free for lunch? I’m heading to Tyson’s Galleria for some shopping. My cell’s on. Love you. Bye.”

B
eta,
have I told you about the walled city? Come here, sit with me a while, and I’ll tell you about the place that haunts my dreams….

In Lahore, we lived outside the walled city in a two-story bungalow my father and his two brothers built. The old Lahore, where my parents were born and brought up, and where my
Nanaji
and
Naniji
lived, was a colorful, busy maze. Joint families occupied four-story row houses, or
makan,
crowded on narrow, crooked alleys called
gullis
. More and more, well-to-do and upwardly mobile families were breaking away from the cramped quarters, venturing to the open spaces and modern construction available outside the walled city. Our
mohalla
—neighborhood—was in one such new area: Krishanagar.

Kapoor Road was a wide, pretty, tree-lined lane with three bungalows on either side, four families total, each connected to the government.
Bauji,
my father, was a civil engineer, like his father. One of his brothers worked for the railways; the other taught at the Government College. They had two married sisters—one lived near Amritsar, the other in Delhi.
Dadaji
and
Dadiji
—my paternal grandparents—lived next door to us with my professor uncle, their eldest son.

Next to them lived a Muslim doctor from Ferozepur. He had two wives, a sign of prosperity. One was his first cousin, a custom common among Muslims, the other a blue-eyed widow from Kashmir, young enough to be his daughter. Surprisingly, the wives got along great.

Across the road lived my best friend Zarkha Ansari. We were born the same month, Zarkha on the sixth and me on the fifteenth, which made us both Number 6 in numerology. Our fathers, both London-returned engineers, played tennis and cards at the same club. And we both had older brothers who would have loved to bunk school to play cricket,
guli-danda,
football (soccer),
bantay
(marbles),
lattoo
(yo-yo),
kabbadi,
or their favorite winter sport: kite fighting.

Next to Zarkha lived the sons of a wealthy landowner. A retired senior government officer, he somehow accomplished the rare feat of infiltrating the exclusive Gymkhana Club. Membership couldn’t be bought, at any price; entry was strictly by European pedigree. A sign outside read: “Dogs and Indians Not Allowed.” No one knew for sure how he got in, but there was no end to the speculations. While living in the Cantt, as they called the Lahore Cantonment, he built two bungalows in Krishanagar in addition to his country estate, so that his grandchildren could attend St. Anthony’s and Sacred Heart, two of Lahore’s fine English-medium schools. We seldom saw a girl in their family wear the same
salwarkameez
twice, never one made of homespun cloth, like most of mine and Zarkha’s. “They’re more English than the English,” said
Bauji
.

In those early years of my life, every day brought a fun-filled adventure. I’ll share one of my favorite memories with you. It happened when Zarkha and I were four.

You think a woman my age can’t remember back that far? I remember
everything
. People, places, conversations…A good memory is both a gift and a curse.

Now, on to my story….

Kapoor Road had many kids, but most were either too young, or too old, or too male to play with Zarkha and me, and even so, we always preferred each other’s company. One evening, after we tired of
kokla-chhapaki
(a game similar to duck-duck-goose), Zarkha and I were playing
kikli
—holding hands, leaning back, and spinning. Her brothers Tariq, Basit, and Usman were playing
guli-danda,
a ball-and-bat–type of street game where you whack a small stick with sharpened edges
(guli)
with a longer batting stick
(danda)
.
My
brothers would have been playing, too, but they were inside receiving lectures from
Biji
for neglecting their studies.

With his
danda,
Tariq struck a conical edge of the six-inch
guli
. When it flew up, he swung and sent the
guli
airborne over his brothers’ heads. It was then that we noticed the stray dog.

“Hey!”

“Look there! Look there!”

“Where did he come from?”

When the
guli
landed, the dog picked it up. Tail wagging, he trotted to Tariq, deposited the
guli
at his feet, and nudged it forward a few times with his nose. He was a really cute dog. He looked like a cotton ball that had rolled around in the dirt.

Tariq laughed. “Looks like we have a new player.”

“He smells mutton,” Basit said.
“Ammiji
’s
biryani.”

“Is that so, you hungry beggar?” Tariq hit the
guli,
and again the dog fetched it.

“I’d run all the way from Anarkali for
Ammiji
’s
biryani,
” Basit said.

“I’d run all the way from Rawalpindi,” said Tariq.

“I’d run all the way from…from Kashmir,” said Usman. He was the youngest of the brothers and didn’t like to be left out of any one-upmanship.

Zarkha turned to me. “I’m hungry.”

“Me, too,” I said. We typically ate later than Zarkha’s family.

She tugged my hand and led me behind her house. In those days, we had detached kitchens. “
Ammiji,
we’re hungry,” Zarkha said to her mother. “Can we eat
biryani
?”

Zarkha’s mother wore a bunch of keys—
guchcha
—tied to the end of her
dupatta,
which she draped over her shoulder. Busy supervising the
naukarani
who was flipping
chappatis
on a hot
tawa,
she said, without looking at us, “Yes, go wash.”

Half forgetting, half ignoring
Biji
’s rules about eating or drinking outside our house, I followed. We took turns washing at the hand pump and sat at the
chauki
on low, jute-woven stools. Only then did Zarkha’s mother notice me. She looked surprised but greeted me warmly, as always.

“Namaste,”
she said.

“Namaste,”
I replied.

Good manners dictated the person who spoke first greeted the listener according to her religion, respecting each other’s religions the golden rule of politeness. When I greeted Zarkha’s mother first, I said,
“Salaam alaikum,”
and she replied,
“Walaikum as-salaam.”
Peace be with you.

Zarkha’s mother smiled. “I think your mother’s calling for you.”

“I don’t hear her,” Zarkha said.

“Zarkha. It’s time for Sonia to go home.”

“But we’re eating
biryani
…You said…”

Her eyes clouded. “Sonia can’t eat with us. Her parents wouldn’t like it. Isn’t that right?”

How did she know Biji’s rules?
Mothers mysteriously knew everything!

I hung my head. “I have to go home.
Khuda hafiz,
” I said in parting. At the gate, when I peered back over my shoulder, Zarkha’s mother’s expression looked pained. At home, I asked
Biji,
“Why can’t I eat or drink at Zarkha’s house?”

She glanced up from her knitting. “Because you’ll fall sick.”

I couldn’t very well tell her that Zarkha smuggled delicious
bakarkhani
from Gawalmandi to me all the time, and not once had I experienced ill effects from eating these layered,
chappati
-sized and -shaped crisps made by a Muslim baker.

“But Zarkha doesn’t fall sick,” I said. “Tariq doesn’t fall sick. Basit—”

“Hindus and Muslims don’t share food and drink.
Bas
.” Period. End of discussion. That was the moment I realized although we had people over all the time—our family was social, friendly, and outgoing—our dinner guests were never Muslim.

In the days that followed, we adopted the dog. Or rather, the dog adopted us, spending his afternoons sleeping under what patches of shade he could find. We named him Moti—pearl.

“Is Moti a Hindu dog or a Muslim dog?” I asked Zarkha. “He eats your scraps and our scraps.”

“He must be both,” Zarkha said. “Some days, he’s Hindu. Some days, he’s Muslim.”

Ah, yes. This made perfect sense. “Monday, he’s a Hindu. Tuesday, a Muslim.” I had learned the days of the week, and I counted each one on my fingers. “Wednesday, Hindu. Thursday, Muslim. Friday—”

“Friday must be Muslim.”

“Okay.” I started over. “Monday, Muslim. Tuesday…”

Zarkha joined in, and together we giggled and sang to the tune of a popular song.

It didn’t take long before I reasoned if Moti could be both Hindu and Muslim, so could I. One Friday morning, I announced to
Biji
as she churned buttermilk, “Today I’m a Muslim. I can’t eat here, only at Zarkha’s.” I hoped Zarkha’s mother was making her
biryani
again. Maybe I should have waited to be sure.

Biji
stopped churning. “Sonia, you can’t be a Muslim. You were born a Hindu. You can only be a Hindu in this life.”

“But Moti’s both—”

“Moti’s a dog. Moti doesn’t have a religion. Only
people
have religions.”

I frowned. This was all very confusing.
People
were very confusing.

In my next life, I wanted to be a bird. Or a cow. Or a cat. I didn’t tell
Biji
this. Sweat beaded on her upper lip, and she looked pale. I thought maybe she was falling sick.

When I think back on those early years in Lahore and Kapoor Road, I rank them among the happiest, most carefree of my life. That’s what makes me so sad.

Among the many things I left behind was a child’s innocence.

A
t the Galleria, I stare at the display window of the Godiva boutique with yearning.
Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Be strong.
With a groan, I force my feet to move, drag myself away. Outside Nordstrom’s, a Salvation Army Santa rings his bell for donations. I dig into my wallet and stuff a twenty into the cup.

“Thank you. God bless,” he says.

“You, too. Merry Christmas.”

Next on my list:
BUY PJs.
Every year for Christmas, I buy new nightclothes for the whole family. When Preity and Tarun were little, it was the one present we let them open the night before Christmas. They’d bathe before bed and wake up Christmas morning fresh and clean in their new jammies. I got the idea for this tradition from Uma back in the Boston Days.