The Hindi-Bindi Club (16 page)

WOW!!! I did NOT expect the second news!!! WOW!!!

On the other, I’m glad it’s done, and you can both move forward now. Secrets are never easy, but sometimes, they ’re necessary. Our girls may not understand this now, but one day, they will. When they ’ve lived as long as we have!:-)

How I wish I could offer Tarun as a possible match for Kiran! Too bad: #1 -- he’s too young for her, #2 -- he insists he’s never getting married, a confirmed bachelor. Ha! In India I would have said, “Enough naatak. Time to settle down.” & fixed his marriage. Here, my son threatens to sue me!

Chalo. My phone’s already ringing this morning. Talk soon.

Saroj

Meenal’s Masala Chai

SERVES 2–3

8 green cardamom pods

1 3-inch cinnamon stick

2 cups water

5 whole cloves

2 tablespoons loose black Assam or Darjeeling tea leaves

5 black peppercorns

1 cup milk

1 teaspoon fresh ginger root, peeled and grated

¼ cup sugar

1. Using a mortar and pestle, bruise cardamom pods.

2. In a saucepan over medium heat, combine all but milk and sugar. Bring to a boil.

3. Reduce heat to low and simmer 10 minutes.

4. Stir in milk and sugar. Simmer 5 minutes.

5. Strain
chai
and serve immediately.

Kiran Deshpande: Who’s Your Goddess?

T
he Big C has a way of altering the way you look at the world. Small stuff becomes big stuff, and big stuff becomes small. When I learned about my mother’s breast cancer, I was angry, confused, and scared. Mostly, I was scared. A little girl terrified of losing her mommy.

Though Mom’s prognosis is excellent and she tested negative for the breast cancer gene, a relief for both of us, my rotations in the E.R. taught me that you never know when the sands in the hourglass will run out. She may have another twenty-four years, or twenty-four months. Weeks or days. Hours or minutes. She may not die of cancer at all but something else, potentially unexpected.

All I know for sure is, I’m not ready. I’m
nowhere near
ready to lose her. I might never be. Whenever the end comes, it’ll be too soon.

I see the sands falling in the hourglass, future slipping into past like a thief in the night stealing the irreplaceable. I hear a watch ticking as if underneath my pillow, my sense of urgency, anxiety cranking up notch after notch. I’ve wasted enough time—a losing gamble on marriage, estrangement from my family. I can’t afford to waste any more.

“H
ow about this one?” I hold up a black lace camisole. My mother’s eyes go wide. She whispers,
“Parath thev. Parath thev.”
Put it back.

We are in a classy intimates boutique in Georgetown that specializes in lingerie for women who’ve had mastectomies. I learned about it from a local Pink Ribbon support group’s website.

Ignoring her embarrassment, I thrust the camisole toward her. “Feel it. It’s pima cotton. Solid cloth on the inside, against your skin. Lace on the outside, so it doesn’t touch you.” Her skin itches, and she admitted feeling more comfortable without a bra but not wanting to go braless, or boobless. The saleslady, herself a breast cancer survivor, recommended these specially designed camis that have pockets for prostheses.

“It
is
soft,” she says. “But the color…the style…”

“It’s sexy.” The mere word makes her flush and turn away. “Mom.
Really.
” I plant one hand on my hip Saroj Auntie–style. “You and I both know the stork didn’t deliver Vivek and me. By my calculations, that’s at least two occasions on which you and Dad—”

“Kiran!” She practically leaps into the air like a comic book superhero to cover my mouth with her hand.
“Chup bus!”
Be quiet.
“Tujya tondala kulup lawayla hava.”
Your mouth should have a lock put on it.

If I had five bucks for every time she’s said this to me, I could have paid off my student loans a long time ago.

“Just try it,” I say. “Here, take the matching panties, too.
Chalaa, chalaa.
” I shoo her toward the dressing room. When she doesn’t emerge for a while, I go after her. “Mom? Everything okay in there?”

“Yes.”

“Did you try them?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

She opens the door a crack, and I see her standing with one hand covering her mouth. Not in embarrassment, but in surprised pleasure. The camisole set is sexy but in a sweet, tasteful way. The color makes her skin look creamy and her complexion radiant. She looks beautiful—and she knows it.

“Those Victoria’s Secret models don’t have anything on you, Mom.”

Her eyes fill with emotion. She lowers her hand and says, “Thank you.”

“Stay put. I’ll get some more,” I say, closing the door.

Dad might get lucky, I think, but opt to keep that thought to myself.

Aside from physician-to-physician discussions regarding my mom, I’ve barely spoken to my dad. I figure the less said, the less chance of starting World War III.

After shopping, Mom and I lock the bags in the trunk of my car and decide to do lunch at Clyde’s. We follow the hostess past tables with red-and-white checkered tablecloths, our heels knocking on the hardwood floors. She seats us by the windows where we can people-watch the passersby on M Street.

“What can I get you ladies to drink?” our waiter asks.

“Water for me, please,” my mother says. “Wine for you, Kiran?”

I glance at her over my menu. She appears nonchalant, yet an age-old-programmed twinge of guilt prickles at me when I ask for a glass of Kendall Jackson Chardonnay.

The waiter cards me, and my mother laughs.

“He’s just being kind, Mom.”

“No, he’s not. You still look like you’re in college. My daughter’s a doctor,” she informs him with undisguised pride.

The waiter grins and returns my I.D. “Thank you, doctor.”

“How embarrassing,” I mumble as I replace the card in my wallet.

Outside, an Indian family strolls past the window, and I imagine our family must have looked the same. Yuppie immigrant mom and dad, their son and daughter sporting the latest trendy clothes and hairstyles, and the five-foot-tall grandmother, her silver hair in a bun, a big, round red
bindi
on her forehead, a coat over her
sari,
and tennis shoes on her feet.

Three generations: Indian
Immigrant
American.

“It feels like everyone knows,” my mother whispers.

“Knows what?”

“What I’m wearing. Under here…”

“Oh…” I smile. “You mean that my mom’s wearing black lace—”

“Kiran!” She bats my menu. “Stop!” But she’s smiling, too, so I tease a little more.

“Didn’t you see that
aji-bai
mouth
‘arré wah, kitti chan’
just now?” Oh, wow. How nice.

She throws back her head and laughs deep from her throat. Music to my ears.
“Labaad mulgi,”
she says. Mischievous girl.
“Mummylah sataawayla majjah yeteh, nuh?”
It’s fun to harass Mom, isn’t it?

Whenever our parents speak to us in Marathi—commonplace from Mom, not as much from Dad—Vivek and I tend to reply in English, because we think in English: Input Marathi
Mental translation
Output English. The process can prove taxing.

Sometimes, we get translation overload and beseech Mom to please speak English. As teenagers, we also implored her for another reason: Marathi in public places caused embarrassment. She might not have given a rat’s ass when strangers mistook her for a fuzzy foreigner, fresh off the boat, but Vivek and I sure did. It wasn’t that we weren’t proud of our heritage. We were. But we were
equally
proud of our nationality. That’s what it
means
to be American. Like our friends, we were Americans of (insert your heritage here) descent, and we didn’t like being mistaken for foreigners, or worse,
tourists
in our own country.

That was then; this is now. Today, it’s enough that
I
know who I am. And as evidenced by my marriage and divorce, I’m not overly concerned with the (mis)perceptions of others, certainly not strangers.

I waggle my brows at my mother.
“Mummylah sataawayla khup majjah yeté,”
I say. It’s lots of fun to harass Mom.

I can tell my use of Marathi touches her.

Happiness and fear swirl in my heart.
Please, God. Don’t take her away from me anytime soon.
Beneath the table, I clasp my hands, reminding myself I must stay positive.

When our lunch arrives, I bite into my jumbo lump crab cake sandwich and sigh with satisfaction. My mother steals one of my French fries.

“Excellent food. Excellent company,” she says. “
Arré,
we forgot to toast.”

I raise my wine, she her water. “To many more days like this for many more years to come,” I say, and we clink glasses.

“H
ey, Mom.” I carry my laptop into the kitchen. “You have to hear some of these.” My mother caps her pen, lays it on the opened page of her recipe notebook, and swivels her barstool toward me. I read a profile from the matrimonial website, “‘WANTED: A GOOD-HEARTED WOMAN to cook, clean, wash, sew, milk cows and goats, and do all household and farm chores.’” My mother looks as mortified as I felt when I read those words. “Then he adds, ‘Just kidding!’”

She laughs and drops her forehead onto her palm.

“Had you going, didn’t he?” At her nod, I say, “Me, too!”

“Is he a doctor?”

“Architect. Commercial. Builds hospitals. Have to admit, I’m intrigued. I love his sense of humor. Cute, too.” I bring up his photo. “Not that looks are everything, but there
is
that little technicality about how babies are made….”

Mom ducks her head and lowers her eyelashes, but I glimpse an upturned corner of her mouth. That’s Indian modesty/prudery, and it cracks me up.

Not all the aunties, but many, including my prim and proper mother, act as if they found their children in the cabbage patch. They’re of the old school that believes respectable women have sex for procreation, not recreation. Missionary position only. Oral sex?
Chi-chi-chi!
(Dirty-dirty-dirty!) Forget about it!

This from the culture that produced the bible of sexuality,
The Kama-Sutra
(
Art of Lovemaking
), and erotic temple sculptures and cave drawings over one thousand years ago. Go figure.

Mom clears her throat. “So, do any doctors intrigue you?”

“Some, but I’m not sure what I think about doctor couples. I see advantages and disadvantages.”

“Never say never.”

“I’m not. Okay, here’s another one. He does his spiel about himself and what he’s looking for, then at the end, he writes, ‘Serious inquiries only. I’m NOT looking to be just friends. I have enough friends. If one of them becomes an enemy, I’ll let you know there’s an opening.’”

“Kamaal aahé.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “Doctor?”

“Engineer.” Before she can ask, I say, “No.” I turn the screen toward her, so she can see the photo. She flinches and waves her hand for me to take back the laptop.

I read several more, and we share smiles and grimaces. Together, we compose my profile. After lengthy discussions mingled with healthy debates over profiles that pique my interest, we compile a list of first choices and initiate contact, both of us giddy as schoolgirls.