The Hindi-Bindi Club (23 page)

“Yes, Mother. You were right.”

Uma Auntie shrugs and teases, “It happens.”

“Yeah, waaay too often, if you ask me.”

With a wink, Uma Auntie dances away, rejoining some aunties.

“I’ve been a party pooper lately,” Rani says in explanation. “Lucky you, I snapped out of it tonight.”

“Lucky me.”

When we take a break to chug some water, our hearts pumping, brows sweating, I ask Rani, “Who are they?”
They
being the fun, fashionable, outgoing newbies cutting it up on the dance floor. Though they appear to be in Rani’s and my age group, I’m certain I haven’t seen them before. I would remember…. The chicks are decked out in modern, ultra-hip
salwar-kameezes, ghagara-cholis,
and
saris
and shake their booties as if styling the latest club-wear! “I’ve always thought of
saris
as graceful, elegant…”

“Matronly?” Rani offers.

“Yes!
Sexy
isn’t a word that’s ever come to
my
mind before because, you know…”

She nods. “You associate
saris
with aunties and grandmas.”

“Right! But these
bindi
-babes…The way they move…”

Rani smiles. “They make
saris
look downright hot!”

“Exactly!” I say in amazement.
“Who knew?”

We laugh.

“Now, before you try this at home,” Rani says, “be warned they’ve had a
lot
more practice than we have. They’re the
New
Hindi-Bindi Club. Hindi-Bindi, Next Generation? Hindi-Bindi Babes? Hmmm, I wonder what
their
kids will nickname them….”

“Oh! I thought—” Realization dawns. They’re the
recent
Indian immigrants. “So
theeeese
are our infamous counterparts. The good Indian girls we ‘would have been,’ ‘should have been,’ ‘ought to be,’ take your pick.” The only people on the planet with whom my parents compared me even more than Perfect Preity.
If we’d stayed in India…If you’d been brought up in India…
I narrow my gaze, study the
bindi
-babes closer.
“Our nemeses.”

“You got it.” Rani leans against me, shoulder to shoulder, folding her arms in contemplation. “Here we have live, in-the-flesh specimens of that rare, endangered species. She represents the impossible. Sets standards you can never live up to. Why? Because you’ve been corrupted by the West. Americanized. That’s right…she is…none other than…
the Good Indian Girl
.” Rani arches an eyebrow. “Now observe, if you will, doctor. Tell me, do you see what I see?”

I squint. “I’m not sure. What?”

“Aha! It’s a trick question. She-
ji
isn’t, in fact, all that different from you-
ji
or me-
ji
. Just more discreet.”

“And a better dancer.”

“Much.” Rani nods. “Than you, you meant, right?”

I shove her with my shoulder. She shoves me back. We laugh. “You’re still a goofball,” I say as we head for the buffet, having worked up ravenous appetites.

“Takes one to know one,” Rani says, not missing a beat.

“God, I missed you.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” She hands me a plate—rather, pokes it into my ribs. “I’ve been known to have that effect on people. It’s rare, but it happens.”

“And you have supporting documentation of this?”

“I do. Would you like to see it?”

“Sappy love letters from Bryan? No, thanks. I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself.”

Glancing across the room, my gaze collides with Preity’s. We share that awkward moment of indecision when you don’t know whether to maintain or break eye contact.

I hold her gaze. She looks away. For some reason, I keep looking, and in the space of a blink, she looks back. Her eyes register surprise—she didn’t expect me to maintain the contact. When she smiles, hesitantly, I see myself reflected in her eyes as the jerk I am. Have been. Will be…?

To be or not to be a jerk?
That is the question.

“She’s scared of you,” Rani says.

“And I’m scared of
you
.”

“You should be.”

“Well, as long as we’re all clear on the pecking order…” I wave Preity over.

She’s in the middle of a circle of conversation, but she nods, signaling she’ll join us when she can.

“You might like her better now that you’re
all grown up
.” Rani cracks herself up; I shake my head. “Seriously, can you believe you’re
really
a doctor? Preity’s
really
a corporate-suit-slash-budding-exec? I’m
really
a rocket scientist?”

“No. No. And hell, no.”

“Did you meet Lina and Jack?”

“I did.”

“Damn cute, huh?”

I nod. “In a big way. Speaking of which…” I tilt my head. “How about you and Bryan? Any plans—?”

“Aaaaah!” She wheezes. “
Et tu,
Bruté?”

I wince. “Oops. Sorry. Sore subject?”

“Very.”

“Alrighty then…” I slink farther down the buffet line. “Butting out now…”

Rani sighs. “We can talk about it later.”

“That’s okay. We don’t have to—”

“Actually, I could use a good rant. And you still owe me details. Preity
and
me.” She smiles and wiggles her eyebrows. “Unless you want to take another twirl around the dance floor…. Saroj Auntie taught me another—”

“Uh, Rani?”

“Yes, Kiran?”

“Shut up and eat your
chhole
.”

Her smile widens.

“K
iran,
pillu
?” My mom lays a hand on my shoulder. “I’m not going to last until midnight. Dad’s taking me home. You have two offers. Saroj Auntie invited you to spend the night. Patrick Uncle offered to give you a ride home when they leave.”

“I should go with you and Dad.”

“No, no. Don’t be silly. It’s New Year’s Eve. You stay. Have fun.”

“But I’d rather be with you, Mom.”

Her eyes soften. “Thank you,
pillu,
that’s very sweet of you, but you won’t be
with me
at home. I’ll be fast asleep in bed.”

And I’ll be left with Dad. Alone.

“Okay, I’ll stay. But not overnight. I’ll bum a ride.”

“Good girl.”

I hug her before she goes. “Happy New Year, Mom. I love you.”

“I love you, too,
Mummychi pillu
.” She kisses me on the cheek, smoothes my hair from my face, smiles. “Toast the New Year for me. It’s going to be a good one. The best ever.”

I nod, swallowing around the tightness in my throat. My mom hasn’t called me
pillu
since I was in elementary school. I don’t even know the exact definition. To me, the endearment means the equivalent of
little one
. That’s how it makes me feel. Like my mother’s little one again. In a good way.

A
very
good way.

S
oon after midnight, Rani, Preity, and I slip away from the still-hopping party and hole up in the seclusion of the Florida room. Under the bright flashlight of the moon reflecting off the snow, we pass around a bag of marshmallows and a thermos of spiked hot chocolate, filling our Styrofoam cups and laughing at ourselves for still feeling like we’re “getting away with something,” even at our age.

“Just a heads-up,” Rani says after I bring them up to speed on my semi-arranged marriage plans. “Beware of men who talk the talk but don’t walk the walk.”

Preity nods. “Don’t assume because arranged marriage is a legit, respectable part of Indian culture, everyone’s on the up-and-up. Ask my mom about her widow friend who was swept off her feet by this dashing smooth-talker. Turned out, he was just after her money. He had another wife back in the old country. He figured a lonely widow would be easy prey. Every culture has its snakes—venomous con artists and your garden-variety losers-who-can’t-get-a-date—who pretend to be something they’re not.”

“Exactly,” Rani says. “I have a friend. Beautiful, smart, the whole nine yards. Her career took off—I-banking, you know how that is—and with mergers and acquisitions up the ying-yang, she didn’t have time to play the dating game. She checked out a popular matrimonial site and hooked up with a supposed ‘doctor.’ Everything was going great guns until her parents ran a routine background check. Turned out the guy didn’t just stretch the truth, he was a
complete
fraud. Made up his
entire
identity.”

“Wow,” I say. “He was either really twisted, really lonely, or both.”

“Moral of the story?” Rani says. “Verify all claims before you get in too deep with anyone.”

“Good advice. Thank—”

Rani holds up a hand. “I’m not done, babe. Hang on to the thanks.”

“But wait, there’s more!” Preity teases.

“Now, allow me to preface this next bit by saying I’m
not
making any generalizations here,” Rani says. “I’ve just heard enough stories that I feel I have a fiduciary duty to give you advanced warning on something you
might
encounter.”

I nod. “Forewarned is forearmed.”

“Right. So. You may, just
may
encounter Indian immigrant men who come on way too strong, then end up being clueless when it comes to performance.”

“And by ‘performance,’ we
are
talking—”

“In bed,” Preity says before Rani can. “I’ve heard that, too.”

“Why is that, do you think?” I ask.

“Inexperience,” Preity says.

“But Bollywood, the
Kama-Sutra
—”

“There’s
knowledge,
and there’s
experience,
” Rani says. “You go to med school—knowledge—then do your rotations and residency—experience. They might watch, and they might read, but they lack
hands-on
experience in the steps of our Western Mating Dance. The nuances of flirtation, seduction, kissing, lovemaking. Remember, dating’s a fairly recent, cosmopolitan phenomenon in India, exclusive to younger generations. P.D.A.’s still taboo,” she says regarding Public Displays of Affection. “Even the stuff we consider chaste, like pecks on the lips and holding hands.”

“I have a theory,” Preity says. “I don’t have firsthand experience, mind you. All the Indian men I’ve encountered have been perfect gentlemen, but I do know others who’ve reported differently. I think this is because, by Eastern standards, Westerners can be perceived as loose.”

“Can be?”
I smile. “Preity, you should be a diplomat.”

“She’d make a great diplomat,” Rani says.

“Thank you,” Preity says. “But we digress. My theory is that some Indians, particularly in the age groups ahead of us, believe an unmarried woman who has physical relations with the opposite sex is automatically…How shall I put this…?”

“A slut?” Rani says.

“Um, maybe not an out-and-out slut. But definitely
of ill repute
.”

I nod. “You’re either a good girl or a bad girl. There’s nothing in between. They have no real concept or understanding of the infinite spectrum between those two poles.”

“Exactly,” Preity says. “Girls only come in two flavors. Naughty and nice. If you put out, you’re bad. If not, you’re good. And in a two-toned world, when they equate a woman who drinks, dances, and/or dates with being easy, indiscriminate, they may come on too strong because they can’t differentiate what’s considered healthy, respectful sensuality in our society and what’s offensive vulgarity. That’s my take on it, anyway.”

“Interesting,” I say. “Very interesting.”

“Still.” Rani raises a finger. “Let’s not lose sight of the common denominator here.”

“Which is…?” I ask.

With a fairy-dust-dispensing flourish of her hands, she says, “Men are like puppies. Most can be trained to correct undesired behavior, so if you find one that goes straight for your crotch or piddles on your shoes when he gets excited but otherwise shows good character, there may still be hope.”

We laugh.

Preity raises her hand.

“What, are we in school, now?” I say. “Yes, you there. Little girl in the front row.”

“I’ve been trying to wrap my brain around something, and well, I could use your insight. You’re both strong, independent women. Nonconformists. Free-thinkers. Would you agree?”

Rani and I look at each other, shrug, nod.

“Both of you also have a long history of, um, challenging your parents. Defying, if you will.”

Rani exaggerates a yawn. “Any year now…”

I smile sweetly. “Spare us the formality and get to the point, would ya?”

“What I want to know is, did guilt ever enter the picture with either of you when you disobeyed your parents?”

“No,” I say.

“Yes,” Rani says at the same time. “Why? What’s up
chez
Chawlas?”

Preity shakes her head. “I don’t want to get into details, but suffice it to say, it’s one of those trapped-between-a-rock-and-a-hard-place times, and I don’t know what to do. I mean, I know what I should do, what I want to do, but man…” She holds her head in her hands. “It’s the guilt. The guilt! How do you deal with the
guilt
of blatant defiance?”

I understand her reticence to disclose specifics. That’s a limitation of family friendships, a reason Preity, Rani, and I could never be confidantes, why when we played Truth or Dare, Rani and I opted for dare, and Preity opted out. Opening up, exposing yourself, makes you vulnerable to a breach. There’s always the risk one of us may, over the course of a lifetime, divulge what we know to another (a family member is the usual fear), who may, in turn, divulge to another, and so on. Better to err on the side of silence. Keep to yourself any sensitive info you wouldn’t want getting around the friends circle—and coming back to bite you in the ass.

“Now there’s your first problem,” Rani says. “Do you have to be
blatant
in your defiance? Can’t you be subtle? Or even sneaky?”

“Sneaky doesn’t work for me. I’m not the sneaky type.”

She got that right. The word
guileless
comes to mind.

“Okay, scratch sneaky. What about subtle?” Rani asks.

“How subtly can a person fart?”

I laugh, despite myself.