The Hindi-Bindi Club (28 page)

“Religion is the opiate of the masses,” Yousef quotes Karl Marx.

“Exactly,” I say. “So in these impoverished, repressed societies, some leader comes along and offers passion-starved people a reason to live, a reason to die. Reason to get fired up, to partake in an orgy of righteousness. A gift of passion, wrapped up in the validation of serving God and country, tied with a pretty bow of honor.”

“Not only in impoverished, repressed societies,” Sandeep says. “Manipulating people’s passions is universal.”

“But Auntie-
ji
’s right,” Saira says, “in that it all gets back to the human need for passion. In the absence of healthy choices, humans will choose unhealthy ones.”

“What is violence,” I say, “but the dark side of passion?”

When I go to check on dinner, Saira rises and follows me. We take our conversation into the kitchen.

“Is it foolish to hope for a mutually acceptable solution for India and Pakistan?” I ask. “Does such a thing even exist?”

“It might,” Saira says, “if the
desi
diaspora joined hands. We have the numbers, the power, to affect change. And outside the wire, we women can leverage our strengths more effectively. We are the nurturers, the experts at human relationships and community-building. We are the ones who break up children’s fights and teach them to play nicely, to respect one another. We, mothers and daughters, can be the greatest of healers….”

Here is another idealist, I think. But unlike my daughter, Saira knows what she’s talking about. She’s lived it, not just read about it in books, or watched it on CNN’s
Headline News.
From her experience alone, I cannot discount her as a Pollyanna.

“If anyone can reach out across divides and rebuild burned bridges, women can,” Saira says. “But first, we have to stop undermining each other. We’re quick to blame men for all our troubles, overlooking our own culpability. We, too, must observe human rights, starting in our own homes, our own families, in how we treat each other, and our daughters versus our sons. That’s not to say men don’t need more accountability. They do. A
lot
more. In fact, if it was up to me, if I had to pick one gender to quarantine in
purdah
for the greater good, it would be the male, not the female. It’s males who have a harder time curbing base urges with the opposite sex, provoked or not. Therefore, to
best
reduce moral corruption and promote social harmony, we should put the males on short leashes, restrict
their
movements,
hai na
?”

“Ha! Saira for President!” I tie my apron around my waist. “What a platform. Can you imagine? Move over, Benazir Bhutto.” A controversial political figure, twice democratically elected Benazir Bhutto was Pakistan’s first and only—to date—female prime minister. When she took office in 1988, at thirty-five years old, she was the youngest person and first woman to head an Islamic government in modern times.

Saira goes on, “I remember once, I told my mother it wasn’t Eve’s fault Adam lacked self-control and succumbed to temptation. Was God’s solution to veil all the apples, to camouflage their appeal? No. If God intended to
remove
temptation, to prevent Adam from
seeing
things he might desire, why not poke out Adam’s eyes, blindfold, or otherwise take away Adam’s sight? Instead, a loving God, just and merciful, banished Adam from Paradise to a world of temptations, so Adam could learn to act properly
in the face of
temptations. That would include infinite apple orchards with buck-naked Eves in plain sight,
hai na
?”

I laugh. “Oh,
beta
. You must have given your poor mother many gray hairs.”

“Oh, no.” Saira grins and tucks her hair behind her ear. “
Ammiji
was quite proud. She is ten times the feminist I am. Some of my friends here are surprised when I say that. They think ‘Muslim feminist’ is an oxymoron, but it’s not at all. My mother raised all of us—three sons and two daughters—to read the holy Koran ourselves, so we understood the rights of gender equality, among other things, in Islam. She’s always insisted if more people could actually
read
for themselves the teachings in the Koran, they wouldn’t be so easily misled by interpretations, distortions, and misrepresentations of others.”

“She sounds like a very wise woman.”

“She’s a Sufi.”

“Ah.” I nod. “That says it all.”

Sufis are mystics. Often controversial, often corrupted by man, Sufism is rejected by some as a legitimate form of Islam. Others maintain it’s Islam’s purest essence. Sufis believe God exists in all, and all exist in God.

“You’ve read Sufi literature?” Saira asks.

“Of course.” Whatever you think about Sufism, no one can deny it has inspired a treasure chest of literature and music. Sufis believe human love—including consensual physical love—awakens the heart to spiritual love, bringing one closer to God. I’ve never known anyone whose heart couldn’t be stirred by the beauty of Sufi poetry, including me. “I adored Waris Shah and Bulleh Shah.”

“The classics.”

“And you?”

“I favor the modern poets.”

“Does anyone still write in Punjabi these days?” I ask.

“Punjabi and Urdu both,” Saira says. “Soon they’ll be writing in English.”

“God, I hope not.” I grimace. “Even the very best English translations are watered-down versions of the original language.”

“I know it. Punjabi has wings to soar to places English can’t even imagine with its lead feet shackled to the ground.”

We laugh.

It’s been so long since I had a spirited discussion about Punjabi poetry and literature. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it. I find myself wishing I could talk to Preity like this. And wishing Saira could join our book group—she would make a wonderful addition.

When it’s time to eat, I take out the good silver plates, bowls, and cups. “I hope this is okay,” I say, unveiling my
murgh Mughalai
(Mughalai chicken). Growing up, we had this dish on special occasions, as chicken was the most expensive meat. I like to make mine with lots of toasted almond slivers and plump golden raisins. “I was too intimidated to attempt
biryani
with such connoisseurs.”

“Nonsense, Auntie-
ji,
” Saira says. “Everyone knows Punjabi mothers make the best
biryani
. But
murgh Mughalai
is a favorite, and it’s been ages since we’ve had it. What a treat!”

“Will Aamir eat what we’re eating?” I ask. “Otherwise, I can toss a cheeseburger on the grill if he’d prefer.”

“Shhhh, Auntie-
ji
.” Saira places a finger over her lips. “As long as he doesn’t hear B-U-R-G-E-R, he’ll eat whatever we eat without complaint.”

I chuckle. “Just like my grandchildren.”

“Your family eats beef?” she asks.

“Here, yes. In India, no.”

Dinner’s a hit, and I bask in everyone’s lavish compliments, though I pretend to be modest, not easy, ha ha. I’m pleased to see little Aamir eat with gusto, trying each dish. How lucky he isn’t a fussy one! Preity and Tarun were the worst. Here I slaved to prepare meals fit for kings and queens, and my kids whined for macaroni and cheese…. Not even home made with real cheese, but the kind that comes in a cheap cardboard box with a packet of bright yellow
powder
!

“We’re going to Lahore for Basant,” Yousef says, accepting my offer of second helpings. “Aamir starts first grade in fall, so we won’t be able to go at this time of year anymore.”

Sandeep nods. “We had the same problem with our kids. We didn’t want to pull them out of school in winter, but we didn’t want to go to India in summer during the monsoon, either.”

“It’s a dilemma,” Yousef says.

“We just hope Aamir’s old enough to remember this trip,” Saira says. “We want him to have memories of Basant.”

I smile. “I do…”

Yousef and Saira exchange glances. “Uncle-
ji,
Auntie-
ji
?” Yousef asks. “Would you like to come with us?”

He can’t mean…

“Where?” I ask cautiously.

“To Lahore. For Basant.”

My heart skips a beat. Starts thudding triple-time.

“Our family’s in Defence,” Yousef says, “but we have plenty of friends in Krishanagar.”

Saira nods. “They can help find your old
mohalla
. Someone there must know someone who knows someone who can tell you about your friend.”

It’s obvious they discussed this subject before now.

I look at Sandeep. He nods, but still, I hesitate. It’s what I want, but I’m afraid. It’s so much, so fast. I didn’t expect this. I’d hoped to spend a nice, cordial evening with the Faranis. I hoped to like them. But never did I think I would—that I
could
!—like them this much. Never did I expect such rapport.
Never
did I expect Mussalmans—
Pakistanis
—to feel like family. But that’s exactly how Yousef, Saira, and Aamir feel. Like long-lost family.

“Have you ever had problems?” I ask. “With Immigration…”

“No,” Saira says.

“Never,” Yousef says at the same time.

“Just think about it, won’t you, Auntie-
ji
?” Saira smiles.

“If not this time, then another,” Yousef says. “Though we won’t be able to make it for Basant again for a long time.”

Lahore for Basant…

Lahore for BASANT…

LAHORE!

“Our families, especially our remaining grandparents, would love to meet you,” Saira says, and I must press my lips together to stop their quivering.

My emotions, long suppressed, ooze like pus from an infected wound.

There is a Hindi word,
jaan
. It means life force. When a person dies, we say his
jaan
has left his body. We may call our loved one
meri jaan
. Many times, when I heard refugees weep for Lahore, they said,
Lahore, meri jaan
.

“They’re getting old, and it would be good…” She doesn’t have to finish. I know what she means.

Partition survivors are dying off. Soon, we’ll be extinct. The time for closure is now. Now or never.

T
here are Indians who would call Sandeep and me trai-tors. There are Pakistanis who would call the Faranis the same. Yet other calls are echoing ever louder in my conscience. Calls of children who don’t see boundaries until adults teach them, and still, they resist.

When we take a wrong turn, we need to correct our course.

If anyone can rebuild burned bridges, women can.

Is it possible? In this age of
Kali Yuga,
when the world’s religions are increasingly blind beliefs, ripe for man’s misuse as instruments of dominance, persecution, and division…Do I dare to hope?

Meenal,

It was SO good to hear your voice, and clear the air! Thank you for forgiving me. I don’t deserve such a good friend as you. I swear it was never YOU, it was bad memories I couldn’t deal with. Partition happened so long ago, when I was so young, I thought I was over it. Now I realize if I’m to have any chance of getting over it, I need to break my silence.

OK, enough on that subject. I’m sending your list of potential boys for Kiran in next email. Talk soon.

Saroj

Saroj’s Murgh Mughalai
(Chicken with Almonds and Raisins)

SERVES 6

½
cup blanched slivered almonds, divided

4 cloves fresh garlic, peeled

1-inch piece of fresh ginger root, peeled

2 cups yellow onion, chopped

2 tablespoons canola oil

2 bay leaves

4 whole green cardamom pods

1 2-inch cinnamon stick

4 whole cloves

1 teaspoon cumin seeds

3 pounds boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cubed

1 cup milk, divided into thirds

¼
cup water

½
teaspoon cayenne powder (adjust to spicy-hot preference)

1 teaspoon coriander powder

1 teaspoon salt (adjust to preference)

½
cup golden raisins

½
cup fresh coriander (cilantro), chopped and divided

½
teaspoon garam masala

1. Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Spray a disposable aluminum pie dish with nonstick cooking spray. Add almonds. Roast until they turn light brown, shaking and stirring often, about 15–20 minutes. Set aside.

2. In a blender or food processor, purée to a smooth paste: garlic, ginger, and onion. Set aside.

3. In a wok or deep 12-inch skillet, heat oil over medium heat. When it’s hot, add the whole spices: bay leaves, cardamom pods, cinnamon, cloves, and cumin. Stir-fry until cumin seeds turn golden brown, about 10–15 seconds.

4. Add chicken. Sear all sides to lock in the juices, about 3–5 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, transfer chicken to a plate. Set aside.

5. In the same skillet, add the paste. Stir-fry until liquid evaporates.

6. Stir in
¹
/
₃
cup milk. Reduce heat to medium-low, cover, and simmer until milk evaporates, about 3–5 minutes, stirring occasionally. Repeat twice until reduced to thick sauce.

7. Stir in chicken, cayenne, coriander powder, salt, and water. Increase heat to medium-high, bring to a gentle boil, then reduce heat to medium-low, cover, and simmer 15–20 minutes, stirring every 5 minutes.

8. Stir in raisins. Cover and simmer 5 minutes. Remove from heat.

9. Remove and discard bay leaves, cardamom pods, cinnamon stick, and cloves. Stir in ¼ cup almonds, ¼ cup fresh coriander, and garam masala.