The Hindi-Bindi Club (32 page)

I hold the mobile away from my ear. I’m lying on my back across the bed again, my newly adopted position for long and/or stressful phone calls. I learned many tricks this year to cope with toxins, including negativity. Negativity never goes away; you must learn how to handle it. Right now, I must disengage.

I raise my feet straight up in the air, flex and point my toes, stretch my calves, admire my pedicure.

I usually favor pinks, but I found red to my liking today. A fire engine red, that’s what I chose from the sweet girl who comes to our flats each week to indulge the women of the house (only the women) with home massages, manicures, and pedicures. All for a minuscule fraction of what I would pay in the States but
don’t
. There, I consider it a frivolous, overpriced expense; here such a small, easily affordable amount I can rationalize as doing my part to support gainful employment.

My feet have aged, I notice. Thickened toenails, cracked heels no amount of oils and lotions will repair. Oh, well…I’ve become an old lady. Who shall wear red toenail polish.

Periodically, when I hear an opening, I replace the mobile over my ear and say, “Yash, I would like you to come to India.”

Two seconds, and he starts again. “What is this nonsense, Meenal? Have they brainwashed you?”

I put the mobile down. On the mattress. Next to my pillow. Maybe next week, I’ll try a purple. There was this one shade, a pale lilac that caught my eye. Hmmmm…I lower my feet. Raise my hands. Splay my fingers.

Baba
shuffles into the bedroom dressed in his usual evening loungewear of comfy white cotton
kurta
-
pajamas.
He pushes the black frame of his thick-lensed glasses higher on the bridge of his nose, hitches his chin at me, turns up one hand in question.
Getting anywhere?

I shake my head.

He thrusts out his hand and gestures for the mobile.
“Eh, Yashwant! Me Baba bolthath! Huh, thik aahé! Huh. Huh.”
He talks for five minutes, ends the call, drops the mobile on the bed. “Meenu,” he says, all seriousness, “more than this, pink was much prettier. This red…” He wrinkles his nose, waves a palm in distaste. “This is not you. Too
ghatty
. Your husband’s coming next week. Wear pink, huh?” He squeezes my big toe and shuffles from the room.

W
hen I informed my parents of Kiran and John’s intentions,
Ai
gasped and blamed herself. Why did she interfere? Did she make some mistake in her
puja,
accidentally switching John and Nikhil?

I reminded
Ai
that Kiran’s fate is what it is. What is meant to be
will
be. We are all players in destiny’s plans, vehicles through which God operates.

As fate would have it, after Yash arrives, it’s
Baba
who makes the strongest case for John during the family gathering.

“The boy
is
Indian,”
Baba
says, “in the most important way.
His heart
is Indian.”

All around, heads wobble. I see in Yash’s eyes, in the way only a wife can, that he is moved by the overwhelming endorsement of my family, but he remains quiet, stoic. That night in bed, he holds me close, burrowing his face against my neck. He’s scared. He has every reason to be. Cancer taught me that true courage isn’t the absence of fear but perseverance in the face of fear.

“God, Meenu.
Why
another American music-
wallah
?”

“Because, like John, she’s attracted to the exotic.
He
is exotic to
her
.”

“Didn’t she learn from her mistakes?”

“Yes, she did.” I stroke the back of his head, still bald because he can’t tolerate stubble and lacks the patience to let it grow out. “The question is,
did we
?”

Yash raises his head. Frowns at me. “What does that mean?”

I trace his brow, ironing out the wrinkles with my fingers. “Ask yourself, as I did, when you’re sick and dying, what’s more important, your self-righteousness or your daughter’s love? And when your soul leaves this body, departs this life, which would you rather take with you? We can’t have everything, so we have to decide. What is it we value the most?”

These are the tough questions Uma put to me in the hospital, when I flatly refused counseling, and now I put them to Yash.

“Kiran isn’t a child anymore,” I say. “For better or worse, her personality has been formed. We can influence her decisions, but we can’t impose our will on her. She doesn’t need us, or our approval, but she still wants both. For how long, I don’t know.”

“In other words,” Yash says, “if we want our grown daughter in our lives, it has to be on her terms.”

“No, in other words,
there are no terms.
”

Yash shakes his head. “You lost me, Meenu.”

Before cancer, I would have given up at this point. Given in to thoughts like:
How can he
not
understand what I’m saying? Haven’t I said it enough times, spelled it out in the clearest possible terms? If I bash my head against this wall anymore, I’ll knock myself unconscious.
The temptation to quit is still there, but I can’t succumb. This is too important. Yes, it’s true everything can’t be conveyed, contained, in words. But if it’s important enough, we have to keep trying—using new ways,
and
the old—to stretch our boundaries, increase our awareness.

I used to think saying the same old words, over and over, was wasting my breath. But what, then, is chanting? Doesn’t repetition of a mantra heighten consciousness? Revisiting the old, familiar, over time reveals new meaning. Truth comes not at once but in layers. Life isn’t a straight line but a circle. And this year, I feel myself coming full circle….

I breathe deeply, find my center, and try again, beginning with familiar building blocks, “Is there only one way to have a relationship with God? Only one way to worship? Only one path to
moksha
? No. We don’t believe in any ‘my way or the highway’ terms with God, do we?”

So far, Yash is with me. “And God is love of the highest. The purest. The truest. God is the ultimate truth. It follows, then, that there are no ‘my way or the highway’ terms with true love. If you truly love someone, it’s immaterial who’s right or wrong, who wins or loses. There are no sides. We are all One.”

Yash groans. “Meenu…” I’ve heard my husband’s sounds enough to know what they mean. This kind of groan is physical pain. I’m hurting his head. A plea to let up.

I gentle my voice and forge ahead, building on familiar but less abstract concepts this time. “With every new discovery, the world feels like a smaller place, doesn’t it? Remember when we watched Neil Armstrong walk on the moon? You were so excited, you phoned your mother, even though we couldn’t afford it, and the first thing your mother said when you told her was,
‘Kai, Ai la bandal noko maaru, Yash.’
She was convinced you were pulling her leg. Today, the rickshaw-
wallah
has a mobile. A village with no plumbing has a cyber-café. The world isn’t shrinking, our awareness of all the possibilities is growing, right?”

A noncommittal grunt.

I’ll take it. At least he’s listening. I continue, “Well, in today’s world, we are seeing,
discovering
how a child born to Indian parents can become American, and a child born to American parents can become Indian.”

Silence. A sigh. “Meenu, you do craft beautiful prose—of that, there’s no doubt—but it doesn’t matter how mumbo-jumbo or one-two-three you say it, I see it how I see it, I’m sorry.
East is East, and West is West…
Please don’t be angry. I just…”

“I know.” I take his hand in mine. He isn’t ready. Not yet, and perhaps not ever, in this life. We all have our own spiritual path. Though our eventual destination—the ultimate reality—is the same, everyone’s at a different place, proceeding at a different pace. Before cancer, had Uma spoken these same words, they would have gone in one ear and out the other for me,
and
I would have judged her pretentious. It took cancer to heighten my awareness, my consciousness of
all
possibilities.

The infinite. Eternal. Dimensionless.
God.

Cancer created a
new
material reality for me and brought me closer to the ultimate truth, to God. I saw the light—as a ray hitting cut crystal. The prisms are many; the light is one. I laughed in amazement, laughed at
myself
. There it was, right in front of me all along, plain as daylight, but I couldn’t see it. And just as suddenly, yet again, I’m struck by a blinding flash of the obvious.

When you can’t see the question, how can you see the answer?

Tenderly, I lay my hand on Yash’s cheek. “It comes down to this,” I say. “Can you forgive Kiran for not being the daughter you want, and accept the daughter you have?”

Yash rolls onto his back and flings an arm over his eyes. “I don’t know, Meenu,” he whispers, anguish clogging his voice. “I just don’t know….”

Green Beans Bhaji

SERVES 4

3 tablespoons canola oil

2 pinches asafetida (hing)

1 medium onion, finely chopped

4 cups string beans, chopped into ¼-inch pieces

¹
/
₈
teaspoon turmeric powder

1 teaspoon coriander powder

1 teaspoon cumin powder

½
teaspoon cayenne powder

½
cup water, divided

1 teaspoon salt

½
teaspoon brown sugar

1. In a wok or deep 12-inch skillet, heat oil over medium heat.

2. Stir in asafetida. After the asafetida changes color, about 30 seconds, add onion. Sauté until golden brown.

3. Stir in beans. Sauté 2–3 minutes.

4. Stir in turmeric, coriander, cumin, and cayenne. Reduce heat to medium-low. Cover and simmer for 3–4 minutes, stirring occasionally.

5. Stir in ¼ cup water. Cover and simmer until water is absorbed.

6. Stir in remaining ¼ cup water. Cover and simmer until beans change color.

7. Stir in salt and brown sugar. Reduce heat to low. Cover and simmer until water is absorbed.

8. Remove from heat. Serve warm.

Chappati

MAKES 6

2 cups whole wheat flour, plus 2–3 tablespoons (for dusting)

½ teaspoon salt

2 tablespoons canola oil

1 cup water

ghee or butter to taste

1. In a large mixing bowl, sift together 2 cups flour and salt.

2. Using your hand to knead, stir in oil and water, ¼ cup at a time, until dough forms into a ball.

3. Transfer dough to a clean, unfloured work surface. Knead until smooth, about 5–10 minutes. Dough should be soft and pliable, neither too wet nor too dry. Add a little water or a little flour if necessary.

4. Cover with clean kitchen towel. Allow to sit for 30 minutes.

5. Dust a clean work surface with flour.

6. Tear off wedges of dough, making 6 equal portions between the size of a plum and an apricot.

7. Roll portion between your palms into a ball, then press your palms together to flatten somewhat. Set on work surface.

8. With a rolling pin, flatten portion into a 6-inch circle of uniform thickness. Dust work surface as necessary to keep dough from sticking.

9. Repeat for all 6 portions.

10. Heat a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Test heat with a few drops of water. Water should sizzle.

11. Carefully place one chappati onto the skillet. Cook until chappati lightens somewhat and bubbles puff beneath the surface, about 30–60 seconds.

12. Using a spatula, flip chappati and cook other side about 30–40 seconds.

13. Make one last flip, if necessary, to cook any remaining raw dough, then remove to a plate.*

14. Spread a little ghee or butter over the surface. Should melt upon contact.

15. Repeat for remaining chappatis.

16. Stack on top of each other, so top of one chappati butters bottom of next.

Tips:

Be careful not to overcook. Some brown spots are okay, but chappatis should remain soft, not cardboard stiff or crisp.

If chappatis are cooking too quickly, or scorching too much, decrease heat.