The Two Krishnas (2 page)

“I’m on my way. I’m coming. I’ll be there soon,” he said. And then even after he had disconnected, he continued to say it to himself in a whisper, like a mantra, a reassurance that his life was waiting for him on the other side.

The barricade gave way. One by one, without rhyme or reason, the red lights of forbiddance were snuffed out and the cars began, almost with a moan of relief, to lurch forward. Rahul took a deep but shaky breath and stepped on the gas.

* * *

The whirl of the kitchen fan overhead drowned the simple solution to ages of rivalry between the Muslims and Hindus so Pooja tempered the heat of the stove and rushed to the living room to rewind the
ghazal
by the Hussain brothers. She pressed a button on the CD player and after a jumble of quick words, there it was, her favorite verse:

Mandir aur masjid ka yun jhaghra mitaya jaye,

Beech mein dono ke maikhana banaya jaye.

The war between Temple and Mosque can be dissolved easily.

Just erect a bar in the middle.

She threw her hand up in the air in appreciation, a gesture that looked as if she had just freed a bird, and rewarded the verse with an effusive
wah-wah
. Then she went back to the kitchen, continuing to sing along in her undeniably flat voice, made worse by the drastic difference in the baritone of the brothers and her off-key falsetto.

In the long hours of the afternoon, while Rahul ran his fiefdom at the bank and Ajay was at college, no doubt flirting with all the girls who constantly demanded his attention on the little red cellular he’d sprouted from his hip, Pooja found a way to occupy herself by catering homemade Indian food.

Apart from the special orders that trailed in through word of mouth mainly from American families in the Palisades and Brentwood, Pooja’s one consistent client was The Banyan, a yoga studio on Santa Monica’s trendy Montana Avenue. The spacious indoor and outdoor facility offered day and evening classes in hatha yoga and was popular with the hip youth, although her son, sadly, was not among them. A small store at the front carried candles, exotic oils, yards of spirituality books by the likes of Deepak Chopra and Osho, CDs of Eastern music, overpriced clothing silk-screened with Indian gods and goddesses, chakra-enhancing nutrition bars and beverages, and Pooja’s specially packaged savories. In the back of the studio was a little meditation garden Pooja was particularly fond of, where banana trees and bamboo surrounded a burbling fountain, and graceful statues of bodies in various asanas posed blissfully. The studio was managed by Magda, an efficient girl in her twenties who bore a striking resemblance to its owner, Charlie Ackerman, and claimed to be addicted to Pooja’s spicy “Kali” trail mix.

On such afternoons, while trays of cashew marzipan solidified and spiced trail mixes cooled in large trays, the stereo kept her company. She loved listening to classic Bollywood songs from the fifties and sixties, but her favorite were Indian devotional songs. To her, devotional music felt like the pure, cool water from the clay
matkis
back home. Because the imagery was personified on a human level, the emotion conveyed was easy and beautiful. The soul’s yearning for God was portrayed in the lover’s yearning for his beloved, as in Radha’s craving for Krishna. With the balm of these melodious
bhajans
, she grew tranquil and patient.

But there were times, late in the day when the orders had been filled and picked up, when nobody else was home and even the lamps in the house and the television could not chase away the gloom, when she would think of when she had first met Rahul. Melancholy would seize her and she wondered why they couldn’t go back to being close.
The tragedy of a lasting love story,
thought Pooja dolefully,
is that it must prove itself by outliving and enduring the loss of its youthful enchantment.

Basmati rice had already been soaking in a large pan in the sink for hours. Earlier she’d moved through the aisles of Asia Bazaar in Culver City where the overzealous shopkeeper always compared her to a popular Bollywood actress, and selected her ingredients and produce with utmost care. At first she’d feared her successes were accidental, but after her clients had oohed and aahed repeatedly over the perfect balance of spices and flavors in her dishes, Pooja grew more confident. She ran fresh water over the grains and sifted them through her hands until the water ran clear and was no longer milky. She inhaled the starchy scent deep into her lungs, comforted by the familiar, raw fragrance of the earth. In a saucepan, she began sautéing the rice in clarified butter, cinnamon, bruised cardamom pods, peppercorns and a few drops of lemon to keep them from sticking. When the grains hardened and glistened like ivory filaments, she poured in double the amount of water and, covering the saucepan, let it simmer until the moment they would blossom into the light, fluffy pilaf for which basmati or “scent of the earth” rice was famous.

In a non-stick pan Pooja churned a potpourri of spices—finely chopped yellow onions, hot green serrano chilies, minced garlic and cilantro, teaspoons of
garam masala
and turmeric—into thick aromatic gravy. Indian cooking, she had been instructed a long time ago by her mother, required non-stick cookware because the caramelizing and toasting was an essential part of its flavor. She tossed in the prawns from the colander and coated them, watching them turn into succulent pink tendrils. Her arms, like Shiva in motion, reached for one thing after another rhythmically and through pure instinct. She poured in some fresh cream and coarse sea salt to finish her most popular dish,
Jheenga Masala
. Poultry and seafood were Pooja’s forte. As a rule, she never cooked red meat, even though as a Bhatt, she’d been brought up in a household where eating meat was not only accepted, but served up quite frequently. Her father had been an avid beef-eater.

Pooja consulted the artificially antiqued clock mounted on the wall above the stove. It was almost six. He would be here any minute. There was still the sari to change into, the
tika
to anoint her forehead and the incense. Although the ionizer tower Rahul had bought her and which sat suspiciously quiet in a corner of the kitchen, emitting a strange sterile smell, apparently did its best to expunge the aromas of her cooking, Pooja ritually lit a stick or two of incense at the end of a cooking session. So now the scents of sandalwood, jasmine and rose had become part of their home’s breath, a perfume instantly noticed by visitors.

She was careful not to let the smells of cooking stick to the walls as they often did in the homes of other Indians who cooked generously with pungent spices and garlic and ginger, and at whom the rest of the Western world was so quick to wrinkle their noses. Pooja remembered how an apartment manager, whom she’d met at one of Rahul’s bank holiday parties, had most indelicately confessed to having the toughest time renting out apartments vacated by Indians because the strong smells of cooking had refused to follow suit. “I can’t decide which one is worse,” he had admitted, scratching his profuse moustache. “Indian or Chinese. All I know is it’s never a problem with the Japanese.”

She knew that it was also the reason Rahul didn’t take her food to the office with him, resisting the little Tupperwares she had try to ply him with at first. “Oh, Poo. You know these people with their Subway sandwiches,” he said. “They claim the microwave still smells of my curry from a year ago.”

Pooja lit a match and awakened the pair of incense sticks; she was never one to light them unceremoniously as from the stovetop. She closed her eyes and dipped her face into the whorls of fragrance dancing up. Then she hurried off to get dressed.

* * *

From the glove compartment, Rahul fished out a permit that would allow him to park right in front of the apartment. It was located a stone’s throw from Montana Avenue, the shopping area where celebrities were often spotted, lined with overpriced specialty boutiques full of prosaic fare and worn-out, “distressed” rubbish that Rahul thought people paid absurd amounts for. It was also home to The Banyan, the yoga studio where Pooja made an occasional delivery.

As he hooked the plastic card onto his rear view mirror, Rahul looked up and saw his abode through the filigree of heavily laden tree branches. The second floor apartment had large French windows dressed with heavy burgundy velvet curtains and ivory sheer panels, and opened up to a private balcony overlooking the street upon which he stood.

Now that he was finally here, he didn’t rush. The frenzy subsided and Rahul took pause. He stood under a majestic magnolia tree that blessed shade intermittently on his face. A pair of solemn joggers sprinted past. He wished that darkness would engulf him. There was something starkly malapropos about such a rendezvous in summer’s extended light.

When he first started to come here towards the end of last winter, darkness had cloaked his visits and the chill in the air was electric, serving to increase the hunger of his body. Although his mind had been laden with hesitation, his body had managed to move forward, knowing a different movement, an agility and vigor. The power of repetition could not be underestimated, thought Rahul. If repeated, action became purged of thought and awkwardness. Soon only gratification mattered and even the gnawing fear, however improbable, that he might run into Pooja making an unexpected delivery of cashew marzipan and spiced trail mix just a few blocks from here couldn’t deter him.

A mother pushed a gurgling infant in a stroller and Rahul let them pass him on the sidewalk before crossing over. The baby delightedly shook a fluffy green monster at him. Rahul smiled at them and couldn’t help but think of Ajay. He pictured his grown son standing there. His smile faded; regret twisted at his mouth.

The premium of old age, he thought, should be the peaceful ratchet of routine, the unwavering aura of predictability. Instead, as he approached his forty-eighth birthday, everything had been turned upside down. The boredom and conservatism that should have been the enduring hallmarks of his old age had simply vanished. Instead his world had bifurcated and at any given point, he found himself being hurtled back and forth.

A heavenly body shifted and an unexpected breeze came his way, blowing his dark hair softly. Branches above him stretched and rustled. He licked his parched lips, dissolving the thorny skin around them as he removed the tie from around his neck. Folding it gently, he pocketed it. He looked up and saw a figure move across the window and his heart jumped. Before he crossed the pavement, he slid the platinum band off his finger. The joint of his finger gave little if any resistance.

* * *

By the time she heard the doorbell chime, Pooja had donned a saffron sari and a teardrop-shaped bindi on her forehead. From her ears hung buttery gold
jhumkas
—24-karat as was essential to any self-respecting Indian—and matching bangles that clinked delicately to the graceful movement of her arms.

Now,
she thought, smiling to herself,
the illusion is complete.

Earlier, as she had stood in front of the mirror and pressed the convenient sticker bindi encrusted with a little glittering stone on her forehead, Pooja had drifted to her childhood. The red mark, which in ancient Aryan society was applied by the groom with his own blood on the bride’s forehead as recognition of wedlock, about which countless poets had written couplets, now came in self-adhesive versions made of felt. Pooja used them not as much to propitiate the Gods or mark her love for Rahul anymore, but to make her look more exotic for the benefit of her wealthy clientele.

Pooja knew, of course, that her adornments wouldn’t make or break her makeshift business but she also knew the great importance of appearance. It had been ingrained into her that the visage was a reflection of the inside. If anything on the outside looked amiss, then something on the inside had to be, too. As a result, she’d seldom seen her mother without heavy kohl-lined eyes, the most refined silk saris, a proud bindi. Performing duties and suppressing maudlin emotions were unspoken rules in the Bhatt household.

It seemed to her like only yesterday when her mother had sat her down at the dressing table covered with the instruments that transformed her into a film star. Imported perfumes—of which a stubby yellow bottle called “Kiku” was her mother’s favorite—and lipsticks and powders of various shades lined the marbled Formica surface like a miniature city.

After applying a dot of Vaseline on Pooja’s forehead, to that area between the eyebrows which is the seat of wisdom and the sixth chakra, Savita Bhatt would dip the tip of her middle finger into an ornamental container of red turmeric and press it onto that same spot. When Savita Bhatt moved aside, like a curtain glissading away from the mirror, Pooja saw herself, her eyes widened, and her heart rejoiced. She was suddenly grown up, a worthy consort for her Krishna. Her young mind, still cocooned from the sexual intimacies of matrimony, fantasized about the purely romantic aspect of their courtship. One day, he would come and take her away and she would dance to the music of his flute like no other
Gopika
could.

Many years later, just after she had turned eighteen, Rahul became her dark God. Pooja had read somewhere that we all carry in our minds a subliminal model of our ideal partner. When we recognize similarities between our lover and the model we created, chemistry is sparked off. We fall in love. In the adoration Rahul inspired in his friends and the amorousness in the girls, in the charismatic way he flirted and compelled others to do his bidding without asking, and the way flocks of people followed him on sports fields and in social gatherings, Pooja recognized her Krishna. He may not have been dark—in fact, he had the much sought-after fair complexion—or known how to play a musical instrument, let alone a flute, but in the way he looked at her, as if clearly able to see her burning from within, he made her want to swoon, just as the
Gopikas
must have swooned to Krishna’s melody.