The Hindi-Bindi Club Read online

  It was “retaliation” that led to more “retaliation,” a vicious cycle of “you harm my people, I harm yours.” People fighting terror with terror.

  With the breakdown in administration and absence of adequate peacekeeping forces, savagery escalated on either side of our two new borders. Hindu, Muslim, and Sikh communities all had blood on their hands and loved ones to mourn. Riots and looting ran rampant. Homes were torched. Doused with gasoline, entire neighborhoods were reduced to cinders. From Amritsar to Lahore—both sides of the Wagah border—trains pulled into stations like crypts containing murdered and maimed refugees, Hindus and Sikhs migrating east, Muslims migrating west.

  Men were often forced to drop their drawers to prove their religion. Hindu men aren’t circumcised; Muslim men are. Women were kidnapped, stripped, robbed of jewelry, raped, and murdered. People jumped into wells to drown or otherwise committed suicide to avoid compulsory religious conversions and other fates deemed worse than death. Many women opted for “mercy killing” by a male relative in order to “protect their honor.”

  Hundreds of thousands were massacred, millions violated. Some abductees were rescued. Some remain missing. Some women, tragically, returned to their families only to be turned away, written off as unlucky, damaged goods, shameful.

  To be fair, there are many accounts of communal compassion and heroism, people who risked everything to save their fellow human beings, regardless of religion or caste. Our mohalla in Krishanagar organized a twenty-four-hour watch, and people took turns keeping vigil. Our Muslim neighbors and friends helped us in every way possible—storing our belongings, sheltering us in their homes, aiding our escape. On the other side of the border, many Hindus and Sikhs similarly protected innocent Muslims.

  But the volumes that showcase the underbelly of human nature are the ones that haunt me. The ones that taught me tolerance is too often superficial. In times of peace and prosperity, people from different communities can live and let live, but in times of fear and uncertainty, many—far too many—side with their own and turn against those who share their biology but not their ideology or heritage. Far too many fall in line behind leaders who rally: You’re either with us—“our kind”—or against us. Or, Death to a nation, or a people, not ours—not “our kind.”

  I was only six, but I saw it. I lived through it. Others didn’t.

  Nanaji and Naniji refused to leave Lahore. “I was born here, and I will die here, if that is my karma,” Nanaji said. And Naniji refused to leave Nanaji.

  Relatives, friends, acquaintances pleaded with them to no avail. Biji’s eldest brother, after escorting family across the border, risked his life to return twice for his parents. The first time, they sent him away with a neighbor girl who later became his wife. On the second trip, he found them in the charred remains of their home in the walled city.

  They rarely slept in the same bed, but they did on their last night. On Nanaji’s single divan, they died side by side.

  In Delhi, we rebuilt our lives from scratch and assimilated into a new land, a new culture where we were not always welcome, where locals regarded our overflowing refugee community as loud and unrefined, our speech and mannerisms as accented and crude. But we were survivors; we proved that every day.

  Biji had an intricately carved walnut jewelry box Bauji gifted her on a family holiday in Kashmir. She emptied it, selling her wedding jewelry to finance our new start. Bauji spent the next decade filling it back up again.

  I remember watching Gone With the Wind with my girlfriends in college. How I related to Scarlett O’Hara! I loved the end when, after surviving the Civil War, she lifts a handful of the earth and vows never to go hungry again.

  In time, we replanted ourselves in the soil of our new motherland. The mournful wails of chest-beating women in grief subsided, and laughter replaced the horror stories. Still, memories of 1947 hung over our Punju community, the silence between our gay notes.

  More than half a century later, they still hang over me.

  I close my eyes and see Lahore, Kapoor Road, our bungalow. Zarkha and me swinging from the iron gate, throwing sticks for Moti, playing stapu and kikli, arranging the marriages of our dolls, dressing in yellow for Basant, eating pistachio kulfi, sneaking bakarkhani.

  I remember an old Punjabi saying: If only these walls of steel could be brought down forever, we could once again gaze upon each other.

  Saroj’s Famous Samosas

  MAKES 16

  PASTRY:

  2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for plate

  1/3 cup vegetable shortening, chilled

  ½ teaspoon ajowan seeds,

  1/3 cup butter, chilled

  ½ teaspoon salt

  4–8 tablespoons very cold water

  1. In a large mixing bowl, sift the flour, ajowan, and salt together. Cut in thin slices of shortening and butter. Using fingertips or pastry blender, rub mixture together until coarse and crumbly in texture.

  2. Starting with 3 tablespoons, add water and work into mixture by hand or wooden spoon. Add more tablespoons as necessary until dough holds together, neither sticky nor dry. Knead on lightly floured surface 5–7 minutes or until smooth.

  3. Wrap dough ball in plastic wrap and chill for 1 hour.

  FILLING:

  2 tablespoons canola oil

  1–3 fresh green chili peppers, finely chopped (adjust to spicy preference)

  1 teaspoon cumin seeds

  1 teaspoon fennel seeds

  1 medium yellow onion, finely chopped

  4–5 medium potatoes, peeled, boiled, cooled, and cubed

  1 tablespoon fresh ginger root, peeled and minced

  ¾ cup frozen green peas, thawed

  1 tablespoon coriander powder

  ¼ cup fresh coriander (cilantro), finely chopped

  1 teaspoon cumin powder

  1 teaspoon garam masala

  1/8 cup fresh mint, finely chopped

  ½ teaspoon salt (adjust to preference)

  1 tablespoon anardana powder (dried pomegranate seeds) or amchur powder (dried mango) or lemon juice

  ½ teaspoon sugar (adjust to preference)

  ½ teaspoon turmeric powder

  ¼ cup water

  1. In a wok or deep 12-inch skillet, heat 2 tablespoons oil over medium-high heat.

  2. Add cumin seeds and fennel seeds. When they change color, about 30 seconds, reduce heat to medium.

  3. Add onion, ginger, and chilies. Mix well. Sauté until onion is golden brown.

  4. Add potatoes and peas. Mix well.

  5. Add coriander powder, cumin powder, garam masala, salt, sugar, turmeric, and water. Mix well. Cover and reduce heat to medium-low. Simmer, stirring occasionally, until water is absorbed.

  6. Remove from heat. Stir in fresh coriander, mint, and anardana (or substitution). Cover and let stand for 5 minutes. Uncover and let cool completely, about 20–30 minutes.

  ASSEMBLING SAMOSAS:

  1. On a lightly floured surface, knead the pastry dough 3–5 minutes. Divide dough into 8 equal portions. Work with 1 at a time.

  2. Roll portion into 6-inch circle. Cut into 2 half-moons. Arrange with straight edges closest to you.

  3. Spoon 2 tablespoons of filling onto the center.

  4. Fold left and right corners over to form a cone.

  5. Tuck the top flap inside, like an envelope. Samosa should resemble an inverted pyramid.

  6. Seal flap carefully using a little water. (Note: Contents will leak into the oil if the flap isn’t sealed completely.)

  7. Place on floured plate to prevent sticking.

  8. Repeat steps 2–7 for remaining dough.

  COOKING SAMOSAS:

  1 cup canola oil for deep-frying

  1. Heat oil in a wok or deep 12-inch skillet over medium-high heat. Carefully lower 4 samosas into the oil. Turn frequently until light golden brown.

  2. Remove with slotted spoon. Drain on paper towels. Serve with chutney.*

  Mint-Cilantro Chutney


  2 CUPS

  2 cups fresh coriander (cilantro), chopped

  1 fresh green chili pepper, finely chopped (adjust to preference)

  1 cup fresh mint, chopped

  ½ cup yellow onion, finely chopped

  1½ teaspoons sugar (adjust to taste)

  2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

  ¾ teaspoon salt (adjust to taste)

  1 teaspoon fresh ginger root, peeled and finely chopped

  ¼ cup lime juice

  ¼ cup water

  1. In a blender or food processor, purée all ingredients until smooth. Pour into a bowl.

  2. Serve immediately or cover and refrigerate until ready to serve.

  Tamarind Chutney

  1½ CUPS

  1/3 cup tamarind

  ½ teaspoon cayenne pepper (adjust to preference)

  1 cup boiling water

  1 teaspoon fresh ginger root, peeled and chopped

  ½ teaspoon salt (adjust to preference)

  ¾ cup jaggery or packed brown sugar

  2 tablespoons fresh coriander (cilantro), finely chopped

  1. In a small glass bowl, soak tamarind in boiling water until soft, approximately 10–15 minutes. Mash through a wire strainer. Reserve pulp and juices. Discard solids.

  2. In a blender or food processor, combine all ingredients except fresh coriander. Purée until smooth. Pour into bowl.

  3. Stir in fresh coriander. Serve immediately or cover and refrigerate until ready to serve.*

  * Saroj’s Tips:

  Samosas are best fresh but can be preassembled and frozen, then fried straight from the freezer, no defrosting necessary.

  Chutney is best fresh, but can be refrigerated up to 2 days.

  Uma Basu McGuiness: The Mother of a Hundred Daughters

  How I cherished to be married to Krishna! My husband turned out to be neither Krishna, nor Vishnu, but the grandson of Faringa, the buffoon weaver.

  BENGALI PROVERB

  Red is the color of love. Of passion. Of rage.

  Red is the color of an Indian bride’s sari. Sindoor in the part of her hair when married. Blood when she fails to conceive.

  Red is the color I see when I think of my mother. Red, red, red…

  Everyone believed Ma was mad, myself included. Even before The Unspeakable, signs that Something Was Not Right swirled like ever-present dust motes in the musty air of the Ballygunge house in South Calcutta where our large joint family resided.

  Smaller signs we ignored, dismissed as we might a breeze that snuffs out the prodeep’s sacred flame and plunges a room into inauspicious darkness. But the bigger signs haunted our days and nights, as unshakable as horoscope predictions.

  First we struggled to conceal, then to contain, and finally to survive, for no secret, not even the tiniest, remains secret for long in Calcutta’s Bengali community. And no one, not even the wealthiest family, can escape destiny.

  N ext semester, my research sabbatical begins, and I em-bark on a voyage of discovery to fulfill a longtime goal, professional and personal: translating my mother’s journals and poetry from Bengali to English. I want to preserve the enormous wealth of Bengali literature, to record new voices and recover lost ones, especially women’s. I want Bengali writing accessible outside Bengal as it once was—Rabindranath Tagore won the Nobel Prize for literature after Gitanjali was translated into English by W. B. Yeats. I hope my experience proves enriching, cathartic. Right now, it’s merely daunting.

  My mother was highly creative. She painted, wrote poetry, narrated fabulous stories, danced, and sang with the voice of a goddess. As the daughter of a wealthy zamindar—landowner—it was out of the question for her to pursue any of these talents professionally, something respectable women didn’t do. But she performed for her family and guests who came to dinner at the family home. After marriage, once settled in her sasur-baari—father-in-law’s house—she encouraged (or should I say coerced?) all of us children to put on skits, sing, and dance to Tagore’s plays and songs.

  From family lore, we learned Baba, who also sang quite well, married Ma for her beautiful voice. After hearing her, he didn’t want to marry anyone else. He pleaded with Thakurda—my paternal grandfather—to do whatever it took to convince Ma’s father to accept their proposal. Ma had numerous interested parties, and Baba was afraid, with such stiff competition, he would lose out to one of them. Later, Thakurma—my paternal grandmother—said Ma cast a spell on everyone when she sang at the bride-viewing. She didn’t mean this nicely.

  In Ma’s journals, she confessed though Baba wasn’t her first choice, she didn’t object to him when her father asked, so their match was fixed. Later, she lamented her lapse for not speaking up when she had the chance, for not voicing a single reservation, such as the smell of his hair oil, which grew to repulse her.

  She wrote about her everyday life. Bargaining for saris. Lizards whose tails still wiggled after being severed from the rest of the body. Bolts on doors and bars on windows to “lock thieves out, and women in.” Wanting to march in a rally and not being allowed. Accidentally burning the rice. Deliberately spoiling a favored dish. Modest praise and stern reprimands. Massaging babies with mustard oil. Power cuts at inopportune times. Loneliness in a crowded house. Fantasies about film stars and cricket players. Women’s gossip, embellishments, deceptions. The escape of novels. Pleasure at possessing skills—reading, writing, singing—her mother-in-law didn’t.

  These things are not so difficult to translate. Others…I cannot imagine coming out of her mouth, not the Ma I knew.

  I remember her voice was always sweet, whether singing or speaking. Even when she cried, it sounded like a bittersweet melody. Ma claimed this was because of the honey Thakurma gave her during the welcome ceremony when she and Baba first arrived home as newlyweds. Thakurma put a little honey on Ma’s tongue and dabbed a drop in each of her ears so that Ma should always speak sweetly and hear sweet things in her sasur-baari. “It worked,” Ma told us, we who were too young to know any better.

  The voice in Ma’s writing is her authentic one—the voice imprisoned in the body of a Bengali woman in the mid-twentieth century. The spirit I hope to set free.

  My mother died far too young, when I was twelve. As to how…For that, I must back up a year to when I was eleven.

  My parents had five daughters then. The firstborn was fair and ugly. The second was dark and lovely. I was in the middle, too tall, but otherwise unremarkable in all-important aesthetics. Finally after me, the goddess Parvati granted the most desirable female combination: two girls both fair and lovely. But by then it was too late.

  Everyone knew three girls was triple unlucky, but five girls? Five dowries? And not a single penis to light the funeral pyre? That wasn’t just unlucky. That was cursed.

  In traditional Indian culture, daughters are a liability, raised to be given away to another family. Sons are an asset, retained to support the family. And for Hindus, only sons can perform the parents’ last rites. A common Indian blessing is: May you be the mother of a hundred sons.

  “That poor man,” people said about my father. “His wife can’t bear sons.” From shopkeepers to socialites, illiterate servants to babus in suits and boots, tongues wagged.

  In the evenings, when we piled into Baba’s Ambassador and drove to Victoria Memorial for our family outings at the lush gardens, we felt the weight of people’s gazes, heard whispers, sometimes snickers when Baba went across to the Maidan (think: New York’s Central Park, with litter) to buy rolls, jhaal muri, or phuchkas from a vendor’s stall. Baba was a well-known man. We were a well-known family.

  When shopping on Chowringhee or Park Street or playing outside with siblings, cousins, or girlfriends from our paara—neighborhood—I overheard the speculations about my mother’s condition.

  “You can hear her wailing at night. You must have heard.”

  “I thought it was a stray cat or a baby crying.”

  “No, it’s her. They say she’s mad. They’
ve locked her away.”

  “I heard she has a mysterious disease.”

  “A disease? Is it contagious?”

  No one knew for sure. They only knew Something Was Not Right.

  We knew it, too. For as long as I can remember, Ma suffered from an illness no doctor could diagnose, let alone cure, that periodically confined her to bed for days, weeks, and sometimes months. During this time, she struggled to eat or bathe, even with assistance.

  Sometimes, Thakurma didn’t so much mind having her daughter-in-law indisposed. With Ma out of the way, Thakurma could wait on Baba, her favorite son, as she’d done all his unmarried life, taking great pleasure in such simple expressions of affection as fanning him with a hand-fan while he ate.

  But at other times, Thakurma grew skeptical and accused Ma of faking her ailment. “Why does she suddenly fall ill on gray, overcast days? After giving birth, why does it take her so long to recover? She’s lazy. That’s what she is.” Or, “She’s ashamed. She cannot face the humiliation of not bearing sons.”

  On occasion, even my father, who doted on his daughters, buckled under society’s pressure and lashed out at my mother.

  Thakurda intervened. He was the only one who could, who held the power. Though as a general rule, he steered clear of household squabbles, Thakurda had a soft spot for his bouma—daughter-in-law—who dutifully massaged his feet, plucked his gray hairs, and read aloud to him for hours if he so desired. “Bouma would never do this on purpose,” Thakurda said in Ma’s defense. “It’s not her nature.”

  Thakurma may not have agreed, for she had witnessed many of Ma’s erratic moodswings, but she held her tongue. Thakurda had spoken, and no one could contradict him, certainly not a self-respecting wife. To do so would be undignified. As for Baba, his duty as a good son meant he obeyed his parents.

  “Shuncho?” Thakurma called to Thakurda one hot afternoon. (Neither she nor Ma addressed her husband by name, but by this expression that translates: Are you listening to me?) Thakurma handed Thakurda a tumbler of cold lime water and mused about my again-bedridden mother, “She must be cursed. There is no other explanation.”