The Hindi-Bindi Club Page 15

  She nods. “From start to finish. Usha tried to go back to her parents many times, but they wouldn’t have her. They said her place was with her husband, and she must have brought the punishment on herself. If not in the present, then in a past lifetime—bad karma. They were very orthodox. They believed once parents gave a girl away in marriage, she wasn’t their daughter anymore. They had no rights or responsibilities.”

  “So they just washed their hands of her?”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  I close my eyes. “Man.”

  “Now, Aji and Ajoba were traditional about most things, as you know, but this was an issue where they were very progressive. They sat me down and told me in no uncertain terms that a wife’s duty does not include abuse. It was one thing to be willing to die for your husband, and another to die at his hand. If I ever found myself in that situation, I was to come home immediately,” she pronounces the word im-ME-jet-ly, “or I should send word to them, and Ajoba and my brothers would come and get me, with the police if necessary. I’d always be welcome in their home.”

  “Good for them! And good for you, too, for putting it out there with Dad. I had no idea—”

  “Not just Dad. I told every boy who came to see me.”

  I’m floored—beyond floored—by her revelations. There have been times when I’ve thought my mother was a door-mat, when she put up with things I never would, deferred to my father as lord and master even when she knew he was wrong. But, like me, my parents were molded by the culture in which they were raised. They had their own benchmarks, values, challenges to the status quo. For her time and place, her generation of Indian women, my mom did stand up for herself, assert herself in ways many others wouldn’t have, even today, even in this country.

  I look at her anew and say, “That couldn’t have been easy, sticking your neck out like that.”

  “It was a calculated risk,” she says, explaining she didn’t want to be branded unmarriageable.

  A girl who came across too headstrong, too liberated from tradition, could be perceived as a threat to family harmony, especially in a joint family with its existing hierarchy. But Mom wanted her marriage to have the best possible foundation, best chances of success, so it was critical both sides, girl’s and boy’s, understood what they were signing up for, made sure they were compatible.

  “Here, you talk about love. There, it’s compatibility. Love’s fickle. Compatibility endures, sustains marriages,” she says. “Here, marriage is about the two people on the wedding cake. Couples don’t need permission slips from their parents. Families have a lower priority than the couple. But in India, marriage is the joining of two families, a strategic alliance. The couple’s a lower priority than the family as a whole, and permission slips are essential. Understand, Kiran, it was only because my parents dared to stick their necks out that I could. You think of parents as a net that traps you. For Dad and me, parents were our safety nets. We wouldn’t have dared walk the tightrope of life without their support.”

  I squirm in discomfort. Guilty as charged.

  Midway through the kheer, Mom asks me to take over for her. She raps the wooden spoon against the rim of the milk pot, then hands it to me with instructions to stir every few minutes and make sure I scrape the bottom and sides. We trade places, and she flops onto my vacated barstool.

  Concerned, I ask, “You okay?”

  She nods. “It’s just frustrating not to have the stamina.”

  “Patience, Mom. You’re doing great. I mean it. But you can’t overdo. Listen to your body. If you need to rest, rest. You want to go lie down for a while? I can finish the kheer.”

  She laughs. “You and what personal chef?”

  “Very funny.”

  She writes the recipe as we go, refusing my suggestion to dictate directions I can jot on scrap paper, then follow while she naps. “My body’s tired, but my mind isn’t,” she says. “I need you to talk to me. Wear out my brain like you usually do.”

  “Hey!” I lift my chin. “I resemble that remark!”

  She smiles and gives me instructions for the vermicelli. Since I can’t cook and talk at the same time, I focus on the kheer until I get to a place where all I have to do is stir and scrape the pot again. “Mom?” I ask once I’m on cruise control. “Can I ask you a personal question…?” I hasten to add, “You don’t have to answer, but it would help me if you did.”

  She tilts her head, both curious and apprehensive. “What?”

  “Did Dad ever…fool around on you?”

  Right away, she drops her gaze somewhere around her ankles. Her lips tighten. But then, she takes a deep breath and looks up, meeting my gaze unflinching. “Honestly?” she asks. At my nod, she says, “I don’t know. There were a few times when I suspected there might have been someone. He’s had plenty of opportunities, but I’ve never found proof. If there was any hanky-panky, I’ve never caught him.”

  “Did you ever ask?”

  She laughs. “All the time.”

  I blink. I’d expected her to say no. “What did he say?”

  “What do you think?”

  “No. Of course. Okay, dumb question.” I laugh at myself. “But what would you have done if you had found proof, if you’d caught him?” I lean one hip against the counter, stirring and scraping, the aroma of saffron and cardamom wafting in the air.

  “We wouldn’t have divorced, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  I nod. This doesn’t surprise me. Traditional Hindus—in addition to believing the man can do no wrong and should never be questioned—don’t believe in divorce. You can’t trade in your “partner for life” (marriage being a sacred, heavenly ordained, permanent union) for a new, better model. You must accept what you can’t change, and you can’t change what’s been predetermined. That’s fatalism.

  “You know my Ajoba had a mistress,” my mother says.

  No, I didn’t know this about my great-grandfather, a High Court judge! The name of the floozy, er, mistress was Gajra-bai. Gajra means “garland of flowers.” Everyone, even his wife, knew about her. There wasn’t a need for secrecy because society accepted it. It was common practice to have “a big house and a little house.” A wife and kids in a big house, a mistress in a little house. A respectable, presentable wife for public show, prestige, procreation, and child rearing. A mistress for private pleasure. Unwinding after a hard day.

  “In India, we don’t expect any one person to fulfill all our needs the way you do here,” Mom says. “We aren’t as disappointed when they don’t because our expectations are different. I don’t know if you remember that perfume commercial—you might have been too little—about a woman who could bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never let her husband forget he’s a man?” She makes a sound of disgust. “That’s a lot of pressure, isn’t it? Earn a paycheck, cook, and perform in the bedroom. If you ask me, that’s why you have such high divorce rates. I don’t know that it’s realistic to expect so much from a spouse. You set each other up to fail.”

  I never thought of it that way. Did I set Anthony up to fail?

  “You know, in some societies, it was, and still is, a sign of prestige for a man to have a mistress or a second wife. Not every man’s capable of keeping more than one woman happy. Most have their hands full with just one.”

  Ah. The Joy of Sex in Patriarchal Societies. There’s a bestseller for you.

  I whack the wooden spoon against the pot—boom-boom-boom!—arguing that it’s a double standard. Countering that wasn’t always the case, Mom cites the example of ancient India when women sometimes had more than one husband.

  “In the Mahabharata,” she says, referring to the Great Tale of India, the longest poem in world literature and a cornerstone of Hindu culture, “Draupadi has five husbands. She’s the wife of the Pandava brothers, who are sons of the deceased King Pandu. She’s considered a role model for wives and cooks in parts of India, like Bengal. At the Rays’, you might hear Subhro Uncle call Chitra Auntie ‘Draupa
di.’ That’s a high compliment to a woman who’s a good cook.”

  Some compliment. I’d take it as an insult. And how much do you want to bet there was a shortage of women, thus polyandry? It was more about satisfying his needs (quelle surprise) than her needs, I’m sure.

  A man wants a madonna and a whore, and society shrugs its shoulders. What can you do? Men will be men. A man has his needs. It’s his nature. So, he gets two houses. He gets a harem. But a woman who wants a faithful Ram and a passionate Krishna? Oh, no. That’s unrealistic. She has to adjust her expectations. Or wear a scarlet letter.

  “Let me get this straight…” I deposit the spoon on a ceramic dish shaped like a celery stalk. “Our heroine got to cook and clean and service—er, perform conjugal duties—for multiple men. And here I thought Cinderella had it bad. But little girls in parts of India want to grow up to be just like that? Yeesh.” I wrinkle my nose. “I’d say they need better role models. Like Kali. Now there’s a role model, if you ask me.” The goddess Kali, destroyer of evil, reminds me of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. “She kicks ass and takes names.”

  My mom laughs. “Obviously, there’s more than one way of looking at such things.”

  “Spin, Mom. It’s all about the spin.”

  “Exactly my point. Society’s interpretations, our taboos change, but actual human behavior has been the same since the dawn of time. Consider this…. President Clinton was tarred and feathered, and people marveled his wife didn’t divorce him. But Kennedy and Nehru? They got off scot-free. Whether it’s front-page news or strictly hush-hush, humans have always behaved this way. Monogamy’s held up and publicly touted as a moral value, but that doesn’t change the fact humans as a species…Well, some of us can accept one mate for life, some can’t. Men and women. Even in societies where they stone adulterers. Preach all you want. Punish all you want. It’s still going to happen.”

  I cross my arms, lean against the counter. “Reality or not, I can’t accept adultery. I won’t. Please don’t tell me you’re advocating—”

  “No, no. I’m not—”

  “Just because something’s always been a certain way doesn’t make it right.”

  “True. I guess what I’m trying to say is…I want you to be able to look at certain situations…without ego. Anthony’s womanizing—it wasn’t about you, Kiran. It doesn’t matter how wonderful the pistachio ice cream is if you want all thirty-one flavors. If that’s right or wrong depends. On many factors. It’s taken me a while, but I’ve finally realized there are no hard and fast rules, no absolutes in life. Think about it. We say thou shalt not kill, that we have a culture of life. In the next breath, we send our young men and women off to wars that claim innocent lives, and we support the death penalty. Is this consistent moral reasoning? Is consistency necessarily right?”

  I frown. “I’m not sure.”

  “Me neither,” she says, “which is a different answer than I would have given you a year ago. A brush with death changes the way you look at things. It’s made me more philosophical. Less judgmental.” She makes an analogy about sunlight hitting a cut crystal, the multitude of prisms. “That’s how I see things now.”

  “I noticed that this year. When we talked. On the phone.”

  “Now you know why.” She rises from the barstool, inspects my pot, and reaches for the wooden spoon. I take it from her and try to nudge her away, but she remains at my elbow, looking over my shoulder. “I’m learning, understanding that what’s right for one person, in one situation, may or may not be right for another person, or another situation. There are things that seemed so important to me in my twenties, thirties, forties, fifties. Now I look back and see so many of those things don’t matter at all in the long run. It was my ego that got in my way. Egos cloud our vision. We need to pierce the veil in order to see clearly. Cancer did that for me.

  “When I’m vomiting on the side of the road, when my hair’s falling out in clumps, when I fear losing my life, and I do lose my breasts, it doesn’t matter if my husband had other women. What matters is that he stands by me through thick and thin, that he supports me in every way, that we take care of each other and grow old together. To me, that’s the ultimate test of fidelity, the ultimate expression of love. Everything else…” She lifts one shoulder. “It pales in comparison.”

  I swallow and meet her eyes.

  “But that’s me,” she says. “You are you. And each of us has our own dharma.” She takes one of my hands, turns it over, and traces the lines on my palm with the soft pad of her index finger.

  I stare at her aged hand, at the life flowing in her blue veins. Life that created mine.

  …it was because my parents dared to stick their necks out that I could.

  “You will have problems in your next marriage, Kiran. Every marriage has its problems. But good marriages are the ones where both parties are committed to working through problems, riding it out even when the road gets bumpy. Remember, life is a journey. We’re here on earth to learn and grow, to fulfill a purpose, a mission. And marriage…Marriage is a vehicle of evolution.” With those words, she pats my palm and closes my hand.

  The warm, comforting scent of kheer wafts around us. I stir pistachios and raisins into the pot, and Mom gets spoons from the drawer, so we can taste test. I blow on my spoonful, cooling it, then sample a bite—ambrosia on my tongue.

  “Ummmm. Good.”

  “Does it need anything?”

  “Not to me. You try.”

  She takes a bite and appears to mull it over. “Another cup of sugar—?”

  “No!”

  She laughs. “I’m kidding. It’s perfect.”

  Most Indian mithai—sweets—are so sweet they induce a sugar headache in all but the native Indian-born. Even with my wicked sweet tooth, I need the usual dose of sugar scaled way, way back.

  “Congratulations, Kiran. You just made kheer. Now, tell me. Was it really so difficult?” There’s something about her tone. It is…? Could it be…? Smugness?

  Suspicious, I slant my gaze at her. “Were you really so tired?”

  She smiles—more like preens—and rubs her hand over my back. “Better late than never, nuh?”

  “You’re bad, Mom.”

  “I am, aren’t I?” She beams, not the least repentant.

  * * *

  FROM:

  “Vivek Deshpande”

 

  TO:

  Kiran Deshpande, MD

  SENT:

  December 27, 20XX 8:35 PM

  SUBJECT:

  Doghouse

  K,

  Speaking to me yet?

  V

  This message may contain confidential and/ or privileged information. If you are not the addressee or authorized to receive this for the addressee, you must not use, copy, disclose or take any action based on this message or any information herein. If you have received this message in error, please ad vise the sender immediately by reply e-mail and delete this message. Thank you for your cooperation.

  * * *

  * * *

  FROM:

  “Kiran Deshpande”

 

  TO:

  Vivek Deshpande

  SENT:

  December 27, 20XX 10:11 PM

  SUBJECT:

  RE: Doghouse

  V,

  Yeah, I’m speaking to you. But only in short sentences. ::wry grin:: I don’t like it, but I get it. I understand why you didn’t tell me. I just hope you don’t have to do it again.

  As you can guess, this was some wake-up call. Things are better between Mom and me. (Same old, same old with Dad…Some things never change.) I went through her medical records, talked to her doctors, confirmed prognosis is excellent. All the same, do keep her in your prayers.

  In other news, I may have a shocker -- of the GOOD sort -- to report soon. Stay tuned…

  K

  * * *

  Kiran’s Kheer (Dessert Porridge)


  SERVES 8

  8 green cardamom pods

  1 cup sweetened condensed milk

  8 cups whole milk

  ¼ cup unsalted butter, divided

  ½ teaspoon saffron threads

  1 cup uncooked vermicelli, broken into 1-inch pieces (substitute: angel hair pasta)

  ¼ cup unsalted pistachios, coarsely chopped

  ¼ cup golden raisins

  1. Remove cardamom seeds from pods. Using a mortar and pestle, crush seeds and set aside for later. Discard pods.

  2. In a large Dutch oven over medium heat, bring milk to a boil, stirring constantly to prevent burning.

  3. Reduce heat to medium. Stirring occasionally and scraping bottom and sides of pot, cook until reduced in half, about 40–45 minutes.

  4. In a wok or deep 12-inch skillet, melt 2 tablespoons of butter over medium heat. Add vermicelli and stir-fry until golden brown, about 1–3 minutes. Transfer to Dutch oven with slotted spoon to drain butter. Stir.

  5. Stir in condensed milk, cardamom, and saffron. Cook until thickened, stirring occasionally, about 8–10 minutes.

  6. Melt remaining butter in wok or skillet over medium heat. Add pistachios and raisins. Stir-fry until raisins plump, about 2–3 minutes. Stir into Dutch oven.

  7. Serve warm or chilled.

  Saroj Chawla: Pyar Hota Hai (Love Happens)

  The stomach is full, but the heart still wants.

  SANSKRIT PROVERB

  Every New Year’s Eve, Sandeep and I try to outdo the last, to best ourselves. I can’t begin to tell you how proud we feel when our friends circle jokes that rather than “keeping up with the Joneses,” it should be “keeping up with the Chawlas.”

  The days before our New Year’s Eve bash, our house resembles a bride’s house before her big wedding day, bursting at the seams with overnight guests, excitement, and nervous energy. Everyone pitches in, performs whatever assigned tasks. The women prepare mass quantities of food in assembly lines, gabbing and gossiping and having a grand time. Since we remodeled the kitchen and doubled the former space with a spectacular, state-of-the-art addition, catering runs smoother than ever.