The Hindi-Bindi Club Page 16

  “Close your eyes,” Sandeep says. “I have a surprise for you.”

  “What is it? Tell me.”

  “Hold out your hand.”

  Jewelry. It must be jewelry. He knows I’ve had my eye on this exquisite pair of diamond earrings at Tiffany’s, but I’m not about to pay such outrageous prices when I can have any design created—or replicated—in India, much cheaper. Ooooh. If he’s bought me those earrings, I don’t know whether I’ll jump up and down with excitement or launch into a tirade. Probably both.

  “Are your eyes closed?”

  “Yes!”

  “Good. Keep them closed.” He takes my hand and leads me through the house.

  “Where are we going?”

  “No peeking. Are you peeking?”

  “No!”

  When I hear the door to the basement open, I drag my feet. “Deepu,” I say. “Are you going to bury me in the basement?”

  “Of course not,” he says. “After all we shelled out to have it finished? I can’t ruin the dance floor.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  Deepu is my nickname for Sandeep, but not for the obvious reason. As newlyweds, we lived as a joint family. My orthodox mother-in-law, who ran a tight ship, didn’t approve of me being so bold and disrespectful as to address my husband by his first name. Traditionally, a wife referred to her husband as the-name-of-their-eldest-child’s father (“Preity’s father”), my husband, or he. Caught between tradition and modern times, neither his first name nor his lack-of-name felt right, so Sandeep said to come up with a nickname of my choosing. One night in bed, I was fantasizing about my last, burning crush before marriage. His name was Deepak Sharma, and he wanted to marry me, but it wasn’t possible—his family wouldn’t allow marriage out of caste. By accident, I blurted his nickname.

  “Deepu.” Sandeep laughed. “Is that my new nickname?”

  Oops! And that is how the two great loves of my life came to share the same nickname. How convenient!

  Sandeep guides me down the stairs, one at a time. “Okay, open your eyes. Ta-da!”

  At the new state-of-the-art entertainment center, I squeal and cover my mouth. “Deepu! A wide-screen plasma television?”

  “With surround sound.” He grins.

  “I love it, but can we afford so much right now?” With our latest round of remodeling and Tarun at Georgetown Law School—

  “No payments for a year,” Sandeep says. “And…check this out.” He opens a cabinet stocked with DVDs. “Hollywood meets Bollywood.”

  I squeal again and give him a giant hug. “We’ll host the best parties!”

  “Don’t we always?”

  “Yes, and we must uphold our reputation, after all.” I plant a noisy kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Deepu. I love you.”

  There’s a Hindi expression pertaining to arranged marriages: Pyar hota hai. Love happens. That’s how it was with Sandeep and me. We barely knew each other when we married. We met one time only—at the bride-viewing, as we called the question-and-answer session over tea and snacks I served—before his father offered a proposal to mine. My father accepted with my consent, which was progressive for the times. “I won’t have you blame me if you’re unhappy,” Bauji said. “The final decision is yours.”

  After marriage, Sandeep and I actively worked on bonding. We courted. We weren’t yet in love with each other, but we were in love with the idea of being in love, and we worked toward it. As we spent time together and learned more about each other, we grew on each other, grew to care. The best thing we did for our relationship was to leave India. In those early days abroad, we may as well have been shipwrecked on a deserted island. It was during this time, when we only had each other, that my husband of six months and I fell in love.

  At Chawla Catering, I employ mostly recent Indian immigrant women. They work for different reasons: finances, boredom, love of cooking, or the kinship of women like themselves. Where else can they make Indian cultural references and jokes? Or say, “So many flavors of yogurt!” or “SNOW!” or “Huggies diapers? Chi, chi, chi!” and expect everyone to understand? Same when they lament over their children “losing their Indian-ness.”

  I remember well my own experiences, Sandeep’s and my fears of cultural dilution, our struggles to preserve our identities, values, heritage, and traditions in the American melting pot. I sympathize and share what wisdom I have accumulated in my years.

  In case you haven’t already figured it out, I’m not your “typical Indian woman.” Preity laughs whenever she hears this because most of her aunties here, the ones of my generation who emigrated around my time, will tell you this exact same thing. We may not mean it in the same way, but to Preity, a claim of being atypical is typical. I believe only a native can fully grasp what is and is not typical, in any culture.

  One of the biggest factors that sets me apart from other immigrants is the fact I didn’t have the same qualms (at least not to the same degree) about “uprooting” from India that most immigrants do. My family had already been separated from our homeland, yanked from our native soil, weeds in a Mughal garden.

  Though I grew up to love India, I was always aware my roots lay across a border I couldn’t cross, in a country no longer mine. I wore my displacement like my starched school uniform, perfectly comfortable in the cardboard-stiff fabric because I knew nothing else. My parents had a harder time.

  Like many immigrants, they never felt they belonged, in any country. They suffered chronic homesickness, longing for a home that didn’t exist anymore. It was wrenching to be so close, yet so far from their ancestral land, the place where they had left shattered pieces of their hearts, never to be retrieved. When the first of our relatives settled abroad, my father said with a touch of envy, “It’s better to be separated by God’s oceans than man’s borders.”

  The second time I left the world I knew behind, I took two big suitcases. It wasn’t enough, but it was two suitcases more than I was able to take when we left Lahore, and I felt lucky.

  When Sandeep and I arrived in the States in the mid-1960s, there weren’t so many people from India living here. We couldn’t have created a Little India like those you see now, say, in New Jersey, if we’d wanted to: There simply weren’t enough of us. If we said we were Indian, people asked, “Which tribe?” Honorary Indian, Patrick McGuiness often clarified, “Dots, not feathers.”

  Though it was harder for us in many ways back then, in some ways, I think it was actually easier.

  For example, today, it’s easy for Indian subcultures to stick together, birds of a feather: Bengalis with Bengalis, Maharashtrians with Maharashtrians, Punjabis with Punjabis, etc. Major cities have organizations, community centers, activities dedicated to specific subcultures. Not so then. In those days, we had “slim pickin’s,” as the kids say. The dearth of Punjabis forced us to mix, not be so cliquey. We didn’t have any choice! Starved for company, we found ourselves socializing with Punjus, other Indians, Americans, and immigrants from other countries whom we otherwise would not have. And lo and behold, a most peculiar thing happened…. Everyone—we and they—benefited.

  Did we lose some of our Indian-ness? Yes. But we learned the difference between cultural pride and elitism. We lost our superiority complexes and our inferiority complexes. We gained awareness and appreciation of other cultures, and others—non-Punjabis and non-Indians—gained awareness and appreciation of ours. (Meenal, Uma, and I couldn’t be more different. In India, we never would have been friends, our husbands never would have mixed, yet for almost half a century, ours are the friendships that have thrived the longest, ripened the sweetest, and borne the most fruit.)

  It feels good to share my stories with these women, to let them know others have walked in these same steps—and succeeded. I hope to console, and to inspire.

  Some women have the support of their husbands; others don’t. This, too, is a marked improvement since my time when, by and large, women from good families didn’t work. For wages, that was. Volunt
eering was acceptable, provided family obligations were met. Oh, the fights Sandeep and I had!

  “It looks bad,” he would say. “As if I can’t support my family on my own.”

  “You have a Ph.D. from M.I.T. You’re an engineer at a top company,” I’d reply. “Everyone knows you can support us. But think, what if something happened to you? An illness, or an accident? We have children now in addition to our family in India who depend on us. It isn’t a bad thing to have backup. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.”

  Then I would bring up my own education—education Biji and Bauji didn’t want me to pursue too rigorously for fear it would scare off potential grooms. “Men don’t like women who are too clever,” Biji advised, “or too aggressive.” But I refused to hide my intellect from my husband, especially in this New Land that redefined self-respect, where fewer men ruled over their families as dictators in a totalitarian regime and more women had voices and choices. Where a woman who suffers in silence, sacrifices, and devotes herself to a man who lacks consideration for her needs isn’t a heroine. And the threat of a woman, when wronged, isn’t suicide but homicide.

  “I have a brain and a B.Com.,” I would say. A bachelor’s degree in commerce. “I want to use them.”

  “And I want a traditional wife,” Sandeep would bemoan. “A woman who puts her duties as a wife and mother first.”

  Of course, family has always come first. He meant a woman who lived only to serve, expecting no reciprocation. A woman with no identity beyond dutiful wife and mother. Ideally, the Indian version of a Stepford Wife: fair but not white, lovely, homey, chaste, modest, fertile, nurturing, soft-spoken, loyal, obedient…and a good cook!

  A woman like Meenal.

  Back in the Boston Days, Sandeep would have traded me for Meenal in a heartbeat. He flirted openly, shamelessly with her, as he does with most pretty women—he is a charmer by nature. But when it came to graceful, first-class Meenal, I suspected underneath his lighthearted banter, he really did “covet thy neighbor’s wife.” Lucky for me, I knew my pious best friend didn’t return his interest—and lucky for Sandeep, so did her husband.

  What I also knew, though I’d never tell a soul, is that Sandeep’s all show. He is, in fact, a lackluster lover. A few thrusts, and the party’s over. He doesn’t see any problem—he’s satisfied, so mission accomplished, right?—and I can’t bear to crush his ego. He fancies himself Don Juan de Punjab; I find our sex as exciting as inserting and removing a tampon. Nor can I tutor him in the countless other ways a man pleases a woman, for how would a proper, respectable woman possess knowledge about such things?

  Every now and then, Sandeep raised the subject, “Maybe we should go back to India.”

  India, where his mother, sisters, and aunts pampered him, and he was never expected to wash his own dishes, take out the trash, clean toilets, change diapers, or baby-sit his children. India, where his independent-minded wife could spend her life serving endless cups of tea under the critical eye of her mother-in-law and rehash ad nauseam such scintillating topics as:

  1. Good help being hard to find;

  2. Society’s moral decay—due to corrupting Western influences;

  3. Duties of a good Hindu wife—being barefoot and pregnant-with-sons in the kitchen, obeying her husband and in-laws, fasting and praying for the health and long life of her husband.

  “Okay, I’ll pack our bags,” I said, knowing we’d never go. We both knew Sandeep couldn’t earn in India the income America provided. Our families on both sides of the globe were better off if we remained here.

  I don’t know if he came around or simply resigned himself to my working. Likely, it was the prestige I accelerated for us. In a good year, I earn almost twice his engineering salary, and in a calculated ego-stroke early on, I hand the bulk of it over to him to manage however he wants. Because of my contributions to the family income, of all our Indian friends, we always have the biggest house, best toys, fanciest clothes, and splashiest parties.

  “What man doesn’t welcome the coming of Lakshmi incarnate into his home?” Sandeep boasts, likening me to the goddess of wealth. Wise man. He’s learned the secret of a happy life—a happy wife. When a husband treats his wife as the goddess she is, riches naturally follow.

  Preity, Eric, and the kids arrive the day after Christmas, filling the house with laughter and joy. Sandeep and I relish our roles as Nanaji and Naniji, playing with our grandchildren. Though we wish they lived closer to us, I know Preity wouldn’t like me breathing down her neck more than I already do! Can I help it? It’s my duty as her mother to instruct her, correct her. If I don’t, who will?

  For dinner, I serve up requested favorites: murgh makhani—butter chicken—tender chunks of chicken breast in a tomato-cream sauce. Chhole, a kind of chickpea chili Preity calls “Punjabi comfort food,” delicious year-round, but especially satisfying on cold winter nights like tonight. And sarson da saag on makki di roti, another winter favorite of Sandeep’s and mine since childhood. Sarson da saag is tender mustard greens, spinach, and spices that I cook either very slowly over very low heat or in a pressure cooker. We eat it with makki di roti, a soft, golden griddle bread made with cornmeal and wheat flour. Sometimes, I’ll add grated radish or fresh kasuri methi (fenugreek) or cilantro to the dough for a little variety, but even plain makki di roti, piping hot off the griddle with a pat of butter, tastes out of this world.

  After dinner, I unbutton my pants when no one’s looking, sticking out my tongue and biting it in embarrassment. If I don’t watch it, I’ll outgrow my new nightgown before I get a chance to wear it!

  After Lina and Jack are tucked in bed, Preity and I put up our feet and unwind in the family room while the boys watch TV downstairs. The angle and light combination makes me notice her face is fuller, her cheekbones less prominent.

  “Have you gained weight?” I ask. “You look like you have.”

  She shrugs. “Don’t know, don’t care. I stopped weighing myself.”

  “Eh! Don’t say that! You don’t want to be one of those women who lets herself go after marriage. I know winters are tough in your frozen tundra. That’s why God made tread-mills. Preity? Are you listening? What did I just say?”

  She parrots back all my words. “Duly noted.”

  “Good, and while we’re on the subject of harsh winters…. Your skin’s showing some wear and tear. Do you use a night cream? Make sure you invest in the best moisturizers, beta. Otherwise, you’ll be looking at premature wrinkles.”

  “We wouldn’t want that.”

  “No, who would? Add moisturizer to your resolutions, hmm?” At her pointed stare, I say, “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  She gives a tight smile. “Oh, no reason.”

  The next night, we find ourselves in the same spot after putting the kids to bed.

  “Say, Mom? Do you, by chance, remember the boy I met in Goa?”

  I blink. Where did that come from? Keeping a straight face, I murmur, “Vaguely,” though I remember perfectly.

  As if a mother forgets her daughter nearly giving her a heart attack.

  From upstairs, she retrieves a white plastic bag. Her show-and-tell: an illustrated children’s book her Mussalman boyfriend made her. “I wonder what ever happened to him…. We never did say good-bye….” She doesn’t mask an under-current of accusation: You saw to that.

  Hai Rabba, why this bad trip down Memory Lane?

  “I’m thinking about looking him up,” she says.

  Okay, trip’s over. “Preity, enough nonsense. You aren’t eighteen anymore. You have a wonderful life. Great marriage, children, career. What more could you want?” I hold open the plastic bag, direct her to pack up her little storybook and forget about it. “Now, on to more pleasant subjects.” I straighten my clothing, fluff my hair, smile. “Kiran looks fantastic. Did I tell you she works out regularly? Yoga, weights, cardio. Of course, being a doctor, she’s health conscious. Isn’t it great she’s home?”

&nb
sp; “Yeah. Great.”

  “Is that all the enthusiasm you can muster for one of your best friends?”

  “Uh, Kiran and I were never best friends.”

  “Sure you were. You were inseparable.”

  “No, that would be you and Meenal Auntie and Uma Auntie. Kiran tolerated me, at best. In case you didn’t notice, she didn’t like me.”

  I frown. I don’t know what’s gotten into my angel daughter tonight. “Of course she liked you. Everyone likes you. What’s not to like?”

  Preity looks away. “You know, just because you choose not to talk about something doesn’t make it go away.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Her eyes pin me. “Arsallan. I’m talking about Arsallan.”

  “Beta.” I smile, shifting uncomfortably. Is it hot in here? “Don’t be difficult, please.”

  “You’re the one being difficult—”

  “Preity!” Blood rushes to my cheeks. “Since when do you talk to your mother like this?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just…” She holds out a hand in appeal, then drops it on the storybook with a thump. “You always change the subject when it gets awkward for you. You shut me down when you’ve had enough. I wish…You’re my mother, my one and only mother. I want to be able to talk to you, really talk. Not just about my figure and complexion—”

  “You’re upset about what I said last night.”

  “Honestly, I don’t care. That’s my point. There are so many other, more important things in life. Why exclude those—”

  “Fine-fine-fine. You’re making my head hurt.” I rub my throbbing temples. “You want to talk. Go ahead. Talk. But first, get me some aspirin.” I drop my head back against the cushions, already regretting this.