The Hindi-Bindi Club Page 17
My daughter thinks I’m prejudiced. Prejudiced! What an oversimplification!
Hindu–Muslim conflicts date back centuries, to the time Muslim invaders conquered Indian kingdoms—looting, raping, killing; desecrating and destroying Hindu temples, erecting mosques on the foundations, sometimes using the same stones.
“You know how a volcano can lie dormant for years, then erupt with little notice?” I say, trying to explain a complex subject in terms she’ll understand. “That’s how it is with Hindu–Muslim communal relations. The threat of violence is always there, lava bubbling beneath the surface. Partition taught me there are lines that separate certain communities. Lines that cannot be crossed.”
Preity shakes her head. “We cry the same tears, bleed the same blood—”
“I didn’t make the rules,” I say. “They are what they are.”
“If everyone in this country believed that, women wouldn’t have the right to vote, and we’d still have racial segregation. If everyone in India believed it, only descendants of Brahmin priests would be educated. And just the men, at that.”
She’s comparing apples and onions. I tell her so, but I’m wasting my breath.
“God gave us brains, Mom. If rules are unjust, we should change them. Didn’t Akbar the Great abolish unfair taxes on non-Muslims?” she says about the sixteenth-century Mughal emperor’s revocation of nonbeliever jizya and pilgrimage taxes. “Wasn’t his favorite wife—the mother of his successor—a Hindu? While Christian Inquisitions and witch hunts were terrorizing Europe, an Islamic emperor in India was making policies to respect and protect all religions and treat believers of all faiths equally.”
“Akbar was an exception. Have you heard of Aurangzeb? In comparison to him, Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden are pussycats.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
I can’t help but smile at her example from Indian history. “You finally got around to reading the books Dad and I got you.”
“Those, and a lot more. I just needed time.”
Sandeep and I tried our best to plug holes in our children’s school curriculums, but it proved an uphill struggle to squeeze in our lessons with their lessons. We couldn’t deny their need to master the civilization and cultures they encountered firsthand every time they left the house. Immediacy took priority. It makes me so proud to know they did expand their scope as we hoped, in their own time, and in their own way. Though at the moment, it appears a mixed blessing….
“My studies confirm what I know to be true,” Preity says. “Discrimination’s always wrong. Violence in the name of God is always wrong. And when mankind takes a wrong turn and strays from these fundamental truths, we need to correct our course.” She rattles off more examples: caste discrimination, female education and inheritance rights, child marriage, dowry, bride burning, widow remarriage, and sati—the now outlawed practice of a widow self-immolating on her husband’s funeral pyre, a supposed act of piety. “From east to west, ancient to present, people from all different backgrounds have crossed those lines, those artificial barriers, and unified in common fights for humanity. That is what I’ve learned.”
Wah-wah. What a performance. Give the girl a round of applause. She, not Tarun, should have been the lawyer in the family. She never could back down from a perceived injustice. When she was five, she saw a mother spanking her child in the supermarket. All the way home, she pleaded for me to call the police, arguing about the rights of the child. It’s not fair, she cried until she went hoarse. If I didn’t shut her down, she’d carry on indefinitely from her soap box. Wind her up, watch her go….
“Getting back to Arsallan,” she says.
“Hai Rabba.” I press the heel of my hand to my forehead.
“I’m going to ask around.”
“Hai Rabba!” I feel pain in my chest.
“I’ll start with Riya-didi, see if anyone—”
“HAI RABBA!” I’m breathing heavy now, sweat on my brow, armpits damp. “You’ll do NO SUCH THING. What would people think? My married daughter chasing after a married man. A Mussalman. Can you just imagine the talk?”
“I’m not chasing him. And who cares about gossip-mongers—”
“I care. Your father cares. You should care. You have a family reputation to protect, too. If your husband finds out—”
“I told Eric.”
I wince and cover my eyes. Did I drop her on her head when she was little? Did she crack her coconut open? Did her common sense leak out with the milk? “Never talk to your husband about other men,” I say what should be obvious to a woman with a fully functioning brain. “Husbands get jealous, too.”
Preity just bats a hand, dismissive. “Jealous of what? I have nothing to hide. Eric and I don’t have secrets.”
“Humph. Keep this up, and you will.”
I don’t understand this younger generation. A wife talks to her husband as if he’s her girlfriend. Spouses expect to be best friends. It’s unnatural!
I get up and sit beside my daughter, grip her shoulders, and say firmly, “Listen to me. I’m your mother. I brought you into this world. I know you better than anyone, better than you know yourself, and I know what’s best for you. Hindu–Muslim relations aside, reputations aside, do not jeopardize your marriage. You have a lot to lose, and I don’t want to see you, or anyone else, get hurt. There are people who can handle affairs. You aren’t one of them. You’re Sita, not Radha.”
In the Hindu epics, both Sita and Radha have great loves. Sita’s is a conjugal relationship with her husband Ram, while Radha’s is an adulterous relationship with Krishna. The epics romanticize both couples, but in reality…Show me a society that openly accepts the Krishnas and Radhas of the world.
“Affair?” Preity sputters. “Who said anything about an affair? I’m in love with my husband. I’d never cheat on him. And Arsallan is hardly Ravan.” Ravan, villain of the Ram-Sita-Ravan triangle, tricks Sita into leaving her safety zone, then kidnaps her and tries to woo her into falling in love with him. “Trust me, Mom. He wasn’t at all the presumptuous, lecherous type you warned me about. The kind who compartmentalizes women as madonnas or whores, pure or impure. Who can’t conceive of drinking, dating, bikini-wearing females being good girls with our own standards and rules of etiquette. Please. I wouldn’t give a guy like that the time of day.” She huffs, lifting her chin. “Arsallan was one of the enlightened. Romantic and respectful. A perfect gentleman. And a devoted family man—you’d agree if you’d seen him. He was so good with his nieces and nephews. I’m sure he’s a wonderful husband and father.”
I sigh. For all Preity’s reading, my whimsical daughter lives in an idealistic world of right and wrong, good and bad, innocent until proven guilty—I can just hear her arguing that poor Ravan was misunderstood—and God bless her naiveté, I want her to stay in that nice, safe world. But it’s my job, my duty as her mother to warn her about the big, bad realities in life.
“I’m sure he takes excellent care of his family,” I say. “Family’s very important in Indian culture. A family man will never leave his wife, break up the family unit, but Preity…” How do I phrase this? “That doesn’t mean he doesn’t run around with other women, discreetly, on the side. Trust me. The sweet, innocent girl he knew has grown into a mature, desirable woman. He’d take one look at you, assume you’re a loose American, and want an affair.”
“Oh, brother.” Preity rolls her eyes. “The Hindi-Bindi Club’s been watching too many Bollywood flicks.”
She doesn’t understand, but what more can I possibly say?
I have always tried to be open, frank with Preity, as the women in my family were when I was growing up. But there were limits to mother–daughter candor then, and there still are, as far as I’m concerned, lines that can’t be crossed, circumstances in which a mother shouldn’t talk to her daughter as a friend, a peer. A daughter can have any number of friends, but as Preity pointed out, she has one and only one (birth) mother. A mother can’t forget she ser
ves a different, higher purpose than a mere friend. Maybe it’s the way I was brought up, but that’s how I see it. I wasn’t raised to be a best friend to my daughter; I was raised to present her a role model.
I straighten my spine and speak with calm and conviction. “Don’t play with fire, Preity. Past is past. You both doused your old flames and moved on. For heaven’s sake, let this go.”
That night in bed, I say to my husband, “Your daughteris the most stubborn, willful—”
“Yes, I know,” Sandeep says. “She takes after her mother.”
“You have no idea.” I turn out the bedside lamp, punch my pillows a few times, and flop onto my side. Behind me, Sandeep chuckles. He’s only amused because he doesn’t know what I know. If he did, he’d take out a contract.
He hooks an arm around my waist, hauls me against him, kisses my shoulder. “We can’t protect her from the world.”
“It’s our duty to try,” I say, though at the moment, the world at large doesn’t concern me, just one Arsallan Khan.
In my red silk nightgown, I stretch my arms to my sides, turning in a circle.
“Beautiful,” he says. “As always.”
Is there a woman in all the world who is immune to this compliment, especially from the lips of a man she loves? If there is, I haven’t met her.
An hour later, I slip out of bed, retrieve the nightgown from the floor, and tiptoe toward the bathroom to dress.
“Sonu…” An arm reaches out.
Sonu is an endearment, like sweetie. It’s also a nickname for Sonia, my name before marriage. In traditional Hindu custom, the groom gives the bride an entirely new married name: first, middle, and last. His first name becomes her middle name, and the middle name of their future children, male and female. My father was Gurpreet Malhotra. At birth, I was: Sonia Gurpreet Malhotra. After marriage: Saroj Sandeep Chawla.
“Sonu,” he whines again. “Don’t leave. Come back.”
“Sorry, Deepu, I have to go.”
“Not yet,” he protests, throwing back the covers from my side of the bed and patting my vacated spot.
“I can’t. You know we have a houseful of guests….”
A groan. A whimper. A sigh.
Pitiful. I laugh as I dress. “Men are such big babies.”
“Only with the women they love. Can I help it if I love you? If I can’t get enough of you? If no amount of time is ever—”
“And I love you, darling, so I will make it up to you.”
“Soon?”
“Soon.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Okay.” He climbs out of bed, gathers me close, and frames my face between his hands. His kisses are soft, sweet, coaxing, each brush of his lips punctuated with “I love you.”
I melt. I let him take off my clothes and lead me back to bed. Every time we’re together, every time we touch, I’m awed. Humbled. “All this time,” I whispered, spent, after our first time. “I didn’t know what I was missing.”
“I did,” Deepak said.
That’s right, Deepak. As in, Deepak Sharma, my first love. He is the one in my arms. Ten years ago, our lives intersected again. We meet at a condo at the Rotunda, an upscale complex near Tyson’s Galleria. The owner, a bachelor friend of Deepak’s, travels extensively. In Hindi, we have a saying: Teri bhi chup; meri bhi chup. You be quiet; I’ll be quiet.
Affairs destroy many marriages; others, they save. Deepak will never leave his wife, and I’ll never leave my husband; nor will we leave each other. Because of our affair, our marriages work. Endure. Flourish. I don’t fault my husband for what he can’t provide. I’m perfectly happy, content with what he can. No bitterness or resentment. Only appreciation and affection.
I love two men. Differently but equally. It’s a fate I wouldn’t choose for my daughter. A fate I pray doesn’t await her. I can’t help but worry. What if Arsallan is her Deepak?
The consequences for Preity would be disastrous. Rock the foundations of everything she believes in. Shatter her self-image. Her marriage wouldn’t survive. I don’t know that she would. Unlike me, the guilt would kill her.
Sometimes, in Preity, I see the girl I was, the woman I might have been, believing in a world without boundaries and barriers, believing in one planet, one people.
If only I could believe again….
* * *
FROM:
“Saroj Chawla”
TO:
Meenal Deshpande; Uma Basu
SENT:
December 28, 20XX 09:15 AM
SUBJECT:
Favor
Meenal & Uma,
I have a favor to ask. I would like to find my childhood friend. We were separated after Partition. Do you or your husbands know any Pakistanis in the area? As a starting point, I would like to talk to any local Lahoris(who would be willing to talk to me).
Saroj
* * *
FROM:
“Meenal Deshpande”
TO:
Saroj Chawla; Uma Basu
SENT:
December 28, 20XX 10:22 AM
SUBJECT:
RE: Favor
Yash knows some Pakistani doctors. He will inquire. It’s not such a big world these days. You will find your friend.
Meenal
P.S. Kiran thanks you again for the samosas!
* * *
FROM:
“Uma Basu”
TO:
Meenal Deshpande; Saroj Chawla
SENT:
December 28, 20XX 11:01 AM
SUBJECT:
RE: Favor
Dearest Saroj,
The “Pakistani Student Associations” will surely have Lahoris. If you’re able, do an Internet search to find out which of the local universities have PSA websites and email the presidents. If you’d like, I can do this for you tomorrow.
Warmest wishes,
Uma
* * *
FROM:
“Saroj Chawla”
TO:
Meenal Deshpande; Uma Basu
SENT:
December 28, 20XX 01:45 PM
SUBJECT:
RE: Favor
Thank you both so much!!!
In other news, Preity wants to learn to read/write Punjabi so she can read Punjabi children’s books to Lina, Jack, & Eric (!). She says their Punjabi should be at least as good as Patrick Uncle’s Bengali!:) I’m so tickled…There’s SO MUCH wonderful Punju lit/poetry I would LOVE Preity to experience, but I will wait until the right time to bring that up. It’s always better if these things are HER idea.;)
Saroj
* * *
FROM:
“Meenal Deshpande”
TO:
Saroj Chawla; Uma Basu
SENT:
December 28, 20XX 08:57 PM
SUBJECT:
RE: Favor
Saroj, good for Preity! How wonderful that SHE initiated this! It’s such a delicate balance between exposing the American-born generation(s) to Indian culture vs. forcing it on them. We want them to appreciate, not resent; to feel enriched, not alienated by their heritage.
Preity ’s thirst for knowledge is commendable and, I must admit, enviable. I’m lucky Vivek and Kiran still understand Marathi. When they speak it, it’s a rare treat. They still sound 4 yrs old, the age when they started school and their Marathi skills froze in time.:) It’s very cute to hear baby talk from the mouths of my physician daughter and management consultant son.:)
I make a conscious effort to speak to them in Marathi, so they won’t forget what little they know. If I don’t, who will?
I’m happy to bring back Punjabi books from India. Bulleh Shah’s poetry? Anyone else? I’d love to read some Sufi poetry myself. The world could use some Sufi saints’ wisdom these days. As Uma says: “Where have all the Sufis gone?”
Meenal
* * *
Saroj’s Sarson da Saag (Spinach and Mustard Greens)
SERVES 4
1 bunch/bag spinach
2 green chili peppers, minced
1 bunch mustard greens
½ teaspoon amchur (mango powder) or lemon juice
1 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons canola oil, divided
1 pinch asafetida (hing)*
1 cup water
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 small yellow onion, diced
1-inch piece of fresh ginger root, peeled and minced
garam masala
1 tablespoon cornmeal
1. In a colander, wash spinach and mustard greens under cold water. Repeat with cold salt water. Drain and chop finely.
2. In a pressure cooker, heat 1 tablespoon oil. Add spinach and mustard greens. Stirring constantly, mix in garlic, ginger, chili peppers, amchur, and asafetida.
3. Pressure cook for 5–10 minutes. Mash with water.
4. In a wok or large skillet, heat remaining 1 tablespoon oil over medium-high heat. Add onion. Stir-fry until light brown.
5. Stir in spinach and mustard greens. Reduce heat to medium. Sauté 2 minutes.
6. Stir in garam masala. Sauté 1 minute.
7. Stir in cornmeal. Cover and simmer until done, about 2–5 minutes.
8. Eat with makki di roti or corn bread and fresh butter.
* Mom’s Tips:
Asafetida will stink up your spice cabinet. Refrigerate in an airtight plastic bag.
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