The Hindi-Bindi Club Read online

  There are two ways of passing from this world—one in light and one in darkness. When one passes in light, he does not come back; but when one passes in darkness, he returns.

  BHAGAVAD GITA

  The day before we leave for San Francisco, my husband stacks hundreds of gift bags and boxes for our haul to Walter Reed Army Medical Center. “You and the elves have been busy, Mrs. Claus,” he says, kissing me under the mistletoe.

  Our library resembles Santa’s workshop not only during the holidays but all year long. Just as my mother and her friends packed medicines every week for Mother Teresa’s lepers, so my friends and I work on our humanitarian projects. Every week, we put together care packages for the world’s children in need and our soldiers in harm’s way, two causes near and dear to my heart.

  It was during the Vietnam War that Patrick and I fell in love, through letters. Before he left for his tour of duty, I was still getting used to the social mixing of men and women in America. I was shy and reserved around him, as I was with most men. I didn’t speak unless spoken to, I never said their names, and I averted my gaze, looking down when they were present.

  Our letters changed everything.

  In the Bengali community, we have something called adda—friendly, casual conversation about every topic under the sun. For my college girlfriends and me, addas went beyond social gossip and family politics to include world events, economics, philosophy, psychology, sociology, science, religion, sports, weather, history, the arts. You name it. We hung out at the Coffee House of Calcutta, pontificated about life, and solved the world’s problems over cups of Assam and Darjeeling tea and snacks like chanachur, kachuri, muri, nimki, and shingara. How I missed the camaraderie and intellectual stimulation, the mind-dump of addas. How grateful I was when Patrick’s and my pen-friendship filled that void.

  Have you noticed how the written word can be deeper, more intimate, more honest than verbal, face-to-face conversation? Maybe it’s because you sit alone and have time to reflect and revise and get the words right. The written word can take you beyond the superficial, beyond the façades, and allow glimpses into people’s inner worlds.

  With time, familiarity, and trust, social barriers fell away. Patrick and I found ourselves opening up, rambling on, giving and taking comfort. We didn’t wait to receive each other’s letters before responding. We just wrote and kept writing regularly, so a steady stream of mail came and went.

  Those were dark days for both my homelands. When I wasn’t worrying about Vietnam, I worried about India, and vice versa. The Indian subcontinent experienced much tragedy in the 1960s. China invaded an unprepared India in 1962. India and Pakistan went to war for the second time in 1965 over Kashmir. The 1970 cyclone—imagine a nightlong tsunami—killed millions in East Bengal, which was then East Pakistan. The Pakistani civil war soon followed, claiming even more lives in already devastated East Bengal. With India’s assistance, East Pakistan seceded from West Pakistan and won independence as Bangladesh in 1971.

  As desperate as I was to talk about these events—of major consequence in India, but minor in America—Patrick needed to talk about Vietnam to someone who wasn’t directly involved. He was more open with me than his family because he didn’t want to worry them more than they already were. Since the day he left, his mother went to church twice a day and kept a candle burning for him. Any mention of him brought tears to her eyes.

  There are three wars, Patrick wrote in one letter. The political war, the war on the ground, and the war inside every human being. When he confided in me, sharing his fears and the abject horrors of witnessing the cruelties man can inflict on man, I wrote to him about Lord Krishna’s counsel to Arjuna on the battlefield in the Gita. The Bhagavad Gita—Song of the Lord—is the gem of Hindu spiritual wisdom, an ancient Sanskrit epic poem comparable to Homer’s Iliad, with the interaction of gods and mortals in which Arjuna, an esteemed warrior like Achilles, questions the virtue of war.

  In our letters, we ruminated over the existence of God, the failures of man, the meaning of life and death, the codes by which we lived, and the unique role each of us is destined to fulfill. I confided to him my family’s deep, dark secrets, my unfavorable birth chart, my father’s dwindling wealth with so many daughters and nieces to marry off, all of whom, for one reason or another, necessitated a sizeable dowry in order to secure a good match.

  In my case, even a hefty dowry wouldn’t have guaranteed any takers. In Vedic astrological terms, I am what we call a “strong manglik.” Sparing you the scientific techno-babble, suffice it to say: It’s very bad for one’s marriage prospects. One look at my birth chart—and they usually consult birth charts—and it was difficult to find an Indian family who would consider me as a prospective bride for their son, as mangliks are believed to jeopardize the health of their spouses. Even bring an early death.

  My great-aunt, widowed at fourteen, was a manglik. Three months after marriage, her husband was hit by a double-decker bus. He died instantly at the age of twenty-one. As custom dictated, she never again wore jewelry, or a tip (bindi) on her forehead, or sindoor in the part of her hair—all symbols of a married woman. Nor did she remarry, as widow remarriage was—still is, but to a much lesser extent—considered shameful in traditional Hindu culture.

  One may argue correlation doesn’t mean causality in such cases of manglik widows. But not many parents are willing to stake their son’s life on it.

  This was the underlying reason why Thakurda—my paternal grandfather—encouraged my education, first at the elite Loreto House, where the nuns stoked the embers of my English proficiency, then at Presidency College, where I earned a bachelor’s degree in English literature, and most controversially, abroad for further studies.

  “No,” Baba said, and ripped my admission letter from Boston College in half, twice. As far as he was concerned, that was the end of it. The full scholarship and generous-by-Indian-standards teaching stipend didn’t sway his opinion. At the time, most upper-middle-class girls attended college only for time-pass before marriage and/or to enhance their appeal on the bridal market. Increasingly, good families were seeking college-educated brides for their sons, though as wives, most were prohibited from earning wages.

  But the combination of unlucky factors led everyone in my family, including me, to suspect that my fate was sealed as a spinster, a social pariah. Knowing this likelihood, Thakurda couldn’t deny my fervent wish for higher studies abroad and a career as a professor upon my return when chances were I might not have a husband and children. “One who doesn’t go forth and explore all the earth is a well frog,” Thakurda said, a Sanskrit proverb. “My granddaughter may end up a spinster, but she will not be a well frog.” With that, Baba’s lower court ruling was overturned by the supreme court of Thakurda.

  When I told all this to Patrick, he said no, my destiny was not that of a well frog. Nor a spinster. Because if he made it out of that hellhole alive, he wanted to marry me, and together, we would explore all of the earth.

  Gulp.

  With each letter I received, I sobbed with relief that he was alive, and I felt my heart being torn because I didn’t know what I would do if he didn’t make it. Or what I’d do if he did.

  “Cross that bridge when you come to it,” advised Colleen, his sister and my American best friend.

  When the time finally came, when at long last Patrick came home, I flew right over that bridge and into his awaiting arms.

  “You’re the reason I’m alive,” he said, on one knee on his parents’ porch, with his family peeking out the windows. “You kept me going. You gave me hope. You saved my life. I came back for you, Uma. If that isn’t fate, I don’t know what is. Marry me. Please. Be my wife.”

  I couldn’t say no. After all we’d been through together…I didn’t want to say no.

  There’s a Bengali expression: Tumi bina ke achhe amar? Who is there for me without you?

  “I have to see your horoscope,” I said.

  Patrick agr
eed, not so much because he believed, but out of respect for my beliefs—one of the many, many reasons I love and admire this man—and we covertly arranged for his chart, which is prepared by taking the date, time, and place of birth and mapping the planets’ positions.

  When we met with the astrologer in New York City, my heart hitched into my throat.

  You remember what I told you about me being a manglik? Well, there is a catch. If one spouse is a manglik, it’s bad news. However, it’s neutralized if both spouses are mangliks. According to every astrologer my family consulted, their best chance at marrying me off was to hope for another manglik.

  Patrick, as it turns out, is a manglik, too.

  “If that isn’t fate,” I said, “I don’t know what is.”

  In San Francisco, my husband and I sit across from our daughter and son-in-law in the living room of their posh two-bedroom condo. A wilting sunflower, Rani sags against Bryan, drooping her head on his shoulder. “Do we have to go to the Chawlas’ New Year’s Eve party?” she asks, causing Patrick and myself to exchange glances.

  “Well, that answers that question,” Patrick says. “Yes, you can still land a plane on Boo’s lower lip.” Boo, short for Boo-Boo, is our nickname for Rani. From the time she was an infant, her pout wrapped us around her little finger. Patrick called it her “boo-boo face.”

  Bryan glances down at her. “What’s wrong, hon? You love New Year’s at the Chawlas’.”

  Rani shrugs. “I just thought maybe we could do something different this year.”

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “Stay home. Order takeout. Rent movies. You know, Q.T. with the fami-ly.”

  “Umm-hmm…” I stare at her, waiting.

  “I’m socialized out,” she says, “after the exhibit and all.”

  “Umm-hmm…”

  She plucks imaginary lint from Bryan’s sweater. “The last thing I need is two dozen aunties pestering me about children.”

  Aha. The truth comes out. I can’t suppress a tiny chuckle.

  Rani frowns. “You could pretend to be sympathetic, Mom.”

  “Sorry, shonu, but you think your aunties’ pestering is bad here. You have no idea how bad it would be in India, where it’s inconceivable a couple would choose not to have children.”

  “I know. I know,” she says. “But I’m tired of having to explain and defend my reproductive choices. It’s not just the aunties. Everyone asks these days. You start pushing thirty, and perfect strangers feel it’s their right to inquire. And to offer unsolicited advice.”

  “It’s your call,” I say. “If you don’t want to go to the party, you don’t have to.”

  “Thank—”

  “But Dad and I are going.”

  “Oh. Well. Of course…”

  “The food alone,” I say. “No way can we miss out on that.”

  Over her head, Bryan winks. “You realize denying me Saroj Auntie’s buffet is cruel and unusual punishment, don’t you?”

  I love my son-in-law. Patrick and I couldn’t have chosen a better husband for Rani if we handpicked him and arranged their marriage ourselves.

  “Hey, Bryan can go with Mom, and I’ll stay home with Boo,” Patrick says.

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Yeah, nice try, Dad, but you’re going,” Rani says. “And you’re going to dance with Mom.”

  He makes a face. “You want to talk cruel and unusual…” Patrick doesn’t have many shortcomings; this is one of them. He hates to dance—a staple of Chawla parties, along with excellent cuisine. He and Meenal typically sit on the sidelines and watch. “I’m not going if you’re not going.” Patrick laces his fingers behind his neck, his elbows wide, and stares up at the ceiling.

  Rani laughs and rolls her eyes. “What is this, a pouting contest?”

  Patrick sticks out his lower lip in imitation; Bryan and I follow suit.

  Rani gasps in mock outrage. “Gang up on me, why don’t you? Okay, fine. I move, we all go to the party. Happy now?” At our resounding noises and gestures of affirmation, she pretends to scribble on her palm, then holds it out. “The secretary notes three yes votes from the colluding trio. One abstention. The motion passes. Chawlas’, here we come.”

  The following afternoon, we go to the art gallery where Rani’s work hangs on exhibit. Patrick and I wanted so badly to attend the opening, but now we get our own V.I.P. private tour. And what a tour it is.

  “Boo, this is incredible.” Patrick’s deep voice vibrates with a father’s pride.

  I, too, feel my heart swell. “You have a gift, sweetie. Saraswati definitely blessed you.” I refer to the goddess of knowledge and the fine arts, gesturing around us in awe. “This from the girl who was scolded for drawing on the walls at home and constantly doodling during class.” Rani’s teachers thought she wasn’t paying attention, but every time they called on her, she shocked them by answering the question correctly. I smile, half musing to myself, “Isn’t it funny to look back and see how the signs of our personalities are there, right from the start? With Rani, the writing was literally all over the walls.”

  “You really like it?” Rani asks, and it pleases me that our opinion still means something to her, that she still asks for it. Even if she ignores our advice as often as she follows it.

  “We really do,” I say, and Patrick nods.

  She crooks a lopsided grin and inspects her fingernails—short and ragged with chipped polish. “Well, it’s not rocket science.”

  That draws chuckles all around.

  “You would know,” Bryan says, draping an arm around her.

  Yes, she would. In case no one told you: Our celebrated artist holds an advanced degree in aerospace engineering, not art. In fact, Rani has little formal art education. Before pursuing her lifelong passion full time, she worked for NASA. A rocket scientist turned artist. Or, as she puts it, an artist masquerading as a rocket scientist.

  I must admit I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of her quitting her day job, abandoning a well-paid, respected career. I didn’t understand why she couldn’t continue to do her hobby on the side. But this was an issue where my vote didn’t count, especially with Bryan’s steadfast support and encouragement.

  Patrick was Switzerland—neutral. She can always go back, he said.

  I thought for sure she would. Especially when the bottom fell out of Bryan’s company in the Silicon Valley dot-com bust. And now I find myself wondering again…

  Last night we stayed up late chatting, just the two of us. Rani told me she’s burned out. Burnt to a crisp, to be precise. Understandable, I said. She worked so hard that her creative well’s run dry. Even as these words left my lips, alarm bells sounded. Is it more than creative burnout?

  “Have you seen the doctor?” I asked. “Checked your meds?”

  “Yes,” Rani said. “No changes yet, but we’ll follow up in another month. We agreed it’s situational this time.”

  This time, as opposed to two previous times when she slipped into clinical depression—the first in high school, the second in college—due to chemical imbalances in her brain. The hereditary disease she inherited from me.

  I always told her: Look for the signs. Pay attention. No one will think less of you. This isn’t India.

  “Good girl.” I gave her hand a squeeze. “I’m so glad you went. You did the right thing.”

  “On that score. The jury’s still out on this artist gig.”

  “Meaning?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe you were right. I shouldn’t have put all my eggs in one basket.”

  “Why do you say that?” What’s changed?

  She confessed that when her hobby became her career, it put a lot of pressure on her creativity she didn’t have before. Art became more perspiration, less inspiration. And all this recent attention had been a mixed bag. Flattering and validating, yes. At the same time stifling.

  “I feel people looking over my shoulder now, heaping more pressure, more expectations on t
op of my own,” she said. “It’s not just me and my art anymore. Right now, it’s just me. No art.” She slouched in a corner of the couch, hugging a cushion to her chest. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I actually miss rocket science. A job where I could Just Do It. Instant gratification. Clock in. Do my work. Pass GO. Collect two hundred dollars.”

  I let her talk. I just listened.

  “There’s no certainty in art,” she said. “You can spend your whole life working and reworking something, and never get it right, never pass GO, never collect two hundred. There’s no surefire methodology you can follow. No process works every time. Success is never guaranteed. Even if you taste it once, that’s no assurance for the future. Every day, every moment, you’re back to square one.”

  Then she said it. The surrender I’d awaited.

  “I don’t think I’m cut out for being a full-time artist,” she said. “My self-esteem can’t handle the uncertainty, the constant failures. I think maybe I should go back to rocket science. It was a lot easier.”

  I should have been overjoyed. I wasn’t.

  I felt a strange apprehension, like indigestion churning in my stomach. Now I know why. Looking around the gallery, I see so clearly into my daughter’s heart, her soul. The same way I did when I read my mother’s journals, the poetry she scribbled and hid away from critical, judging eyes.

  There’s a reason God gives us the gifts we have, obstacles that test us and force us to grow; our strengths, weaknesses, opportunities, threats. For the first time, I can see enough dots to connect them. I realize I don’t want Rani to go back.

  I want her to go forward.

  I often wonder what unknown fallacies today’s societies accept as truth, what cultural norms our future generations will dispel as backward rubbish. Today I understand the science of sex determination and postpartum depression. It infuriates me that society automatically blamed the woman for not conceiving sons, when the man’s sperm carries the Y chromosome. And for clinical depressions, as with most baffling illnesses before scientists discover a cure, it’s heartbreaking to think: One little pill might have saved Ma. That is, if they could have gotten past the social stigmas of “mental illness” and “pill-popping” Western medicine.