The Hindi-Bindi Club Read online

  I’m thankful to live in a different time and place now, thankful I married a man like Patrick. Though it cost me my father, I believe things happen as they are meant to happen. Everything happens for a reason. Patrick was meant to be my husband, and Rani my daughter.

  I remember feeling so helpless watching Ma suffer, being powerless to do anything to help. Today I realize: I couldn’t help my mother, but I can help my daughter.

  Another chance for me.

  And for her.

  When we get home to our townhouse in Old Town Alexandria, Rani goes straight up to bed. Her room is exactly the way she left it. Aside from occasional dusting, vacuuming, and airing out, we don’t touch it.

  On the wall opposite the bed, she painted movie-screen-sized brown eyes, lush eyelashes, upper lids lined with black kohl, and a ruby bindi set between arched brows. Depending on the angle (and my mood), the eyes appear happy or melancholy, hopeful or despondent, seductive or innocent. But always, the eyes watch me. Wherever I am in the bedroom. Wherever I move. It creeps me out at times. I don’t know how Rani—or Bryan!—can sleep, or do anything else, with those eyes watching.

  “I feel like such a loser,” Rani says, pulling the covers up to her chin.

  I sit beside her on her bed, my back to the Enigmatic Eyes. “You’re not a loser. You’re drained. That’s all.”

  “Uh-huh. I couldn’t hack it as a full-time artist.” She forms an L with her thumb and index finger and drops her hand over her forehead. “Loser.”

  “Stop that.” I tug her wrist. “You’re way too hard on yourself. Do you remember all the times I told you depression isn’t some indulgence of the weak? A chemical imbalance is a chemical imbalance? That big, clever brain of yours needed to get recalibrated, and it would? The same concepts apply here. Your battery’s dead. Out of juice. It happens. You need to recharge, and you will.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Okay, tell me something. A genie pops out of a bottle and grants you one wish for the career of your choice. The opinions of others, talent, money—none of that matters. There are no obstacles. Success is guaranteed. Now, what career would you choose?”

  “An artist,” she says without hesitation.

  “There’s your answer—”

  “In an ideal world.”

  “So art isn’t the easy road you thought it would be. So what? If it’s the road you want, make it work. Fight for it. Easier said than done, I know. But I also know you can do it. You can, Rani. I have faith in you. Have faith in yourself.”

  My daughter looks at me as if I’ve grown two heads. “I don’t believe you’re saying this. You.”

  “I had an epiphany at the gallery.”

  Hope and fear war in Rani’s eyes. “Mom…?” she says in a small voice. “You tell me something. What if it doesn’t work? What if I try and try, and the magic’s gone forever and never comes back? If I’m a washed-up artist, a has-been? Will you still love me?”

  I don’t reassure her those things aren’t going to happen. That’s not what she needs to hear. I smooth her hair from her forehead. “Yes, my Boo-Boo. I will love you, no matter what.”

  “Even if I don’t go back to rocket science?”

  “Even if you don’t go back to rocket science.”

  “If I don’t have kids and just stay home and eat bonbons all day?”

  I smile. “If that’s what you want to do with your life.”

  She smiles, too. A crooked grin that makes my heart turn over. “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best.”

  “No, just Top Ten,” I tease. We hug. “Come down,” I say. “Grab a bite. I’ve made your favorite shorshe salmon maachh.” Salmon in mustard sauce.

  “Thanks, but I’m not hungry yet.”

  “Not even for chingri maachher malai curry?” Prawns in coconut curry, another of her favorites.

  “Not yet, thanks.”

  This is her standard answer, and it worries me. “Rani, I understand that you don’t have much of an appetite, but you’re losing too much weight.”

  “Not this again.”

  “Yes, this again. You know the drill. You have to eat. Put something in your stomach. Not a nine-course meal but at least a little. Even if you aren’t hungry.”

  “Later, please.”

  “How about a walk, then? It’s a gorgeous day. Sunny and—”

  “Mom.” She groans—long and loud—and rolls away from me. “I’m tired.”

  “You can nap later. Come on, let’s get up. You’ve slept enough. It’s almost noon now.” I pat her bottom. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

  “Let’s not and say we did.”

  “Rani.” I use my sternest voice. “Do you want me to get your husband and father up here?”

  “Moth-er! That is so not fair, calling in reinforcements. You play dirty.”

  I’ll play any way I have to for you.

  “Up. Up.” I tug the covers off her, step back, and cross my arms. Good thing Bryan and Patrick aren’t here. Her kicked-puppy whimper could bring the strongest man to his knees. But a mother endures what she has to for the sake of her children.

  Rani gets up like an arthritic old lady. When I hug her, she sags against me. “Did I mention how much depression sucks?” she says into my shoulder.

  “I know, sweetie, but we’ll get through it. Together as a family. I promise you it will get better. Just don’t give up.” I pull back, raise Rani’s chin with my curved index finger, and hold her gaze. “Don’t ever give up.”

  “I won’t,” she says, her eyes solemn. “I’ll never do that to you again.”

  Oh, my sweet, intuitive girl. I hug her again, tightly. She, too, knows the reassurance I need to hear.

  My daughter has my mother’s eyes. Undoubtedly you’ll think I’m crazy when I tell you it’s more than mere resemblance I see. But then, that’s what everyone thought about Ma.

  It is said the eyes are windows to the soul, and from the moment I first held Rani, I glimpsed in the depths of her gray newborn eyes my mother’s soul.

  I might have dismissed it, if that’s all there was to it. But that was only the beginning….

  From birth, Rani’s had an almost phobic aversion to anything around her neck, fear of strangulation. I’ve never told her how exactly Ma died, only that her death resulted from complications after childbirth.

  As a teen, in addition to doodling, Rani jotted conflicted, suicidal verses in the margins of her school notebooks. One may find her scribbling reminiscent of Sylvia Plath—many phrases are verbatim from Ma’s tablets, written in Bengali script that Rani cannot read.

  When Patrick and I awoke one Saturday to find our rebellious fifteen-year-old lying beside a pool of her vomit from swallowing a bottle of sleeping pills, I surrendered, opening my mind to all possibilities. Reincarnation. Clinical depression. Therapy. With my daughter’s life at stake, I no longer had the luxury to be a skeptic, to cling to false pride.

  Though we don’t speak of this incident outside our family—it’s no one’s business but ours—inside our family, everything changed from that point on.

  In family counseling, we learned that I was a significant contributing factor to Rani’s suicide attempt. Until then, I’d always reprimanded her for answering back. I come from a land where dissent means disrespect; therefore in the name of Respect to Elders, I conditioned my daughter to bite back any words that questioned my authority. I forced her into submission, the mold of a good Indian daughter and my duty as a good Indian mother, I believed. But the words I prohibited? They didn’t vanish into thin air; they accumulated, as voices trapped inside her head, screaming ever louder for release. Like Ma.

  The guilt of what I caused, however unintentional, almost did me in. Our tiny family could easily have fallen apart that year. Instead, we pulled together. Forgave each other. Took pains to try to understand others’ viewpoints. We learned to communicate as a family. How to talk, how to listen, how to dissent, and how to accept dissent. I learned to guide R
ani without gagging or straitjacketing her.

  Meenal and Saroj were none too pleased with the drastic change in my child-rearing practices, and they weren’t alone. Disapproval came at me from both sides: Indian friends questioned my Western attitudes, and American friends questioned my Eastern beliefs. But none of them ever walked in my mismatched shoes—one chappal paired with one sneaker—and I refused to succumb to peer pressure. Society’s ignorance, closed-mindedness, killed Ma. I wouldn’t let that happen again, to Rani.

  From the outside looking in, one might say—and many did—that I let my daughter go wild. Call it whatever you want, but from where I stand, I let my daughter express herself. As long as she wasn’t hurting anyone, or herself, I refused to trap her in her own skin. Never again did I want her to feel she had to escape the prison of her body and her only way out was to take her life. Never again would I be a contributing factor with my actions or inactions.

  I believe Rani is Ma’s reincarnation. I believe she is destined to face in this lifetime the same tests she failed in the last. I believe that’s true of us all. Our eternal souls are reborn in different mortal bodies until we get it right.

  Scoff if you must, but history has proven time and again that one person’s religion is another’s superstition, and one person’s superstition is another’s science. What’s truth and what’s maya—illusion? Time will tell.

  * * *

  FROM:

  “Uma Basu”

  TO:

  Meenal Deshpande; Saroj Chawla

  SENT:

  December 29, 20XX 09:52 AM

  SUBJECT:

  Here I am…

  Dearest Meenal and Saroj,

  My apologies for not writing sooner. We had a great time in SF. Home now. Rani and Bryan are with us. Bryan must return to work after the New Year. I’m trying to convince Rani to stay through January since I’m on sabbatical next semester. Rani could use a sabbatical, too, and my project -- translating her grandmother’s writings -- might benefit her.

  It’s so wonderful to have the kids home. I know we say this all the time, but it bears repeating: They grow up too fast! Wasn’t it just yesterday we were their age???

  Warmest wishes,

  Uma

  * * *

  FROM:

  “Meenal Deshpande”

  TO:

  Uma Basu; Saroj Chawla

  SENT:

  December 29, 20XX 12:19 PM

  SUBJECT:

  RE: Here I am…

  Uma, YES!!!!! It is SO wonderful to have the kids home!!!:) Fingers crossed Rani will stay on thru January. Give her our love, and if you need any arm-twisting, just holler.

  Meenal

  * * *

  FROM:

  “Saroj Chawla”

 

  TO:

  Uma Basu; Meenal Deshpande

  SENT:

  December 29, 20XX 1:30 PM

  SUBJECT:

  RE: Here I am…

  Yes, they do grow up way too fast, yet in some ways, they remain children even as adults. Is it only because we’re their mothers that we see this???

  Lately I’m afraid that in trying to protect my children from the ugliness I’ve seen in this world, I sheltered them too much.: (We came to this country to give our children better lives and opportunities than WE had in India, but there were trade-offs…

  Despite my angel daughter’s vastly superior intelligence, her privileged education, and the enviable social charms that she gets from her mother (hahaha!), the little Disney Princess I brought up in this Land of Milk & Money is out of touch with reality sometimes. Certain “facts of life” elude her grasp. Nothing I say makes any difference. Sigh.

  OK, different subject…Uma, what goodies shall I send for Rani? Kiran wanted samosas. How about Rani? Does she still like chickpeas? Preity ’s come up with another crazy culinary fusion, Chhole Caesar Salad (!). Rani might like it. Grated paneer in place of parm, too. Want to try it?

  Chalo, back to work…

  Saroj

  * * *

  FROM:

  “Uma Basu”

  TO:

  Saroj Chawla; Meenal Deshpande

  SENT:

  December 29, 20XX 04:43 PM

  SUBJECT:

  RE: Here I am…

  Dearest Saroj,

  I’ve been mulling over your email all afternoon. I understand all too well the frustration of trying to communicate a message that isn’t getting through. I also understand the helplessness of being unable to lock your precious princess up in her Ivory Tower and wear the key on your palloo like we could in India , so she doesn’t learn the hard way what a LONG drop down it is.

  I tell myself that I can’t prevent Rani from getting hurt, but I can prepare her as best I can, and I can be there for her when it happens, as it inevitably will. I can be a safe place for her, always. Even if it’s just having a ready hug and a kiss and a shoulder to cry on. That’s what I did when she was 3, and I’m still doing it at 30.

  All that said, I respectfully submit the following for your consideration:

  1) “The Facts of Life” constitute material, physical reality;

  2) Perhaps Preity ’s world view is the TRUTH, and yours is the ILLUSION.

  Just something to ponder. And if you aren’t hurling rotten tomatoes at me, Rani says she’d LOVE to try Preity ’s Chhole Caesar Salad!

  Yours affectionately,

  Uma

  * * *

  FROM:

  “Meenal Deshpande”

  TO:

  Uma Basu; Saroj Chawla

  SENT:

  December 29, 20XX 06:05 PM

  SUBJECT:

  RE: Here I am…

  Uma, before this year, I would have been first in line to throw rotten tomatoes. Today, you’ve managed to take my breath away. My dearest Bengali friend, you embody Gopal Krishna Gokhale’s: “What Bengal thinks today, the rest of India thinks tomorrow.”:)

  For obvious reasons, I’ve thought a lot about “material, physical reality vs. ultimate reality” this year. The body and mind are conditioned/ contained by our physical reality (ILLUSION). The spirit is boundless, aware of all possibilities, the ultimate reality (TRUTH). Thus the saying, “From the mouths of babes…” Babies come to us unconditioned spirits. We condition them to our reality, but who is wiser to the TRUTH?

  I’ll stop now, before Saroj thinks we’re ganging up on her.:)

  Saroj, I’ve been trying to call you. Preity said you’re running errands. Either your cell phone is off, or you aren’t taking my calls. Hmmm…which is it?

  Meenal

  * * *

  FROM:

  “Saroj Chawla”

 

  TO:

  Uma Basu; Meenal Deshpande

  SENT:

  December 29, 20XX 7:11 PM

  SUBJECT:

  RE: Here I am…

  Uma, aren’t you the clever one? You KNEW I would throw rotten tomatoes if I HAD any, but since Chawla Catering uses only the freshest ingredients, you’re safe!! Hahaha!!

  Meenal, sooo sorry I missed your call. I was at the supermarket and forgot to switch on my cell. Will try you later, traitor.;)

  What’s one to do when her two best friends abandon her in samsara while they proceed to vanaprastha??

  Saroj

  * * *

  FROM:

  “Uma Basu”

  TO:

  Meenal Deshpande; Saroj Chawla

  SENT:

  December 29, 20XX 08:59 PM

  SUBJECT:

  RE: Here I am…

  Dearest Meenal, you’ve leapfrogged this Bengali. I hope you know what an inspiration you have been, and continue to be, to us all.

  Dearest Saroj, you live it up, that’s what you do! And no one does it better than you -- you, too, are an inspiration to all -- so take a well-deserved bow!


  Looking forward to celebrating another Happy New Year with you, my cherished friends,

  Uma

  * * *

  Uma’s Ghee Bhat (Rice Pilaf with Clarified Butter)

  SERVES 4–6

  1½ cups basmati rice

  ¼ cup unsalted raw cashews

  2 tablespoons ghee or unsalted butter or canola oil

  ¼ cup golden raisins

  ¾ teaspoon salt (adjust to taste)

  2 bay leaves

  8 whole green cardamom pods

  ½ teaspoon sugar (adjust to taste)

  1 3-inch cinnamon stick

  3 whole cloves

  2¼ cups water

  1. In a colander in the sink, rinse rice under tepid water until water runs clear.

  2. Transfer rice to a bowl. Fill with cold water, submerging rice by 3 inches. Soak 30 minutes. Drain.

  3. In a wok or deep 12-inch skillet, heat ghee over medium-low heat.

  4. Add bay leaves, cardamom pods, cinnamon, and cloves. Sauté for 1 minute.

  5. Add cashews and raisins. Sauté for a few seconds.

  6. Stir in salt, sugar, and rice. Sauté until rice begins to brown, about 3 minutes.

  7. Add water. Increase heat to high and bring to boil. Cover and reduce heat to low. Simmer until water is absorbed and rice is tender, about 15–20 minutes.