The Hindi-Bindi Club Page 20

  8. Sprinkle rice with warm melted ghee. Fluff grains with a fork, removing cloves and cardamom pods. Serve hot.

  Ghee (Clarified Butter)

  ½ CUP

  2 sticks unsalted butter

  1. Cut butter into 1-inch slices.

  2. In a heavy saucepan over medium heat, bring to a boil.

  3. When foam covers butter, reduce heat to lowest possible setting.

  4. Simmer, stirring occasionally, until butter separates into milky-white solids and fat, about 8 minutes.

  5. Stir constantly until butter turns golden/translucent and sediment at bottom turns golden brown, about 3 minutes. When bubbling stops, remove from heat.

  6. Line a colander with 4 layers of dampened cheesecloth. Place over a glass jar. Pour butter into cheesecloth, straining ghee from sediment. Discard sediment.

  7. Repeat straining process until all sediment is extracted and discarded.

  8. Store in glass jar or bottle with a shaker top.

  Ghee keeps at room temperature for 2 months.

  Kiran Deshpande: Happy New Year

  Yesterday is but a dream And tomorrow is only a vision; But today well lived makes Every yesterday a dream of happiness And every tomorrow a vision of hope. Look well, therefore, to this day!

  KALIDASA

  At the Chawlas’ New Year’s Eve party, Sandeep Uncle meets and greets arriving guests at the door. Assorted kids shuttle coats upstairs. As my father helps my mother out of her coat, Preity appears at the top of the wide curving staircase.

  “Meenal Auntie!” She picks up the hem of her full-length black velvet skirt and glides down to the foyer like royalty, jewels dripping from her earlobes, neck, and wrist, her arms extended to receive my mother. “You look beautiful! What a lovely sari!” gushes the Queen of Suck-Up.

  My mother smiles, brown eyes sparkling under the crystal chandelier. “Do you like it?”

  “I love it! Lavender is your color. Classy, like you.”

  Barf tray. Stat.

  Mom’s face goes all soft and mushy. “Still as sweet as ever, aren’t you?” She cups Preity’s cheeks with both hands, makes a kissing sound.

  Chubby cheeks, I notice. Underneath her long flowing tunic and skirt, Little Miss Perfect’s becoming Little Miss Butterball. There is some justice in this world.

  Preity drones on about the damn sari—you know, on the off chance her nose isn’t brown enough. “I’ve never seen this kind of print…”

  “It’s a Rajasthani design called bhandhani, meaning tiedye. I’m told it’s made a recent comeback in popularity, all the rage these days.”

  “Oooh, Meenal Auntie.” She winks. “You fashion diva, you.”

  Mom laughs. “Right, that’s me. Fashion-Diva Auntie.”

  Are we done yet?

  I’m aware such immaturity on my part is highly unbecoming, especially for a woman of my age and (supposed) accomplishments, but there you have it. Preity Chawla Lindstrom brings out the worst in me. Always has. Always will.

  My father and Sandeep Uncle have been chatting until now. Sandeep Uncle clears his throat and says, “Preity, aren’t you forgetting someone?” He gives my father a He-Man clap on the back.

  Preity flashes her orthodontically impeccable Miss World smile, her arms outstretched. “I can never forget you, Yash Uncle.”

  I’m next in her reception line. Still hugging my father, she meets my eyes, smiles, raises a hand in greeting. I do the same, forcing my smile to stay in place. Our turn comes. With the parental units watching us expectantly, we shuffle toward each other, exchange perfunctory stiff hugs and stiffer small talk.

  “So good to see you,” she says.

  “You, too. Is Rani here yet?”

  “Downstairs. You have to see the new dance floor.”

  “That’s right. I heard.”

  “Tarun and his roommate are deejays for the night.”

  With the lull in arriving guests, Sandeep Uncle asks Preity to take over meet-and-greet duty and turns to my parents. “Come, we’ll leave the girls to catch up.”

  Thanks, Sandeep Uncle. I owe you one.

  “What are you drinking tonight?” he asks. “Meenal, I have San Pellegrino just for you.” He wedges between my parents and drapes a casual arm around my mother.

  She turns as if to say something to me or Preity, breaking the contact. She opens her mouth, pauses, gestures never mind, and smiles sweetly. Turning back, she tucks her hand into the crook of my dad’s arm and glides into step with him.

  “Smooth,” Preity says with admiration.

  I nod. “Very smooth.”

  “Meenal Auntie hasn’t lost her touch.”

  “Neither has Sandeep Uncle.”

  Everyone knows that Sandeep Uncle’s an incorrigible flirt. He’s the ham of the Indian friends circle. My mother, however, is the Guru of Covert Evasion.

  “Remember that plaque in Uma Auntie’s kitchen?” Preity says. “From Patrick Uncle’s sister? ‘Irish Diplomacy: The ability to tell a man to go to hell in such a way that he looks forward to making the trip.’ Meenal Auntie must’ve been Irish in a former life.”

  Isn’t it interesting to see how others view your parents? Not often the way you do. I wonder, if my parents saw me in my element—my world, not theirs—would they, too, notice the difference in the way others view me? My father, especially….

  A (balding) Nordic God materializes at Preity’s side. He sports a red-and-black sweater and black slacks and appears as though he’s stepped out of the pages of a J. Crew catalog. “Hi, you must be Kiran.” He puts one arm around Preity. With the other, he offers a hand to me.

  “And you must be Ken—er, Eric. I knew that, sorry.” I thump the side of my head before shaking his hand. “Too many names on the brain at these parties.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. Preity tells me when in doubt, just say Uncle and Auntie.” He smiles. Nice smile. Confident handshake. Strong without breaking my hand. “Nice to finally meet you.”

  “Same here.” Thank you for not saying you’ve heard a lot about me.

  “Mommy! Mommy!” A little boy runs up and wraps himself around Preity’s legs. He wears spiffy black-and-cream cotton kurta-pajamas embroidered with red, green, and gold threads. Jumping, he says, “I want jingle bells, too!”

  “You can’t,” says a little girl in a watermelon-pink-and-green-apple ghagara-choli. “You’re a boy.” She wears a dozen glass bangles and silver anklets with bells. Her French braid bounces as she hops, jostling her arms and tinkling with every move.

  “Lina, be nice to your brother. Don’t worry, bud. We’ll figure something out. I’ll bet Nanaji can rig his wind chimes for you. Eric, will you get Dad for me, please? I think he’s downstairs. Tell him Jack and I require his services A.S.A.P.”

  “You bet.” Eric takes off.

  Lina’s brows perk up with interest as she looks after her father. “Wind chimes?”

  “It’s for boys,” Jack says. “Not girls.”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “Yeah-huh.”

  “Mommy.” Both turn to Preity for backup.

  “Enough,” Preity says. “Lina, you already jingle. Jack, you’re going to jingle. Now, if you two can’t be nice to each other, I’m going to take away all the jingles from both of you. Understand?” They nod, eyes wide. “No more whining?” More nodding. “Okay, how about you show some manners, then? Say hello to Kiran Auntie.”

  My hand flutters to my throat. “Kiran Auntie…Wow…”

  Preity laughs. “First time you’re hearing that?” At my nod, she says, “You get used to it. But, yeah, I remember the first time I heard Preity Auntie. Right up there with being called ma’am for the first time. Makes you want to reach for your walking stick and Centrum Silver, doesn’t it?”

  “Auntie’s not so bad. Ma’am definitely gave me the heebie-jeebies.” I shudder and rub my arms. “But auntie has a ring to it. Kiran Auntie…” I test it out. Let it roll off my tongue. “Kiran Auntie…”

  �
��Kiran Auntie!” Lina says.

  “Kiran Auntie!” Jack joins in.

  My heart turns over. Squeezes painfully. Her children are precious; her husband still looks at her like she’s a svelte sex kitten when she’s obviously battling the bulge (and losing). I may have to kill her. I’m a doctor; I know of many ways. Fast and painless. Long and agonizing. Untraceable…

  Sandeep Uncle comes around the corner, dangling wind chimes, and the kids squeal and take off with grandpa, leaving Preity and me staring at each other again.

  That’s two I owe you, Sandeep Uncle.

  “Kiran, I…” From Preity’s tone alone, I don’t like where this is going. “I just heard about Meenal Auntie. I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I didn’t know what to say when I saw her, thought I’d better ask you before I stuck my foot in my mouth. Should I say something to her or avoid the topic?”

  “Avoid it tonight,” I say. “But give her a call before you leave. She’d like that.”

  Preity nods. “I would have called you. If I’d known.”

  “That’s probably why no one told you, either.”

  “Kiran, I…” She frowns and takes a breath.

  Please, no. Whatever it is, just keep it to yourself.

  “I know we never really got along,” she says, “but I’m hoping we can move past that. You know, we’re aunties now.”

  Read: We shouldn’t still behave as children.

  “If there’s anything I can do…Anything at all…” Preity reaches out, squeezes my arm.

  Cooties! I want to shriek and run from the room.

  “I’m here,” she says. “I want you to know that.”

  Can I just say sympathy from a rival, even a childhood rival, is the pits? It is. The absolute pits. And it sucks that much worse when it’s genuine, from the heart. As with Preity. The bitch. Why can’t she lower herself, stoop to my level? Is it too much to ask for her to be catty like other estrogen-charged females? How the hell am I supposed to fight with someone who won’t fight me back? What kind of lame-ass rivalry is that? Does she care nothing for tradition?

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  “Oh, there’s Tarun!” Preity flags down her brother. “T, look who’s here!”

  “Hey! Kiran!”

  “Hey yourself, Little T!”

  “Not so little anymore.” He scoops me off the ground, my legs dangling. “Six foot.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I say. “You’ll always be little in my book.”

  He laughs. “Like Little John. He wasn’t little, either.”

  “Exactly.”

  “T, are you headed down? Will you show Kiran the new digs?” Preity preempts my own request. “And see if you can find Rani. Go on, I’ll catch up. I’m going to see if Mom needs any help….”

  Grateful for the opportunity to exit stage left, I toss a glance over my shoulder. “See you…” Wouldn’t want to be you, I think, wrapping my immaturity around me, a ratty, moth-eaten security blanket. But of course that’s a lie—that I wouldn’t want to be Preity—always has been, always will be.

  The Chawlas finished their huge walk-out basement this year and relocated the traditional dance floor downstairs. Out the sliding glass door, a heated tent covers the brick patio and Saroj Auntie’s lavish buffet. Tarun and roommate Jeb, a law school buddy, are in charge of tunes. In addition to bhangra—hip Indian dance music, kinda like Indian disco—they lined up music videos to show on the (new) projection and wide-screen televisions. Little T tells me they made a mix of MTV, VH-1, and filmi videos (song-and-dance numbers from Bollywood musicals). Add to this, flashing colored and strobe lights. All that’s missing is a disco ball.

  When she spots me, Rani screams. Runs over. Throws her arms around my neck. Kisses me soundly on the cheek. On her breath, I smell a hint of peppermint.

  “Schnapps?” I ask.

  “Yep,” she says. “Preity spiked a thermos of hot chocolate. Want some?”

  “Not yet, thanks.”

  “I was freezing when I got here. Now I’m broiling. But enough about me. What’s this I hear about an arranged second marriage?”

  I laugh. “Semi-arranged, and why am I not surprised you already heard?”

  “Word travels fast on the Hindi-Bindi Express.”

  “Does it ever!”

  “So tell, tell.” Rani wiggles her fingers. “Give up the goods. Inquiring minds want to know and all. Details, woman.”

  I grasp her fingers. “Later, later.”

  “Fine. Make me wait. But it’s gonna cost you. Come on, let’s dance.” She tugs my hand.

  “Oh, no.” I snatch back my hand. “Nonono. Where’s your darling husband?”

  “Upstairs, losing his darling shirt at teen pathi.” (The Indian equivalent of poker.) She takes aim for my hand again, but I’m faster.

  “Rani, you know I don’t—”

  “You’re going to tonight. I won’t take no for an answer. We already have your mom and my dad holding up the wall. That wall doesn’t need any more help, believe me.”

  Sure enough, my mom and Patrick Uncle have assumed their customary positions, standing against the wall and chatting. Rani takes me by the arm and drags me onto the dance floor, shaking her hips and pointing her index fingers in the air (I wasn’t kidding about the disco reference) to the beat of some incomprehensible Hindi song.

  Rani’s always had amazing rhythm. And I’ve always had an amazing lack thereof.

  You won’t see dancing at our house. My parents are sedate people; Deshpande parties are sedate affairs. But Saroj Auntie and Sandeep Uncle are as over-the-top as my parents are sticks-in-the-mud. Auntie and Uncle embody masti, as they call it. A zest for life.

  “Rani, I can’t dance like this.”

  “You can, and you will.”

  “It’s not in my genetic code.”

  “You do not want to get into nature versus nurture with me. You will not win. Now, watch. I had private lessons with Saroj Auntie earlier.” She demonstrates dance steps. “Imagine you’re picking up fairy dust and tossing it. Pick it up. Toss it.” She gestures with a dainty flourish of her hands. “Pick up. Toss. See. Easy. You try.”

  “Maybe after a drink, or three—”

  “Would you stop with the analysis-paralysis and just do it with me? Come on. Gather, sprinkle. Gather, sprinkle. Wheee! Isn’t it a trip?”

  I flip her the bird as I try not to trip over my own feet.

  Right foot crosses left. Stomp. Pretend to pick up fairy dust on left.

  Uncross. Stomp. Pretend to sprinkle fairy dust high into the air to your right.

  “There you go…That’s it…Accentuate your fingers…Good…Now, to the beat…”

  Beat-beat. Beat-beat. Pick-up. Toss-out.

  I smile through my teeth. “I hate you, you know.”

  “I know.” She puckers her lips, blows me a kiss.

  Rani McGuiness Tomashot was the girl who could sell, or at least rent, a native New Yorker the Brooklyn Bridge.

  And I don’t remember the last time I had such a blast.

  Uma Auntie comes up to us. “Hello, girls. Having fun, I see. Glad you came, hmmm?” she asks Rani in a rhetorical tone.

  “Yes, Mother. You were right.”

  Uma Auntie shrugs and teases, “It happens.”

  “Yeah, waaay too often, if you ask me.”

  With a wink, Uma Auntie dances away, rejoining some aunties.

  “I’ve been a party pooper lately,” Rani says in explanation. “Lucky you, I snapped out of it tonight.”

  “Lucky me.”

  When we take a break to chug some water, our hearts pumping, brows sweating, I ask Rani, “Who are they?” They being the fun, fashionable, outgoing newbies cutting it up on the dance floor. Though they appear to be in Rani’s and my age group, I’m certain I haven’t seen them before. I would remember…. The chicks are decked out in modern, ultra-hip salwar-kameezes, ghagara-cholis, and saris and shake their booties as if styling the latest club-wear! “I’ve always
thought of saris as graceful, elegant…”

  “Matronly?” Rani offers.

  “Yes! Sexy isn’t a word that’s ever come to my mind before because, you know…”

  She nods. “You associate saris with aunties and grandmas.”

  “Right! But these bindi-babes…The way they move…”

  Rani smiles. “They make saris look downright hot!”

  “Exactly!” I say in amazement. “Who knew?”

  We laugh.

  “Now, before you try this at home,” Rani says, “be warned they’ve had a lot more practice than we have. They’re the New Hindi-Bindi Club. Hindi-Bindi, Next Generation? Hindi-Bindi Babes? Hmmm, I wonder what their kids will nickname them….”

  “Oh! I thought—” Realization dawns. They’re the recent Indian immigrants. “So theeeese are our infamous counterparts. The good Indian girls we ‘would have been,’ ‘should have been,’ ‘ought to be,’ take your pick.” The only people on the planet with whom my parents compared me even more than Perfect Preity. If we’d stayed in India…If you’d been brought up in India… I narrow my gaze, study the bindi-babes closer. “Our nemeses.”

  “You got it.” Rani leans against me, shoulder to shoulder, folding her arms in contemplation. “Here we have live, in-the-flesh specimens of that rare, endangered species. She represents the impossible. Sets standards you can never live up to. Why? Because you’ve been corrupted by the West. Americanized. That’s right…she is…none other than…the Good Indian Girl.” Rani arches an eyebrow. “Now observe, if you will, doctor. Tell me, do you see what I see?”

  I squint. “I’m not sure. What?”

  “Aha! It’s a trick question. She-ji isn’t, in fact, all that different from you-ji or me-ji. Just more discreet.”

  “And a better dancer.”

  “Much.” Rani nods. “Than you, you meant, right?”

  I shove her with my shoulder. She shoves me back. We laugh. “You’re still a goofball,” I say as we head for the buffet, having worked up ravenous appetites.

  “Takes one to know one,” Rani says, not missing a beat.

  “God, I missed you.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised.” She hands me a plate—rather, pokes it into my ribs. “I’ve been known to have that effect on people. It’s rare, but it happens.”