The Hindi-Bindi Club Read online

  “And you have supporting documentation of this?”

  “I do. Would you like to see it?”

  “Sappy love letters from Bryan? No, thanks. I’ll pass.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Glancing across the room, my gaze collides with Preity’s. We share that awkward moment of indecision when you don’t know whether to maintain or break eye contact.

  I hold her gaze. She looks away. For some reason, I keep looking, and in the space of a blink, she looks back. Her eyes register surprise—she didn’t expect me to maintain the contact. When she smiles, hesitantly, I see myself reflected in her eyes as the jerk I am. Have been. Will be…?

  To be or not to be a jerk? That is the question.

  “She’s scared of you,” Rani says.

  “And I’m scared of you.”

  “You should be.”

  “Well, as long as we’re all clear on the pecking order…” I wave Preity over.

  She’s in the middle of a circle of conversation, but she nods, signaling she’ll join us when she can.

  “You might like her better now that you’re all grown up.” Rani cracks herself up; I shake my head. “Seriously, can you believe you’re really a doctor? Preity’s really a corporate-suit-slash-budding-exec? I’m really a rocket scientist?”

  “No. No. And hell, no.”

  “Did you meet Lina and Jack?”

  “I did.”

  “Damn cute, huh?”

  I nod. “In a big way. Speaking of which…” I tilt my head. “How about you and Bryan? Any plans—?”

  “Aaaaah!” She wheezes. “Et tu, Bruté?”

  I wince. “Oops. Sorry. Sore subject?”

  “Very.”

  “Alrighty then…” I slink farther down the buffet line. “Butting out now…”

  Rani sighs. “We can talk about it later.”

  “That’s okay. We don’t have to—”

  “Actually, I could use a good rant. And you still owe me details. Preity and me.” She smiles and wiggles her eyebrows. “Unless you want to take another twirl around the dance floor…. Saroj Auntie taught me another—”

  “Uh, Rani?”

  “Yes, Kiran?”

  “Shut up and eat your chhole.”

  Her smile widens.

  “Kiran, pillu?” My mom lays a hand on my shoulder. “I’m not going to last until midnight. Dad’s taking me home. You have two offers. Saroj Auntie invited you to spend the night. Patrick Uncle offered to give you a ride home when they leave.”

  “I should go with you and Dad.”

  “No, no. Don’t be silly. It’s New Year’s Eve. You stay. Have fun.”

  “But I’d rather be with you, Mom.”

  Her eyes soften. “Thank you, pillu, that’s very sweet of you, but you won’t be with me at home. I’ll be fast asleep in bed.”

  And I’ll be left with Dad. Alone.

  “Okay, I’ll stay. But not overnight. I’ll bum a ride.”

  “Good girl.”

  I hug her before she goes. “Happy New Year, Mom. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Mummychi pillu.” She kisses me on the cheek, smoothes my hair from my face, smiles. “Toast the New Year for me. It’s going to be a good one. The best ever.”

  I nod, swallowing around the tightness in my throat. My mom hasn’t called me pillu since I was in elementary school. I don’t even know the exact definition. To me, the endearment means the equivalent of little one. That’s how it makes me feel. Like my mother’s little one again. In a good way.

  A very good way.

  Soon after midnight, Rani, Preity, and I slip away from the still-hopping party and hole up in the seclusion of the Florida room. Under the bright flashlight of the moon reflecting off the snow, we pass around a bag of marshmallows and a thermos of spiked hot chocolate, filling our Styrofoam cups and laughing at ourselves for still feeling like we’re “getting away with something,” even at our age.

  “Just a heads-up,” Rani says after I bring them up to speed on my semi-arranged marriage plans. “Beware of men who talk the talk but don’t walk the walk.”

  Preity nods. “Don’t assume because arranged marriage is a legit, respectable part of Indian culture, everyone’s on the up-and-up. Ask my mom about her widow friend who was swept off her feet by this dashing smooth-talker. Turned out, he was just after her money. He had another wife back in the old country. He figured a lonely widow would be easy prey. Every culture has its snakes—venomous con artists and your garden-variety losers-who-can’t-get-a-date—who pretend to be something they’re not.”

  “Exactly,” Rani says. “I have a friend. Beautiful, smart, the whole nine yards. Her career took off—I-banking, you know how that is—and with mergers and acquisitions up the ying-yang, she didn’t have time to play the dating game. She checked out a popular matrimonial site and hooked up with a supposed ‘doctor.’ Everything was going great guns until her parents ran a routine background check. Turned out the guy didn’t just stretch the truth, he was a complete fraud. Made up his entire identity.”

  “Wow,” I say. “He was either really twisted, really lonely, or both.”

  “Moral of the story?” Rani says. “Verify all claims before you get in too deep with anyone.”

  “Good advice. Thank—”

  Rani holds up a hand. “I’m not done, babe. Hang on to the thanks.”

  “But wait, there’s more!” Preity teases.

  “Now, allow me to preface this next bit by saying I’m not making any generalizations here,” Rani says. “I’ve just heard enough stories that I feel I have a fiduciary duty to give you advanced warning on something you might encounter.”

  I nod. “Forewarned is forearmed.”

  “Right. So. You may, just may encounter Indian immigrant men who come on way too strong, then end up being clueless when it comes to performance.”

  “And by ‘performance,’ we are talking—”

  “In bed,” Preity says before Rani can. “I’ve heard that, too.”

  “Why is that, do you think?” I ask.

  “Inexperience,” Preity says.

  “But Bollywood, the Kama-Sutra—”

  “There’s knowledge, and there’s experience,” Rani says. “You go to med school—knowledge—then do your rotations and residency—experience. They might watch, and they might read, but they lack hands-on experience in the steps of our Western Mating Dance. The nuances of flirtation, seduction, kissing, lovemaking. Remember, dating’s a fairly recent, cosmopolitan phenomenon in India, exclusive to younger generations. P.D.A.’s still taboo,” she says regarding Public Displays of Affection. “Even the stuff we consider chaste, like pecks on the lips and holding hands.”

  “I have a theory,” Preity says. “I don’t have firsthand experience, mind you. All the Indian men I’ve encountered have been perfect gentlemen, but I do know others who’ve reported differently. I think this is because, by Eastern standards, Westerners can be perceived as loose.”

  “Can be?” I smile. “Preity, you should be a diplomat.”

  “She’d make a great diplomat,” Rani says.

  “Thank you,” Preity says. “But we digress. My theory is that some Indians, particularly in the age groups ahead of us, believe an unmarried woman who has physical relations with the opposite sex is automatically…How shall I put this…?”

  “A slut?” Rani says.

  “Um, maybe not an out-and-out slut. But definitely of ill repute.”

  I nod. “You’re either a good girl or a bad girl. There’s nothing in between. They have no real concept or understanding of the infinite spectrum between those two poles.”

  “Exactly,” Preity says. “Girls only come in two flavors. Naughty and nice. If you put out, you’re bad. If not, you’re good. And in a two-toned world, when they equate a woman who drinks, dances, and/or dates with being easy, indiscriminate, they may come on too strong because they can’t differentiate what’s considered healthy, respectful sens
uality in our society and what’s offensive vulgarity. That’s my take on it, anyway.”

  “Interesting,” I say. “Very interesting.”

  “Still.” Rani raises a finger. “Let’s not lose sight of the common denominator here.”

  “Which is…?” I ask.

  With a fairy-dust-dispensing flourish of her hands, she says, “Men are like puppies. Most can be trained to correct undesired behavior, so if you find one that goes straight for your crotch or piddles on your shoes when he gets excited but otherwise shows good character, there may still be hope.”

  We laugh.

  Preity raises her hand.

  “What, are we in school, now?” I say. “Yes, you there. Little girl in the front row.”

  “I’ve been trying to wrap my brain around something, and well, I could use your insight. You’re both strong, independent women. Nonconformists. Free-thinkers. Would you agree?”

  Rani and I look at each other, shrug, nod.

  “Both of you also have a long history of, um, challenging your parents. Defying, if you will.”

  Rani exaggerates a yawn. “Any year now…”

  I smile sweetly. “Spare us the formality and get to the point, would ya?”

  “What I want to know is, did guilt ever enter the picture with either of you when you disobeyed your parents?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Yes,” Rani says at the same time. “Why? What’s up chez Chawlas?”

  Preity shakes her head. “I don’t want to get into details, but suffice it to say, it’s one of those trapped-between-a-rock-and-a-hard-place times, and I don’t know what to do. I mean, I know what I should do, what I want to do, but man…” She holds her head in her hands. “It’s the guilt. The guilt! How do you deal with the guilt of blatant defiance?”

  I understand her reticence to disclose specifics. That’s a limitation of family friendships, a reason Preity, Rani, and I could never be confidantes, why when we played Truth or Dare, Rani and I opted for dare, and Preity opted out. Opening up, exposing yourself, makes you vulnerable to a breach. There’s always the risk one of us may, over the course of a lifetime, divulge what we know to another (a family member is the usual fear), who may, in turn, divulge to another, and so on. Better to err on the side of silence. Keep to yourself any sensitive info you wouldn’t want getting around the friends circle—and coming back to bite you in the ass.

  “Now there’s your first problem,” Rani says. “Do you have to be blatant in your defiance? Can’t you be subtle? Or even sneaky?”

  “Sneaky doesn’t work for me. I’m not the sneaky type.”

  She got that right. The word guileless comes to mind.

  “Okay, scratch sneaky. What about subtle?” Rani asks.

  “How subtly can a person fart?”

  I laugh, despite myself.

  “Right. Scratch subtle.”

  “Which takes us back to the guilt factor,” Preity says. “How do you deal with it?”

  “Ancient Catholic secret,” I whisper. “Confession.”

  “No,” Rani says. “My father doesn’t believe in confession, says you don’t need a middleman with God. Likewise, I prefer to go directly to the source. If the problem’s between my parents and me, then I’ll talk it out with them. Shout it out. Pout. Cry. Apologize. Whatever it takes. For as long as it takes.”

  “What if you reach an impasse?” Preity says. “And there’s no getting around it? Or have you always resolved—?”

  “No, we’ve deadlocked lots of times. When I lived under their roof, they automatically won any stalemate. Since I’ve been on my own, we agree to disagree, shelve the subject, and move on,” Rani says, matter-of-fact.

  I look at Preity; she looks at me. Together we bust out laughing.

  “Oh, man. That’s a good one. A classic.” I wipe tears from my eyes. “Agree to disagree.”

  “Shelve the subject and move on,” Preity says. “Tell me another one.”

  Rani’s gaze shifts between us. “O-kay, and that’s funny because…?”

  “Because,” I say, “it might work if your parents are Uma Auntie and Patrick Uncle, but it won’t fly with mine.”

  “Amen, sister.” Preity nods, solidarity from an uncommon source.

  Rani just shrugs.

  “So again, getting back to guilt,” I say, curious myself now. “Let’s say you agree to disagree and shelve the subject, but you still feel guilty? What then?”

  “Yeah, does that ever happen?” Preity asks.

  “It happens.”

  “And?”

  “Well, my friends,” Rani says, “I hate to break it to you, but sometimes, there’s no magic cure-all. You have to learn to live with the pain. Think of it as the cost of doing business. The cost of being human.”

  “In other words,” Preity says, “you’re fucked.” I expect her to say pardon my French, like she used to, but she doesn’t.

  “Pretty much,” Rani says. “Sorry, Preity.”

  “Yeah, well, I suspected as much,” Preity says. “I just wanted confirmation from someone who’s been there, felt that.” She draws her knees to her chest, tucking the hem of her long skirt under her feet.

  Rani raises a hand. “Been there. Felt that. Got the T-shirt. Welcome to the club.”

  “Is there a secret handshake?” Preity tries to laugh it off, but she’s just covering, I can tell.

  “You, uh, want to talk about it, Preity?” I say. “I mean, your guilt, not the disagreement, if that’s possible.” I don’t want her to think I’m trying to get the dirt or anything. I’ve just heard enough to recognize she’s having a Victoria’s Secret Dressing Room Moment of her own.

  Preity shrugs. “I guess the thing of it is…I love my parents. I respect them, admire them. I can’t easily dismiss their opinions. Not when they only want the best for me, when they love me more than life. I’m sure that sounds corny to you.” She flicks her gaze at me. “But it’s the truth. And when they love me that much, when they’ve struggled and sacrificed so much to provide for Tarun and me, to give us the Good Life, how can I let them down? I feel like a bad daughter, thumbing my nose at them. That’s the rub. It kills me to hurt people I love, and I know my parents interpret my disobedience as: ‘I don’t love you. I don’t respect you.’ That’s complete and utter bullshit, but it’s their perception, their reality. My words won’t change it. Actions speak louder and all that.” She drops her chin onto her knees and hugs her legs. “Go ahead, Kiran.” She gives a short laugh of self-deprecation. “Serenade me with ‘Goody Two-Shoes.’ You know you want to.”

  Actually, I don’t.

  There are times in your life when a lightbulb clicks on. When you see for the first time something that was there all along, only you were sitting in the dark. Blind. Ignorant. Worst of all: blind to your ignorance.

  “You’re a good daughter, Preity,” I say. Okay, mutter. From the side of my mouth.

  “What was that?” Rani cups a hand behind her ear. “I didn’t quite catch that. Could you say it a little louder, please?”

  I narrow my gaze at her. Brat, she heard me perfectly.

  So did Preity, who laughs. “That’s okay. She doesn’t have to….”

  Actually, I do. And if you’re wondering: No, crow does not, in fact, taste like chicken.

  “You’re a good daughter, Preity,” I say again, louder, minus the ’tude, a simple statement of fact. “You’re conscientious and caring, and you have a lifelong track record of love and respect for your parents. Everyone knows that. Including your parents. So you aren’t the Perfect Indian Daughter. Rest assured, you’re nauseatingly close.”

  Preity chuckles. “Thanks, Kiran.”

  I don’t tell her this is the real reason I could never stand her. Because she had what I lacked, and I was jealous, resentful that it came so easily to her.

  She still has what I lack, and I’m still jealous, but not resentful. I don’t hate her anymore; I might even (gasp) like her.

 
; She deserves to know. I should tell her. But let’s get real. You can only eat so much crow in one sitting. For now, it’s enough that I know.

  “Don’t mention it,” I say. Then add, “Ever. Or I swear I’ll deny everything.”

  “Um, hi. Hello. Yoo-hoo. Over here?” Rani points to herself. “Witness.”

  “Who may have to go into the Protection Program,” Preity says, while I leisurely scratch my chin with my middle finger.

  “Ah, just like old times,” Rani says.

  “No,” Preity says. “New and improved.”

  “A toast…” I raise my hot chocolate. “May each of us realize her goals in the New Year.”

  Saroj’s Chhole (Chickpea Chili)

  SERVES 4–6

  3 teaspoons cumin seeds, divided, 2, 1

  1½ cups tomatoes, finely chopped

  2 teaspoons anardana seeds (dried pomegranate) or amchur powder (dried mango) or lemon juice

  ½ teaspoon cayenne powder

  1 teaspoon coriander powder

  ½ teaspoon turmeric powder

  2 (15-ounce cans) chickpeas, rinsed and drained

  2 tablespoons canola oil

  12-inch cinnamon stick

  1 cup water

  3 green cardamom pods, bruised

  1 teaspoon salt

  3 whole cloves

  2 teaspoons tomato paste

  4 black peppercorns

  1 teaspoon garam masala

  1 cup onion, finely chopped

  1 tablespoon fresh ginger root, peeled and finely grated

  ¼ cup fresh coriander (cilantro), chopped

  1 lemon, cut into wedges

  2 fresh green chili peppers, finely chopped

  1. In a small skillet over medium heat, dry roast 2 teaspoons each of cumin seeds and anardana seeds (if using), stirring constantly until lightly browned, about 2–3 minutes. Allow to cool, then ground into powder using a mortar and pestle. Set aside.

  2. In a 2-quart saucepan, heat oil over medium heat. When hot, add remaining cumin seeds. Stir-fry until seeds begin to splutter.

  3. Add cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, and peppercorns. Sauté 2 minutes.

  4. Add onion, ginger, and chilies. Sauté until onion turns light brown.