The Hindi-Bindi Club Read online

  I realized she’s right. I remember when I first came to Boston…with my two suitcases of saris and silverware. How eagerly I awaited the mailman each day, always hoping he would bring me a blue aerogramme from home. Here, everyone similarly anticipated aerogrammes from Boston. In fact, Aji saved them! Yours and Vivek’s, too! I want to read every one, but I’m not ready yet. Just the sight of the handwriting on the envelopes makes me teary, so I fully expect a sobfest.

  I remember that in the beginning, we wrote frequently…every sparrow and crow’s story, as Aji says. (Remember this expression for “every little detail”? Sounds much better in Marathi ). Then fewer details, less often over time.

  Now, Aji tells me she loves hearing my voice on the phone, but she misses my letters. “No one wants to write letters to an old lady anymore,” she says. And you think YOUR mom is good at guilt trips! Ha ha.

  I promised Aji I will return to writing genuine letters, with stamps. Then I thought it might be nice to write to my daughter, too. You don’t have to write me back this way. Your time is more limited than mine. But you may enjoy receiving a letter in the mail every now and then, instead of the usual junk…bills and catalogs.Anyway, let me try it out, and we’ll see how it goes.

  All is well here. Neelima-mami and I are having a great time sari and jewelry shopping for Sneha’s wedding. No new saris for me…I already have enough for several lifetimes. You know I’m not like Saroj Auntie who must always have AT LEAST a dozen of the latest styles, but I sure did feel like her when I met with the tailor to have a dozen new sari blouses stitched! (Higher necklines, you know why.)

  Sneha’s trousseau is impressive! So many saris, collected since the day she was born, most of which she’ll never wear (she dresses exclusively in Western-style), but each so lovely. Her bridal sari is absolutely breathtaking, silk Banarasi, the kind every little Indian girl and her mother dream of. The bride’s sari is traditionally a gift from her mama, but Dilu-mama said rather than Hema-mami selecting and him getting credit, Sneha should choose whatever shalu she wanted. Of course, Dilu-mama still got credit, because he paid! But everyone was happy…that’s what matters!

  It’s so hard to believe I’m not feeling my usual jealousy, not even a tiny bit. I learned so many things this year I keep wishing I could have learned sooner. If I knew then what I know now, I wouldn’t have wasted so much energy on petty jealousy. Take it from me, preoccupation with what others have that you don’t blinds you to what you DO have. And jealousy, like all insidious negativity, is every bit as toxic as cancer. Sometimes, I think that’s what caused my cancer. And getting rid of it cured me.

  Lately, I’ve been dreaming about your wedding. Not just daydreams, but at night, too. Mostly they’re good dreams, but sometimes, I dream I’ve forgotten something critical…like my CLOTHES!! Typical Mother-of-the-Bride anxieties.

  Kiran, you’ve given me a ray of hope I never expected, so please, even if you already know you’re dead-set against having an Indian wedding, don’t tell me just yet. Let me dream for a while longer…

  There is something I never told you. It’s difficult for me to think about, let alone write…I, too, collected saris for your wedding trousseau every time we visited India, until Dad and I decided to settle permanently in the U.S. So there were not too many. I say “were,” because I gave them all away when you married Anthony. I can’t tell you how sad, angry, and ashamed that makes me feel (about myself).

  I’m sorry, Kiran. We can’t change the past, but we can change the future, with each day we have, and each lesson we learn.

  Take good care. I love you very much, pillu.

  Love,

  Mom

  P.S. I want to hear “every sparrow and crow’s story” on your groom search!!

  * * *

  18 January

  Dear Kiran,

  How are you? I’m still wearing a smile from our phone conversation yesterday. It was wonderful to share the latest twists and turns of your roller coaster! As I told you, ups and downs are to be expected. I’m proud of how you’re handling them. I’m VERY proud of you for getting on, and staying on, this crazy ride!

  Selfishly speaking, it’s been such a joy for Mom to hold her baby’s hand again, even if my baby’s a big girl and doesn’t need Mom’s hand-holding. More so, actually. Somehow, it means that much more to me because it’s your CHOICE. You don’t NEED me…but you WANT me. (Another of God’s late revelations!!)

  While I was disappointed to hear Mr. Pediatrician declined our contact, it’s his loss. Forget him. Same with the others. Don’t try to second-guess their reasons. Move on. Dwelling on the negative gets us nowhere. Focus on the positive. You have plenty of it!

  I was glad to hear you and Mr. Architect clicked in email. I can’t wait to hear how it goes on your first “phone date”! (Do NOT use that term with Aji or Ajoba! Or any Indians of my generation and up! Phone INTERVIEW. You’re INTERVIEWING each other. )

  Saroj Auntie phoned this morning. She’s been busy! She has an ever-growing list of “leads” she’s going to email to me. I’ll forward the list to you when I get it, and we can discuss. Saroj Auntie volunteered to prescreen/make introductions, but don’t feel pressured. These are only options, not obligations.

  It’s funny…The more I write, the more I want to write. I can go a long time without talking to someone, but once I do, I’m itching to talk again soon afterward. It’s like breaking a fast. Once you eat, you hunger for more. Is that how you felt (feel?) about cigarettes?

  Yes, I know. Are you surprised? You weren’t as good of a storyteller as you thought. But then, your mother comes from a land of storytellers.

  I knew you smoked, not just your friends whom you blamed for your smelly clothes and hair when I noticed. I might not have caught you red-handed, or found hard evidence (though I looked), but moms know these things. You’ll find that out for yourself when you have children. (If they’re anything like you, I’m in for quite a show as the Aji who gets to sit back and watch! )

  Now, while we’re on the topic of smoking…Yes, here comes Mom’s lecture, and you’d better read every word—there WILL be a quiz!

  As a doctor, you know the dangers, the health risks of this filthy habit. Specifically, the correlation between smoking and cancer. But for some reason I’ve never understood, you doctors can be the worst offenders! So I urge you: Please do NOT gamble with stakes this high. We now have a documented case of breast cancer in our family. Take it from me, the temporary pleasure you might get from a cigarette isn’t worth permanently cutting off your breasts, or cutting short your life.

  Okay, end of lecture. For now. I reserve the right to resume at will.

  It rained in the mountains yesterday, starting late in the afternoon and pouring all through the night. The soothing patter of raindrops lulled me into the most heavenly sleep, but I awoke to a miserable cold dampness and had a terrible time getting out of bed. We turned on the single space heater in the living room, which toasted us up nicely, but I’m going out this afternoon to buy one for every room. If I tell Ajoba, he will protest that it’s wasteful to have so many when they’re hardly ever used, so I’m following Aji’s example of saying nothing and quietly doing what I want. Ha, ha.

  That reminds me…You might get a kick out of this…

  I had an incident with Aji this morning. You know I’ve always worn saris in India. This trip, I’ve taken to wearing salwar-kameezes—better camouflage for my chest. Aji noticed this change but accepted it easily enough (so far). It’s not that drastic, still within reason. Today, however, it’s cold, and thinking only of warmth and comfort, I dressed in jeans and sweatshirt. Aji was horrified! “What’s this??? You can’t go out dressed like that! Go change your clothes right away!”

  Women my age don’t wear jeans. It would be like wearing a miniskirt. People would snicker, “Look, the old bat’s dressed like a college girl, doesn’t feel any shame!”

  Funnier than Aji’s reaction, though, was MINE…Before, I wo
uld have been thoroughly embarrassed at my lapse in judgment and dashed off to change without hesitation. Today, I thought: So what? Frankly, I don’t give a damn. I’m too old, and I’ve been through too much this year to care about people’s judgments. Let them laugh at me. My physical comfort’s more important than their stupid opinions. Then, ZAP!!! In that instant, something hit me like a lightning bolt! I thought: My God, I’m Kiran, and Aji’s me!!! It was a FREAKY FRIDAY moment!!! Of course, I returned to my own body shortly thereafter and changed clothes. It doesn’t matter to me, but it does to Aji, and she matters to me, so that’s that.

  Okay, enough for today. Take good care. I love you, baby.

  Love,

  Mom

  * * *

  22 January

  Dear Kiran,

  We’ve just returned from seeing Texas John in concert—what a treat! By the time this reaches you, I will have told you the entire contents on the phone, I’m sure.

  We had John over for dinner a few nights ago. Aji and Ajoba were very impressed when he knew to touch their feet in respect, but when he started speaking Marathi, they nearly dropped their false teeth!! It was priceless!!

  At dinner, John fit right in. Since he’s been living with an Indian family for the past year, he’s learned Indian manners and mannerisms. He ate everything with his hand—even Neelima mami’s varan bhat, which he said was the best he’s tasted! No surprise, everyone loved him. Even Ajoba, who rarely goes out anymore, insisted on attending John’s concert.

  John made such a point of warning us it was strictly amateur night and not to expect Ravi Shankar. We went into the concert hall with our bar lowered so far, it was lying on the ground. And then…after all that…I should have guessed it…Texas John, our kurta-pajamas-wearing cowboy, played the sitar so beautifully, I could have wept. Afterward, Ajoba flicked his wrist and joked, “Now, I’ve seen everything. God can take me.”

  I’ve saved the best for last…

  Aji took John’s arm in that way of hers, the one that signals she’s about to sweet-talk someone out of something. “John? Do you know any nice Indian-American boys, bachelor friends looking to settle down, who would be interested in meeting Meenal’s daughter, Kiran?”

  NOT ONLY did Aji take it upon herself to ask this, she scolded ME for not thinking of it/doing it first!!

  But wait, it gets better…

  I had talked to John about you, but nothing about semi-arranging your second marriage. After I filled in the blanks, he told me to wait there, don’t move, he’d be back in a minute. He returned with Maddie’s List. Remember I told you about the list John’s wife made before she passed away? On it, he pointed to: “Find a wife for N.T.”

  As it turns out, N.T. is Nikhil Tipnis, one of John’s best friends from high school. Quick summary: born in North Carolina, brought up in Texas, divorced 4 years back (from his high school sweetheart), 2 years older than you, lives in Austin, works for Dell Computer. I’ll tell you more details when we talk, but he sounds terrific, and Texas John volunteered to introduce you in email!! I gave John your email address, so expect to hear from him shortly.

  I’m crossing my fingers. Aji will be doing puja. And now that I’ve gotten all this excitement out on paper, I hope I can fall asleep. My coach turned into a pumpkin hours ago…

  Lots of love,

  Mom

  * * *

  Neelima Mami’s Moong Daal (Mung Bean Stew)

  SERVES 4

  1 cup dried split moong daal, without skin (mung beans)

  1 teaspoon brown sugar

  1 teaspoon coriander powder

  7 cups water, divided 3, 4

  1 teaspoon cumin powder

  1 teaspoon salt

  1/8 teaspoon turmeric powder

  2 tablespoons canola oil

  1 cup tomato, chopped

  ½ teaspoon black mustard seeds

  ¾ cup fresh coriander (cilantro), chopped and divided, ½, ¼

  6–8 curry leaves (kadhi patta)

  2 dried red chilies*

  2 pinches asafetida (hing)

  1 tablespoon ghee or unsalted butter

  1. Sift through mung beans, removing and discarding debris. Rinse and submerge in 3 cups water for 15 minutes. Drain. Rinse again.

  2. In a 2-quart saucepan over high heat, combine 4 cups of water, mung beans, and salt. Mix well. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium. Simmer to a stew, about 15–20 minutes, skimming and discarding surface foam. Remove from heat, mash with wooden spoon or potato masher, and set aside.

  3. In a small skillet, heat oil over medium-high heat. Add mustard seeds. When seeds begin to sputter, reduce heat to medium. Stir in curry leaves, red chilies, and asafetida. Stir-fry until asafetida changes color, about 30 seconds. Pour over mung beans. Mix well.

  4. Stir in brown sugar, coriander powder, cumin, and turmeric.

  5. Return saucepan to stove over medium-high heat. Stir in ½ cup fresh coriander and tomato. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium. Cook to desired consistency, stirring in some water if needed.

  6. Remove from heat. Stir in ghee. Garnish with remaining fresh coriander. Serve hot with rice.

  * Neelima’s Tips:

  Do not eat the red chilies!

  Saroj Chawla: Lahore, Meri Jaan

  One who hasn’t seen Lahore hasn’t been born.

  PUNJABI PROVERB

  * * *

  FROM:

  “Meenal Deshpande”

  TO:

  Saroj Chawla

  SENT:

  January 15, 20XX 07:02 PM

  SUBJECT:

  What’s wrong?

  Dear Saroj,

  Have I done or said something to upset you? If I have, I’m sorry. But I can’t fix it if I don’t know what I did wrong.

  Please don’t brush me off and say it’s nothing. We’ve been friends too long and know each other much too well for that.

  Please talk to me. Whatever it is, let’s work it out, okay?

  Love,

  Meenal

  * * *

  FROM:

  “Saroj Chawla”

 

  TO:

  Meenal Deshpande

  SENT:

  January 16, 20XX 05:55 PM

  SUBJECT:

  RE: What’s wrong?

  It’s not you, it’s me. When’s a good time to phone you there?

  Saroj

  * * *

  Hypothetically speaking, if I was to visit Lahore, who would accompany me? I’m afraid to travel in an Islamic country without a male escort, preferably four, but I wouldn’t want to put my “infidel” husband at risk in potentially hostile territory. I would also worry about the possible ramifications of Sandeep’s passport carrying the stamp of an Islamic country.

  Since 9/11, it can be challenging enough to be a brown man, more so when traveling by air. I fear giving authorities (more) reason to question my husband, subject him to increased scrutiny.

  It doesn’t matter if you’re Hindu, Sikh, Christian, Jewish, Parsi, Jain, or Buddhist. It doesn’t matter if you’re a doctor or an engineer or any other educated professional. If you’re a man with brown skin and/or a name that appears Muslim, even to the ignorant eye, you risk fitting the profile of a terrorist.

  These are my thoughts as I push my grocery cart through the supermarket. I buy smoked Gouda, Brie, grapes, strawberries, kiwi, crackers, and fresh bread. I’m in and out in ten minutes. We’ve shopped in this store for twenty-five years. I know the location of every item, could find my entire grocery list in the dark. When Sandeep used to run the occasional errand for me on weekends, he, like many men on weekends, didn’t bother to shave. Not anymore.

  After 9/11, we had armed guards in our supermarket. At first, Sandeep didn’t understand why the guards were giving him dirty looks and trailing him. Then, he caught on. He calmly went about his business, and no one approached him. Still, it rattled him, and he resolved to appear clean-shaven in public. And
poor Yash Deshpande, who has dedicated his life to saving others, told us how he inspired fear and suspicion in parking lots and elevators.

  This is what non-Muslims experience. It makes me wonder about innocent Muslims.

  Sandeep says India saw worse in 1984 when Prime Minister Indira Gandhi’s assassination by her Sikh bodyguards sparked rampages of violence against random bearded and turbaned men. The bloodbath of thousands drove many men—against religious custom—to shave their faces and cut their hair.

  If this is supposed to make me feel better, it doesn’t.

  In the elevator at the Rotunda, I set down my grocery bag, press the button for my floor, and watch the numbers light up.

  1984. I find myself thinking about 1984, not the year but the novel by George Orwell that I read in a neighborhood ladies’ book group. Big Brother Is Watching You. America’s Patriot Act reminds me of 1984. As much as terrorists frighten me, so does an act that allows authorities to detain “suspected terrorists” indefinitely, deprived of due process. No formal charges. No lawyer. No phone call. No “innocent until proven guilty.”

  Am I not a patriot because I don’t support this?

  Some people believe a patriot puts the nation’s safety before an individual’s rights. Some people believe national security justifies whatever margin of error (some mistakes, whether or not you own up to them, are inevitable). But be honest. That’s as long as we’re talking about other people, right? Them. Not us.

  What if it’s you? Or your husband? Or your son?

  What if there’s some terrible mix-up? If you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time? If there’s one rotten apple in the bunch of officials, and that lone apple’s assigned to you? What if somehow, some way, you or your loved ones get screwed?