The Hindi-Bindi Club Read online

  Along the way…

  As my mother recounted to me in Goa, in excruciating detail, “One million deaths. Twenty thousand reported rapes. Almost a quarter million people declared missing.” Then, as if all that wasn’t horrific enough, her voice cracked, splintering my heart, “Nanaji. Naniji.” More personal, more painful than aggregate statistics: my great-grandparents, our casualties.

  My stomach felt queasy, and I had to sit. Intellectually, I’d absorbed the history. I’d learned that when you seized a family’s ancestral land, forced people from their homes, tortured and murdered their innocents, or coerced religious conversions, there were ramifications. Lifelong, often multi-generational ramifications. The breeding of hatred. The quest for justice, or revenge, depending on your point of view.

  Importantly, my parents wanted me to understand Partition was the root of modern-day tensions between nuclear-armed rivals India and Pakistan. Disputes over territory in Kashmir were ongoing aftershocks. And the problems of distant lands, like stones thrown in a pond, could one day, out of the clear blue sky, ripple to virgin shores with devastating results.

  Gandhi said, “An eye for an eye will leave the whole world blind,” but my mother, who revered the man, would be among the first to point out neither he nor I had her family’s experience.

  If Gandhi couldn’t change her mind, what chance did I have?

  Before I spoke, I chose my words carefully, knowing what an ultrasensitive topic this was, with reason. “I know there were atrocities I can’t begin to imagine. You’re right, I’ll never completely comprehend Partition because I didn’t live through it, or grow up surrounded by families who did. But Mom,” I said gently, “communal animosity…it’s like the Hatfields and the McCoys, passing down legacies of hate and prejudice to future generations, innocent generations. It’s not right. It wasn’t then. It isn’t now.”

  “Oh, Preity.” My mother heaved a weary breath. “If only life was that simple. Good and bad. Right and wrong. Friend and foe. You still see the world through rose-tinted glasses. Your lenses haven’t cracked yet.”

  “Every major religion—well, except Buddhism—every major religion has violent extremists. Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Jews, Christians—”

  “Some more than others.”

  “Even so, it doesn’t mean everyone is. Most aren’t, and I refuse to punish people for crimes they didn’t commit.”

  “Humph.” She flicked her gaze to the ceiling where a fan revolved in lazy circles, its pace slow like everything else in Goa. “If we’d raised you here, it would be different. I could forbid you from seeing this boy, and you’d obey my wishes without question, without argument.” She raised an eyebrow to punctuate: “Grown-up or not.”

  I bit my lip to keep from smiling.

  “Good Indian girls don’t date, you know.”

  “Actually, they do these days. Riya-didi says—”

  “Riya-didi is not your mother,” she snapped. “I raised you. I am responsible for you. I am the one who looks bad when people talk, if you cause a scandal. Your actions reflect on me.”

  I lowered my head. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “I am, too.” She sat beside me, squeezed me so tightly I couldn’t breathe, and pressed a series of kisses to my temple. “My beta.” She prattled nonsense Punjabi terms of endearment. “I love you sooo much. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Umm-hmm.”

  “Good.” She let up on the bear hug. “I forbid you from seeing him again.”

  “What?” I leapt from the couch and pivoted on my heel.

  “You heard me.”

  “But you can’t—! I’m in college. I’m legally an adult. You can’t ground me!”

  She crossed her arms, stuck out her chin. “I just did.”

  “Arsallan deserves an explanation,” I said to Riya-didi. I had told her only that my mom flipped out and forbade me from seeing him. Riya seemed to understand without my elaboration. “I can’t just drop off the face of the planet without a word.”

  “I don’t know…If your mum finds out…”

  She didn’t need to finish. I didn’t want to contemplate what would happen if my mother learned I betrayed her trust and went to see Arsallan, even if it was to say good-bye. I wished I had his room number. I tried to return his call, but there were too many Khans registered at his hotel, so many the operator flat out refused to connect me with even one random room.

  “Will you go? Please, Didi. Please find him for me?”

  She wrinkled her nose, clearly uncomfortable with the idea, but nodded. “Better me than you. But I don’t know what to say.”

  “I’ll write a letter. If you could just give it to him and get me his contact information…?” At her nod, I hugged her.

  The letter took seven crumpled drafts, because I kept tap-dancing around the truth. I was too ashamed. I didn’t want to divulge the ugly words that echoed in my head.

  My mother is prejudiced.

  My mother is prejudiced.

  My mother is prejudiced.

  Finally, I opted for the lie: My family schedule had grown too busy for me to see him during the final days of our holiday. I apologized, expressed my deepest regrets that I couldn’t say good-bye in person, thanked him for his friendship, told him I would never forget him and the wonderful times we shared, and closed with: “Please keep in touch. Love, Preity.” I gave my college dorm address.

  Riya scoped his hotel lobby for hours, but he never showed. Nor did she spot him at our favorite chai shop or any of the other places we’d frequented. “Sorry,” she said. “I’ll try to find his address and post your letter when I get back home.”

  Then, the day before we departed, I received a package at the front desk: Arsallan’s handcrafted storybook. I searched for a letter or a note or his contact information, but came up empty.

  I tore up my first letter and wrote another, better one, in which I poured out my eighteen-year-old heart. I thanked him for being so wonderful and told him I would cherish his gift forever. I tried to keep my tears from falling on the paper, but one hit the lower left corner and blurred two of the stars I drew beside a crescent moon. I wrote: “Always remember, we look up at the same sun, moon, and stars. Always remember, someone on the other side of the world wishes for you all the best. From my heart to yours, my love always, Preity.”

  To this day, I don’t know if my letter reached Arsallan. Riya turned out to be a poor correspondent. She never answered my letters, and Arsallan never contacted me. This was before email. Before cheap international long-distance phone rates. The silence hurt, uncertainty plagued me, and the absence of my newly found-and-lost family and friends felt like a cruel joke. For months, my heart felt weighted by rocks, drowned at the bottom of a cold, murky sea. But life went on, as it always does, the currents dragging you along, whether you want to go with the flow or not.

  In time, new people entered and exited, new experiences made my heart soar and sink again. As daily dramas unfolded, todays morphed into yesterdays with increasing velocity. Current events took center stage and pushed history further back into memory. I thought of my holiday in Goa less and less, but I never forgot.

  I have never forgotten.

  * * *

  FROM:

  “Preity Lindstrom”

  TO:

  Kiran Deshpande; Rani Tomashot

  SENT:

  December 10, 20XX 09:25 AM

  SUBJECT:

  RE: A blast from the past…

  Kiran, good to hear from you. Welcome home. And yes, I did hear it through the Hindi-Bindi Grapevine.

  ;-) Said grapevine has kept me informed of happenings in both of your lives over the years…BTW, Rani, I hear congrats are in order! A =solo= exhibit. YAY FOR YOU!!!

  It’s been way too long since the three of us were in the same place at the same time. We’re overdue for a play date.;-)

  Preity

  * * *

  Preity’s Goan Shrimp Curry
r />   SERVES 4–6

  SHRIMP:

  1½ pounds large shrimp, uncooked, peeled and deveined

  1 teaspoon cayenne powder (adjust to preference)

  ½ teaspoon turmeric powder

  1. Grab a pair of disposable kitchen gloves so your hands won’t stink.

  2. In a colander, rinse shrimp under cold running water. Drain and transfer thawed shrimp to large glass bowl.

  3. Sprinkle with cayenne and turmeric. Use your hands to evenly coat. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate 30 minutes.

  GRAVY:

  1-inch piece of tamarind (from slab)

  1 cup hot water

  2 tablespoons canola oil

  2 medium yellow onions, thinly sliced

  5 curry leaves* (kadhi patta)

  2 cloves garlic, minced

  2 tablespoons fresh ginger root, peeled and chopped

  1 fresh green chili pepper,* finely chopped (adjust to preference)

  1 teaspoon coriander powder

  1 teaspoon cumin powder

  1 14-ounce can coconut milk

  ½ teaspoon salt (adjust to taste)

  1 teaspoon sugar (adjust to taste)

  fresh coconut slivers (optional)

  1. In a small glass bowl, soak the tamarind in hot water. Set aside.

  2. In a wok or deep 12-inch skillet, heat oil over medium-high heat. Add onion and stir-fry until translucent, about 2–3 minutes.

  3. Reduce heat to medium. Add curry leaves, garlic, ginger, and chili. Sauté for 1 minute.

  4. Add coriander and cumin. Sauté for 2 minutes.

  5. Add coconut milk and bring to a boil over medium-high heat.

  6. Reduce heat to low, partially cover, and simmer to thicken gravy, about 10–15 minutes.

  7. When tamarind is soft, mash through wire strainer. Reserve pulp and juices. Discard solids.

  8. Add shrimp, tamarind, salt, and sugar to the gravy. Simmer uncovered until shrimp turns pink, about 2–5 minutes.

  9. Remove from heat. Remove curry leaves. Garnish with fresh coconut slivers. Serve with plain, boiled rice.*

  * Preity’s Tips:

  Wear disposable kitchen gloves when handling seafood and chopping chilies.

  For kids and wimps, stir plain nonfat yogurt into their servings to cool down the firepower.

  If you can’t find curry leaves, omit. This dish is still darn good without them!

  Rani McGuiness Tomashot: The Land of Opportunity

  He who does not climb will not fall either.

  INDIAN PROVERB

  I want to die. The alarm clock’s going off, and I already hit the snooze button twice. I grope to silence it, haul myself upright, plant my feet on the hardwood floor. Aag-doom! Baag-doom! I remember my mother singing to me when I was little, a Bengali wake-up nursery rhyme.

  Aag-doom! Baag-doom! Horses away!

  Gongs, drums, cymbals play!

  Crash! Boom! The noisy band

  Marches off to Orange Land.

  On parrot’s wing, a golden ray

  Uncle Sun’s wedding day.

  Let’s go to market, me and you

  For paan and betel nut to chew.

  A betel worm slips out of sight

  Mother, daughter have a fight.

  Saffron flowers bloom anew

  Fresh, sweet pumpkin stew

  Little one, up with you!

  I groan in protest and crash over like a felled tree—timber!—my head at the foot of the bed. My husband Bryan burrows his head under his pillow. He can’t bear to watch my struggles to wake up. Too pathetic, too heart-wrenching, he says. He’d rather let me sleep in peace. But that isn’t an option today. I have places to go, things to do, people…ugh…people to schmooze.

  With a whimper or three, I drag my lead-weighted carcass out of bed and stumble to the bathroom. A little before seven, dressed in my running gear, I shuffle down the hall to stretch and notice an envelope someone slid under the door. At the contents, my heart stirs awake. Ooohing and aaahing, I flip through the latest photos of Anjali—nicknamed Anju—the three-year-old girl the couple across the hall is adopting from an orphanage in Kolkata, my mother’s birthplace. They call it an orphanage, though it’s mostly girls, not orphaned but abandoned and rescued from the streets…or worse.

  “She’s precious,” I say to the proud parent-to-be warming up in the hallway between our condos. My running buddy George has already stretched and jogs in place waiting for me. Though I’ve told him before, I can’t say it enough. “You’re doing an amazing thing. Saving a life. You’re good people, George. And Anju’s one lucky girl to have you.”

  George just grins and says as always, “Thanks, but we’re the lucky ones.” I wait while he drops the envelope on the mahogany table in his foyer. Closing the door behind him, he asks, “Are you excited or nervous about tonight?”

  “Yes,” I say and raise an index finger to my lips then tap my watch. Neither of us a morning person, we have a No-Talking-Until-We-Cross-the-Golden-Gate-Bridge rule. My head’s already pounding from the mental exertion of our minor exchange, and George’s can’t be far behind.

  He nods, and without another word, we’re off.

  We run down Laguna Street, across Lombard and Bay, then west along the marina, past the early-morning wind-surfers, and to the foot of the world’s most beautiful bridge. At our early hour, we often find the Golden Gate shrouded in an eerie mist, as if an otherworldly phantom bridge, but this morning, the Artist has painted a clear panorama.

  We yield at the ramp for cyclists descending from the west side, then trek up the east side. To our left, the vast Pacific ripples and splashes with crashing whitecaps. We keep an eye out for whales; one time last month we spotted a tail. To our right stretches the city skyline and the lone Coit Tower that juts from the top of Telegraph Hill like an enthusiastic thumbs-up on the peninsula.

  Beneath my feet, the springy suspension bridge quivers like a trampoline in strong winds. The bouncing used to scare me so much I had to turn back before the first pillar. It took a while before I could cross to the other side, thanks in large part to George’s coaching and patience.

  We run the length of the bridge, past the ever-present scaffolding (they’re constantly painting the bridge orange), and pause long enough for me to blow my nose and George to guzzle some water.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I nod, and we retrace our steps. Impressive for a former asthmatic, I always think.

  When I was ten, on our one and only family trip to India, I developed childhood asthma. At first, we assumed it was the pollution, but when we came home, the symptoms didn’t go away. For years, I woke up gasping for breath in the dead of night. Worse, I was relegated to last-pick in gym class. Luckily, I grew out of it and kissed my last inhaler good-bye in college.

  “You’re coming, right?” I say to George. “Both of you?”

  “Hell, yeah. We wouldn’t miss your big night.”

  “Thanks. It means a lot to me. I still can’t believe any of this is really happening. My work appreciated, exhibited solo at a kick-ass gallery, sold for real money.”

  “Kudos at last.”

  “That wasn’t my motivation, but I did secretly dream of it. And now that my dream’s come true…” I know what I’m supposed to say. “Now that it’s reality…” I turn my gaze to the ocean.

  “What?” George asks.

  I shrug. “What you said. I’m excited and nervous. But enough about me. I get to hog the spotlight tonight.” I smile. “Tell me, how are your parenting classes—?”

  “No. Don’t change the subject. And for God’s sake, don’t give me that fake cocktail party smile.”

  I smack his arm with the back of my hand. “Have I told you recently how much you annoy me?”

  “Uh-huh. Gonna ’fess up or what?”

  “Why do you know me so well? We haven’t known each other that long.” It’s only been a year since Bryan and I sold our mini-mansion in Pacific Heights and bought th
e two-bedroom condo.

  “Occupational hazard.”

  I smile, for real this time. “Wish I had a counselor like you when I was in high school.” Luckily, I had great parents. Whom I miss terribly, especially during the holidays. I don’t know how my mom managed to leave her entire family and move halfway around the world, while I rue being separated by a continent.

  “Is it Bryan?” George asks.

  “No. Yes. I don’t know. Maybe.” I pace my words with my breathing, another skill that took some time to master. “He’s supported me every step of the way. This is his victory as much as mine. But I feel so guilty. I can’t enjoy it with a clear conscience. How can I be happy when he’s so miserable? I mean, he’s happy for me, but he’s not happy. It breaks my heart. Every day, I have the luxury of pursuing my passion, while my husband schleps off to a job he hates.”

  “Job still sucks, huh?”

  “Big time, and it’s not just the pay cut…. It was never just about making money for him. He can’t stand not utilizing his full potential. He’s an entrepreneur, a visionary.”

  “A leader, not a follower.”

  “Exactly. He’s still grieving—maybe he’s always going to grieve—for the company and the employees and the shareholders. It was his baby, and a huge part of him died with it. He knows he needs to move on, but he can’t. He needs another dream, and until he finds it…” We turn a corner. My voice breaks. “He’s so lost…And I can’t help him. I can’t reach him. Nothing I do or say makes any difference.”

  I want to cry but not there. My nose will run even more, and I don’t have enough tissues on me. And where’s my fucking runner’s high, anyway? It usually kicks in halfway across the bridge, but lately it’s eluded me. No matter how far I run or how hard I drive my body, I can’t break through the magic barrier. This is the reason I run, for nature’s miracle pill. Where is it?

  “You said it, babe,” George says beside me. “He’s grieving. Grief takes time. Keep applying that balm, but quit expecting overnight results. And the last thing you want to do is crawl into Bryan’s pit of despair with him. That won’t help anyone.”