The Hindi-Bindi Club Read online

  The answers aren’t as obvious as you may think. They’re riddles. Brainteasers. Puzzles. You think this piece fits, but wait, you look again and realize you jammed it into place. A virtue in one land is a vice in another. In India, deference signifies respect, showing strength of character, not weakness. And the American notion that all men are created equal? Not in India. There, people openly acknowledge innate differences, a hierarchy of power and respect, and for the most part believe that like a card game, one plays the hand one’s dealt. Rules of the game include: Seniors trump juniors. Males trump females. Priests trump nobles and warriors. Nobles and warriors trump merchants. Merchants trump laborers.

  I used to shake my head at Uma. Uma and her compromises. Concessions that permitted her daughter to run wild. Now look whose daughter married a rock star wannabe, and whose daughter married a Bill Gates wannabe. Look who among our friends circle is closest to her daughter. Not me. Not even Saroj. It’s Uma.

  And it was Uma to whom I turned more than any other friend this past year. Uma who helped me the most.

  Sometimes solutions are counterintuitive, I think, watching as Yash drains his lassi. The way you must turn your wheels in the direction you’re skidding. The way you inject a virus into your body in order to build immunity. The way certain bacteria and toxins prove helpful because they attack more harmful cells. The way you must sometimes let go in order to retrieve something. Or someone.

  “When will you come to the house?” I ask when Yash rises to clear the dishes.

  “After you tell Kiran.”

  “By myself?” I shake my head. “I want you to be there.”

  “You’ll want mother-daughter time.”

  “Later. After. I can’t tell her by myself. I need—”

  “Okay, okay,” he says. “I’ll be there.”

  “And you’ll try your best to get along with Kiran, for me? Please, Yash. I miss her so much. I miss…having family…at home…all together.”

  He slants his gaze at me and scowls like a little boy. I picture him at age six wearing the same expression. “Only for you, Meenu,” he says, making me wish—again—I didn’t learn my lessons about love so late.

  When Yash comes home, he tries to keep the mood light, easing into things with Kiran. She proceeds with the same caution. They are two porcupines in a fragile soap bubble, afraid to get too close. That evening at the dinner table, we three sit together for the first time in more than five years.

  “Mom? Dad?” Kiran speaks first. “Here’s a crazy idea…What would you think about me…potentially…”

  When she doesn’t finish, I glance up to see her pushing food around on her plate. From the corner of her eye, she watches her father, who’s occupied with his eggplant bhaji. Deftly, he mixes milk, rice, and eggplant with his agile surgeon’s fingertips.

  Kiran’s never been much for rice, preferring to eat bhajis and daals with chappati, pairing her bites just so. I prod her, “Potentially what?”

  “Um, moving…to this area…when my contract’s up?”

  I suspect this isn’t the question she originally intended, but I can’t contain my joy. “We’d love it! Wouldn’t we, Dad?”

  Yash just took a bite. He stops chewing, looks at me, then Kiran. With a casual nod, he drops his gaze to his plate and resumes eating. “That would be nice,” he says. “Better late than never. Meena, dhai, please.”

  I reach for the container of plain yogurt, spoon some onto his plate.

  “So, while we’re on the topic of better late than never…” Kiran says.

  “Bas,” Yash says. Enough.

  I look at Kiran, waiting. Yash keeps eating.

  She clears her throat. “What would you think about me, um, having a semi-arranged marriage?”

  My mouth drops open. I snap it shut. Swallow.

  “Ten years too late for that,” Yash says.

  With my foot, I nudge him under the table.

  He grunts.

  “Kiran? Did you mean…? Was that a joke?”

  “No joke. I’m serious. Is it a possibility or not?”

  “Not,” Yash says.

  I nudge him again, harder this time.

  “What, Meena?” He makes a helpless gesture toward me. “She asked a question, I gave her an answer. Ten years ago, she had her pick of boys, all good boys. We always told her it would be better, easier for the families if she married a nice Indian boy. Someone like her—born here, with the same background and values. Look at Vivek and Anisha. Her brother listened to us, but did Kiran? No. She said all Indian boys felt like cousins to her. She said we were too conservative, narrow-minded. She said it was her life and her decision whom to wed.

  “Fine, we certainly weren’t going to force her. We aren’t that old-fashioned. But did she choose wisely like Preity? Or Rani? No. And if we didn’t approve, too bad. She didn’t give a damn what we thought. Now, when she’s messed up her life, when she’s too old, when she’s divorced…Now she comes to us. What can we do now? Jyacha haat modla to tyachaach galyaat padla.” A Marathi proverb, meaning: One who breaks his arm must carry it in a sling. He shakes his head. “She’s leftovers. All she can get is leftovers, if that.”

  I feel sick. Want-to-keel-over-and-vomit sick.

  Our daughter sets her jaw in a steely line, wads up her napkin, and tosses it onto her plate. “On that encouraging note…” She shoves back in her chair.

  “Kiran, wait.” I reach across the table. “Don’t leave.” When she bolts, the familiar, metallic taste of fear fills my mouth.

  I remember five years ago when she stormed from the house after a fight with her father. After confiding in us: She’d caught her husband with another woman and filed for divorce.

  “Did he ever raise a hand to you?” her father had asked. Learning no, he’d looked visibly relieved and advised working things out. But Kiran was adamant: Their trust was shattered, the marriage was over, she wanted out.

  “Just like that?” he asked.

  “Just like that,” she said.

  Yash’s face twisted with disgust. “These American kids,” he said. “No respect for family. You live in a disposable society. Bored with your clothes? Throw them out, get new ones. Your electronics and other luxury goods become outdated? Throw them out, get new ones. Dissatisfied with your marriage? Throw it out, get a new one. It’s all the same to you, isn’t it? You have so much, yet you’re never satisfied. You obsess over what you don’t have. You want it all. You believe it’s your right. You think only of yourself, your own happiness, and nothing of duty. Duty to family is an oxymoron here. Family is optional. You’re spoiled. Selfish. Self-gratifying.”

  And then there was Kiran. Kiran who never lowered her eyes or her neck. Kiran who stood with her arms crossed, jaw cocked, and fire blazing in her direct gaze. “Don’t hold back, Pops. Go ahead, tell me how you really feel. Respect doesn’t apply to subordinates, does it? And on the subject of double standards, God forbid if the tables were turned and I was the unfaithful one and Anthony wanted to divorce me. You’d say I deserved it, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you?”

  I wanted to gag them both and send them to opposite corners to cool off, but before I could calm either of them down, Kiran packed her bags, slammed the door shut, and left without saying good-bye.

  I will not let that happen again. I will not. I stand, my head swimming with the abrupt motion, ready to referee. “Please don’t leave,” I say again, glaring a warning at Yash, who keeps his mouth shut this time.

  “I’m not leaving, Mom.” Kiran gives a tight smile. “I’m just going upstairs. I seem to have lost my appetite.”

  I’m relieved, but numb, watching as she takes her half-eaten dinner to the counter. R-r-rip. She tears off a sheet of foil, covers the plate, and puts it in the refrigerator. Yash resumes eating. After Kiran goes, I sit.

  “Meena, dhai, please.”

  I don’t move.

  “Meena? Please may I have more dhai?”

  I stare straight ahead
at Kiran’s vacated spot. Yash sighs and reaches across the table; I move the container of yogurt out of his reach.

  He slumps back in his chair. Sighs. “Okay, what’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong?” I echo. For an otherwise brilliant man, he astounds me with his blind spots in relationships. “This is how you try to get along with your daughter?”

  He shrugs. “When there’s a difficulty, she falls. When not, she goes on jumping,” he says in Marathi, an expression meaning Kiran humbles herself only when she’s faced with a problem she can’t solve alone, otherwise she’s independent.

  “And every time she falls,” I reply in Marathi, “you kick her.”

  “I don’t—! I—!” he stammers in English, then appears to question himself.

  “Yes, Yash,” I say softly, also switching to English, “you do. You kick her when she’s down.”

  He scowls. “What was I supposed to do? You tell me.”

  “You can’t just say whatever you want, however you want.”

  “Why not? I’m her father. If I don’t say these things to her, who will? She asked our opinion. Did I lie? Did I say a single thing that wasn’t true? We have to be honest, don’t we?”

  “Kamaal aahé!” Unbelievable! “You keep doing what you’ve always done, and you’re surprised when you get the same results you’ve always gotten.”

  We mix languages midsentence, sometimes midword, tapping all our available vocabulary in our attempt to best convey what we mean. It isn’t always possible. My thinking is different from my children’s because of culture, my husband’s because of biology. What’s obvious, simplistic, to me isn’t necessarily to them. And vice versa.

  “I don’t know what you want from me,” Yash says, frustrated, and it dawns on me he really doesn’t know. He excels in complex, delicate surgery but flunks at taking a person’s emotional pulse.

  I used to get so fed up, having to explain myself over and over, trying to be understood. Often, I just gave up. What was the point? They obviously weren’t going to understand any words in any language. I might as well have been talking to the walls. But this year, in therapy, I learned how to take something big and scary, something overwhelming, and break it down—one, two, three—into small, manageable chunks. Much easier to chew on. Digest. Let go. That’s what I must do now, for my husband.

  I take a breath, find my center, soften my voice. “Aho…” I respectfully ask him to listen and tick off specifics on my fingers. “One, I need you to please avoid criticizing Kiran—”

  “But—”

  “Even if you think it’s constructive. It doesn’t help her. It only pushes her further away. Two, if you feel the need to vent, to get something off your chest, then please vent to me, not at her. Three, if you want a better relationship with our grown-up, American daughter, you must learn to balance honesty with diplomacy. Compromise.”

  “In other words, censor my speech.”

  “If that’s how you define it, yes.”

  These are the words his supervisors used on his performance evaluations. Words that made sense of what previous supervisors had tried and failed to convey. Words that finally communicated their intended meaning.

  Yash makes a face, as if sucking on a wedge of lemon. “I shouldn’t have to censor myself with my children.”

  And I shouldn’t have to verbalize my feelings. My needs. That’s what I always thought, before therapy.

  “Right or wrong, the fact remains, you do have to,” I say. “Our ways don’t always work, certain ones never will—not here, and not with those born and brought up here. Please, on this, with Kiran, will you try a new way, for me?”

  “It’s not so easy, Meena.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, the way he used to when he removed his glasses—before contacts, before corrective vision surgery. “I’m an old dog. How can I learn new tricks?”

  “You can if you try. Just try.”

  “Okay, baba. I’ll try harder.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But not tonight. Tonight, I’ll go back to the apartment—”

  “No! Yash—”

  “Yes, Meenu. I’m making things worse here. You know I am. You and Kiran need to spend time together, just the two of you.”

  He’s right, but I’m nervous. I dread having to tell Kiran at all, more so by myself.

  Yash lays his left hand on my arm. His touch is strong, capable, reassuring. “The worst is behind us. Remember that.”

  I nod, but in the distance, I hear the rumble of thunder. The monsoon approaches. One prays for the best, but one never knows for sure what is best….

  I remember how as a girl, I watched my mother attend to my father’s every need, from serving his meals to helping him dress. Subservient we call such women today. Chauvinistic we call such men. Yet if you ask Ai, she’ll tell you she wouldn’t have it any other way. She prefers a division of male-female domains and responsibilities—complementary, rather than repetitive, often competitive roles. Ai derives immense pleasure and satisfaction from managing the household, being a dutiful wife. “He would be lost without me,” she says with pride, and Baba wobbles his head in agreement.

  To them, Baba isn’t an oppressor but a provider; Ai isn’t a caged bird but a revered partner. They believe interdependence makes for solid marriages. For them, need equals love. And for most of my adult life, I believed their equation, definition, was the only one, hence: My family’s independence means I’m unneeded, unloved.

  I was wrong. Love, like God, takes many forms.

  No one can be certain if this one or that one is best. God alone determines; God gets the final word.

  Meenal’s Mango Lassi

  SERVES 4

  2 cups Alphonso mango pulp or fresh ripe mango, mashed

  1 cup ice cubes (adjust to desired liquidity)

  4 cups plain nonfat yogurt

  4 fresh mint leaves (optional garnish)

  1 cup water (adjust to desired liquidity)

  1. In a blender, whirl mango, yogurt, and water until smooth.

  2. Add ice cubes a few at a time. Whirl until smooth.

  3. Pour into tall glasses with straws, optionally garnish with mint.

  4. Serve immediately.

  Saroj Chawla: Partition: A Division of Hearts

  Today I say to Waris Shah:

  Speak from your grave.

  Today I beseech you to add a new page to your Book of Love.

  Once one daughter of Punjab wept,

  and you penned verse upon verse;

  Today thousands are weeping and calling you, Waris Shah.

  Arise, friend of the downtrodden,

  Arise, and see your Punjab.

  AMRITA PRITAM

  Beta, last night I dreamed of Lahore again…Of running barefoot through the fields to the banks of the Ravi, of kites tangling high in the bluest of skies, the kulfiwallah ringing his bicycle bell, and my best friend Zarkha and I abandoning the wedding ceremonies of our dolls for the old-fashioned, pistachio ice cream.

  I dreamed I rode in a tonga along the Mall, past the old Mughal cannon Zamzama and the cricketers playing in Gol Bagh. When the tonga-wallah dropped me off at Kapoor Road, I paid my fare with Cadbury chocolates and skipped home with the breeze rippling the white, embroidered dupatta covering my head.

  A lock hung from our iron gate; I rang the bell and waited, but no one came. Cupping my hands around my mouth, I called to my mother, “Biji! Open the gate!” Hot, humid wind blew leaves of peepal and shesham trees and brought the perfume of raat ki rani, “queen of the night,” to my nose. I leaned in, stuck my face between the rungs to smell the tiny white blooms, when I noticed a cobra sleeping underneath the bush and jumped back. “Biji! Open the gate!”

  “Go away!” An irritable shout. Not Biji. No one I knew.

  Squinting, I spotted an old, weather-beaten woman squatting on the veranda. “Who are you?” I demanded. “What are you doing there?”

  “Who am I?” the crone asked with equal indi
gnation. “Who are you?”

  “I live here!”

  At that, she threw back her head and cackled. Her lips, tongue, and few remaining teeth were stained bloodred from betel-nut juice. “You don’t live here. I do. Now, scram! Before I call the police!”

  Then the mustachioed police were there, dragging me away.

  “But it’s my house,” I cried. “It’s my house, not hers!”

  Every few years, I have these kinds of dreams. These and worse. Since I had one just last month, I’m surprised another came so soon.

  Sometimes you know what triggers a bad dream. Eating too late. Cold medicine. A disturbing movie. Last month, I knew: It was Meenal.

  She reminds me lately…of things I don’t want to remember. And though I feel awful about it, I find myself avoiding my best friend. I drop off a care package with the samosas I promised Kiran and make excuses not to stay. “I’d love to, but my errand list’s a mile long. You know the holidays. Crowds, crowds, crowds.” I give Meenal a quick, one-armed hug, glad for the bag of samosas between us. “Engine’s running. See you on New Year’s if not sooner.”

  Halfway down the street, I pull over and flip open my cell phone. Please answer. Please answer. Damn, voicemail. I drop my head against the leather upholstery and wait for the beep to leave a message. “Hello, darling. Any chance you’re free for lunch? I’m heading to Tyson’s Galleria for some shopping. My cell’s on. Love you. Bye.”

  Beta, have I told you about the walled city? Come here, sit with me a while, and I’ll tell you about the place that haunts my dreams….

  In Lahore, we lived outside the walled city in a two-story bungalow my father and his two brothers built. The old Lahore, where my parents were born and brought up, and where my Nanaji and Naniji lived, was a colorful, busy maze. Joint families occupied four-story row houses, or makan, crowded on narrow, crooked alleys called gullis. More and more, well-to-do and upwardly mobile families were breaking away from the cramped quarters, venturing to the open spaces and modern construction available outside the walled city. Our mohalla—neighborhood—was in one such new area: Krishanagar.