Born Confused (10 page)

—I nearly was! I said, trying to make a joke.

—That is very ha-ha. You should be a comedian, did you know that, like that Leno Schmeno gandoo.

My father had returned and was now doing a second round at the Saraswati. The goddess smiled benevolently upon me, looking a little like she was stifling a giggle. Frock, it was going to be bad. He never did second rounds—he was a very efficient man. I lurched forth for a glass of water and retreated back to the table.

My father and mother formed a united front in showing me their backs. I wished they would at least look at me. This was bad invisible.

—Thank Ram Kavita is coming, the back of my mother’s head commented.—Enough with these hanky-panky friendships of yours. I thought more of Gwyn.

—Mom, it’s not Gwyn’s fault. She didn’t hold a gun to my head and make me do funnel shots or anything.

For some reason this got their attention. My mother turned away from her kheer—something she never does, usually holding
vigil over each grain of rice through the entire one-hour-plus process—and my father unnamasted his hands.

—What’s a funnel shot? asked my mother.

—Who has a gun? said my dad.

At least I could succeed in the Q&A portion of the afternoon. Funnel shots happened all the time in the parking lot at school dances, and were apparently big at college, too, according to Dylan.

—A funnel shot—no, it has nothing to do with guns. It’s when you sit with your head back, like at the dentist, and they pour alcohol through a funnel and it goes straight down your throat.

—Why would a person be doing this? cried my mother.

—So more alcohol goes in faster, I explained. As soon as I said it I realized my feet were both securely in my mouth, rainbow laces and all.

—Oh Bhagvan! my mother cried, pulling out a chair and collapsing into it.—My daughter is an alcoholic!

—Don’t worry, Mummy. My father yanked out a chair beside her and wrapped his arms around her.—We will get through this. There are groups who can help, like the AAA.

Was I here? My parents had launched into that third-person thing again, when I was in fact a third person only a few feet away in the same room. Trouble.

—It’s AA, I said.

—Oh! So you already know this organization, is it? my father asked.

—What did I do wrong in this life?

My mother’s head was in her hands, and she rocked it like a baby.

—I have a J. Lo-dressing, single, alcoholic,
photographer
who has completely lost touch with her Indianness for my only daughter! It is all my fault. Prabhu, what did I do?

My mom sounded as if she were composing a negative of one of those marital ads in the back of the Indian papers she brought home sometimes from the Bangladeshi grocer’s. Most of the ones for the girls started out “Homely girl seeking…” At first I couldn’t understand how anyone in their right mind could use this to market their product, until my mother explained that homely here meant domestic, homemaker, home-stayer. Like someone who needed to get out more, in my opinion.

And, did you notice? She said
photographer
as if it were the worst of all! She had to be kidding.

—Ha, that’s funny, Ma, I said, forcing a grin and hoping we’d soon be slapping our knees, laughing the whole thing off. But not even the faintest sign of a snicker was to be found in her face. She was glowering at me like a sulky child.

—Daddy, I tried, but that was a no-go, too. He avoided my eyes, developing an abrupt fascination with our floor.

—See? he told the tiles.—Now are you happy? Why are you having to torment your poor mother like this? Do you like seeing her cry?

—Of course I don’t. And Dad, come on, she’s not even crying.

I could do the third-person thing, too. But suddenly he wasn’t having any of that.

—Inside, said my father emphatically.—She is crying.

He turned to my mother with a pained expression on his face.

—Aaray, Ram, why does she refer to you like you’re not here?

—Look, don’t you guys think you’re overreacting? I sighed.—I just had…one. One glass doesn’t make me an alcoholic.

—Depends how many times you are filling it, said my father.

—One what? Tank? Reservoir? said my mother, feisting up and tossing her head back.—You smelled like a brewery last night.

She pinched her nose as if to prove it.

—I could get drunken just breathing the air around you, my dad added.

—You should put yourself in a bottle and sell yourself at Ciccone Liquors.

Now they were on a roll.

—Good one, Mummy! my dad cried. She was pleased, and forgot to look mad for a second. They loved making each other laugh. I loved to, too, and really wished I could but doubted they were in my demographic at the moment. I hated when they were mad at me. And it seemed I never knew the right thing to say; what could I say, really? Did I mention that I’d never drink again?

—Mom, Dad, please, I now told the floor.—I’m really, really sorry.

I was, too. Not only about the alcohol. But about being the kind of daughter who made her mother want an epidural seventeen years after giving birth and who made her father talk to tile and disrupted his neatly organized praying pattern.

—I didn’t know how strong it was, I told my parents now. This was true.—I just suddenly got kind of…dizzy.

—Did they slip that pill in your drink? my mother whispered, scooting her chair closer to mine.—I hope at least you didn’t leave your drink unattended. I have been reading how these sick people use this special pill to take the advantage. It puts girls in an amorous state.

—Comatose state, said my father. I think he was correcting her, but my mother now pounced on him.

—I have been telling you and telling. Now do you believe me? Does it have to happen to your own daughter before you will listen? Oh, my beta…

All of a sudden my father was the enemy and my mother had thrown her arms around me in a suffocating hug. She smelled of If
You Like Chanel No. 5 You’ll Love and gentle-on-the-hands dishwashing liquid and spices and I loved her so much and was really sad that I made her worry.

—No, my drink was definitely never unattended, I told her in what I hoped was a reassuring voice. This was technically true, too, and a silence ensued as they processed whether that was a good thing or not.

—And where were you? Who were these hooligans who made you do this? asked my father.—How do we even know you were with Gwyn?

—I promise I was with Gwyn.

Promises are a big thing in our house.

—And only Gwyn? verified my mother, narrowing her eyes at me.

—No…And some of her friends.

—Boys friends or girls friends?

—Boy friends.

—You were with boyfriends? Was it this Bobby Schmobby hanky-panky character? How dare you go out with him!

—He broke up with me ages ago, Ma.

—My god! she cried.—How dare he break up with you! What, he is too good for you? What is wrong with
you?
You are a homely, lovely, multilingual honors student coming from a good family! No crimes, no history of schizophrenia. What is he looking for anyways, the little bastard?

—Something taller and thinner and blonder, I think.

My mother made a disgusted noise.

—It doesn’t matter, it’s old news, I said.—Anyways, Gwyn was with her boyfriend and a friend of his, yeah, but I assure you I wasn’t with mine and I do not have one. And we really did go to her house after the movie.

—Promise?

—Yes.

—Remember what Harish Chandra teaches about keeping your word?

—Yeah, I remember.

I didn’t recall the exact quote, but the gist of it was: Keep your word.

—And you still promise.

I showed my fingers and everything.

—I was not plundered. No one sneaked anything into my anywhere. Gwyn didn’t make me do anything, no one made me do anything—I didn’t, she didn’t, you didn’t.

I conjugated the whole verb of Not Doing.

—I promise. And I remember what he said.

There was a silence as my parents digested all this. Then:

—That’s my girl! said my father proudly.—Thank god we have such an honest daughter. Quoting Harish Chandra and everything.

My mother signaled to my father with a slight squint-wink of an eye that they weren’t done being mad at me yet.

—Why did you come home then? she asked.

Because I was so blitzed I forgot I wasn’t supposed to and Gwyn was macking by the microwave.

—Because I wanted to wake up at home on my birthday, I said.

This seemed to be the correct response. My mother sighed, and I heard her weaken. She stared deep into my eyes and it was the first time she’d really looked at me this whole morning, but instead of relief I felt even worse. Her eyes were so sad and so honestly uncomprehending as she asked me:

—Beta, why did you have to do this?

—We didn’t think you’d have to be like them, said my father quietly.

I didn’t know how to tell them: Of
course
I had to be like them. But how was I ever
going
to be like them? That was more than half the problem. I was born different—it started from the skin and seeped all the way in, till nothing matched.

—I’m sorry, was all I could say.

My mother always looked for an excuse to get mad, but she always looked for an excuse to get unmad, too, and today was no different. She now shifted her worries onto someone else in order to do so.

—I didn’t know Gwyn was an alcoholic, she said sadly.—She’ll probably end up on a talk show or in a lawsuit with her mother. These American kids always take their parents to court.

—Poor beta, sighed my father.—This whole California-one-day-New-Jersey-next business is too much for a delicate creature like her.

—Did her boyfriend make her do it? my mother suddenly asked.

It? Of course Gwyn hadn’t done It—she was saving herself for the Big Love. I was about to attest to her virginity, but quickly realized what my mother meant.

—No, but he was drinking.

—I knew it was his fault, my mother tongue-clucked. She was speaking firmly, but her eyes had gone all gentle again.—These altoo faltoo Western Heston boys corrupt good girls like you two. Dimple, you must develop a stronger will. Now would you jump off a bridge just because all your friends were doing it?

No, but I might anyways at this rate. I never understood how this completely implausible scenario could ever hit home with anyone. Why did everybody keep using it? How did it get passed around like that? I mean, it had been around since before e-mail chain letters.

I shook my head; the inside of it still swung around like a gong.

—But I know it is not just your fault, she continued.—It is this America—you cannot escape it, like those golden arches everywhere you turn. It is hard to resist it. But if I’d known the price we’d have to pay for this land of opportunity was our own daughter, I might never have left. I wonder whether Meeratai did right to stay behind with Kavita and Sangita. Ever since I ran into Radha, it’s brought up so many memories all over again. It’s really made me wonder. I did tell you I ran into my old school chum, Radha Kapoor?

—Yes, at Friendly’s, I was there.

—She has a son.

—I know, I know: computer engineering, NYU, all that.

—So you were listening! That’s my dikree, said my mother.—Well, anyways, I’ve invited them over for chai.

Rewind.

—You
what?

—While you were—
recovering—
all morning, your father and I got to thinking. Frankly, there is no time to waste.

—This is an emergency of the most serious nature, my father nodded.

—You need a nice Indian boy, my mother concluded.—Someone to be a good influence, to keep you on track. He will appreciate you. He will not be too good for you like some other useless characters.

But I didn’t want an Indian boy to appreciate me. What did being appreciated by a geek, or by someone who looked more like a cousin or brother, mean anyway? I could handle nerddom all by myself, thank you. What I wanted was even half a glance by someone cool, someone who played the guitar or made movies or had
long hair, or even—jackpot!—all three. Someone who all the girls stared at but who turned and peered out over a slick pair of sunglasses at me, with all of them there, watching. I didn’t want, I worried, someone who was not too good for me. I wanted, in short, someone who would never give me the time of day. But I was really in no position to argue.

—When are they coming? I asked slowly.

—Next week, my father informed me.—And they can’t wait to meet you.

I could sense the storm ahead. It was going to be a tough one with my parents in matchmaker mode—but how could I refuse? I wasn’t exactly all the way over on their good side at the moment. And it wasn’t as if I had another option. Unless I could win back Julian, it occurred to me. My head ached with wondering how this would be possible; I realized I was perspiring. The heat was on even more than I’d realized.

In more ways than one: In the not so far kitchen distance, I suddenly noticed a white mass of bubbling froth like a hot snow lava cloud hissing up from the metal cauldron.

—Ma! The kheer!

We all leaped up to stop the overbrewed milk from splattering to the floor. I got there first, scooped up the mitts, and lugged the pot over to safety one range over.

My mother fluttered her hand in front of her chest.

—I don’t know where my mind is these days, she gasped.—Thank you, Dimple. I’ll just finish up and then…and then maybe we can open your presents.

They had bought me the color processor from the camera store! And the color head for my enlarger, the chemicals, the paper—right down to the print drum! I couldn’t believe it—I hadn’t seen the boxes or anything. Granted, they had also purchased a couple of
those frames for me: one a gold-plated cheesefest with a matching grinning retriever hugged by a Pampers-perfect boy advertising it; a groom lifting a bride’s veil in the heart-shaped second one, sun dipping behind and plunging them into silhouette. I doubted it was about the frames; I had a feeling it was my parents’ way of justifying the other purchases, their little P.S. to remind me of what kinds of pictures I was to be taking exactly with these new toys. Their positioning them now on the foyer shelf, halfway between the front and basement doors, confirmed this; they’d be unmissable while entering and exiting both the house and the darkroom.