Born Confused (31 page)

India floated unhitched into this sea and went traveling around the world but the world was a puzzle and it was a broken map. It was a piece that seemed easy enough—an upside-down triangle like a stretched-out, raggedy pink-drink cup—but a bit that just didn’t fit, especially anywhere near the coastal edge of where we were now on the planet, the thin gridded island where we had been. The severed part crashed and lodged in my heart, untidily poking its roadside temples and poached tusks there, making a sharp place to live. I
thought about all the stories of there that were more true to me than history, and all the history of here where I had no story yet, and I didn’t know which was mine to tell, or even listen to.

Here in my cave in the middle of nowhere I began to sense ground again. I felt strange but lucid; instead of numbness it seemed I was feeling too much—a pea in a mattress, every fiber of the rug imprinting against my skin.

Where was home? East or West or my body in between? If I rolled my head to the left, in the distance were four bare ankles clamped together; to the right, a darkness grading white by the marbled legs of the night table.

My parents knew why they came here so many years ago—but why were they still here? Even they seemed to be wondering lately, I got the feeling; the thought of them grounded me further, the small of my back plushed down. And now looking at Karsh and Gwyn’s bedded heels I wondered: Why was
I
still here?

—I’ve got to go, I said. Nothing changed and I called out again from the low-ceilinged obsidian of my shadowless cave.—I’ve got to go!

—Dimple? Where are you? Stop shouting, stop—it’s all right.

The feet disbanded and began to move around in a cut raw silence.

—Where are you—what? said the paler ones.—What are you doing there? Check it out, Karsh!

—Dimple? said the darker ones, moving closer.—Are you all right?

—Fine, why?

—Are you stuck?

—Why would I be stuck?

—Well, what are you doing under the bed?

Were they on drugs? Couldn’t they see I was in a cave?

—Into the floor I’m thrown, I explained.

I could hear Gwyn’s voice.

—My god, what have you done, Dimple? Come out of there right now!

I began to crawl out of my cave, blinkering into the room’s painful light.

—Lillian’s going to kill me! Look, Karsh! Dimple, if you don’t like the Dead you don’t like the Dead, but why the hell did you have to destroy her tape? Jesus!

I crouched rocking on the floor and followed her furious finger. I could see now the spool in a tangle across the bed and floor, wound around lamps, climbing the walls like deflowered clematis.

—Shhh, Gwyn, leave her alone. I’ll tape it over for you if you want, or just get you another one.

In the silence of the room the whiteness was chemical, blinding.

Karsh squatted, his knees, lips, then the warm brew of his eyes following, and his face was before mine.

—Rani, he whispered. No one had ever called me that except my Dadaji. A riverbank broke within me.

—Dimple, are you sure you’re all right?

His finger approached and skimmed my face. When it pulled away a raindrop glistened jewel-like on the tip. It reminded me of how my father collected my tears on his thumb, coaxing them off me with healing hands, without breaking them, as if even my sadness were a precious thing.

—That is so beautiful, I said.—I could cry.

—You’re already crying, he said softly.—Are you sure you want to go home like that?

—I really want to go home, I said.

—Dimple, you are so stoned, said Gwyn her face suspended behind Karsh’s shoulder now like a belladonna moon.

—I didn’t even inhale.

—Are you crazy? You inhaled more than any of us—it blew my mind! Who taught you all that? Your cousins? That Kavita is a wild one—I can see it in her eyes.

Am I crazy? What did she mean by that? Why was she staring at me like some zoological phenomenon?

—I’m not crazy, I said.

—I’m not paranoid, I said.

—I’m not a chipmunk, I said.

—And I’m not paranoid, I concluded.

For some reason Gwyn fell over on the floor laughing.

—Of course you’re not, said Karsh gently.

—I just don’t feel so good.

—Are you going to throw up? said Gwyn, her giggles suddenly subsiding.

—No, not like that. Just. I don’t know.

—I’ll take you, said Karsh. I couldn’t feel my legs but even the slight breeze of the shift to vertical seemed to stir a memory in my mind of how it all used to be. I remembered my mother’s once cryptic advice to never make decisions when horizontal, even alone, and it seemed to make sense now, because your mind was much closer to extreme states in this position—depression, dreaming, insanity. Karsh reached over and helped me up. His face was a map I wanted to follow.

—Are you sure? I said.—No, never mind. It’s all right. Besides, you’re kind of out of it, aren’t you?

—I have a feeling you’d be more dangerous standing still than me driving at this point, he laughed.—Look, let me at least walk you back. The air will do you good.

He turned to Gwyn.

—Close your eyes; I’ll be back, he said gently, dimming the light.

—You promise? she said, sounding panicky for some reason.—You’re not just going to disappear on me, are you?

—I’m not going to disappear on you, he said.—I promise.

Outside, air flooded my head and I could feel the fog clearing.

—Are you cold? Karsh asked.—Or just defensive?

—No, why? What do you mean defensive? Why is everyone on my case tonight?

—Okay, okay. It’s just, your arms are crossed. Here, take my shirt.

He wrapped it around my shoulders. He was wearing a deep red tee beneath it and his arms were slim but strong and I could see the deeper brown circle of a cicatrice, like my father’s smallpox shot scar, on the upper part of one. I wasn’t cold but the feeling of the fabric was bittersweet, like a goodbye hug, and I clung to it. It felt like a goodbye to him.

—Dimple, you’re just fine, don’t worry.

—What are you, everyone’s guru? I said. We were passing the Bad Luck House and I quickened my step.

—Hey, no! Wait up, that’s not what I meant, he said, running to catch up with me.—Is that what I come off as? I guess I’ve just seen a lot of people get hurt and I don’t want to create any more pain where it can be avoided. So yeah, right. I sound like a guru. Sorry—I guess I like everything to be in harmony. Maybe too much.

—I suppose that’s why you’re a DJ, right?

He didn’t say anything. So he wanted to make sweet music with Gwyn without hurting me. Why should I be hurt? I should be happy for all parties involved, myself included.

—Gwyn’s great, isn’t she? I said.—She’s smart, and beautiful, and worldly.

—Yes, she’s special, said Karsh.—She’s your best friend, right?

—Oh, the best, I said.

—Well that’s a precious thing, he said thoughtfully.—And it should be handled with care.

I was sick of being treated with kid gloves.

—Don’t worry about handling me with care, Karsh, I said, trying to sound cool.—Eliminating pain and all that. I just realized tonight I don’t even have any. I just realized tonight nobody’s perfect, except—ta-da!—me. But Gwyn—you better go back to her. She’s alone and expecting you.

—Yeah, I better, he said. But he just stood there, at the end of my driveway. My house was dark and I wanted to fold myself into it.

—You can keep it if you’re cold, he said when I gave him back his shirt.

—I’m home now, I said.—Thanks, I’m fine.

—Dimple, I’m sorry if I’m giving you the wrong idea about Gwyn. I’m a protective person, I guess. It doesn’t mean I’m…

—Believe me, I know what it doesn’t mean, I said.—I’ve been there before.

—Oh, what does it matter anyways? I’m a sunk ship, right?

—No, I said.—You’re definitely not that and I’m sorry I ever said it. But you better go now.

I began to walk up the drive.

—Good night, Karsh, I said over my shoulder.—Thank you for walking me home.

—See you around? he called after me.

—See you around.

I went up the steps and got the key from the hippo planter and went in. I turned to drop the latch in place. Through the screen I could still make out his figure at the end of the drive. He waved. I
put my hand to the screen and watched his finely green gridded shadow turn and go, bleeding into darkness.

I took a breath to steady myself before reaching for the light switch. But the light seemed to turn on before my finger landed. Had my finger landed? I stared at the switch for a clue and then, gaining none, at my finger. I had never noticed that my knuckle was like a pond after a stone thrown, that ring of concentric circles. After what seemed a long contemplative moment I lifted my eyes.

The table was laid out with a pot of tea and cups and saucers and stacks of samosas and chutneys and pakoras and, jarringly, an unopened bag of Mint Milano cookies. My stomach roared. Had I died and gone to heaven?

Or was I stoned?

Suddenly a flock of cappuccino peacocks flapped excitedly forth from around the corner. The Indian Marriage Mafia Welcome Wagon was up and at ‘em.

—High! my parents yelped in unison.

I
was
stoned. Frock. First they catch me drunk, now this. I was doing the downward spiral a little too quickly. Was there a way out of it?

—No! I cried.—Let me explain.

I was about to tell them about the cave and the broken map and the puzzle and the snow cone peaks, but then I realized from their Cheshire Cat faces that they might have been just saying hello. My teeth unhinged, dropped onto my tongue like a paper cutter, just in time.

—Aaray, no need to explain, beta, smiled my mother.—But why didn’t you invite him in?

Had they been smoking, too? They never invited
anyone
in.

—He’s a gentleman, my father nodded approvingly.

—Of course he is a gentleman. Who is saying he is not a gentleman? scoffed my mother.—But then why is he hanging around in the driveway like some hooligan? I made chai and samosas.

I had noticed. I was starving. I pulled a chair up to the table, and my parents followed suit. I bit into a samosa; a moan slipped out my mouth. Since when were they so good? I would have to carry this feeling with me like Karsh had said and apply it to school lunches. The crust crackled away in my fingers, thinning out in my mouth and melting evenly at the end, and then there were gently spiced batata pincushions and tooth-sunk little peas rolling sweet in the hollows of my teeth.

—So now you are liking Indian food? my father winked.

—It must be love, beamed my mother.—Look, beta, your eyes are so red.

I tried to look but my eyeballs hurt when I rolled them around like that.

—Have you been crying? asked my father.

—No. Um.
Laughing,
I said.

—Don’t worry, beta, said my mother.—Love is an
emotional
thing. And it is bringing up many…
feelings.
It is all right to laugh, to cry. It is all right to write poems that rhyme to express your amorous state.

I was on the chutney now, shoving a chunk of samosa into the mango tangoing jar.

—Dimple, it’s easier if you put a spoonful on your plate and dip.

I spooned some jelly jam out on my plate and then shoved the samosa back into the jar. They were right—it fit better now. Why were they just staring at me?

—You must have danced a lot to work up that appetite, my father said slowly.

I nodded through a mouthful of minced scrumptious. Then I was on the pakoras, smacking through the spinach that—Krishna, Prabhu, and The Whole Posse—was too good to write a rhyming poem about and what rhymed with spinach anyways. And then the chai. The chai. Oh my, oh my. I poured the sugar onto the teaspoon, dunked it quickly in and out then crunched through the raw granules.

—So how was it? asked my father.

—Well, bhangra, you know how it is, I mumbled through crushed cane.—Ancient Punjabi…dhol…hemp…immigrants…the Immigration Act…jangra.

—Your throat sounds hoarse—are you catching a cold? my mother wanted to know.

—I had to scream to be heard in the club.

—Scream what?

I took a breath then belted it out.

—Itchy itchy eye
—
oh ho! Itchy itchy eye
—
hi hi!

—My goodness, that NYU has really taught you, my father smiled, thumping me gently on the back.—You sound veritably enlightened!

Lit more than enlightened.

—So do you feel you got to know him much better? my mother asked.

—Much better, I said, tipping the plate to get all the sauce on my finger.

—Dimple, Prabhu, you’re acting like a pregnant woman! said my father.

—Oh, that will be a wonderful day, smiled my mother, tears welling in her eyes.—I was just in Gap Kids and you should have seen the fall selection.

Excuse me, but could they let me grow up first?

—Is there more? I asked, my plate cleaner than the day it was sold. And for the first time in the history of the house there wasn’t. Out of the corner of my eye I re-spied the pack of Mint Milanos; holding my breath and creeping up on it very…very…slowly…I ambushed it—and won! I tore the bag to shreds. With the minutest coercion from the tips of my front teeth the cajoled cookie crushed to powder in my mouth, the chocolate swirling a lazy palette on my tongue, spiked green. How come I’d never realized what a perfect accompaniment they were for the spice-crackle-pop of samosas? Why weren’t they served in Indian restaurants? The mint and sweet soothingly tingled through the zing of the spice, melting down to thin-quilt the belly. And the milk, which I’d leaped to pull from the fridge and back: Two percent had never tasted so straight off the udder.

—There’s a glass, Dimple, you don’t have to drink from the bottle. Shouldn’t you think of the next person?

There would be no next person. I emptied the plastic container and stamped it down like a flamenco dancer before tossing it into the recycling bin.