If Today Be Sweet (14 page)

“I tell you a million times to stop by for dinner whenever you want, deekra,” Tehmina replied. But even as she extended the invitation, she wondered if Susan was offended by her presumptuousness. “You don't need an invitation,” she finished lamely.

“Arre, Mamma, be careful what riffraff you invite to the house,” Sorab said, slapping his best friend on the back. “With this bugger, if you promise him food he'll move in with us permanently.”

“Not a chance,” Percy said promptly. “At some point I'll have to go home. Unless you can imitate my lovely Julie's talents in bed.” He
cast an apologetic look at Tehmina. “Pardon my French, Mamma,” he added vaguely.

“Speaking of food, the party's been catered by Yasmin Shroff,” Perin said. “We had her food at another party recently and thought she was quite good.” She poked Percy in the ribs. “Hope her pallov-daar meets your approval.”

“Oh, I'm sure it will be great. But I tell you, nobody can make daar like this lady here,” Percy said, putting an arm around Tehmina. “Her chicken dhansak kept me alive when I was a young boy.” And despite the lightness of his tone, a look passed between Percy and Tehmina that captured the closeness that they had shared over the years. Percy's mother had been Tehmina's best friend, and when she died of breast cancer, Tehmina was as devastated as the twelve-year-old Percy. She would have taken Percy in anyway, would have insisted that the boy stop by for tea and a light dinner after school, even if his father, Bomi, had not been the drunken wastrel that he was. But as it was, she and Rustom had decided that the young boy should be protected from his father's drunken rages and bouts of self-pity. If Tehmina had had her way, Percy would've moved in with them permanently. Instead, she tried to keep the boy over at their house as much as possible, including on weekends. Every trip or outing that the Sethnas took included a fourth member, every play or concert that they attended they bought a fourth ticket for. Lost in the fumes of alcohol, Bomi was only too happy to give up responsibility for his son. A few times they even paid the boy's school tuition when Bomi was delinquent with the fees, and soon it made sense for them to also check on Percy's progress report when they went to Cathedral for parent-teacher conferences for Sorab. They were happy to do all this in a silent, unassuming way, though each time they ran into Bomi in the street, he went into one of his loud, bombastic raves and promised to repay them for every paisa they spent on his son. The man was completely oblivious to the embarrassment he caused them, and
worse, to the mortification he aroused in his only child. Still, for the most part, the Sethnas' caring for Percy went unspoken and unacknowledged, which is how they liked it. Only once did they have to intervene directly: after a sobbing Percy had shown up on their doorstep one Friday evening with red welts on his thin brown body where Bomi had hit him with his belt. Then Rustom had gone pale in the face, thrown on a shirt over his sadra, and headed for the door. A frightened Tehmina had tried to stop him, had asked him what he intended to do, but he had shaken her off, a tight, closed expression on his face she'd never seen before. He had returned an hour later and gone up directly to Percy. “He'll never touch you again, sonny,” he had said quietly. “That much I promise you.” When Tehmina asked him that night what had transpired between Bomi and him, he said only that they'd had a little talk. But it was true—Bomi continued to drink and the verbal abuse was undiminished, but he never struck his son again.

Now, looking at Percy's pudgy but handsome face, Tehmina marveled again at his resilience. Two years after Sorab had left for graduate school in America, Percy had followed him. Going to law school had transformed his life. Despite paying alimony to three wives, Percy still made enough money to send a check each month to Bomi for his living expenses. The poor boy who for all practical purposes was an orphan at twelve now had the largest laugh in any room, was the life of every party, and had a zest for life that Tehmina wanted for her own son. Seeing Percy now with his thick shiny hair, his Ralph Lauren shirt, his designer jeans, no one would guess at the daily abuse his father had heaped upon him, the ugly names he had been called, the grief and anger he had felt when his beloved mother had been snatched away from him. And for the first time, Tehmina felt grateful to America. She and Rustom had given Percy a shot at life, but America had given him his life. It was amazing the transformation that happened to all these young people when
they came here—most of them gained weight, most of them talked louder and laughed louder, some of them even grew an inch or so in height, improbable as that seemed. But the most amazing thing was, they became happy in America. Kids who had been pencil thin, melancholy, depressed, quiet, and shy became confident, strong, talkative, happy. How could a country change someone's basic personality? Tehmina wondered. This thing in their Constitution which we used to mock in India—the pursuit of happiness or some such thing—maybe it really did something for people to have such a preposterous idea embedded in the Constitution. Maybe it gave them the freedom to feel they were worthy of happiness, that being happy was something they didn't have to apologize for or feel guilty about. Tehmina remembered all of her mother's strictures—how you should not look at yourself in the mirror lest people think you are vain; how you should never complain about anything in your life because there are millions of people worse off than you; how you should cover your mouth when you laugh because otherwise men will think you are promiscuous; how you should be satisfied with whatever God has given you because it's your destiny; how you should never eat on the streets because you attract the attention and envy of the starving people around you; how you should never boast about having money to avoid arousing the envy of your neighbors. Because of Rustom's broad-minded, large attitude, she herself had moved away from many of these beliefs. But still, it was true—she had never felt free in Bombay the way she did here. The simple act of eating an ice-cream cone on the streets and not being followed by the hungry eyes of a hundred children was a freedom, a luxury she had never experienced on the streets of Bombay. In America, she didn't feel leered at by young, sex-starved men, was not self-conscious about her breasts, was not miserably aware of her female body, didn't carry herself in that tense, guarded way that she did back home. And although it was difficult, she was forcing herself to
look in the mirror as she ran her fingers through her hair when she was in a public restroom. She marveled at how American women stood for long minutes staring at themselves in the mirror, adjusting their hair, putting on makeup. Once, in the public restroom at Hunan Village, she had even seen a young woman blow herself a kiss in the mirror.
Her
mother had obviously not warned her against the sins of vanity and pride.

She felt Percy shift beside her. The others were moving into the next bedroom, with Homi holding forth on the technique the painters had used for texturing the walls. “Penny for your thoughts?” Percy whispered, and she smiled and shook her head. “Just thinking…about the years gone by,” she answered.

“Don't. Don't think of the past, Mamma. You should be thinking about the future.”

She wondered when he had started calling her Mamma. Best she remembered, he had called her Tehmina auntie all the years he'd been in India. She liked the new name, liked the closeness and intimacy it conveyed, but wondered briefly if Sorab minded. When they had taken Percy in, she had been very careful to watch Sorab's behavior for any signs of resentment or jealousy. But Sorab seemed to accept Percy's presence in their lives as calmly as he accepted the presence of the moon in the night sky. In fact, after years of being an only child, it was probably good for Sorab to have had his parents focus their energies on someone other than him.

“You're not hearing a word I'm saying, are you?” she heard Percy say, and she started. “Sorry, deekra, sorry. I wasn't trying to ignore you.”

Percy rolled his eyes. “Arre, Mamma, all the women in my life ignore me. Why should you be an exception to that rule?” He took her hand and tugged her toward the edge of the bed. “Sit down for a minute. I need to talk to you.”

She felt a sudden apprehension at the abrupt seriousness of his
tone. She knew exactly what Percy wanted to talk about—the immigration stuff—and she felt a dread at having to think about the matter tonight.

“Good God, Mamma.” Percy laughed. “You look like this bed is a guillotine.”

She smiled weakly. “I know you need to know,” she said. “But it's just that—”

“Mamma,” Percy interrupted. “What is the problem, may I ask? Your only son is here in America, your grandson is here. And now, with Rustom uncle…I mean, with all that has happened last year, you have no one in Bombay. Your whole family is here. Doesn't it make sense for you to be where you have people who love you?”

Put that way, she saw the logic of what he was saying. But she also knew that her reality was more complicated than that. Deekra, a life is made up of more than your immediate family, she wanted to say to him. It is made up of all the people around you—your neighbors, even the ones you can't stand; your friends, whom you've known longer than you had known your husband; Sunil, the milkman who cheats by adding water to the milk he delivers to your doorstep; Krishna and Parvati, the homeless couple across the street; Shiva, the legless beggar who frantically wheels the skateboard he sits upon toward you to greet you with a smile; Rohit, the bhaiya who sells the freshest bhelpuri in town; Hansu, the servant who has worked in your home for the last seventeen years. It is made up of all your routines—getting up each morning at five to answer the door for the butcher, the baker, the milkman, the newspaper boy; opening the door at seven for Krishna to come fill his bucket with warm water so his family can bathe on the street; meeting with Sheroo and the other girls for lunch every few weeks; watching the Hindi version of
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
every Thursday evening; volunteering at the Shanti Center every Thursday. And yes, with Rustom gone, her routine had been greatly impacted—she no longer had a companion
to go to the fire temple with every day, or to offer their prayers at the Bhika Behram well in Flora Fountain every Friday. Nor did she go to Paradise for dinner every Sunday. But still, Bombay was her home, the city she had come to as a young bride. She had ridden in a thousand of its cabs, she had lived through riots and holiday celebrations, she had witnessed hundreds of its thunderstorms. She gazed at Percy, the boy she had helped raise into a man, a boy who had once shared his innermost secrets and fears with her, and she wondered how to reach him, how to make him understand the simple complexity of her life.

“It's not that easy,” she tried, and he interrupted her with a shake of his head. “Mamma. Of course. Of course. I know that. You don't have to tell me that. God, I still remember my first year in this country. If Sorab had not been here, I don't know what I would've done. But God, that's the whole point—you have your whole family here. Whereas I—”

She stared at him, unsure of what to say. Percy spoke into the silence. “Look, Mamma, here's the thing. What with the holidays and all, nothing would've been done by the bloody folks at the INS anyway. But after the first of the year we need to act on this jaldijaldi. Because you're going to have what—two, three months left on your tourist visa? And since 9/11 even the most routine thing seems to take twice as long. Not that the INS was a paragon of punctuality even before that, mind you. But I need a decision from you soon, okay? This is not something I want to leave until the last minute.”

Tehmina swallowed hard and nodded. Suddenly Percy laughed. “Arre, Mamma, I'm asking you to consider living in the greatest country on earth, yaar. And you look as if I've asked you to spend the rest of your days in bloody Ethiopia or something.” His face softened. “Chalo ne, Mamma. Why are you playing so hard to get? Making me chase after you just like every other woman ever has.
We need you here, yaar, Sorab and me. Heck, if for no other reason you should stay so I can eat your cooking at least once a week. You should see the anemic shrimp curry my beloved Julie makes. I tell you, any self-respecting Indian would file for divorce immediately. But what to do? The poor dear is so proud of herself for learning Indian cooking that I don't have the heart to tell her the truth. But that's why I need you here, Mamma—so that I don't waste away to nothing from Julie's so-called Indian cooking.” He patted his ample belly and they both laughed. Percy put his arm around Tehmina. “But jokes aside, we do need you here. You are—I dunno—a reminder to us of something that we shouldn't forget. I can't explain it. All I know is, it's so easy here in America to get swept up with jobs and cars and houses and money. And every time I see you, I'm reminded that life is more than that. Remember how you and Rustom uncle took me in after my mother died? As long as I live I won't forget what you said to me at Mummy's funeral. I was crying so hard—not just because I was missing her but because I dreaded the thought of living alone with my daddy. I had never known such a feeling before, like I was alone in a city and all the streets were deserted. And out of all the people gathered there, all the wailing old women who were beating their breasts and shedding their crocodile tears, you were the only one who understood what I was feeling. Remember? ‘You will never be alone, Percy,' you said to me. ‘From today, we are your family.' You have no idea what those words did for me. It was like someone had shone a flashlight in a coal mine—I now had a path to follow to get out of the coal mine.”

“Deekra, that is all ancient history,” an embarrassed Tehmina murmured. “You should forget all that now.”

“But that's just it,” Percy replied fiercely. “You see, I don't want to forget that. In fact, remembering it is the most important thing. And that's why it will be so good for all of us to have you here permanently.”