The Hindi-Bindi Club (10 page)

When I was a teen, I dressed in goth attire—all black—and resembled a vampire. My mother cried when she saw my jet black dyed hair and multiple piercings. “Why does a beautiful girl do this to herself?” she asked. “Explain it to me so I understand.”

I told her for me, it was like the gargoyles I collected. They looked evil, but their purpose was to ward off evil. “I don’t have time for pretentious, judgmental people, so if they refuse to talk to me because of how I look, then it’s worth it.”

Today, one diamond stud does the trick.

“I’m the product of an Irish-Italian Catholic father from Boston and an Indian Hindu mother from Calcutta,” I say to my captive audience. “This multicultural heritage has greatly influenced my art. Growing up, I never felt
different
unless someone brought it to my attention. I never felt I had to choose, ‘Am I this, or that?’ I felt, and my parents reinforced, ‘I’m both.’ In my family, this was perfectly natural, normal.”

My knees are trembling. I rehearsed in front of the mirror, then again with Bryan.
Is it too hokey? Are you sure? Because it’s me, it’s really me. From my heart
…

“It’s easy to see differences among people, especially if they look, talk, eat, dress, worship differently. But there’s more to every person than any peel-and-stick-on label. Despite the most blatant differences, there’s almost always commonality if you look beyond the surface. At our core, human beings from all walks of life have more in common than not. My art attempts to show the synergy of cultural fusion—the notion that one plus one equals something greater than two—and the universal bonds that link us all together as one race, the human race.”

Thunderous applause.

It’s the most singular night of my life. The top of the mountain. Afterward, I think: There’s nowhere to go but down.

As I lay awake under the weight of my sleeping husband’s arm, the feeling grows, hollows out my insides like a melon baller carving a cantaloupe.

I reflect on all the immigrants who came to this foreign land, the Land of Opportunity, with nothing more than a dream. The American Dream.

The challenge isn’t just in attaining, but in holding on. Keeping the dream. Or getting a new one.

I don’t know that I have their courage…. To start over. To rebuild. To climb mountain after mountain.

How did the Hindi-Bindi Club do it?

Hello, chickies!

Sorry for late reply. Chaotic stretch. SO GREAT to hear from you both -- looking forward to our playdate! I predict we’ll pick up where we left off, like always. For better or worse. :P

See you soon!

XOXOXO,
Rani

Rani’s Chocolate Sandesh Truffles

2 DOZEN

½ cup unsweetened cocoa powder

½ cup sweetened cocoa powder

10 green cardamom pods, seeds only, crushed

25 pistachios, finely crushed

16 ounces
chhana
(fresh cheese recipe follows)

6–8 ounces chocolate

1. Line a baking sheet with wax paper or baking parchment. Set aside.

2. Place unsweetened cocoa powder and crushed pistachios on two small plates. Set aside.

3. In a nonstick saucepan over low heat, stir
chhana
and sweetened cocoa powder into a whipped cream cheese consistency.

4. When mixture leaves sides of saucepan, remove from heat. Stir in cardamom.

5. Using a small cookie scoop, drop 1-inch truffle rounds onto the baking sheet. Allow to cool to room temperature.

6. For each truffle: Roll between palms to make uniform ball, gently roll in cocoa and/or pistachios, replace on baking sheet.

7. Melt chocolate over low heat; drizzle over truffles.

8. Serve at room temperature in decorative foil candy cups.

Chhana
(Fresh Cheese)

16 OUNCES

12 cups whole milk

¾
cup white vinegar

1. Spray a large Dutch oven with nonstick cooking spray.

2. Over medium-high heat, bring milk to a boil, stirring often to prevent sticking, scorching, and skin from forming on the surface.

3. Reduce heat to low, stirring constantly. One tablespoon at a time, stir in vinegar to “break” the curds and whey.

4. Remove from heat and let stand 15 minutes.

5. In the sink, line a colander with three cheesecloth layers. Pour in the cheese mixture.

6. Gather edges of cheesecloth to form a “hobo’s sack.” Twist, squeezing out excess liquid (whey). Plop a heavy can or gallon of liquid on top of the sack, wringing out even more. Allow cheese (curds) to drain for 20–30 minutes.

7. Remove cheesecloth. Discard liquid. Cheese should be soft and doughy.

8. Knead on a dry surface for 10 minutes.*

*
Rani’s Tips:

         For best results, use immediately.

         For next-best results, tightly wrap in plastic and refrigerate for 2 days, tops.

         After 3 days, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Meenal Deshpande: What Is Best?

T
he house is quiet in the hours before dawn—as it’s al-ways been. Upstairs, at the end of the hall, Kiran still sleeps with her bedroom door open, a night-light glowing from her adjoining bath. I stand in the doorway and listen to the faint sound of her breathing, then head for the shower, a smile in my heart.

I turn on the spray, take a fresh towel from the folded stack in a wicker basket, and toss it into the dryer to toast. While I brush my teeth, steam fills the shower stall, fogs the glass door. Quickly, I undress, avoiding my reflection in the mirror, and step inside, cuddling the warm blanket of mist.

In minutes, my muscles relax, and I start to play my new daily game—climbing my fingers up the diagonal-laid tiles in front of me, counting off each diamond I pass, each milestone, reaching higher and higher elevations. I’m rock-climbing, I pretend, one precarious handhold after another.
How high will she go? Nobody knows.
Both arms overhead, victory is mine. I taste its sweetness,
amrit
—nectar of the gods—on my tongue. I savor my triumph. I’m an Olympic athlete who’s beaten the odds, won a gold medal, not only for myself but for my countrywomen. The crowd goes wild. I take a bow and blow kisses to my fans.

How silly I’ve become! I laugh at myself. I don’t care.

Didn’t I serve my time? Earn the privileges that come with living to a ripe old age? Doesn’t that include the right to be a little silly? Still, I am still
me,
and I can’t help wondering: What would people think if they knew?

What will Kiran think when I tell her?

Now that she’s home, it must be done. I can’t avoid the subject any longer. She’s bound to figure it out on her own—that would be the worst way to find out. I brace my heated forehead against the cool tiles. Close my eyes.
Haré Ram
…

S
ince my tropical Indian blood stubbornly refuses to thicken no matter how many winters I endure, I dress in layers. Bundled in fleece thermals and double socks straight from the warm dryer, I head downstairs to the northeast corner of the kitchen for my prayers. Northeast is the direction of Lord Shiva. From the north comes positive magnetic energy; from the east, positive solar energy.

Even if I
hadn’t
started doing a daily morning
puja
this year, I would today, for Kiran.

My
pujas
aren’t as elaborate as my mother’s, but I find serenity and comfort in many of the old rituals. Washing and drying the figurines of the gods. Using my ring finger to apply
gandha
(sandalwood paste) and
haldi-kumkum
(yellow turmeric and red vermilion powders) to their foreheads. Sprinkling rice and fresh flowers around them. Burning incense. Lighting a
diwa
—a small,
ghee
-fueled lamp. Offering
prasad—
sweets, nuts, fruit, or sweet milk—in a silver bowl to be blessed. Taking
prasad
as sacrament. Bringing my palms together in
namaskar
. Praying.

As a girl, I looked forward to my mother’s
pujas,
not for any spiritual reasons, but because of my sweet tooth. If my two older brothers and I behaved,
Ai
let us have the leftover
prasad
. I always behaved; my brothers didn’t. They forgot to remove their
chappals
before entering the
puja
room, or tipped over the figurines (claiming to lay them down for a nap), or dunked them upside-down underwater instead of using the silver
pali
to give them a bath. All of which meant: more
prasad
for me.

I also enjoyed gathering the offerings from our beautiful
baag
.
Bel
leaves for Lord Shiva. Twenty-one stems of
durva
for Shree Ganesh.
Tulsi
leaves for Lord Krishna. A red rose for Shree Lakshmi. And for all, whatever fragrant flowers were in season: marigolds, mums, tuberoses, jasmine, or white lilies.

If I close my eyes, I can still smell the perfume of
Ai
’s
puja
room, the heavenly mix of flowers, sandalwood paste, and incense. When performing
aarti, Ai
would chant a hymn while one of us circled the
diwa
clockwise before the gods to show respect and ask blessings, and another rang a small, handheld bell. We jockeyed for these positions, these privileges, the way Vivek and Kiran did over who rode in the passenger seat of the car. Then we did our
namaskars
and prayed.

I used to pray for
shakti
and
buddhi
—strength and wisdom—and that my parents would choose a good husband for me. Now, I pray for
shakti, buddhi,
and good health—for my loved ones and myself.

After my
puja,
I put the kettle on the stove and take out a cup and saucer. The good china. Purchased piece by painstaking piece back in the Boston Days—a dollar here, two dollars there, whatever I saved from my frugal management of the grocery money Yash gave me each week. When, at last, we had a formal dining room, a china cabinet, and those twelve precious place settings, I displayed each piece like artifacts in a museum:
Do Not Touch
. Yes, I was one of those women who hoards away my finery, taking it out only on Very Special Occasions. Not until this year did I realize
every day
is a Very Special Occasion.

Now that I know, I pour decaffeinated Darjeeling green tea into my Lenox teapot each morning. Inhaling the aroma of fresh ginger I add to the brew, I take my matching cup and saucer into the dining room, sit at the head of the table, and let the peace and quiet wash over me.

I savor this time, when the world is still, when I can hear every little sound—the hum of the refrigerator, the ticking of the wall clock, the settling of the house, the furnace igniting—but not the same way I did when three of the upstairs bedrooms were occupied, when my alone-time was scarce. I’m still deeply grateful for each morning God gifts me, but these days, I would gladly trade the stillness to hear the voices of my loved ones.

Last night on the phone, Yash asked, “Did you tell her?”

“Not yet.” I paced the kitchen. “She’s just come home. After so long…What’s another day?”

He wanted to argue—I know he did—but it was late, and he was tired. I’m not surprised when the phone rings this morning. Anticipating our conversation, I tell Yash I’m coming over.

“What about Kiran?” he asks.

“Sleeping. I wrote a note.”

At his apartment, he opens the door for me in his pajamas. When he kisses my cheek, I smell toothpaste and Listerine, the original medicinal kind. Brand loyal, he’d still use each and every product we grew up with, if he could.

Even without me, Yash keeps his bachelor pad meticulously neat. His shoes line the wall inside the coat closet. Not a spoon in the sink. If he isn’t in it, the bed is always made. Crisp, starched shirts in plastic bags on wire hangers. Dirty clothes in the hamper. Toilet seat down.

An independent husband. Independent children. American ideals, not Indian.
Not mine.

“Good morning,” I chirp, breezing past him.

“Good morning.” He stretches his arms over his bald head, eyeing the small cooler I’m carrying. His bare feet poke from the light blue pajama bottoms he’s paired with a white, short-sleeved V-neck undershirt. Toenails trimmed.

“Breakfast,” I answer his unasked question.

He helps me out of my coat. “Meena. You shouldn’t have. The coffee shop around the corner—”

“Delivers. I know. But I woke up in a baking mood.” I head for the kitchen, glancing over my shoulder. “
Sattvic
food.”

He chuckles. “Of course.” He’s the one who encouraged me toward ayurveda and yoga—complementary ancient Indian diet and lifestyle disciplines that detoxify and balance the body, mind, and spirit. I stand here today because of God’s will, first and foremost, but also in large part because of this man before me, once a mere stranger whose astrological chart indicated my best match for a life partner.

How many times did I question the stars? Never in India. But in America, when I saw the attention men lavished on wives and girlfriends…I’m ashamed to say, too many to count. But no longer. Because now I know. I received a definitive answer this year.

In the kitchen, I make Yash’s tea the way he likes, piping hot with lots of milk and sugar, and mix a blender of mango
lassi
—yogurt smoothie. The mangoes we get here aren’t as fragrant or flavorful as those in India, especially luscious Alphonso mangoes that conjure such fond memories for me, but luckily, we have Alphonso canned pulp.

Yash and I sit together at the table. When he sips his
lassi,
he breaks into a wide grin. “Ahhh. Delicious.
Much
better than the coffee shop.”

“Try a muffin.”

He breaks off the muffin top, pops a piece into his mouth. “Ummmm. Tasty.”

The way we were brought up, food was the main vehicle for displaying and withholding affection. In my parents’ home, if
Ai
was upset with
Baba,
she refused to cook his favorite dishes. If
Baba
was upset with
Ai,
he refused to eat, or ate out, usually at a relative’s home. Sandeep Chawla told me the first time Yash had one of Saroj’s lunch
tiffins
back in the Boston Days, Yash remarked about her
aloo ghobi
—a spiced potatoes and cauliflower dish:
Very good, but I prefer my wife’s.
That was the moment I knew I loved my husband. It took considerably longer for me to know,
really know,
that my husband loved me.

Yash and I reach for the wooden napkin holder at the same time. He retreats, and I hand him a napkin.

“Thank you,” he says.

“You’re welcome.”

How automatic we are with these expressions—
please, thank you, you’re welcome
. How liberally we use them. How much we’ve grown to
like
them. The very expressions we poked fun at in the Boston Days, dismissed as gratuitous!

Over the rim of Yash’s
lassi
glass, our gazes meet and hold.

“You know why I came over,” I say. “I want you to make an effort with Kiran. I want our daughter in our lives. I want to see her more than once in five years. If that means meeting her more than halfway…”

Yash grunts and takes another bite of his muffin. “These American kids. They expect everything served to them on gold platters. They feel entitled. But where’s
our
entitlement as parents?” He jabs a thumb at his chest. I brace for a tirade; he delivers as expected. “After all we do for our kids, all the sacrifices we make, what do we get in return? We indulge them, and they feel subjugated. They grow up and distance themselves from us. Having adult children in our lives is a privilege, not a right. What rights
do
parents have in this country? None. A better life, we thought we gave our kids by raising them here. Better in material things, yes. But
not
in respect.
Not
in family values.” He thumps his palm atop the wooden table to punctuate his conclusion: “No respect for elders and family.”

I fold my hands in my lap. This isn’t a new topic. We’ve had this conversation for years. Though intervals between grow longer and viewpoints change with time and experience, it’s our lot to compare and contrast, assess and reassess. We were born to one of the world’s oldest civilizations—
five thousand
years old—and we emigrated to one of the youngest. Which values and customs are superior: those of our birthplace, or those of the land where we chose to settle? What to adopt? What to reject? What to preserve? What to discard?

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.