The Hindi-Bindi Club (2 page)

As the story goes, every day Saroj Auntie packed Sandeep Uncle’s lunch in
tiffins
—round, stackable stainless steel containers holding different dishes. Indian Gourmet to Go. Before long, Saroj Auntie garnered a reputation as an excellent cook, and as word spread, others began asking for lunch
tiffins
and offering to pay.

Sandeep Uncle was dead set against his wife doing anything that could be construed as work for hire, a huge bruise to his ingrained masculine caveman-hunter-gatherer-protector-should-provide-for-woman pride, but Saroj Auntie appealed to his sense of manners and hospitality. She convinced him it was far worse to refuse requests for her cooking. Such refusal reflected poorly on them, and indeed on Indian culture, in the cases of Americans who expressed interest. As immigrants, they were India’s cultural ambassadors, after all. And since it was unrealistic to foot the bill for the ever-growing number of requests, what choice did they have but to accept payment?

With much grumbling, Sandeep Uncle caved in. As her business grew, he continued to grumble, especially since
his
professional success grew as well, but Saroj Auntie persisted, and won.

I congratulate her on her latest victory and climb out of the car. She gives me her customary big squishy hug, mashing me against her ample chest, but despite all the I’m-Okay-You’re-Okay motions, I can’t shake the niggling embarrassment of a patient in a hospital gown, her bare bottom showing out the back slit. Even if Saroj Auntie doesn’t know the sordid details of my falling out with my parents (mum’s the word with dirty family secrets), being one of Mom’s best friends, she knows enough. And she knows that
I
know she knows, even if neither of us openly acknowledges it.

The December air is sweet and invigorating, cold enough for our breath to steam but not for our teeth to chatter. I pull on my leather jacket, leaving it unzipped, and we linger to catch up a bit before going inside. She updates me on the Chawla clan, and I give her the highlights of my upcoming assignment in Georgia. Belatedly, I register the B.M.W., Mercedes, Lexus, and Volvo S.U.V. parked around the culde-sac and wonder if my mother’s having
all
her Indian friends over. Uh-oh…

“Is the—” I catch myself before I say “Hindi-Bindi Club,” the age-old nickname we offspring gave our mothers’ gatherings when we were little. “Are all of my aunties getting together tonight?”

“Yes, yes, everyone’s coming, but we didn’t know
you
were home. Or, no one told me.” She plants one hand on her hip, the same endearing gesture I remember since childhood. “Do I have to scold your mom?”

The thought makes me smile. A wry smile. I doubt anyone’s ever scolded my mother. They would have no reason. Unlike me, she’s never misbehaved in her life, to my knowledge, and I’d be shocked if anyone told me otherwise. “No, Auntie. Mom doesn’t know. It’s a surprise visit.”

“Oh.” A slight pinch around her eyes. A wince? Before I can be sure, it’s gone. “Oh! What a
wonderful
surprise!” She claps.

Okay, I’m nervous again, my performance anxiety compounded by the awaiting audience. I’m not sure if it’s better or worse to have the aunties witness my homecoming, not sure how I’ll be received by my mother, let alone the Hindi-Bindi Club en masse. I expect I’ll be the proverbial pink elephant in the room.

Saroj Auntie sighs. “Too bad Preity isn’t flying in sooner, and staying longer. But she’ll be here the day after Christmas, with hubby and the little ones.”

“Mom mentioned that.”
Woo-hoo. Indian Barbie and Corporate Ken, home for the holidays. Could this possibly get any better?
I force up the corners of my mouth. “Can’t wait.”

Taking my hand between hers, Saroj Auntie gives me a there-there pat-pat. “You kids scattered all over the map, didn’t you? Preity in Minneapolis. Rani in San Francisco.” She names others who have left the area. “So hard to keep in touch with your busy lives, isn’t it? I’ll give you Preity’s email. Drop her a note later tonight. Let her know you’re home. She’ll be so excited.”

Ah, the forced kinship of the second generation. I smile and nod, like we all learned to do. Make the appropriate noises. Shift my weight from one foot to the other. Pray Saroj Auntie doesn’t come up with the brilliant idea to
call
Preity tonight and put me on the phone—put us on the spot—like the old days.

There’s an assumption—or is it an expectation?—among some Indian-immigrant parents that because
they
are so tight with each other,
their children
are likewise best buds. Or should be. In my experience, not speaking for anyone else, that isn’t the case. Foisted on each other because of our parents and shared heritage, we’re friendly acquaintances more than friends, per se. Cousins, not siblings.

“Come. Come,” Saroj Auntie says. “I’ve monopolized you long enough. Your parents will be so happy to have you back.”

Maybe, maybe not,
I think as I airlift the sole surviving roses and sling my purse over my shoulder. I’ve never been an angel like her Perfect Preity. Just ask my parents, who live to compare me with such exemplary role models. “Why can’t you be more like so-and-so?”
So-and-so
was most often
Preity Chawla
. The only reason I wouldn’t call her a Mama’s Girl is the fact she’s a Daddy’s Girl, too.

Rani, on the other hand, was just as close to her parents without the nauseating perfection. She was my saving grace, a foil to Miss Goody Two-Shoes, especially during her goth stage. WiBBy, I called her. Weirdo in Black. I could always counter Preity’s shining example with Rani’s, though this seldom appeased my mother, who attributed all of Rani’s transgressions, as she saw them, to having an American father. “This is what happens when we compromise our values,” she would say, though never directly to Uma Auntie, the one who committed the alleged compromising in marrying Patrick Uncle. Theirs was a “love match.” Gasp!

Uma and Patrick McGuiness date back to the Boston Days, too. Uma Auntie did her Ph.D. at Boston College, where she was best friends and housemates with Patrick Uncle’s sister, Colleen. Colleen’s family lived in nearby Charlestown, and they adopted Uma Auntie. She and Patrick Uncle got to know each other over time, very slowly, very innocently, because traditional Indian thought dictated: Good Indian girls don’t date, nor do they choose their own husbands. And a well-bred, upper-caste Hindu girl choosing to marry out of caste, out of religion, out of country?
Baap ré.
Loose translation:
Oh, Lordy.

It was the double move, India to Boston, then Boston to D.C., that cemented the friendships of our parents. And for the mothers especially, having daughters within a year of each other. First came Preity (naturally), then me, then Rani. Growing up, we had a weekly playgroup. After we started grade school, our moms ditched us and lunched on their own. Always, our families gathered every month or two for a weekend shindig, and, often, we celebrated major holidays together. The “Indian friends circle” included others too, but our three families—Deshpandes, Chawlas, and McGuinesses—formed the core, a hub with spokes.

“Are Rani and her husband going to be here?” I ask. “Mom didn’t know, last we spoke. Something about a gallery exhibit?”

“Right, right,” Saroj Auntie says. “There was some mixup with dates and whatnot, but they worked it out. Uma Auntie and Patrick Uncle are flying out there, then everyone’s flying back here together in time for the holidays.”

“Good,” I say.
A buffer between Preity and me.

I was thrilled to learn from my mom that Rani’s recently gained commercial success with her modern adaptations of Warli art, a primitive Indian village style that resembles ancient hieroglyphics. Her husband’s kind of an odd duck, but then Rani’s always been on the eccentric side herself. He’s great for her, I hear.
A good catch,
my mother says, a marked change of tune, making me wonder if she means it as a passive-aggressive dig:
Even Rani, of all people, married better than you.

I remember when Rani first brought her then-boyfriend home from college for the holidays, something none of us ever dared: introducing a boyfriend/girlfriend to the Indian friends circle. The aunties and uncles still hadn’t recovered from her turning down Stanford for Berkeley (blamed on the American-heathen influence of Patrick Uncle, naturally) when she announced to a kitchen full of bug-eyed aunties, “He’s a computer geek, but he’s my geek, and I’m crazy about him.” Judging from their reactions, you would have thought she said, “That’s right! He’s great in the sack!” Never have I seen a group of women more in need of an economy-sized bottle of Valium. (Note: I wasn’t around to see my mom tell the aunties about Anthony and me.)

Together Saroj Auntie and I walk toward the arched entryway and walnut double doors. To the west, the cherry lollipop of the setting sun glows between the pine trees. My father planted the row of trees along the property line the summer before I went to college, each a wimpy Charlie Brown Christmas tree look-alike. Now, treetops soar above our two-story house, limbs intertwine, needles blanket the grassless ground, and the brisk scent of a forest perfumes the winter air.

So many years in the blink of an eye.

“Will you stay until the New Year?” Saroj Auntie asks as I ring the doorbell. I have a key, but it doesn’t feel right to use it.

“I’m not sure yet.” Depends on how long I can stand the whiplash between past and present, especially since my older brother Vivek won’t be here. He and his wife Anisha opted to spend this round of holidays with her family in Houston since they were here with his for Thanksgiving. Vivek is my parents’ favorite, by a long shot, which I would resent, except he’s my favorite family member, too.

“If I knew you were coming home, I would have brought your favorite
samosas
.”

“Oh, Auntie. Did you have to tell me? Now I’m craving them.”

She winks. “I’ll drop off a care package.”

My scowl turns upside-down, and my inner child emerges with a high-pitched “Thank you.” Just as I hug her, my mother opens the door.

My smile freezes. My entire face feels encased in a plaster cast.
The prodigal daughter returns
pops to mind but stops short of my mouth, for once.

The first thing I notice is that her hair is shorter, too. Short-short. And sassy. Very
unlike
her personality.

Saroj Auntie squeezes my shoulder. “Special delivery for Yashwant and Meenal Deshpande,” she says in a singsong voice. “Will you accept your parcel, madam?”

Lamely, I thrust out the roses, hoping she’ll see them for what they are, an olive branch. My hands keep steady—from my training—but inside I’m shaking, evidenced in my voice. “I-I was just in the neighborhood…”

My mother’s wide eyes mist, and her chin dimples like an orange peel.

My gut clenches in apprehension.
Don’t cry, Mom. Please don’t cry.
I can’t handle her tears. Never could. Growing up, the rare times I witnessed a single teardrop, I didn’t even have to know the cause to blubber right there on the spot.

Blinking, she takes my peace offering only to hand it off to Saroj Auntie, then locks her willowy arms around me in a tight embrace. She feels different somehow, I can’t pinpoint why, but she smells the same. Of clove shampoo and Johnson’s baby powder. Of warm cooking spices and sandalwood incense. Of
her
. Of
home
. And just like that, I remember every childhood injury she nursed, every boo-boo she kissed, every time she
was
there for me when I needed her. Blocking out the times she wasn’t, I close my eyes and hug her back.

She loves me, even if it doesn’t feel like it most of the time, even if I don’t live up to her unrelenting expectations. My mother loves me, and I love her.

Whatever else happens, I must not forget this moment.

Just because people don’t love you the way you want, doesn’t mean they don’t love you the best they can.

N
ine aunties turn out, a great showing for a weeknight, everyone comments. Though they’re as sweet and solicitous as ever to me on the surface, I catch their furrowed brows, their anxious glances between my mother and me. They seem to hover over her. More than just lending a helping hand. Protective. Worker bees guarding their queen.

Do they think she needs protection
from me
?

At the thought, I feel small, hurt,
guilty
. In their eyes, I’m the bad guy. The Bad Daughter. Outnumbered, I shrink from the crowd.

It’s my mother who rescues me, coming to stand beside me, the most popular girl in school befriending the outcast on the playground. Taking me under her wing, she rubs a hand over my back, eyes sparkling, nose wrinkling with her contagious smile.

“It’s so good to have you home,” she says, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Thanks, Mom.” My voice comes out hoarse, strained.
I’m sorry it took so long,
I want to say to her, but not with nine pairs of ears listening.

We stand like that a moment longer, an island in the Sea of Aunties, then she gives my arm a squeeze and asks, “Will you get the good silver, please?”

I nod, thankful for a task. From the china cabinet, I fetch eleven settings of heavy sterling plates, bowls, and cups, each engraved with
MEENAL DESHPANDE
and my parents’ wedding date. I stack them on a side counter in the kitchen while Saroj Auntie uses hot mitts to remove items from the double ovens, placing them on the granite island per my mother’s instructions.

“Smells wonderful, Meenal,” she says, lead vocalist in an echoing, appreciative chorus. You know it’s the truth when it comes from Saroj Auntie. Never one to give false compliments just to be polite, she has no qualms voicing a negative opinion, however unpopular. She can be blunt to the point of rude and flamboyant to the point of tacky, but she’s so charismatic you can’t help but love her. And she’s right about the incredible aroma….

Of course, we’ll have to air out the house, but if you’ve ever tasted Indian food, you know it’s worth it. Surveying the buffet, I forget all about
samosas
. Two appetizers. Three entrées. Four veggie dishes. A thick, hearty stew of
daal
—lentils. Picture-perfect, separated grains of buttery-nutty basmati rice—
basmati
means “queen of fragrance.” A tower of round, light-brown
chappatis
—soft, thin whole wheat griddle bread.