The Hindi-Bindi Club (22 page)

I believe Rani is
Ma
’s reincarnation. I believe she is destined to face in this lifetime the same tests she failed in the last. I believe that’s true of us all. Our eternal souls are reborn in different mortal bodies until we get it right.

Scoff if you must, but history has proven time and again that one person’s religion is another’s superstition, and one person’s superstition is another’s science. What’s truth and what’s
maya
—illusion? Time will tell.

Dearest Meenal and Saroj,

My apologies for not writing sooner. We had a great time in SF. Home now. Rani and Bryan are with us. Bryan must return to work after the New Year. I’m trying to convince Rani to stay through January since I’m on sabbatical next semester. Rani could use a sabbatical, too, and my project -- translating her grandmother’s writings -- might benefit her.

It’s so wonderful to have the kids home. I know we say this all the time, but it bears repeating: They grow up too fast! Wasn’t it just yesterday we were their age???

Warmest wishes,
Uma

Uma, YES!!!!! It is SO wonderful to have the kids home!!!:) Fingers crossed Rani will stay on thru January. Give her our love, and if you need any arm-twisting, just holler.

Meenal

Yes, they do grow up way too fast, yet in some ways, they remain children even as adults. Is it only because we’re their mothers that we see this???

Lately I’m afraid that in trying to protect my children from the ugliness I’ve seen in this world, I sheltered them too much.: (We came to this country to give our children better lives and opportunities than WE had in India, but there were trade-offs…

Despite my angel daughter’s vastly superior intelligence, her privileged education, and the enviable social charms that she gets from her mother (hahaha!), the little Disney Princess I brought up in this Land of Milk & Money is out of touch with reality sometimes. Certain “facts of life” elude her grasp. Nothing I say makes any difference. Sigh.

OK, different subject…Uma, what goodies shall I send for Rani? Kiran wanted samosas. How about Rani? Does she still like chickpeas? Preity ’s come up with another crazy culinary fusion, Chhole Caesar Salad (!). Rani might like it. Grated paneer in place of parm, too. Want to try it?

Chalo, back to work…

Saroj

Dearest Saroj,

I’ve been mulling over your email all afternoon. I understand all too well the frustration of trying to communicate a message that isn’t getting through. I also understand the helplessness of being unable to lock your precious princess up in her Ivory Tower and wear the key on your palloo like we could in India , so she doesn’t learn the hard way what a LONG drop down it is.

I tell myself that I can’t prevent Rani from getting hurt, but I can prepare her as best I can, and I can be there for her when it happens, as it inevitably will. I can be a safe place for her, always. Even if it’s just having a ready hug and a kiss and a shoulder to cry on. That’s what I did when she was 3, and I’m still doing it at 30.

All that said, I respectfully submit the following for your consideration:

1) “The Facts of Life” constitute material, physical reality;

2) Perhaps Preity ’s world view is the TRUTH, and yours is the ILLUSION.

Just something to ponder. And if you aren’t hurling rotten tomatoes at me, Rani says she’d LOVE to try Preity ’s Chhole Caesar Salad!

Yours affectionately,
Uma

Uma, before this year, I would have been first in line to throw rotten tomatoes. Today, you’ve managed to take my breath away. My dearest Bengali friend, you embody Gopal Krishna Gokhale’s: “What Bengal thinks today, the rest of India thinks tomorrow.”:)

For obvious reasons, I’ve thought a lot about “material, physical reality vs. ultimate reality” this year. The body and mind are conditioned/ contained by our physical reality (ILLUSION). The spirit is boundless, aware of all possibilities, the ultimate reality (TRUTH). Thus the saying, “From the mouths of babes…” Babies come to us unconditioned spirits. We condition them to our reality, but who is wiser to the TRUTH?

I’ll stop now, before Saroj thinks we’re ganging up on her.:)

Saroj, I’ve been trying to call you. Preity said you’re running errands. Either your cell phone is off, or you aren’t taking my calls. Hmmm…which is it?

Meenal

Uma, aren’t you the clever one? You KNEW I would throw rotten tomatoes if I HAD any, but since Chawla Catering uses only the freshest ingredients, you’re safe!! Hahaha!!

Meenal, sooo sorry I missed your call. I was at the supermarket and forgot to switch on my cell. Will try you later, traitor.;)

What’s one to do when her two best friends abandon her in samsara while they proceed to vanaprastha??

Saroj

Dearest Meenal, you’ve leapfrogged this Bengali. I hope you know what an inspiration you have been, and continue to be, to us all.

Dearest Saroj, you live it up, that’s what you do! And no one does it better than you -- you, too, are an inspiration to all -- so take a well-deserved bow!

Looking forward to celebrating another Happy New Year with you, my cherished friends,

Uma

Uma’s Ghee Bhat (Rice Pilaf with Clarified Butter)

SERVES 4–6

1½ cups basmati rice

¼ cup unsalted raw cashews

2 tablespoons ghee or unsalted butter or canola oil

¼ cup golden raisins

¾ teaspoon salt (adjust to taste)

2 bay leaves

8 whole green cardamom pods

½ teaspoon sugar (adjust to taste)

1 3-inch cinnamon stick

3 whole cloves

2¼ cups water

1. In a colander in the sink, rinse rice under tepid water until water runs clear.

2. Transfer rice to a bowl. Fill with cold water, submerging rice by 3 inches. Soak 30 minutes. Drain.

3. In a wok or deep 12-inch skillet, heat ghee over medium-low heat.

4. Add bay leaves, cardamom pods, cinnamon, and cloves. Sauté for 1 minute.

5. Add cashews and raisins. Sauté for a few seconds.

6. Stir in salt, sugar, and rice. Sauté until rice begins to brown, about 3 minutes.

7. Add water. Increase heat to high and bring to boil. Cover and reduce heat to low. Simmer until water is absorbed and rice is tender, about 15–20 minutes.

8. Sprinkle rice with warm melted ghee. Fluff grains with a fork, removing cloves and cardamom pods. Serve hot.

Ghee (Clarified Butter)

½ CUP

2 sticks unsalted butter

1. Cut butter into 1-inch slices.

2. In a heavy saucepan over medium heat, bring to a boil.

3. When foam covers butter, reduce heat to lowest possible setting.

4. Simmer, stirring occasionally, until butter separates into milky-white solids and fat, about 8 minutes.

5. Stir constantly until butter turns golden/translucent and sediment at bottom turns golden brown, about 3 minutes. When bubbling stops, remove from heat.

6. Line a colander with 4 layers of dampened cheesecloth. Place over a glass jar. Pour butter into cheesecloth, straining ghee from sediment. Discard sediment.

7. Repeat straining process until all sediment is extracted and discarded.

8. Store in glass jar or bottle with a shaker top.

Ghee keeps at room temperature for 2 months.

Kiran Deshpande: Happy New Year

A
t the Chawlas’ New Year’s Eve party, Sandeep Uncle meets and greets arriving guests at the door. Assorted kids shuttle coats upstairs. As my father helps my mother out of her coat, Preity appears at the top of the wide curving staircase.

“Meenal Auntie!” She picks up the hem of her full-length black velvet skirt and glides down to the foyer like royalty, jewels dripping from her earlobes, neck, and wrist, her arms extended to receive my mother. “You look beautiful! What a lovely
sari
!” gushes the Queen of Suck-Up.

My mother smiles, brown eyes sparkling under the crystal chandelier. “Do you like it?”

“I love it! Lavender is your color. Classy, like you.”

Barf tray. Stat.

Mom’s face goes all soft and mushy. “Still as sweet as ever, aren’t you?” She cups Preity’s cheeks with both hands, makes a kissing sound.

Chubby cheeks, I notice. Underneath her long flowing tunic and skirt, Little Miss Perfect’s becoming Little Miss Butterball. There
is
some justice in this world.

Preity drones on about the damn
sari
—you know, on the off chance her nose isn’t brown enough. “I’ve never seen this kind of print…”

“It’s a Rajasthani design called
bhandhani,
meaning tiedye. I’m told it’s made a recent comeback in popularity, all the rage these days.”

“Oooh, Meenal Auntie.” She winks. “You fashion diva, you.”

Mom laughs. “Right, that’s me. Fashion-Diva Auntie.”

Are we done yet?

I’m aware such immaturity on my part is highly unbecoming, especially for a woman of my age and (supposed) accomplishments, but there you have it. Preity Chawla Lindstrom brings out the worst in me. Always has. Always will.

My father and Sandeep Uncle have been chatting until now. Sandeep Uncle clears his throat and says, “Preity, aren’t you forgetting someone?” He gives my father a He-Man clap on the back.

Preity flashes her orthodontically impeccable Miss World smile, her arms outstretched. “I can never forget you, Yash Uncle.”

I’m next in her reception line. Still hugging my father, she meets my eyes, smiles, raises a hand in greeting. I do the same, forcing my smile to stay in place. Our turn comes. With the parental units watching us expectantly, we shuffle toward each other, exchange perfunctory stiff hugs and stiffer small talk.

“So good to see you,” she says.

“You, too. Is Rani here yet?”

“Downstairs. You have to see the new dance floor.”

“That’s right. I heard.”

“Tarun and his roommate are deejays for the night.”

With the lull in arriving guests, Sandeep Uncle asks Preity to take over meet-and-greet duty and turns to my parents. “Come, we’ll leave the girls to catch up.”

Thanks, Sandeep Uncle. I owe you one.

“What are you drinking tonight?” he asks. “Meenal, I have San Pellegrino just for you.” He wedges between my parents and drapes a casual arm around my mother.

She turns as if to say something to me or Preity, breaking the contact. She opens her mouth, pauses, gestures
never mind,
and smiles sweetly. Turning back, she tucks her hand into the crook of my dad’s arm and glides into step with him.

“Smooth,” Preity says with admiration.

I nod. “Very smooth.”

“Meenal Auntie hasn’t lost her touch.”

“Neither has Sandeep Uncle.”

Everyone knows that Sandeep Uncle’s an incorrigible flirt. He’s the ham of the Indian friends circle. My mother, however, is the Guru of Covert Evasion.

“Remember that plaque in Uma Auntie’s kitchen?” Preity says. “From Patrick Uncle’s sister?
‘Irish Diplomacy: The ability to tell a man to go to hell in such a way that he looks forward to making the trip.’
Meenal Auntie must’ve been Irish in a former life.”

Isn’t it interesting to see how others view your parents? Not often the way you do. I wonder, if my parents saw me in my element—my world, not theirs—would they, too, notice the difference in the way others view me? My father, especially….

A (balding) Nordic God materializes at Preity’s side. He sports a red-and-black sweater and black slacks and appears as though he’s stepped out of the pages of a J. Crew catalog. “Hi, you must be Kiran.” He puts one arm around Preity. With the other, he offers a hand to me.

“And you must be Ken—er,
Eric
. I knew that, sorry.” I thump the side of my head before shaking his hand. “Too many names on the brain at these parties.”

“Yeah, no kidding. Preity tells me when in doubt, just say Uncle and Auntie.” He smiles. Nice smile. Confident handshake. Strong without breaking my hand. “Nice to finally meet you.”

“Same here.”
Thank you for not saying you’ve heard a lot about me.

“Mommy! Mommy!” A little boy runs up and wraps himself around Preity’s legs. He wears spiffy black-and-cream cotton
kurta-pajamas
embroidered with red, green, and gold threads. Jumping, he says, “I want jingle bells, too!”

“You can’t,” says a little girl in a watermelon-pink-and-green-apple
ghagara-choli
. “You’re a
boy
.” She wears a dozen glass bangles and silver anklets with bells. Her French braid bounces as she hops, jostling her arms and tinkling with every move.

“Lina, be nice to your brother. Don’t worry, bud. We’ll figure something out. I’ll bet
Nanaji
can rig his wind chimes for you. Eric, will you get Dad for me, please? I think he’s downstairs. Tell him Jack and I require his services A.S.A.P.”

“You bet.” Eric takes off.

Lina’s brows perk up with interest as she looks after her father. “Wind chimes?”

“It’s for boys,” Jack says. “Not girls.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yeah-huh.”

“Mommy.”
Both turn to Preity for backup.

“Enough,” Preity says. “Lina, you already jingle. Jack, you’re
going
to jingle. Now, if you two can’t be nice to each other, I’m going to take away
all
the jingles from both of you. Understand?” They nod, eyes wide. “No more whining?” More nodding. “Okay, how about you show some manners, then? Say hello to Kiran Auntie.”

My hand flutters to my throat. “
Kiran Auntie
…Wow…”

Preity laughs. “First time you’re hearing that?” At my nod, she says, “You get used to it. But, yeah, I remember the first time I heard
Preity Auntie
. Right up there with being called
ma’am
for the first time. Makes you want to reach for your walking stick and Centrum Silver, doesn’t it?”

“
Auntie
’s not so bad.
Ma’am
definitely gave me the heebie-jeebies.” I shudder and rub my arms. “But
auntie
has a ring to it. Kiran Auntie…” I test it out. Let it roll off my tongue. “Kiran Auntie…”

“Kiran Auntie!” Lina says.

“Kiran Auntie!” Jack joins in.

My heart turns over. Squeezes painfully. Her children are precious; her husband still looks at her like she’s a svelte sex kitten when she’s obviously battling the bulge (and losing). I may have to kill her. I’m a doctor; I know of many ways. Fast and painless. Long and agonizing. Untraceable…

Sandeep Uncle comes around the corner, dangling wind chimes, and the kids squeal and take off with grandpa, leaving Preity and me staring at each other again.

That’s two I owe you, Sandeep Uncle.

“Kiran, I…” From Preity’s tone alone, I don’t like where this is going. “I just heard about Meenal Auntie. I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I didn’t know what to say when I saw her, thought I’d better ask you before I stuck my foot in my mouth. Should I say something to her or avoid the topic?”

“Avoid it tonight,” I say. “But give her a call before you leave. She’d like that.”

Preity nods. “I would have called you. If I’d known.”

“That’s probably why no one told you, either.”

“Kiran, I…” She frowns and takes a breath.

Please, no. Whatever it is, just keep it to yourself.

“I know we never really got along,” she says, “but I’m hoping we can move past that. You know,
we’re
aunties now.”

Read: We shouldn’t still behave as children.

“If there’s anything I can do…Anything at all…” Preity reaches out, squeezes my arm.

Cooties!
I want to shriek and run from the room.

“I’m here,” she says. “I want you to know that.”

Can I just say sympathy from a rival, even a childhood rival, is the pits? It is. The absolute pits. And it sucks that much worse when it’s genuine, from the heart. As with Preity. The bitch. Why can’t she lower herself, stoop to my level? Is it too much to ask for her to be catty like other estrogen-charged females? How the hell am I supposed to fight with someone who won’t fight me back? What kind of lame-ass rivalry is that? Does she care nothing for tradition?

“Thanks,” I mumble.

“Oh, there’s Tarun!” Preity flags down her brother. “T, look who’s here!”

“Hey! Kiran!”

“Hey yourself, Little T!”

“Not so little anymore.” He scoops me off the ground, my legs dangling. “Six foot.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “You’ll always be little in my book.”

He laughs. “Like Little John. He wasn’t little, either.”

“Exactly.”

“T, are you headed down? Will you show Kiran the new digs?” Preity preempts my own request. “And see if you can find Rani. Go on, I’ll catch up. I’m going to see if Mom needs any help….”

Grateful for the opportunity to exit stage left, I toss a glance over my shoulder. “See you…”
Wouldn’t want to
be
you,
I think, wrapping my immaturity around me, a ratty, moth-eaten security blanket. But of course that’s a lie—that I wouldn’t want to be Preity—always has been, always will be.

T
he Chawlas finished their huge walk-out basement this year and relocated the traditional dance floor downstairs. Out the sliding glass door, a heated tent covers the brick patio and Saroj Auntie’s lavish buffet. Tarun and roommate Jeb, a law school buddy, are in charge of tunes. In addition to
bhangra
—hip Indian dance music, kinda like Indian disco—they lined up music videos to show on the (new) projection and wide-screen televisions. Little T tells me they made a mix of MTV, VH-1, and
filmi
videos (song-and-dance numbers from Bollywood musicals). Add to this, flashing colored and strobe lights. All that’s missing is a disco ball.

When she spots me, Rani screams. Runs over. Throws her arms around my neck. Kisses me soundly on the cheek. On her breath, I smell a hint of peppermint.

“Schnapps?” I ask.

“Yep,” she says. “Preity spiked a thermos of hot chocolate. Want some?”

“Not yet, thanks.”

“I was freezing when I got here. Now I’m broiling. But enough about me. What’s this I hear about an arranged second marriage?”

I laugh. “
Semi
-arranged, and why am I not surprised you already heard?”

“Word travels fast on the Hindi-Bindi Express.”

“Does it ever!”

“So tell, tell.” Rani wiggles her fingers. “Give up the goods. Inquiring minds want to know and all. Details, woman.”

I grasp her fingers. “Later, later.”

“Fine. Make me wait. But it’s gonna cost you. Come on, let’s dance.” She tugs my hand.

“Oh, no.” I snatch back my hand. “Nonono. Where’s your darling husband?”

“Upstairs, losing his darling shirt at
teen pathi
.” (The Indian equivalent of poker.) She takes aim for my hand again, but I’m faster.

“Rani, you know I don’t—”

“You’re going to tonight. I won’t take no for an answer. We already have your mom and my dad holding up the wall. That wall doesn’t need any more help, believe me.”

Sure enough, my mom and Patrick Uncle have assumed their customary positions, standing against the wall and chatting. Rani takes me by the arm and drags me onto the dance floor, shaking her hips and pointing her index fingers in the air (I wasn’t kidding about the disco reference) to the beat of some incomprehensible Hindi song.

Rani’s always had amazing rhythm. And I’ve always had an amazing lack thereof.

You won’t see dancing at our house. My parents are sedate people; Deshpande parties are sedate affairs. But Saroj Auntie and Sandeep Uncle are as over-the-top as my parents are sticks-in-the-mud. Auntie and Uncle embody
masti,
as they call it. A zest for life.

“Rani, I can’t dance like this.”

“You can, and you will.”

“It’s not in my genetic code.”

“You do
not
want to get into nature versus nurture with me. You will not win. Now, watch. I had private lessons with Saroj Auntie earlier.” She demonstrates dance steps. “Imagine you’re picking up fairy dust and tossing it. Pick it up. Toss it.” She gestures with a dainty flourish of her hands. “Pick up. Toss. See. Easy. You try.”

“Maybe after a drink, or three—”

“Would you stop with the analysis-paralysis and just do it with me? Come on. Gather, sprinkle. Gather, sprinkle. Wheee! Isn’t it a trip?”

I flip her the bird as I try not to trip over my own feet.

Right foot crosses left. Stomp. Pretend to pick up fairy dust on left.

Uncross. Stomp. Pretend to sprinkle fairy dust high into the air to your right.

“There you go…That’s it…Accentuate your fingers…Good…Now, to the beat…”

Beat-beat. Beat-beat. Pick-up. Toss-out.

I smile through my teeth. “I hate you, you know.”

“I know.” She puckers her lips, blows me a kiss.

Rani McGuiness Tomashot was the girl who could sell, or at least rent, a native New Yorker the Brooklyn Bridge.

And I don’t remember the last time I had such a blast.

Uma Auntie comes up to us. “Hello, girls. Having fun, I see. Glad you came, hmmm?” she asks Rani in a rhetorical tone.