The Hindi-Bindi Club (31 page)

Dearest Meenal,

I’m delighted to report that I have a groom candidate to submit for your consideration! Shall I give you details in e-mail, or on the phone? I would love to chat if you have time.

Rani and I arrived safely in Kolkata. Her jet lag isn’t too bad. Mine’s worse. Old age…grumble, grumble.

Interestingly, Rani’s asthma has returned. She jokes that she’s allergic to Kolkata since we were here when her childhood attacks started. The doctor’s seen her, and she’s now well-armed with inhaler/nose spray/meds.

While I have nothing against Western medicine, when necessary, being back in the East, I find myself thinking like an Indian again. East and West are like our right and left hands, don’t you think? I’m wondering if air quality ’s the only factor at work here, and if it wouldn’t be prudent to consider others…

Affly,
Uma

Anandita’s Alu-Phulkopir Dalna
(Potato-Cauliflower Curry)

SERVES 6

2-inch piece of fresh ginger root, peeled

2 teaspoons coriander powder

1 teaspoon cumin powder

1¼ cups water, divided

3 tablespoons mustard oil, divided, or canola oil

4 cups cauliflower florets, leaves removed

2 cups quartered potatoes, skins removed

1 tablespoon ghee or unsalted butter, plus more for serving

¹
/
₈
teaspoon cumin seeds

2 bay leaves

1 2-inch cinnamon stick

2 green cardamom pods, bruised

2 whole cloves

½ teaspoon cayenne powder

½ teaspoon turmeric powder

salt (to taste)

sugar (to taste)

1. In a blender or food processor, combine ginger root, coriander powder, cumin powder, and 2 tablespoons water. Purée to a smooth paste. Set aside.

2. In a wok or deep 12-inch skillet, heat 2 tablespoons oil over medium-high heat.

3. Add cauliflower. Stir-fry until florets begin to brown. Remove with a slotted spoon. Set aside on plates covered with paper towels to drain.

4. In the same skillet, heat another 1 tablespoon oil. Add potatoes. Stir-fry until golden brown. Remove with slotted spoon. Set aside on plates covered with paper towels to drain.

5. In the same skillet, heat ghee on medium heat. Add cumin seeds, bay leaves, cinnamon, cardamom, and cloves. Stir-fry 2–3 minutes. If necessary, add 1 tablespoon water to keep from scorching.

6. Stir in cayenne, turmeric, and coriander paste. Sauté 3–5 minutes.

7. Add cauliflower, potato, and 1 cup water. Mix well.

8. Increase heat to medium-high. Bring to a boil.

9. Reduce heat to medium. Cover and simmer, stirring occasionally—gently, so that the potatoes and cauliflower florets remain intact—until vegetables soften, leaving a little gravy.

10. Remove from heat. Remove and discard bay leaves, cinnamon, cardamom, and cloves.

11. Drizzle with ghee, salt, and sugar to taste. Eat with luchis or ghee bhat.

Meenal Deshpande: A Suitable Boy

“M
om, I have a problem,” Kiran says, calling from Georgia. “Are you alone?”

“One minute,” I say. I just finished yoga—I can now raise my arms over my head, palms together, for sun salutes!—and was about to join
Ai
and
Baba
downstairs for a little stroll in the
baag
when my cell phone burst into song. With all these mobiles ringing all the time, you need a unique ring tone to know which one is yours. I chose a tune from
Star Wars,
not the main one, that’s too popular, but another.

I duck into an empty bedroom and close the door. “Okay. What’s wrong,
pillu
?”

“Well, to start, it didn’t work out with Nikhil Tipnis.”

I shut my eyes. Lean my back against the door. Swallow my disappointment. The latest of many. After so many promising starts, we’ve hit one dead end after another. Either Kiran doesn’t like the boy enough to proceed, or he doesn’t like her enough, or both. Her father said, “She’s too fussy. A spoiled American with so many options she can’t make up her mind. A closet full of clothes and nothing to wear. But can we, her parents, choose for her, put an end to this nonsense? No. I tell you, we should have moved back to India, married her off when we had the chance.”

God, give me the strength to keep this family together. I can’t do it alone.

I sit on the side of the king-sized bed, ease my spine one vertebra at a time until I’m lying on my back, my legs hooked over the edge of the bed, my bare feet on the cool white ceramic tile. The ceiling fan, on the lowest mouse-power setting, stirs the dry air ever so softly. Later, it will die for three hours, our daily scheduled power cut—load-sharing to supply the rural areas with free electricity.

“What happened?” I ask my daughter.
Why didn’t this one work?

“We didn’t click,” she says. “At all. I’m sorry, Mom—”

“Me, too. But are you sure, Kiran? Maybe you should give it more time before you write him off? It’s only been, what…? A month?”

“Five weeks.”

“Five weeks, then, since John introduced you…. Is that enough—?”

“Yes.”

“You could grow on each other.”

“We did. I mean, not—” Kiran exhales into the receiver. “Nik and I would only grow on each other’s nerves, Mom.”

I cluck my tongue, unable to hide my disappointment. “He was my favorite. He sounded
so
good, so perfect for you—”

“On paper, yes. But only on paper. He’s a great guy, no doubt about it, but for someone else, not for me. He felt the same about me. Believe me, we tried. We really did. We knew how thrilled the families would be, how thrilled
we’d
be, if it worked. We gave it our best shot, but we just couldn’t connect. There was no mental spark.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. When you connect with someone, you know it. And when you don’t, you know that, too. Nik and I ran out of things to say after ten minutes. It was a constant struggle to come up with conversation topics that interested both of us. If we bore each other already, where would we go from here?”

“But what about your shared heritage? That’s a connection.”

“It’s not enough. There has to be more. Shared heritage can be a good start. I see how it gives people a shortcut to narrow the field, find some common ground, but it still boils down to personality types and how they mesh. Goals. Values. Interests. Priorities. Like you said, compatibility.”

“Okay, Kiran.” What can I do? “If you’re
that
sure…”

“I’m
that
sure.”

“And it was mutual?”

“Very.”

“Then that’s that.” Another one bites the dust. I lay the back of my hand over my forehead. “I’ll break the news to John. He just phoned. He’s on his way over—”

“He knows. Actually, that’s the problem, Mom. See, um…John and I were emailing, and…Are you sitting down? You might want to sit—”

“I don’t like the sound of this.”

“Please sit—”

“I’m lying flat on my back. Do you want me to get up?”

“No. That’s good. Stay like that.”

I wait. Silence. “Kiran, tell me what happened and tell me quickly. He’ll be here any second.”
What kind of mess do I have to clean up?
“You didn’t get in an argument, did you? Over this Nik business? Is John upset?”

“No…He…I…”

The doorbell rings. “He’s here.”

“I love him.”

“We all do—”

She groans. “Let me talk, Mom. I’m trying to tell you I’m
in love
with him.”

“Oh, God.” I bolt upright. My head swims. “John? We’re talking about
John
here? Texas John?”

“Yes, Mom. And he’s in love with me, too.”

“Oh, God.” I fall back down. “But…? How…? What…?” I can’t form a coherent thought, let alone put words together. “Maddie,” I manage to say. “What about
Madelline
?”

“It’s been three years. He went to the Taj. He said his good-byes. It was beautiful…difficult, but cathartic. He’ll love her forever, but she’s moved on, and he’s ready now, too. To live. The rest of
his
life. With me.”

“Oh, God.” I draw my knees to my chest. Stare at a crack in the ceiling.
“How did this happen?”
I ask the universe more than Kiran, but she’s the one who answers me.

“It snuck up on us,” she says. “Neither of us expected it. We were trading emails just as friends, nothing more. Then, we started talking on the phone. Again, just friends. No agenda. But the more we talked, the more we found we liked each other. And the more we got to know each other, the more compatible we realized we are.”

“You and
John
…?” My voice sounds hollow to my own ears, as if someone else is speaking, not me.

“Like I said, when you connect with someone, you know it,” Kiran says, “and John and I connect on multiple levels. We’ve emailed or talked every day for five weeks. No matter how long, or how often, we never get bored with each other. Even when we talk about really boring things. How do I explain it? We don’t constantly have to be ‘on’ to enjoy each other. There isn’t any pressure to put our best foot forward. Our attachment feels…well, normal. Natural. I’ve never felt so in synch with another person. Even when we argue. And you know me, so that’s saying
a lot
.” She laughs.

I open my mouth, but no words come out.

Kiran continues, “Before, I always thought love was enough. I thought it was everything, the be-all, end-all of a successful marriage. Now I get what you mean about compatibility. Anthony and I may have loved each other, but we didn’t share the same values. John and I do. He’s The One, Mom. The one I’ve been waiting for. The one I want to marry. He’s going to ask your permission today—”

“Today?”
My heart lodges in my throat. “It’s only been
five weeks
!”

“And how long did you and Dad know each other before you agreed to marry?”

“You can’t compare yourself to your father and me—”

“Why not?
You
always have.”

“Don’t get fresh with me, young lady. You’re talking to your mother, not your girlfriend.”

“I’m sorry. I—”

“You haven’t even seen each other.”

“We’ve exchanged photos. Lots of—”

“You haven’t met
in person,
Kiran.”

“But
you
have.
You
made the introductions.”

I cover my eyes.
Yash is going to kill me.

“Do you think physical attraction’s going to be an issue, for either of us?” Kiran asks.

No.
I bite my lip.
That’s not the point….

When I don’t reply, she says, “Neither do we. Don’t you see, Mom? It’s just like a traditional arranged marriage…”

Not
just
.

Nausea churns my stomach. I feel seasick, not unlike how I felt during chemo. I hug my knees with one arm. Roll onto my side. “Your father isn’t going to see it that way,” I whisper.

The unspoken shrieks across the miles.
John isn’t Indian.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Kiran says in a shaky voice. “I don’t want to go down the same road with you and Dad again. It was too hard, for all of us. I don’t know what to do, Mom.”

You and me both,
pillu.

I
take John by the arm and lead him out the door, making excuses to my confused parents. I hail an auto-rickshaw, hop inside, not bothering to barter on the fare into town.

“Kiran told you,” John says as we rumble down the street.

“Yes, she did.”

“You’re in shock.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You want to put me in cement
chappals
.”

“I’m thinking about it.”

The driver flies over a speed bump, jarring our spines. John reprimands him in Marathi before I can, then continues speaking in Marathi to me, but I shake my head.

“Not today, John,” I say. “Today, we speak in English.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says.

We go to Saffron restaurant in Chandani Chauk. I wait until we order, then grill John.

“You don’t know what we’ve been through with Kiran.”

“I have an idea.”

“I don’t mean to sound rude, John, but you and I need to have a frank discussion here.”

“I understand, ma’am.”

Everything I tell him about Anthony he’s already heard from Kiran. I don’t enjoy enumerating her faults, but full disclosure is compulsory. “My daughter is very stubborn,” I say. “And sarcastic. She argues for the sake of arguing. She can be difficult at times, and she’ll try your patience regularly.”

“Umm-hmm.” He grins. “Never a dull moment.”

Never a moment’s peace,
I was thinking. “Often, she gets an idea in her head and won’t let it go. She can be like a dog with a bone.”

John nods. “Been there, experienced that.”

He isn’t surprised by anything I tell him. I don’t get it. “Answer me this, John,” I say. “
Why
do you want to marry Kiran?”

“She makes me laugh. She’s tough, but not as tough as she wants people to think. A paper tiger. She’s sensitive, though she tries hard to hide it. She’s smart and makes
no
attempt to hide that. She’s passionate. Focused. Loyal. Maternal. You want me to go on?”

“Yes. Please.”

“We both fell in love with pianists…”

As I listen to him, I see that for every negative quality, he has a positive interpretation. He assures me he’s committed to working through the challenges they are certain to have. He had a
very
successful marriage, and he knows how to have them.

“John, you know more about Indian culture than Kiran does. I’m not discounting that. But it’s one thing to live with an Indian family as a paying guest and another to marry into one. You have no idea what you’re getting into, what marrying into another culture entails.”

“That’s not true—with all due respect, ma’am.” John takes out his wallet. “We have an expression in Texas.
This ain’t my first rodeo.
” He hands me a photograph of a pretty Asian girl sitting at a grand piano, her slender ankles crossed, a single long-stemmed red rose in her delicate hands. “That’s my Maddie,” he says. “Madelline Chang Cooper. Her parents emigrated from Korea. Maddie was first-generation American, too.”

I cover my open mouth. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. “John, you never fail to surprise me….”

His ears turn pink. “Thank you, ma’am. I think.” He rubs the back of his neck.

“It’s definitely a compliment.” I hand back Maddie’s photo. “May I speak with the Changs about you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And your parents? Have you told them your intentions?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What do they think?”

“They’re nervous but keeping open minds. They’re anxious to meet Kiran. Mostly, they’re happy I’m happy again. They watched me bury Maddie. They know…” His voice thickens, and he clears his throat. “They know me.”

If we were in the States, I would reach across the table and pat his hand. But here, it’s not proper to touch in public, so I smile my empathy and hope he understands.

“As you know, Indians commonly consult astrologers,” I say. “Would you mind if we arranged for your chart?”

“No, ma’am.” He provides all the necessary details.

I close my eyes. Draw a long, slow breath through my nose. Fill my lungs. Release at the same pace. Open my eyes. “I’ll talk to Kiran’s father.”

Through the blue windowpanes of his eyes, I see his relief. “Thank you, ma’am. I swear, you won’t regret—”

“Don’t thank me yet,” I say. “This isn’t going to be easy. For me, or for you.”

Texas John just grins and says, “Nothing worth having ever is.”

“W
hat?”
Yash barks into the phone. “No Indian boy is good enough for this
maharani
?”

“It’s not that,” I say, but I’m not even going to
attempt
to have this discussion over the phone. Yash will not listen. This is where Kiran gets her stubbornness. Her father. He and Kiran lock horns precisely because in this one aspect, they’re exactly alike. Neither will back down; each needs to have the last word.

“You tell me she’s grown in the past five years,” Yash says. “What grown-drone is this?
Kamaal aahé.
”

“Come to India, Yash,” I say in as soothing a tone as I can. “Meet John for yourself.”

“Why should I come there? He should come here. And why should I waste my time meeting someone even Kiran hasn’t met? How do we know they’ll still want to marry after they see each other? They might take one look and say no way. God, I tell you, Meenal, this daughter of yours is going to give me a heart attack!” I know what’s coming next; I mouth it along with my husband: “And send me to an early death, just like my father!”

He said this in his twenties; he says it in his sixties. Watch now, he’ll outlive Kiran and Vivek.