The Hindi-Bindi Club (34 page)

She predicts if Kiran’s
really
serious about wanting to marry this Texas John—that’s what our moms call him—and he’s
really
serious about marrying her, it’ll happen. Yash Uncle will realize the train’s leaving the station with or without him. Either he gets on board, or waves good-bye from the platform. This time forever.

I’m not so sure. Kiran and Meenal Auntie have worked really hard at their relationship, getting it back on track after a near-fatal derailment. Kiran’s realized the perils of solo travel, and Meenal Auntie and Yash Uncle are a joint ticket. “Plus, after all poor Meenal Auntie’s been through with her cancer, Kiran won’t do anything to unduly upset her.”

“Neither will Yash Uncle,” Preity says. “He worships the ground she walks on. Did you see how he kept checking in with her at the New Year’s party?”

“That was sweet,” I agree.

“So, if Kiran defers to her mom this time, and Yash Uncle defers to his wife this time, then…”

“The buck stops at Meenal Auntie.”

We spend the next hour speculating and gossiping. What’s going to happen when Kiran and John see each other in person? When and where will they meet? How can they stand to wait? If it works out, where would their wedding take place? Indian or American style? Hindu, Christian, or secular? How would they raise their children?

“Eeek! Listen to us,” Preity says. “We sound like
them
!”

I gasp. “Not
them
! Say it isn’t so! Horror of horrors! Have we become our mothers?”

“They warned us it would happen one day.”

“I never believed them. Did you?”

“Heck, no. Old wives’ tale,” Preity says. “Nothing more.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Urban myth.”

Preity clears her throat. “I won’t tell if you don’t tell.”

“Tell what? Who is this? Do I know you?”

“Sorry. Wrong number. Hanging up now…”

O
n an evening stroll along the Maidan, Mom and
Mashi
eating
misti dohi
—jaggery-sweetened yogurt—from disposable terra-cotta bowls, while I had to pass on this and all other oh-so-tempting snacks from street vendors, my mother commented, “It’s terrific to see all the progress, the Indian economy taking off in leaps and bounds.”

“For the middle-class only,
Sejdi
—”

“Mostly, yes, but not exclusively. Remember when we were young? Servants wore torn clothes, no shoes. They barely had enough food to fill their bellies. What leftovers we gave them each day, they took home, so their children wouldn’t go hungry. Fast forward to the present, look at Mrs. Chaudhury’s
ayah
—”

“
Ayah
’s educated.”

Mom acceded this point and switched her case study to the maid who worked part-time for
Mashi,
full-time for Mrs. Ray on the second floor. The maid wore decent
saris
and
chappals
. Her children were clothed, fed, sheltered, schooled—even her girl who was fourteen, which
never
happened in the old days. There was every chance they wouldn’t grow up to be servants like their parents. Regardless, they had more choice in the matter, better opportunities than previous generations. True, the maid earned a pittance, but she and her chauffeur husband together made enough to support family here and in their native Bihari village. Mr. and Mrs. Ray paid their big-ticket expenses like medical bills, tuition, wedding expenses. It
was
progress.

Anandita-
mashi
argued the progress was disproportionate and made her case for a more equitable distribution of wealth, more benefits trickling down to those with the greatest need.

The two of them started debating, hot and heavy, I jumped into the fray, and the three of us had a rip-roaring, Bengali-style
adda
. We agreed on the “end” goal, disagreed on the “means” to achieve it. I wore the capitalist hat, Mom the socialist,
Mashi
the Marxist/communist.

After stimulating my cranium, I felt winded, yet energized. Invigorated, clearheaded, revitalized. Exactly the way I felt after a good run.

My runner’s high was back!

M
y mother had piles of papers, stacked and spread, all over our room. She was trying to get a bird’s-eye, big-picture visual of the body of my grandmother’s work, to see how best to organize it. Randomly, I picked up one of the tablets, flipped through some pages, and shrugged. “It’s all Bengali to me,” I joked, unable to read the Bengali script.

Mom patted a spot next to her on the bed. “Come. I’ll translate for you. She opens with a quote from Tagore.” Mom read first in Bengali, then provided the English translation:

Let me not look for allies in life’s battlefield,

But to my own strength.

Let me not crave in anxious fear to be saved,

But for the patience to win my freedom.

I listened, fascinated, exploring the hidden terrain of my grandmother’s heart. Like me, she suffered clinical depression. Unlike me, they didn’t know what it was back then and labeled her a madwoman, among other asinine things. Because she died when Mom and her sisters were little, she was always something of an enigma, which made the heirlooms she passed down even more precious, nothing more precious than
her words
.

Until then, everything I knew about my grandmother I’d been told secondhand. That was the first time I heard straight from the source. And wow, the power of that voice! I could hear her speak, her voice resonating deep inside me. Her handwriting seemed to pulse with life, breathing for her long after she’d stopped breathing for herself. Her handwriting often changed, sometimes on the same page, her pen strokes fanciful, crisp and clean, cramped, shaky. She crossed out words, sometimes whole lines of prose. Thinking of all my botched attempts and false starts this year, I understood. I could visualize myself in her place. Correcting. Tweaking. Ripping entire pages out of the tablets. Tearing them up. Starting over.

She wrote for herself, diarylike, about her life. An intimate view of a private world inside her head that no one knew, and no one cared to know. Recurring themes: unrequited love, unfulfilled desire, competition, failure, death.

There’s such passion in her voice. Such intensity in her emotions, high and low. Vivid word pictures transported me to another world. I was right there, in her skin, breathing her breath. I saw what she saw. Smelled it. Heard it. Felt it. Tasted it. Mundane details, like the tiny brushstrokes of Impressionist painting, added up to a haunting portrait of a woman I never met.

A familiar stranger…

Just like that, my nose started to tingle. Then the backs of my arms and thighs. I knew that tingling. Slowly, I pulled myself upright as if chasing a sneeze.
Ahhh…? Ahhh…?
Oh, come on…
Ahhh-choo!
“Hey, Mom? Wouldn’t it be cool if your anthology had Bengali script on the left page, and the English, or Hindi, or whatever other language translation on the right? You keep talking about the importance of preserving regional languages, making them accessible outside the region. Why not make a bilingual, or trilingual, anthology? And…Ooooh…How about illustrations? Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Once I started talking, I couldn’t stop. The ideas came. They came and came and came.

W
hen I got back to San Francisco, I could tell something was up with Bryan, so I wasn’t surprised when he said, “Rani, we need to talk.”

Patience does not rank high on my list of virtues. “What’s wrong? Who died? Is there someone else? Who is it? I’ll kill her. Or him. You aren’t…?
Are you?
”

“No one died. There’s no one else. And no, I’m not.” He wiped a hand over his brow. “Whew! Thanks for putting things into perspective. Suddenly, investing in a computer animation start-up and relocating to Bangalore for a few years isn’t the
most
life-altering thing that could happen to us.”

“What???”

As he filled me in on a proposal that had fallen into his lap just that week, I drank in a sight I hadn’t seen in a long time: the big, dorky grin I fell in love with. His
masti
!

In a nutshell: Bangalore is India’s Silicon Valley and hometown of Bryan’s college buddy and fellow computer genius, Rajesh. The start-up, Rajesh’s brainchild, was seeking venture capital to create high-tech animated films. Think:
Shrek, Toy Story,
and
Monsters, Inc
. Except:
Indian
stories for
Indian
markets. Dubbed in English, Hindi, and the regional Indian languages. New markets. New opportunities. New jobs here, there, anywhere Rajesh finds the talent.

“Would you have any interest—?”

“Is the Pope Catholic?” I pounced on him like a puppy, knocking him over and showering his face with kisses. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes…”

He laughed. “Wow, absence really does make the heart grow fonder…. Feel free to go to Kolkata with your mother
anytime
.”

We stayed up until dawn talking and laughing and dreaming….

Before, I never understood how my mother found the courage to leave the world she knew behind. Now I get it. Very simply, she had a dream she couldn’t realize at home, so she went where it took her, to the Land of Opportunity.

As the world’s economies grow, so do Lands of Opportunity, benefiting
all
the world’s people.

Hello, chickies! Salutations from Bangalore! How ’s life there? Soggy here, but drying out. Pics attached. As you can see, our apartment rocks! The whole building/city does! Just the nicest, coolest people. And having a domestic staff (that looooves us firangis!) doesn’t suck. We expected to be more homesick, but we actually see/call/email family and friends MORE now that we’re farther away. No one visits the other side of the world for a weekend, ya know. They camp out for weeks/months! Thank God I have domestic help…the “hostess with the most-est” I am NOT! And: Good Darn Thing we’re moving BACK in 2 yrs cuz I’m seeing waaaay too much mother-in-law!! You’d think the monsoon would keep/scare her away, but nooooo!!

Now, since I’m not only after Preity ’s“Multitasking Goddess” crown, BUT counting down the days to ***A Certain Someone’s*** wedding, AND practicing scriptwriting for “Raj-Rani Animated Pictures” (!!!), check out a warm-up exercise I wrote today…Kiran, love, did I forget anything from our conversation?

XOXOXO,
Rani

RANI: (smug but in a cute, endearing way) You’re talking to the new part-owner of a computer animation start-up!

KIRAN: (gasps) I don’t believe it! How
perfect
!

RANI: Scary-perfect. I almost fell to my knees and kissed the ground. It’s stuff like this…invitations that fall into your lap…synchronicity…that pre vents me from being a card-carrying atheist, keeping me solidly in Camp Agnostic.

KIRAN: I’m so happy for you!

RANI: Thanks, babe. I’m pretty stoked for you and me both. So, hey, can I ask you a personal question?

KIRAN: How personal?

RANI: Have you and John had phone sex?

KIRAN: No comment.

RANI: Cybersex?

KIRAN: No comment.

RANI: (laughing) I knew it…

Anandita’s Shukto
(Bitter & Sweet Mixed Veggies)

SERVES 6–8

VEGETABLES:

1 medium eggplant

1 cup chopped bitter gourd or 1 cup chopped kale or Swiss chard or collard greens

1 plantain or green banana, peeled and sliced

1 cup sliced radish

2 medium tomatoes, diced

1 cup sweet potato, peeled

1 medium potato, peeled

1 cup baby lima beans

1 cup sliced carrots, peeled

1 cup cauliflower

2 tender drumstick bean pods,* or 8 asparagus spears

SPICES:

2 tablespoons poppy seeds, divided

1½
tablespoons mustard seeds, divided

2-inch piece of fresh ginger root, peeled and chopped

¼ cup canola oil, divided

¾
teaspoon paanch phoron (Bengali five-spice)

2 bay leaves

1 cup coconut milk

1 teaspoon ghee or butter

salt (to taste)

sugar (to taste)

1. In a small bowl of warm water, soak mustard seeds and poppy seeds. Set aside.

2. Wash all veggies thoroughly.

3. For drumstick bean pods or asparagus: Using a vegetable peeler, scrape off tough outer skin. Cut tender stalks into 2-inch pieces.