The Hindi-Bindi Club (37 page)

Did I mention I’m in love with him? I am. Big time.

Mom said, “Yes, on
mehendi
. Maybe, on a
sangeet,
but
if
we do it, no weepy farewell songs.” She directed her gaze at Saroj Auntie, who inched up a lone index finger, wordlessly inquiring
just one
? “Not even one. And no
baarat
.” She nixed the horse and marching band.

Saroj Auntie’s mouth dropped open. “But John’s a
cowboy
. Don’t you see the parallel—?”

“I see that our cowboy is six foot three. If the ‘horse’ winds up being a weak, malnourished Arabian pony, we’ll be in trouble.”

Uma Auntie added, “And if he needs a tetanus shot the next day for sitting on a saddle with a rusty, protruding nail?”

“Yeh India hai,”
Mom said, a reminder that we’d be in India, not the States. “And don’t forget our most critical constraint. For a
Maharashtrian
wedding, the
muhurta
will be in the morning.” This is the most auspicious hour to conduct the hour-and-a-half wedding ceremony as calculated by the
pandit
(priest), factoring the time of year and the
patrikas
—horoscopes—of the bride and groom.

From the “O” of Saroj Auntie’s mouth, she
had
forgotten. She settled right down. “Like I was saying, the groom should arrive in a nice, quiet stretch limo…”

Everyone laughed, and the afternoon passed that way.

Mom compiled the suggestions, culled them into a select list of those she liked best, and instructed John and me to order à la carte off the menu.

“Are you sure there aren’t some Muslim and Jewish traditions they’d like to incorporate?” I overheard Dad say to Mom. “Parsi? Buddhist? Jain? Wiccan?” My father has the best sense of humor when he doesn’t intend to be funny.

Oh, well. You can’t have everything. That’s what they tell me. Over and over. Like a mantra.

“K
uryat sada mangalam…shubha mangala savdhan…”
My mother can’t hear any of this. Until the
muhurta,
she’s staying in the dressing room—with her ears plugged, she told us.

Traditionally, the bride’s mother wasn’t present because hearing these
shlokas
was too emotional for her. Today, it’s simply considered bad luck.

Before the ceremony started, Mom did a reading. My dressing room was upstairs, John’s downstairs. I peeked from the balcony. John did the same directly below me, out of my sight.

Mom gave an overview of the process—also in the program—and explained, for the benefit of those who didn’t know, why she was “bunking” the ceremony, reappearing only after garlands were exchanged. “So no one can think I don’t love my daughter.” She wagged her index finger. “Or my future son-in-law. I love both very much. That’s why I’m leaving at the end of this reading.”

“Kuryat sada mangalam…shubha mangala savdhan…”

M
y parents bought a brand-new, three-bedroom, three-bath, two-balcony flat on the outskirts of Pune, in the foothills. Hoping to nudge Dad into retirement, Mom declared she would winter in India with or without him. Vivek and I placed bets on how quickly Dad would cave; he can’t function without Mom.

The new digs served as our
lagna-ghar,
wedding house; John’s family made their camp his former host family’s home. Vivek, his wife, Anisha, and I arrived ten days before the wedding. We were surprised at how Scottsdale, Arizona–like these new developments felt. Our parents had a First-World oasis in the Third World. Mountain view. Gated community. Ritzy brick driveway. Plush lawns. Immaculate gardens. Swimming pool. Gym. Mom and Dad weren’t roughing it here—this place was posh!

After an exhausting day of power shopping, I wished I could take my feet off and carry them home. I showered, changed into my jammies, and tumbled onto my parents’ bed beside my mother.

“Uh-oh…She’s making another list…”

She knew I was kidding. No way could I have pulled off this highly complicated, long-distance wedding without her stupendous organizational skills. The previous month, she’d sent me the mock-up of the wedding program she made for the three days of festivities. An individual pamphlet for each day. Blurbs on Hindu rituals—definitions, translations, history, anecdotes, jokes. (Inspired, John’s mom did the same for the Christian ones.) I was so moved, so deeply touched by the massive time, effort,
love
she’d poured into everything. I broke down in tears, phoning her right away. “You really do love me…” I said, and she said, “Of course I do,
pillu,
” as if there had never been any question.

The latest of her infamous lists read:
Things I Want to Do Before I Die
. “Don’t tell me it’s morbid,” she said. “We all need goals.”

I skimmed the page. “Impressive. But where’s ‘Have sex in a public place’?” I tapped the page with my fingernail. “That needs to be on here.”

She sighed, the long-suffering-mother kind, and shook her head. All the encouragement I needed.

“You know, your building elevators are pretty cozy. That could work—”

“Kiran.”

“What? Oh. Sorry. They call it a
lift
. British English takes some getting used to, doesn’t it? Here, give me the pen. I’ll add it for you.” I reached for her pen.

She switched it to her other hand.
“Pooré.”
Enough. As in, cut the crap.

“My mouth needs a lock on it,” I said in Marathi before she could, making her laugh despite herself. “Hehehe.” I flashed my devious smile, adding, “Yes, it
is
lots of fun to harass Mom. How do you say ‘corrupt’ in Marathi?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Okay, I’ll ask Ramesh.” The driver. “He’ll tell me.”

“Ha! He wouldn’t dare. I’ve already warned him if he teaches you any curses or naughty words, he’s fired.”

Vivek and I were only now discovering our mother omitted several choice words from our Marathi instruction.

“Good thing my future hubby speaks Marathi like a native, huh?” I said.

She heaved another sigh, the ol’ classic what’s-a-poor-mother-to-do kind. “I suppose it’s too late to call off the wedding…?”

“Afraid so…Unless
you
want to tell
Giru-mama
to take back my ever-so-lovely Paithani
sari
.”

“No…I couldn’t possibly do that,” she said ruefully. “The
sari
shops don’t accept returns on custom orders. Looks like I’m stuck—the Paithani and John-
baba
are a package deal.” She chuckled, pleased with her joke. Who knew cancer would give—or did it
bring out
?—my mother’s sense of humor? She sprinkled tidbits like this throughout the program,
“F.A.Q.s to Commit to Memory: Hindi is a language. Hindu is a religion/way of life. Mistaking the two is a common mistake for foreigners. Misspeaking is grounds for deportation.”

I perused her list, commenting, “I love this one…And that one…Oooh,
write a novel,
huh?”

“Umm-hmm. I love to read, and I always wanted to write a book one day, just never had the time. People say you have to make time, but there are only so many hours in a day. Anyway, I’m going to give it a try. I don’t know if I’ll be any good. Guess we’ll find out….”

“You’ll be great. Your letters are masterpieces.”

She cupped my cheek with her hand and made a kissing sound. “I’m glad
you
think so. That’s the important thing. You know, writing to you really warmed up that part of my brain. First I struggled to fill the page. Now I’m practically writing short stories. The length of a novel isn’t so intimidating anymore.”

“You can definitely do it. But, um, can I make one teeny, tiny request?” I clasped my hands. “
Please,
I beg of you,
not
another Life’s-a-Bitch-and-Then-You-Die novel. I mean, I get that no one, present company included, wants to read four hundred pages of shiny, happy people who don’t have any problems, but—”

“No? How come?” She yawned, laced her fingers together, and stretched, palms to the ceiling, making me laugh. “Don’t worry,
pillu
. I’ll leave the tragedies to others. Not my cup of tea, either. I’d prefer a story that’s ultimately uplifting. Sure, there will be hardships, obstacles along the way, but I want to write about survivors. Resilience of the human spirit.”

“
Now
you’re talkin’…People who take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’.
That
I love.”

“Me, too,” she said, and I snuggled up to her, laid my head on her lap, closed my eyes, and fell asleep.

“K
uryat sada mangalam…shubha mangala savdhan
…
”

“Listen to the
sounds
of these sacred Sanskrit mantras,” my mother said in her reading. “All of us here, at one time or another, have had the experience of not being able to explain ourselves in words, right?”

Western heads nodded, and Eastern heads wobbled agreement.

“Well, the seers who authored the verses in the Vedas over four thousand years ago were very wise and insightful. They noted language has literal and sonic meaning. Beyond ‘word-pictures,’ painted by definitions, language creates ‘sound-pictures,’ evoked by vibrations.
Now, what does that mean, Meenal?
I know you’re thinking. I’ll give you an example, so you can experience for yourself
what I’m talking
…” Here she gave a coy smile. “Because you know
I can’t explain you
with mere words.”

This, a grammatical joke. Those with a foot in each camp—East and West—got it and chuckled.

“We define the Sanskrit
om
with words like
all that is,
or
the universe
. But the sound, the vibration when we chant
om
has additional meaning.
Repetition
of a mantra enables us to
focus
. On sound and vibration. On anything and everything. When we chant, in any language, we heighten our perception, awareness,
consciousness
that there is
more
. Out there.” She pointed to the sky. “And, in here.” She tapped a finger over her heart.

“Kuryat sada mangalam…shubha mangala savdhan…”

J
ohn has a new nickname. John-
baba
. So christened by
Aji,
it’s analogous to Little Johnny.

Apparently, it’s quite common for grown Indian men to be called by highly embarrassing pet names given to them as boys. Saroj Auntie told me about one of Sandeep Uncle’s brothers, a strapping, larger-than-life, fierce colonel who’s cut down to size when Mummy calls him Bunny in public.

John agreed a pet name like
Bunny
would decimate his manhood. (Sorry, Bunny!)
Baba,
however, works for him—pronounced like
bubba,
which he’s heard a lot, being Texan.

J
ohn was so adorable at his fitting. He couldn’t stop posturing in front of the mirror, showing off his new duds, cream
sherwani
with gold embroidery and burgundy
dupatta,
worn stolelike. “Wow! Look at me! I look Indian! Don’t I look Indian?” With his blond hair and blue eyes? Um,
no
. But he sure looked smashing.

I wanted so badly to kiss him right there and then, but Mom kept admonishing us this was India, no “touchy-touchy” in public. “Doesn’t the Hindu wedding ceremony have some kind of a ‘you may kiss the bride’ part?” I asked, making my aunts giggle and blush. No, no, heavens no. Even the tailor chuckled.

“Arré!”
exclaimed my sweet little old granny, startling my snoring grandfather from his impromptu nap.
“Luvang-tod!”

“Huh, huh, luvang-tod,” Ajoba
mumbled and fell back asleep.

Aji
shared with John-
baba
and me a tradition from yester-year called clove-breaking. After the wedding ceremony, before the lunch feast, there are various fun rituals comparable to Western linked-arms champagne toast, glass-tinkling, and kiss traditions. For the
luvang-tod,
the bride holds a clove between her front teeth, and the groom has to break it with
his
teeth. All the while, the audience eggs them on, relishing their discomfort.

Aji
reminded us that back then, brides and grooms didn’t have much prior contact—some were seeing each other
for the first time
at their wedding ceremony! This was a highly intimate and embarrassing act to perform in front of an audience. Imagine having Your First Kiss in front of your entire family, including distant relatives. Now add everyone else you know, plus another couple hundred, even
thousand
other guests!

Aji
clapped, her gold bangles chiming like a tambourine. In an animated, teasing voice, she sang,
“Kai bai Punyachi tariff, lavanga nighalya bareek.”
How much can you praise Pune, because the cloves from there are so small.

“Aji!”
I laughed with the others. “Who knew you were such a wild woman?”