The Hindi-Bindi Club (8 page)

         For kids and wimps, stir plain nonfat yogurt into their servings to cool down the firepower.

         If you can’t find curry leaves, omit. This dish is still darn good without them!

Rani McGuiness Tomashot: The Land of Opportunity

I
want to die. The alarm clock’s going off, and I already hit the snooze button twice. I grope to silence it, haul myself upright, plant my feet on the hardwood floor.
Aag-doom! Baag-doom!
I remember my mother singing to me when I was little, a Bengali wake-up nursery rhyme.

Aag-doom! Baag-doom! Horses away!

Gongs, drums, cymbals play!

Crash! Boom! The noisy band

Marches off to Orange Land.

On parrot’s wing, a golden ray

Uncle Sun’s wedding day.

Let’s go to market, me and you

For
paan
and
betel
nut to chew.

A
betel
worm slips out of sight

Mother, daughter have a fight.

Saffron flowers bloom anew

Fresh, sweet pumpkin stew

Little one, up with you!

I groan in protest and crash over like a felled tree—timber!—my head at the foot of the bed. My husband Bryan burrows his head under his pillow. He can’t bear to watch my struggles to wake up. Too pathetic, too heart-wrenching, he says. He’d rather let me sleep in peace. But that isn’t an option today. I have places to go, things to do, people…ugh…people to schmooze.

With a whimper or three, I drag my lead-weighted carcass out of bed and stumble to the bathroom. A little before seven, dressed in my running gear, I shuffle down the hall to stretch and notice an envelope someone slid under the door. At the contents, my heart stirs awake. Ooohing and aaahing, I flip through the latest photos of Anjali—nicknamed Anju—the three-year-old girl the couple across the hall is adopting from an orphanage in Kolkata, my mother’s birthplace. They call it an orphanage, though it’s mostly girls, not orphaned but abandoned and rescued from the streets…or worse.

“She’s precious,” I say to the proud parent-to-be warming up in the hallway between our condos. My running buddy George has already stretched and jogs in place waiting for me. Though I’ve told him before, I can’t say it enough. “You’re doing an amazing thing. Saving a life. You’re good people, George. And Anju’s one lucky girl to have you.”

George just grins and says as always, “Thanks, but we’re the lucky ones.” I wait while he drops the envelope on the mahogany table in his foyer. Closing the door behind him, he asks, “Are you excited or nervous about tonight?”

“Yes,” I say and raise an index finger to my lips then tap my watch. Neither of us a morning person, we have a No-Talking-Until-We-Cross-the-Golden-Gate-Bridge rule. My head’s already pounding from the mental exertion of our minor exchange, and George’s can’t be far behind.

He nods, and without another word, we’re off.

We run down Laguna Street, across Lombard and Bay, then west along the marina, past the early-morning wind-surfers, and to the foot of the world’s most beautiful bridge. At our early hour, we often find the Golden Gate shrouded in an eerie mist, as if an otherworldly phantom bridge, but this morning, the Artist has painted a clear panorama.

We yield at the ramp for cyclists descending from the west side, then trek up the east side. To our left, the vast Pacific ripples and splashes with crashing whitecaps. We keep an eye out for whales; one time last month we spotted a tail. To our right stretches the city skyline and the lone Coit Tower that juts from the top of Telegraph Hill like an enthusiastic thumbs-up on the peninsula.

Beneath my feet, the springy suspension bridge quivers like a trampoline in strong winds. The bouncing used to scare me so much I had to turn back before the first pillar. It took a while before I could cross to the other side, thanks in large part to George’s coaching and patience.

We run the length of the bridge, past the ever-present scaffolding (they’re constantly painting the bridge orange), and pause long enough for me to blow my nose and George to guzzle some water.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod, and we retrace our steps. Impressive for a former asthmatic, I always think.

When I was ten, on our one and only family trip to India, I developed childhood asthma. At first, we assumed it was the pollution, but when we came home, the symptoms didn’t go away. For years, I woke up gasping for breath in the dead of night. Worse, I was relegated to last-pick in gym class. Luckily, I grew out of it and kissed my last inhaler good-bye in college.

“You’re coming, right?” I say to George. “Both of you?”

“Hell, yeah. We wouldn’t miss your big night.”

“Thanks. It means a lot to me. I still can’t believe any of this is really happening.
My
work appreciated, exhibited
solo
at a kick-ass gallery, sold for real money.”

“Kudos at last.”

“That wasn’t my motivation, but I did secretly dream of it. And now that my dream’s come true…” I know what I’m supposed to say. “Now that it’s reality…” I turn my gaze to the ocean.

“What?” George asks.

I shrug. “What you said. I’m excited and nervous. But enough about me. I get to hog the spotlight tonight.” I smile. “Tell me, how are your parenting classes—?”

“No. Don’t change the subject. And for God’s sake,
don’t
give me that fake cocktail party smile.”

I smack his arm with the back of my hand. “Have I told you recently how much you annoy me?”

“Uh-huh. Gonna ’fess up or what?”

“Why do you know me so well? We haven’t known each other
that
long.” It’s only been a year since Bryan and I sold our mini-mansion in Pacific Heights and bought the two-bedroom condo.

“Occupational hazard.”

I smile, for real this time. “Wish I had a counselor like you when I was in high school.” Luckily, I had great parents. Whom I miss terribly, especially during the holidays. I don’t know how my mom managed to leave her entire family and move halfway around the world, while I rue being separated by a continent.

“Is it Bryan?” George asks.

“No. Yes. I don’t know. Maybe.” I pace my words with my breathing, another skill that took some time to master. “He’s supported me every step of the way. This is his victory as much as mine. But I feel so guilty. I can’t enjoy it with a clear conscience. How can I be happy when he’s so miserable? I mean, he’s happy for
me,
but
he’s
not happy. It breaks my heart. Every day, I have the luxury of pursuing my passion, while my husband schleps off to a job he hates.”

“Job still sucks, huh?”

“Big time, and it’s not just the pay cut…. It was never
just
about making money for him. He can’t stand not utilizing his full potential. He’s an entrepreneur, a visionary.”

“A leader, not a follower.”

“Exactly. He’s still grieving—maybe he’s
always
going to grieve—for the company and the employees and the shareholders. It was his baby, and a huge part of him died with it. He knows he needs to move on, but he can’t. He needs another dream, and until he finds it…” We turn a corner. My voice breaks. “He’s so lost…And I can’t help him. I can’t reach him. Nothing I do or say makes any difference.”

I want to cry but not there. My nose will run even more, and I don’t have enough tissues on me. And where’s my fucking runner’s high, anyway? It usually kicks in halfway across the bridge, but lately it’s eluded me. No matter how far I run or how hard I drive my body, I can’t break through the magic barrier. This is the reason I run, for nature’s miracle pill.
Where is it?

“You said it, babe,” George says beside me. “He’s grieving. Grief takes time. Keep applying that balm, but quit expecting overnight results. And the last thing you want to do is crawl into Bryan’s pit of despair with him. That won’t help anyone.”

“I know it,” I say. “I know. It’s just…hard.”

“Well, there
is
something you could do. Doesn’t sound like you’re doing it—”

“What?”

“Let yourself be happy. Don’t force it, but don’t fight it, either. There’s no reason to feel guilty. Bryan isn’t jealous or resentful. He’s genuinely happy for you. And you know what? Your pleasure’s the closest thing he’s got to his own right now. So don’t cheat him out of it.”

I cast George a sidelong glance. “I never thought of it that way.” After a moment, I add, “That was some sleight of hand. You redirected my guilt to fuel the opposite outcome.” I smile. “When you’re good, you’re good. You’re good, George.”

“I know.” He flashes a cheesy grin. “That’s why they pay me the little bucks.”

“Oh, man. I knew I forgot something. Tell me you brought some of those little bucks with you because I forgot. Again.”

“Gotcha covered, pal.”

“Thanks. For everything.”

We run to the Starbucks on Union, where we get four lattes to go (for us and our spouses), then walk the remaining blocks home. George’s door opens just as we return.

“Wow,” I say. “Who
is
that sharp-dressed man?”

Said sharp-dressed man chuckles. “Morning, Rani.”

“Morning, Walker. Love the power suit.”

“Thank you. See you tonight.”

“Tonight.” As George hands him a latte, I wave good-bye and go inside.

“T
onight, tonight, won’t be just any night…” In his rich baritone, Bryan belts out the show tune from
West Side Story,
and I chime in with my off-key-from-fighting-a-cold soprano.

As he twirls me around the kitchen, I remember when we used to be silly like this all the time. It was what I loved most about Bryan. He wasn’t afraid to be a complete and total dork. He took pride in it, embraced who he was. He had such courage and conviction, such strength of character. But when his dream shattered, so did his confidence. And with it, his joie de vivre
,
as the French call it, or
masti
as Saroj Auntie says. Passion for life. How I want to give it back to him.

Restore the gleam in his eyes. Rekindle his excitement. Resuscitate his
masti
.

“Pick you up at five,” he says, grabbing his laptop bag.

We met the first day of our freshman year at Berkeley. We lived on the same dorm floor, though we didn’t date until two years later. For two years, he watched my parade of boyfriends, if you can even call them that, since their average shelf life was two to four weeks. It seemed all the good guys were taken, already in relationships, as Bryan was with his girlfriend, who was two years younger and still in high school. That left the available market glutted with the commitment-phobic, just-want-to-get-laid crowd.

I looked around and thought: I’m the only virgin I know on this campus. Virgins were an endangered species. All of my friends were sexually active, which is not to say “sleeping
around,
” though that certainly happened, too. Most committed, monogamous relationships, which was what I wanted, involved sex. So did flings, which accounted for the lifespan of my romantic interests. The guys I hooked up with seemed to view sex as a
prerequisite
for a relationship, bass-ackwards in my book. On this, I agreed one hundred percent with my mother: Why buy the cow if the milk’s free?

Now before you pat me on the back, or the head, you should know I can’t credit my “fine moral upbringing” or my “superior, wholesome values” for the fact I held onto my prized virginity until the ripe age of twenty. Don’t think for a second it was any valiant struggle. It wasn’t. The truth is, I was a loser magnet, which made it easy to keep my legs closed—a no-brainer—until Bryan.

“There’s no high school girlfriend,” he told me one day.

“You broke up?”

He shook his head. “I made her up.”

“Why—?”

“Because I’m a geek, and I have no life. It was easier—”

“No.
Why
are you telling me this? Why not take the story to its natural conclusion and say you and Imaginary Girl parted ways?”

“Oh. Well. That would be because I’m in love with you. Madly. Deeply. Passionately. Irrevocably. Pathetically, I suppose, if you tell me I don’t stand a chance…”

When I picked my jaw up off the floor, doves flew, conch shells blew, and the Gates of Paradise swung wide open.

I adore my husband. With every breath I take. Every fiber of my being. Ever more, every day. For ten years, we’ve grown together. I hope we never grow apart, but lately I worry about it. We’re both in a holding pattern, wondering where our lives are going. What’s next for us as individuals, and as a couple? I look at my childhood friends Kiran and Preity. One I haven’t seen in years, now divorced. One happily married with children.

What direction will Bryan and I take?

At our front door, I lay my hand on his freshly shaven jaw, nuzzle my face to his neck, and breathe in his clean scent. “I love you, Bry,” I say. Such inadequate words for what I feel.

“Love you, too.” He pecks my lips, but I rise onto my toes, wind my arms around his neck, and deepen the kiss. He pulls away and lifts his head with a groan. “Save that thought. Gotta run, catch the yuppie bus.”

“Have a good day,” I say.

“You, too. Good luck.”

After he leaves, emptiness swells inside me. A big black hole that threatens to swallow me whole. I want to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over my head.

No no no.
I shake my head.
Snap out of it.

Every artist wishes for a life like mine. An opportunity like mine. No financial pressures. Ample time and resources. I’m damn lucky. I need to make the most of my gifts, put my blessings to good use. March into my studio and kick ass.

Determined, I shower and change, whip up a chocolate-banana soy milk smoothie and go to my studio in the spare bedroom. The morning light is perfect. I burn a stick of sandalwood incense and put on some mood music. Enigma’s “L.S.D.” plays first.
Love Sensuality Devotion.
The room reverberates with an intoxicating blend of New Age music, a club beat, and Gregorian and Native American chants. I absorb the atmosphere, hips swaying to the rhythm, and try to work.