Shine, Coconut Moon
Page 14
When I get home on Wednesday afternoon, Mom says, “Sammy, I have a telephone session with Tina, so could you take care of dinner on your own tonight?”
“Tina? Your old therapist?”
She sighs. “Yes, Sammy. I thought it might be a good idea for me to have somewhere to go with…with all the feelings that are coming up for me around the visit to see…your grandparents. I’ve scheduled two ninety-minute sessions with Tina. I know how important this is for you, but it’s not going to be easy for me. I will do my best, but I can’t promise anything.” She looks like she wants to say more but bites her lip instead.
I nod, wishing I could turn around and go back to school, to Molly’s, to Victoria’s Secret…anywhere.
Mom takes a step forward and gives me tight hug. “Oh, Sammy…is there any way I can make this easier for you?”
A bunch of answers crowd my mouth: You can be nice to your parents; you could’ve not cut me off from my family; you could’ve been nicer to my dad; you can stop trying to run my life so much…
Instead I shake my head.
She kisses me on the forehead before going upstairs.
I have to admit, though, that the sessions with Tina seem to do Mom a lot of good. By the time Friday evening rolls around, she’s much calmer. She’s almost back to the solid, confident Mom I know.
Almost.
The Saturday before Christmas, we’re off to visit my grandparents.
Chapter 15
The ride there is uncomfortable and seems to have no end in sight. It didn’t seem this long when I was with Uncle Sandeep. Mom and I drive in silence for the most part, except for the radio and Mom’s “soothing” CDs. It’s a perfect December day, brimming with sunlight and a brilliant blue sky—what Mom once called “blue like a peacock’s neck.”
When we get to the house, I’m again overcome by how huge and stately it looks. Sort of like a visit to the White House or the Taj Mahal, maybe, or one of the Wonders of the World. At least to me. Uncle Sandeep is already there; his car is parked just over to the side, like he left Mom and me the prime parking spot, right outside the front door.
Mom waits a beat before opening her door. She takes a deep breath and gives my hand a squeeze, then we both climb out. I was nervous the first time I came here, but that pales in comparison to being here with Mom. Part of me wants to climb right back into the car and go home, but this is too important. No. I straighten my spine and march up the steps behind Mom.
After a quick glance at me, she rings the doorbell. The shadow of a turban bobs toward the door. Uncle Sandeep flings it open, grabs Mom in a bear hug, and lifts her off the ground. She yelps and gives him a boot to the shin. “Sandeep, put me down.”
“Sorry, Sharan. I’ve been looking forward to this moment for so long.” He drops her and lets her regain her composure, then greets me with a similar hug, though more careful not to drop me. Then I notice Mom stiffen.
Nani and Nana enter the foyer. Nani is again in flowing chiffons, this time an avocado green, and Nana has on a freshly pressed, banana-colored shirt and pants. His turban is a warm, chocolate brown.
Nani seems to float majestically toward Mom, like a sailboat. She raises her arms and engulfs Mom in the same embrace she had folded me in the last time I was here. That huge plum pit lodges in my throat again.
Mom, still in her coat and boots, stands rigid for a few seconds. Then, bit by bit, all that stiffness comes crumbling off. Years of rage and bitterness yield to the salt of tears. Mom brings her arms around Nani’s waist and lays her cheek on the older woman’s gently rounded shoulder.
In all the years I’ve been with Mom, I never once thought of her as somebody’s daughter. That was my role. Obviously, I knew she had a mother, but it never really sank in that she was a daughter too—somebody’s little girl. It never once occurred to me that she might want to lay her own cheek on a mother’s warm shoulder, the way I’ve done for years with her. A tear wriggles down my face.
Both women sob softly while Nana and Uncle Sandeep stand awkwardly off to one side, hands shoved deep into their pants pockets. Nana clears his throat several times, looks up at the skylight, then pretends that something is in his eye. Uncle Sandeep is beaming, his eyes damp and shiny.
When Mom and Nani disentangle themselves, Nani turns to me. “Samar, beta, come here,” she says, bangles jingling as she motions me forward. She has a magnetic pull, something at once firm and gentle, which commands obedience.
“Sat Sri Akal,” I say with my hands together, prayer-style, the way Uncle Sandeep showed me last time we were here. Nani pulls me to her chest, murmuring something in Punjabi. She smells like cloves and cinnamon, and something else, something a lot like Mom’s smell.
I begin to sob, and not nearly with the delicate beauty and grace that Mom and Nani showed a moment ago. Nana gruffly orders Uncle Sandeep to “fetch a box of tissue,” which Uncle Sandeep is only too relieved to do. Nana puts his hand on the top of Mom’s head in blessing. “Jeethi raho, beta.” Then he does the same with me.
Uncle Sandeep comes jogging back and shoves a box of Kleenex toward Mom, Nani, and me. “Anybody hungry?” he asks brightly.
“Han, han,” Nani says. “Sharanjit…Samar, beta, take off your coat and boots. Dinner is already on the table.”
Mom hangs up our coats and scarves, and lines our boots neatly on a mat by the door. Nani leads us through the hallway to the right, and Nana and Uncle Sandeep bring up the rear. There are colossal paintings that I never noticed before, of Sikh Gurus on the walls, depicting scenes of war and meditation, serenity and struggle. There are captions underneath each painting in both English and Punjabi, about the specific historic event each painting shows.
I read the names of the Gurus in the hallway as we pass them: Guru Gobind Singh Ji on his horse, with a bow and arrow slung on one shoulder and a white falcon on the other, and Guru Tegh Bahadur Ji and Guru Arjun Dev Ji, both meditating peacefully. In the dining room, which is bigger than our living room and kitchen put together, there are more paintings of gurus. I walk closer to read the names at the bottom of the images: Guru Nanak Dev Ji, Guru Angad Dev Ji, and Guru Amar Das Ji.
There are no women. I try to look at the house through a Mom-lens. What must it have been like to grow up in this home as a little girl? As a teenager? What were Nana and Nani like, say, twenty-five years ago?
We arrive at the table, which could easily seat ten. It’s already laid with beautiful dishes of steaming Indian food—all vegetarian. Again, I’m astounded by the bigness of everything.
Nani and Nana sit on one side, next to each other. Mom and I sit across from them, and Uncle Sandeep sits at the “head” of the table, though it’s clear where the real “heads” are seated. I look at the spread: mattar paneer (mine and Mom’s favorite), kidney beans (which I have learned is Uncle Sandeep’s favorite), a big garden salad, dal, rotis, rice, cucumber raita, lime pickle, mango juice, salty lassi, and a pitcher of ice water.
Nani closes her eyes, breathes, and in a low voice says, “Satnam, Sri Waheguru Ji.” After which she promptly starts doling food onto a plate. She loads the plate with small amounts of everything and hands the first one to Nana, who begins to eat right away. I look at Mom; it’s a rule in our house to wait for everyone to get their food before we start eating, but she’s staring at the wall hangings. Nani starts on a second plate, which she hands to Uncle Sandeep. He waits. The next one is for Mom, then mine, and finally for herself.
There’s an awkward silence when we first begin to eat. I catch Uncle Sandeep darting looks around the table. He catches me watching him and smiles. Then, in a move completely uncharacteristic of the Uncle Sandeep I’ve grown to know, he sticks his tongue out. I widen my eyes in surprise and look quickly at Nani. She continues to eat quietly. I grin at Uncle Sandeep and stick my tongue back out at him.
“I see Sandeep is up to the same nonsense with Samar that he was up to with you, Sharanjit,” says Nani, still looking at her plate.
“Not quite,” Mom says. “He was much worse when we were kids—he’s toned down some in his middle age.”
“Middle age!” Uncle Sandeep exclaims in horror. “Woman, bite your tongue!”
Nani makes a roti-spoon and fills it with dal. “I am glad to hear he has toned down since his days of flying off roofs.”
“Ma!” Uncle Sandeep groans. “Must we discuss this in front of Samar? She has a young and highly impressionable mind.”
“No, let’s,” I say, hungry for stories. “I’d love to hear about when you flew off of roofs!”
Nani smiles, finishes chewing, and leans toward me. “Your uncle and Sharanjit were outside in the back with their cousins Amrita and Inderjit. Somehow the girls, Sharanjit and Amrita, convinced the boys, Jit and your uncle, to go on the roof of the tool shed with umbrellas…and jump. Like that Mary Poopins.”
“Poppins, Ma, Poppins,” Uncle Sandeep says.
Nana snorts and shakes his head. “Fools,” he says, spooning more raita onto his plate.
“We were five years old,” Uncle Sandeep says defensively. “They told us we would float down.”
The corner of Mom’s mouth curls up just a tiny bit. “Of course, the umbrellas turned inside out and both boys came crashing to the ground.”
“I broke my ankle, and Jit almost lost an eye,” Uncle Sandeep says bitterly.
“Oh, you both had a few scrapes and bruises,” says Nana. “You were fine.”
“Your mother was sadistic,” Uncle Sandeep says. “She derived a great deal of pleasure from tormenting me.”
Nana turns to Nani. “Remember that time he had a bean stuck in his nose? How old was he then?”
“That’s it,” Uncle Sandeep says. “If I had known this was going to be a Roast Sandeep dinner…”
“Oh!” Nani whoops. “How could I forget?”
“Oh my God, I had completely forgotten that,” Mom says.
“Tell me,” I say eagerly.
“You, Sharanjit,” Nani says, wiping her eyes.
“It was a kidney bean,” Mom says, eyes glinting evil as Uncle Sandeep huffs next to her. “I told him I could put it farther up my nose than he could. I never had any intention of putting anything in my nose, and I certainly never thought Sandeep would do such a thing. But of course, never one to back down from a challenge, Sandeep shoved the bean as far up his nostril as he could.”
“I could have died!” Uncle Sandeep grumbles.
“You would not have died,” Mom says, and then giggles. “You just had a bean stuck up your nose.”
“He came running to me, screaming and in tears,” Nana says, shaking his head. “Ooloo…I had to hold one side of his nose closed with this thumb”—he holds up his right thumb—“and tell him to blow hard out the other nostril. Couple of times we did as such, and finally it was dislodged.”
Uncle Sandeep pushes the food around on his plate. His shoulders are hunched over, and yet, in spite of the scowl on his face, a smile dances in his eyes.
Mom makes a disgusted face. “Papa made me get the tweezers to pull it out. Luckily I didn’t have to use them. Yecch.” She shudders.
The table lapses into another silence. My mind races with ways to squeeze more memories out of all of them. There’s so much more I want to know. The family life, friendly banter, and sharing growing pains—hearing these stories gives me some of those missing puzzle pieces.
“So many memories in this old house,” Nani says, sighing. “It will be sad to leave it.”
“Leave it?” Mom asks.
“We’re selling,” says Nani.
“You’re selling the house?” Mom asks, fork pausing midway to her mouth.
“It’s far too big for just the two of us,” Nana says.
“Yes.” Nani nods. “We originally bought it with hopes of grandchildren running through the rooms, but…” Her voice trails off.
After another awkward silence, Nana clears his throat. “Samar, beta, what are you studying in school?”
My stomach drops from having the spotlight thrown so suddenly in my direction, and I wonder what the right answer is. “Um…well, we study everything….”
“She’s in high school, Papa,” Mom says smoothly. “They study everything. In college she’ll pick a focus.”
“You must have a favorite subject, nah?” Nana insists.
“I like history…and English,” I say slowly.
“Hmm.” He nods, looking into his glass of water. “History, English.”
I get the feeling that was definitely not the right answer.
“You will go to university, nah?” asks Nani apprehensively.
“Yeah…,” I say.
“Good,” she says. “Education is very important. How are you doing in school? Straight A’s?”
“Well…” I’m not sure how detailed I should be with this answer.
“She’s doing fine, Ma. Sammy’s been an honor student her whole life,” Mom says in an end-of-discussion tone.
But Nani persists. “Which universities are you considering?”
Mom blinks in irritation. “Ma, can we drop the interrogation, please?”
“I can’t ask my grandchild about her life? I’ve been kept away from her and now I can’t ask simple questions?” Nani says, unyielding. Nana shifts in his chair while Uncle Sandeep bumps his kara bangle rhythmically on the table.
Mom’s eyes flash, but she says nothing more. And Nani doesn’t pursue the matter further. I finish the food on my plate and sneak a glance at Nani. She looks like an older, fairer-skinned version of Mom. She has deep frown grooves on her forehead. The gold from her pendant and rings glints as she sops up the last of the food from her plate.
“Nani…”
She turns and stares at me, her eyes pinning me to my chair. “Ji,” she says. “Nani-ji, Nana-ji, Uncle-ji, Mommy-ji…You must always address your elders respectfully with ji, Samar.”
“We didn’t even say Papa-ji and Mommy-ji growing up,” Mom says quickly.
“We should have been stricter about that,” Nani…Naniji says. “But Samar can learn the proper way. When she interacts with other Indians, she needs to know how to address her elders.” She turns to me and her eyes soften. “I will teach you, beta. There is time.”
Mom turns to me, her face hard, as if set in plaster. “What were you going to say, sweetie?”
Stunned by the force of Naniji’s “instruction,” I scramble around in my brain for what I was going to say. “Oh…um, I—I wanted to know if there were any family photo albums.”
“What a delightful idea!” Naniji says, clapping her hands loudly.
Uncle Sandeep jumps on it too. “Fantastic idea!”
“Why don’t we move into the living room?” Naniji says, sliding her chair out and standing up. Nanaji wipes his beard and mustache and gets up to follow.
The living room is in the opposite direction, on the left side of the house. We walk back through the hallway, past the front door and the split staircase and into the living room. There is a sectional peach-colored sofa, a gold-rimmed glass coffee table, and a gigantic television. There is a brass vase with peacock feathers fanning out over each side of the sofa. On the walls are stunning Indian cloth paintings.
“Those are batiks from South India and Sri Lanka: women at the well, women weaving cloth, churning butter, grinding flour,” Naniji says, pointing to each painting. Then she walks to a painting of another guru. “This is Sri Guru Nanak Dev Ji, the father of Sikhi.”
Uncle Sandeep and Mom are already on the sofa, going through one of the photo albums they pulled out. Nanaji is pulling another one from a chest underneath the bay window that looks out front.
“Oh my God, look at that hair!” Mom says in horror. I rush to sit next to her, and she quickly cover
s the photo.
“Oh no, you don’t.” Uncle Sandeep shoves her hand away. “Not after all your mouth flapping over dinner!”
I look at the picture of Mom with bright red, perm-damaged hair teased up to about six inches above her head. I have never seen Mom look like that. We have no pictures at home of this period in her life, and she always looks so composed and self-assured that this photo immediately has me in giggles. Naniji peers over my shoulder.
“That was the beginning of her rebellious stage,” she says with a frown.
“What stage? She’s still there!” Nanaji says, bringing over another album.
I soak up the images, the tidbits and sound bites, as we go through the albums. “This was during the trip to Niagara Falls.” “Look how skinny your cousin Pradeep is here!” “That was my favorite birthday shirt.” I see Mom at six, wearing loud prints and checked brown and orange pants, smiling broadly at the camera with her piano teeth; at ten, smiling pleasantly in a Raggedy Ann dress.
Then, at thirteen, the smile becomes just a small fraction of the crescent it used to be; her braids hang limp at the sides of her face, and her hands are folded in front of her on her lap.
But the photos of a teenage Mom are what hold me riveted. Mom and Uncle Sandeep both grow quiet. There are no smiles in these photos, and the spark in Mom’s eyes is gone. She stands hunched or staring off in the distance, almost as if she doesn’t notice the camera. The teenager in these photos is nothing like the Mom I’ve known my whole life. Nothing like the Mom in the photos we have at home—Mom with her fist raised at a Take Back the Night march, or smiling with two fingers held up at a peace rally. Mom with her eyes crackling in dissent. My mom.