Moti on the Water

by Leylah Attar

  Moti on the Water

  © 2019 by Leylah Attar

  Editing by:

  Suanne Laqueur

  Proofreading by:

  Christine Estevez

  Soulla Georgiou

  Cover Design ©:

  Hang Le

  Interior Design and Formatting by:

  Champagne Book Design

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN: 978-1-988054-04-9 (ePub)

  This a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products and locales referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  All rights reserved. Thank you for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of this book in any form without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  CHARACTER LIST

  MOTI

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ALEX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  MOTI

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  EPILOGUE

  ALSO BY LEYLAH ATTAR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  For Soulla,

  and

  for every

  friendship

  sparked

  by bonding over

  the pages

  of a book

  It happened on a Friday—the night my life ditched its GPS (General Personal Sensibility) signal and swerved rudely off track, with me still in the vehicle. If life came with a soundtrack, I might’ve clued in to what was about to go down, but just like that unsuspecting person in a horror movie—the one who has no idea she’s about to get slashed or electrocuted or possessed when she walks into the kitchen for some late-night munchies, I was happily peeling ‘Made in China’ stickers off the place card holders at my cousin’s engagement party. Rewind a few moments and you would’ve found me holding up Isabelle’s billowing organza skirt while she peed. So yeah, I was relatively happy on sticker duty.

  Each place card holder was a small wooden frame with a heart-shaped cutout. One side displayed the table number and the other had a photo of Isabelle and Thomas holding up a “She said yes!” sign. Their ecstatic faces were framed by blurry autumn foliage, giving them an added romantic glow. It was a beautiful shot. I was probably the only one creeped out by it. It looked like it had been taken by a bug on a branch, balancing on tiny tripod legs that—

  “Moti.”

  I jumped as Rachel Auntie approached. Growing up in an Indian family, anyone who was mildly close to my parents’ age had to be addressed as auntie or uncle. You stuck an ‘auntie’ or ‘uncle’ after their name, whether they were family or not. If you didn’t know their name, you called them Auntie-ji or Uncle-ji.

  Children of immigrants realize early on that their parents’ rules have exceptions. For example, when you acknowledge the cashier’s name tag with Thank you, Mildred Auntie, you can expect horrified looks from both your mother and the cashier. If you’re astute, you’ll understand certain rules apply only to people who share your cultural heritage. If not, a few sharp twists of your ear will drive the point home. This inherited dualism—like your skin color, and the sound of mustard seeds popping in hot oil—follows you through life. Your parents are from there, but they live here. You are born here but will forever straddle the boundaries between here and there.

  Rachel Auntie really was my aunt—my mom’s younger sister and my cousin Isabelle’s mother. As such, she knew things.

  “Moti, don’t you think you should be with Dolly?”

  “I’ll be over as soon as I’m done with these.” I smiled, clutching one of the place card holders behind my back. Hopefully she hadn’t seen me sticking confetti on it. Getting the stickers off was impossible. They were glued on with industrial-level shit. So now all the frames were sporting half-ripped ‘Made in China’ labels which was worse, because now everyone would know not only were we using cheap frames, but that we’d tried to hide they were cheap frames. Obviously, the sensible thing to do was cover up the cover-up by sticking table confetti on the labels.

  “Moti, it’s a big day for Isabelle. You know we can’t have Dolly creating a scene. Stop fiddling around with that and come watch your mother.”

  “Yes, Rachel Auntie.” I plopped the place card holder on the table and followed her.

  I was twenty-four years old, but when your elders asked you to do something, you dropped everything and saw it through. A sense of duty was drilled into my DNA. It was my job to look after my mother. If you looked at a family closely enough, you’d see that everyone had a job. There were Bosser-Arounders and Bossed-Arounders. War Makers and Bread Bakers. Promise Keepers and Promise Breakers. When you did something enough times, you got a label so everyone else knew what to expect.

  “God, Moti. Don’t go to him for a car loan. He’s a Penny Pincher,” or “God, Moti. Don’t ask her for a loan. She’s a Helper-Hitter. She’ll help you out and then hit you over the head with it for the rest of your life.”

  Labels made life easier for everyone. I was all about labels and mine read ‘Mother Minder’, meaning I had to mind my mother, Dolly, at family get-togethers. You see, Dolly liked to play dead. Usually at the most inopportune times.

  It started off innocently enough, when our neighbor, Shoo Lin, called me at work one afternoon. Her name was really Shu Lin, or maybe Sue Lin, but in my head, she was Shoo Lin because Dolly was always trying to shoo her out of our apartment. On that particular day, my mother pretended to fall asleep to get Shoo Lin to leave. It was almost time for her favorite Indian soap opera, and she couldn’t be bothered to make tea or small talk. Shoo Lin panicked at Dolly’s unresponsiveness and called me.

  “Moti, you need to come home quick. Your mother… She passed away.”

  She meant my mother had passed out, but things get lost in translation and who could blame her? I dropped everything and arrived in record time, along with the paramedics and all the stay-at-home neighbors on our floor.

  I won’t lie. My initial reaction to the news of my mother’s demise was a jolt of relief. It was like telling the canary the cat was dead.

  Hallelujah.

  Followed promptly by a tidal wave of guilt.

  But then Dolly started coughing, just as the paramedics were getting ready to resuscitate her.

  Suddenly she was holding court, enthralling everyone with tales of her ‘ne
ar-death experience.’ Over the next few weeks, she was invited to relate her personal account of heaven, which she did with great detail and animation. The episode fanned her flame for theatrics and crystallized into frequent ‘crossing-over’ scenarios. Dolly loved the buzz, the attention, the stir it created. No one knew just how many air miles she’d racked up with all her trips to the afterlife, except for Rachel Auntie and me—although I had a feeling Rachel Auntie must have shared with her husband.

  Joseph Uncle looked relieved as we approached. “Ah, Moti. You’ll keep Dolly and Naani company? The guests have started arriving. Your aunt and I need to go greet them.”

  “Of course.” I took the seat he vacated, between my mother and grandmother.

  “Did you see the cake?” Dolly tilted her head toward the multi-tiered construction of purple and white frosting. “It’s like they’re getting married. Who in their right mind—”

  “Ma.” I shot her a warning look.

  “Offo!” Dolly waved my concern away. “Your naani isn’t even listening. Ever since you created a Facebook account for her, she just tunes out. Look at her. On her phone again. She’s as bored as I am. I don’t know why they’re going to all this troubl—”

  “You know why.”

  “So what if the groom’s family is paying for the wedding? They’re millionaires. Billionaires. Joseph and Rachel didn’t have to turn the engagement into a huge affair.”

  “It’s a matter of pride. They can’t afford the kind of wedding Isabelle and Thomas want, but they want to contribute something.”

  My cousin and her fiancé were getting married in Greece, where Thomas’s family lived. The whole wedding party was going on a two-week cruise of the Greek Isles, courtesy of Thomas and his family.

  “It’s tacky. This whole setup is tacky.” Dolly patted her hair. “If anything, it just highlights the difference between us and them. Weddings have turned into a sham, Moti. It’s all about showing off. Thank goodness I don’t have to worry about yours any time soon.”

  Most Indian mothers don’t rest until they pair their daughters up with a nice boy, but my mother would be perfectly happy if I never got married. She’d constructed a whole reality for me, with boxed-in edges I could not cross. It wasn’t her fault, really. Well, maybe partly. When I was born, she consulted the woman who got her pregnant—not in the literal sense, because that would be my dad—but the woman who gave her the fertility potion that finally got her to conceive. A clairvoyant mystic named Ma Anga. Say it with me and let it echo in the dark recesses of your heart. Ma Anga. See how sinister it sounds? Mahhh Angahhh. My nemesis. Probably a toothless octogenarian now, and someone I’d never meet, given that she lived in a remote village in Goa, India.

  The day I was born, Ma Anga plotted my birth chart. From the position of the planets, she predicted my soul mate would have two thumbs on one hand (talk about limiting an already-limited dating pool). I would meet this three-thumbed man by the water (thank God Chicago had an accessible waterfront). But I really shouldn’t be hanging around the water because I was going to die in the water (hopefully after I met my soul mate, because that would suck). If Ma Anga stopped there, I’d have been ever so grateful. But no. She saved the best for last: if I ended up marrying someone other than my soul mate, my mother would die within seven days.

  Now, technically, I could skip the whole marriage thing, move in with a good old-fashioned non-soul mate and live semi-happily ever after, except my mother wouldn’t have that either. A good Indian girl goes straight from her parents’ house to her husband’s house.

  If my life were a game of Monopoly, the rules would sound like this: Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. And do not, whatever you do, collect a boyfriend. Or two. Or three, you slut.

  Anyway. I never bought into the idea of soul mates. The notion that the universe owed me this one perfect person who fit me completely, loved me unconditionally, gave me toe-curling orgasms, retained his hair, teeth and erections, and put up with my shit through every single phase of life, was a huge burden to put on anyone. Hell, I’d run the other way if someone expected all of that from me. Not to say I was a complete cynic. I liked the idea of a soul mate, but most days I was lucky if I found a hair tie that was compatible with my big, curly hair. So no, I didn’t believe in the stars or destiny or all the stuff my mother tried to impress upon me. I figured I would deal with it when I met someone worth putting up a fight for (although the part about my mother dying sat like a gargoyle on the shelf, giving me the side-eye every time I texted a guy). All I wanted was to live my life and not have Dolly play the martyr every time I went out with a normal guy (you know, a guy with an even set of fingers). You’d think she was going to choke on her chai and keel over before I got in the car with him.

  A part of me believed deep down, Dolly was just lonely, and this was her way of holding onto me. My parents got married in Goa and moved to Chicago before I was born. They divorced when I was two. My father was long remarried. I didn’t see much of him since he’d moved to Atlanta to be with his new family, but he was always calling and checking up on me. I suspect having me had been Dolly’s way of trying to hold onto him. Obviously, it hadn’t worked. I wondered why Ma Anga didn’t predict that when she was soaking toadstools for Dolly’s fertility potion.

  Ma Anga was also the one who named me Moti. It means pearl in Hindi, but only when you say it with a soft T—with your tongue between your teeth: Mo-thi. When you say it with a hard T, Mo-tee, like most people do, it means fatty or chubby. This slight mispronunciation ruined my childhood. It wasn’t the kids in school who teased me. They didn’t know their soft Ts from their hard Ts. It was my family—aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, and one elderly guy who showed up at every wedding—but no one knew who he was. Of course, it didn’t help that I was soft and doughy and jiggled when I ran—which, quite often, was to get away from them.

  I might’ve outrun most of my baby fat, and I was done contemplating a name change, but as I sat between my mother and grandmother—Dolly and Naani—I still felt like apologizing for taking up too much space. Too much air, too much food, too much water. Maybe if I’d been named Isabelle, things would be different. Maybe I’d be able to wear billowing organza skirts and be okay peeing in front of other people. I mean, Isabelle is a statement in itself: She Is A Belle. Don’t get me wrong. I was plenty hot—in an Adele-esque way. I could set fire to the rain. Yes. Yes, I totally could. I sat up straighter, pulling my shoulders back.

  My grandmother patted my hand under the table. Maybe she caught me watching Isabelle. Maybe she overheard all the times my mother said, “Why can’t you be more like your cousin Isabelle, or Monica or Rupa, or [insert name of random brighter, prettier go-getter]?”

  “Tumhari baari bhi aayengi. Aur tabh, tum sirf apni dil ki hi soon na,” Naani said. Your turn will come too. And when it does, don’t listen to anything but your heart.

  She spoke English but reverted to Hindi when she was dishing out advice. My brain was hardwired to sort her speech accordingly. Everything she said in English went into the temporary cache. Everything she said in Hindi got etched into my subconscious.

  Naani leaned in and winked. “Khaas kar ke, uski baaton me mat aana.” Most especially, don’t listen to her.

  I laughed. She meant my mother.

  “What did you say?” Dolly tuned in, but Naani had already gone back to her phone.

  “Oh look. They’re here! Come, Naani.” I helped her up. “Rachel Auntie wants us all to welcome Thomas and his parents together.”

  Dolly, Naani and I made our way to the entrance of the banquet hall, where Thomas was struggling to breathe as Joseph Uncle held him in a tight, wiggle-free hug. You’re here, and you’re going to marry my daughter! There is no getting out of this now.

  Isabelle cheek-kissed her future in-laws—George and Kassia—while Rachel Auntie beamed as bright as the shimmering beads on her sari.

  Growing up, all Isabelle and I heard was, “
You have to marry an Indian fellow. Marriage is hard enough without having to gap cultural differences. Make your life easier, and ours too. Marry an Indian fellow.”

  Indian fellow.

  Indian fellow.

  What they’d neglected to tell us was the footnote, the loophole, the asterisk: “Marry an Indian fellow unless you land a gazillionaire. Then marry him.” Money circumvented a lot of things—opinions, traditions, cultural differences. Of course, the gazillionaire couldn’t be a total asshole. And he had to love masala chai, because you can’t really bond with someone until you’ve poured steaming hot masala chai from cup to saucer, swirled it with practiced precision, and slurped it together. That’s the way things rolled in my family.

  “God, he’s a looker,” Dolly mumbled under her breath after Isabelle introduced us to Thomas and his parents.

  I wasn’t sure if she was talking about Thomas or his silver-haired father, who had excused himself to answer his phone. Naani, on the other hand, had more important things on her mind. Like food. She was already zigzagging her way back to the table. She had no problems walking but her balance was off, and she refused to use a cane.

  “It’s okay. You go.” Rachel Auntie traded places with me, standing behind my mom. I’ve got your mother. You look after your grandmother.

  It was a blatant switch of our familial roles, but she’d obviously hedged her bets. Between my mother playing dead and my grandmother crashing into the chocolate fountain, the latter was a bigger concern. Much easier to pick Dolly off the ground than clear up a gooey mess of ganache with panache.

  “Beta, can you get me a glass of water?” asked Naani, sinking into her seat.

  “Of course.” I scanned the room and noticed pitchers of water lined up on a table in the back. Picking up the train of my lehenga, I made my way toward them. The lady at the store had helped me pair the long embroidered skirt I was wearing with a matching choli on top. It was emerald green, with gold embroidery at the border and a scattering of small stones that caught the light.