The singer up front has a tilak on his forehead. Button-down white shirt, slacks, black socks, and a shiny fat-dialed wristwatch that makes him periodically raise and wag his wrist—all this, topped with the holy saffron headpiece. Are his sons really interested in this performance? They don’t seem to be enjoying themselves. One looks sullen, actually. Heels of his small hands on the tablas, fingers curled and twitching by reflex, a clockwork flat-palmed slap … It is their father who is visibly pleased, either with Hanuman’s exploits or with himself. He likes being front and center, doesn’t he? Like those friends of Abhi’s who hold karaoke parties and rehearse their songs for days in advance, CDs of old Kishore Kumar songs, only the background music, done with keyboard and synthesizer. The vanity always comes in, even if the father says—as they all do, these holy artistes—that he’s “offering the music to God.” Does he make his sons play accompaniment? Or are the boys really pious, do they have something in their genes that makes them give up sleeping in on a Saturday morning? And if they have it, why don’t I?
Look at the shameful things you’re thinking. And in a temple. Focus. Focus.
Abhi finally breaks his concentration and turns to me. He smiles. I smile back, relieved. Now I imagine everyone’s mind wandering, up in the air, a spool of kite string spinning freely from each head, the kites trailing streamers of memories, streamers of wishes.
* * *
People enter, leave, reenter during the course of the performance. It is like an Indian wedding ceremony: the gods being invoked up front, several rows of attentive watchers, and a restless periphery.
I think about the reception we are going to skip tonight. The wedding must be going on right now. As with Ronak’s, first there is the church ceremony, then the Hindu one, then the reception. The hotel ballroom must be just about full—the white couples clustered in their suits and dresses, a cashmere throw for rare color; the Indian guests milling about and glittering in the soft lobby light, here a watermelon kameez with gold thread arabesques at the collar and chest, there a sarara sewn out of dusk. The little girls, decked out like Bollywood, chase one another with a clinking of bangles. Ronak’s wedding had been the same. I remember looking out at the crowd during one of the pandit’s longer Sanskrit rambles. Sparrows to one side, birds of paradise to the other.
If we stay until the katha is over, we will shake hands, hug, trade pleasantries and low murmurs about the deceased. There are too many people we know here. They will ask if I have been in India these past four months—no reply to the voice messages, and the phone never picked up. I will see even more friends and acquaintances at the reception. Maybe this can be practice. I want to eavesdrop more than anything. Conversations at home—with Abhi or with Mala and Ronak when they call or visit—have a self-conscious quality. The words deal with all the day’s topics and happenings, Nikhil’s first soccer practice, Shivani’s new words, and so on, but the pauses are all about the same thing. Then Abhi looks at me, and his fingertips walk across the carpet. I nod, and he puts his weight on his hand and rises. I hear the crack of his knee. Our shoes at the door have shifted slightly, like feet in the working shallows of the sea.
“Best to get home in time,” he says once we are outside, under a weak spring sun.
We have mastered little dishonesties. That way we don’t have to admit our lives have changed, at least not when we don’t want to do so. Indoors, during the day, we are frank and almost businesslike. What do you need right now? Get me the Vicodin. At night in bed, we are pathetic and tearful and stroke the outlines of each other’s faces, temple to cheek to chin to abyss. Outside, though, we pretend, even to each other.
We have to pretend now. In the parking lot, on one foot as she shakes gravel from her sandal, is Naina Doshi. She and her husband, Kalpesh, are sneaking out early, too. She slips the sandal back on and hurries over unsteadily, arms up to embrace me.
“You look fit!” she squeals, aborting her embrace early to take a step, lean back dramatically, and look me over.
I put my hands on my hips and look down at myself. “I don’t know. I’ve been doing what I can.”
“Have you been living at the gym? What’s your secret? And Abhishek bhai, look at you, so trim. Still swimming?”
“When I get the chance. You know, busy busy.”
“Are you coming to Neelam’s reception tonight? I am going to watch you both and make sure you eat. Dieting khattam. Over.”
Her husband strolls up to us. “There’s Einstein,” he says, grinning at Abhi, hand out to shake. His accent is still detectable, as all of ours are, but he likes more than most to use phrases he’s picked up from his children. He looks at his hand after he and Abhi have shaken. “I swear, my IQ just rose ten points.”
Abhi clears his throat. “Tragic news about Ramesh bhai.”
“Tragic, tragic,” agrees Kalpesh. “He was so young, you know!”
“Just a few years older than us,” Naina mourns. “What was he? Sixty-eight?”
“Sixty-six,” I say.
“So young! We had to come pay our respects, even though we are terribly exhausted.”
“We got in late last night.”
“Costa Rica,” explains Naina. “So amazing, the rain forests, you know.”
“Naina went on that, what is it? With the cable?”
“A canopy tour, Kalpesh.”
“Yes, canopy tour. Where you slide along the treetops. Very high.”
“You have to do it. It’s a must.” She looks at my body again. “And especially now that you’ve got this swimsuit body.”
I want to hide behind Abhi. She is still thinking about my weight. Is she jealous? I feel myself flush. Fortunately there is only a single awkward beat before Abhi speaks. “The wife did it, Kal, and not you?”
Kalpesh frowns. “With my luck? I would break my neck.”
“He got sunburned the day before,” says Naina. “We went snorkeling, you know, and he didn’t use sunscreen properly.”
“Like I said, with my luck. I had to sleep on my stomach.”
“The whole room smelled of that aloe lotion. Chee! I had told him to wear a UV shirt. I even bought him one. Long sleeve. Still he goes in a T-shirt.”
“I don’t need that thing sticking to my belly. They’re made of, of, what’s that clingy, tightum-tight…?”
Naina shakes her head. “It blocks ultraviolet light. It’s a special cloth.”
“What is it? You know, bicyclists wear those shorts? That Lance Armstrong? What is that cloth?”
“Spandex?” Abhi guesses.
“See? Einstein. This guy is Einstein. You win any big awards lately? I keep waiting to see your picture in the paper again.”
“It’s not spandex,” says Naina, irritated. “It’s a special cloth.” She looks at me again. “Weren’t you going to Alaska this spring? On that cruise?”
“We canceled it,” I say.
“Oh? Why?”
“Problem with the schedule at work,” says Abhi. “One of my partners had a family emergency. You know how it is.”
“That’s horrible.” Kalpesh’s face goes serious. “Did you get a refund? Was there enough notice?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Full refund?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good. Let me tell you: Forget Alaska. There’s enough snow right here in Ohio.”
“Alaska is beautiful,” Naina insists. “And it was a cruise. You know I love cruises.”
“Was it a Desi cruise? Indian buffet, every day?”
“No, it was a regular one.”
Kalpesh looks at me. “You two don’t eat fish, do you?”
“No.”
“Those cruises have a lot of fish in their buffets. I don’t mind. But her.”
“Chee,” says Naina again. “Fish is smelly.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m not going somewhere to see snow anyway. Never again. Plenty of snow to shovel right here.”
“You don’t shovel snow. You
pay a man to come with his truck.”
“That’s why I slave all day. To have some guy shovel my snow, and to take her on vacations everywhere.”
Naina looks past me. “Shanu!” she shouts. Another couple is leaving early. We do not know them. Naina sweeps past me on her high heels and embraces the woman. Kalpesh, taking a step in her direction, pats Abhi on the shoulder to break the conversation.
“See you tonight. We’ll drop by, we’ll drop by.” With that, he moves past Abhi. “There he is, there’s Warren Buffett,” he says to Shanu’s husband. They shake hands. It is easy for us to escape. In the car, my hands cover my mouth, and I shake. Abhi, who has pulled out slightly, puts the car into park.
“Are you crying? What happened?”
I take my hands away so he can see my laughter. He still isn’t sure.
“Are you okay? Look at me. Look at me.”
“She thought I looked trim,” I say, catching my breath. “Abhi, she was jealous of my figure!”
Abhi shakes his head. “She is an ek number ka idiot, isn’t she?” He grins. “Naina and the rest.”
“Swimsuit body!” I mimic her. I make an A-OK sign, which is also the evil eye. “Absolutely swimsuit body!”
He guffaws, and now we are both laughing with the car half out of the parking space. We can’t stop. Our ribs and cheeks ache. Soon we are crying-laughing and finally just crying until we are on the highway, where we go silent and stay silent. At home, we lie in bed holding each other in our dress clothes, which we throw later that afternoon in a pile at the back of the closet: his suit, my saree, never to be washed, never ironed, never worn again.
Mala and family arrive. This time they come for a week.
“You can’t keep wasting vacation,” I tell her after the embrace and the how are you feeling and the grandchildren’s cheddar cheese Goldfish in two Mickey Mouse bowls. The kids, snacked up, have gone to the toys I brought out for them: Ronak’s old cars and Transformers for Vivek, for Shivani the ball she kicks back and forth with Sachin.
“It’s not a waste of vacation,” says Mala. “How is it a waste?”
“Remember you were talking about Disney?”
“Yeah. We’d have put that off anyway. She’s still young.”
“But this is when they would love it.”
“She’s still young. Besides. This is where they want to come. You should have seen how excited they were. Naani’s house, Naani’s house.”
I nod. “It is such a long drive for you.”
“We let them watch Nemo.” She sits back. “For the billionth time.”
A pause. I run my hand nervously along the couch arm, ruffling the fabric dark, then smoothing it light again.
“What’s wrong?”
“I could not cook last week.”
“Not a problem. You know that’s not a problem, Mom.”
“I don’t know where the week went. I don’t know where any of the weeks go anymore.”
“We can order pizza.”
“Your father is always eating like that now. I have no strength.”
I realize I shouldn’t have said that. She is going to read too much into it. “You can’t expect yourself to cook, Mom. Not with all that’s going on.”
“It is not natural for me.”
I am not looking at her. But I can feel her staring at the side of my face, hard. “Can I help?”
“What?”
“Can I help?”
“The number is in Abhi’s phone. Abhi will go pick it up. Or Sachin. You can stay.”
“No. I mean, can you cook if I help you?”
“You mean cutting the vegetables?”
“Oh God, Mom!” She talks to the ceiling. “I’m not that incompetent, you know!”
“I know. You are a brilliant girl. I know.”
“I can do other stuff. I never learned. Or at least not as much as I should have. But I mean, there are things I can do. You could sit and guide me.”
She has come into my kitchen only rarely. Once, when she had a home economics class in high school, she decided she liked baking. She wouldn’t eat what she had made, not more than half a cookie fresh out of the oven. She would give me the other half from her fingers, hot, hotter where the chocolate chips had melted. As she grew older, she had no time, and then no patience, and then no respect for the art. It smacked of Old World female subservience; it was a chore, as lovelessly done as the dishes afterward. I try to imagine how it would be with her helping me now.
“I never learned. I can learn now. Mom?”
“Yes?”
“What do you say?”
“There is nothing in the house. Everything is used up.”
“Write me a list.”
“You want to go now?”
“I’ll get the pizza on the way back. Then for dinner we’ll have what you and I make together. How’s that sound?”
“Good.”
“Great.” She smiles at me. “I get to be the sorcerer’s apprentice.”
She goes to the counter and comes back with a junk-mail envelope and a pen. She clicks the pen three times quick.
“Rattle off what you need.”
I sit back and imagine my refrigerator and my pantry. I close my eyes. This is not what I am used to. I do all the grocery shopping for the house.
“Let’s start with produce.”
“Ginger,” I say. “A lot of ginger. Maybe five whole roots.” I go through it fast; it is my antiemetic.
She writes.
“Tomatoes … the cooking variety. You know those? They are kind of thicker, rounder—”
“I know cooking tomatoes, Mom.”
“Okay.”
“What else?”
“Onions. White. At least two. And two limes. Not the organic ones, those are more expensive for nothing. We have lemons I think. Cilantro, of course. And maybe bring grapes, too. Vivek likes grapes, right?”
“V, if I bring grapes, will you eat them?”
Vivek’s truck pauses under his hand. “Yeah.”
“You want the purple ones or the green ones?”
“The purple-flavored ones.”
“All right, purple grapes for V.”
He looks up suddenly. “Wait! Not with the seeds!”
“No seeds, got it. What else, Mom?”
I go through the store in my memory, aisle by aisle. I keep my eyes shut so I can visualize it exactly and not forget anything. The menu decides itself as I go: black beans, palak paneer, cucumber raita. As I say each ingredient, the finished dish implies itself and draws other items off the shelves and into my imaginary cart. Mala has started a second column. Some of the things I say I already have in the house, but I desire fresh cumin, fresh fennel seeds, even fresh salt, not three-weeks-unbreathing spices in the dark of my cupboard. It is wasteful of me, I know, so I press several twenties into Mala’s hand. She resists, but not too forcefully because I am weak now. A little persistence on my part, and she takes the money. The back of the envelope is covered in pen, the second column packed smaller and smaller at the bottom right, fitting in as much as possible before the end.
* * *
That afternoon—in the smell of empty pizza boxes, the side panels untucked and the coupons left stapled to the cardboard—we start.
Mala comes down wearing a tank top. I remember, when she was a teenager, when I forced her to learn some basic dishes, she used to complain how hot it got around the stove. Now that she’s not wearing sleeves I see the ancient scar on her upper arm. Centuries ago, when she was four, she reached up and pulled a pot of tea off the stove. I used the rear burners almost exclusively for three years after that and still prefer them if I have a choice. To this day I turn all pot handles to the twelve o’clock position even when there is no one else in the house. The tea had splashed the floor, mostly; the pot itself, bouncing off the stove edge, left that red slat on her shoulder. I remember the scene afterward. Brown drops clung to the nearby cupboards and the oven. Black tea-grounds s
oiled the linoleum over a startling distance, like the spill from a knocked-over houseplant. Thankfully she had been wearing pajama pants, or her pale legs might have been scalded by the splatter. She hadn’t pulled the pot directly onto herself. She had tried to move it aside for me, onto a neighboring unlit range, as she had seen me do every morning. The heavy pot leaped at her off the high ledge. I had been washing my hands across the gulf of the kitchen floor. I turned around, and it had already happened. If she had been standing a little to the left … if I had waited at the stove instead of washing my hands … How efficient I liked to be, no time wasted, every minute used. Let me wash last night’s ice cream bowls while the tea’s heating. I was rinsing my hands when the milky tea frothed, rose, rushed to the brim.
“Mom? You all right?”
“Let’s start.”
“Wait.” She has brought something folded. Two matching aprons. I never wear one, but I will today.
“You like them?”
“Of course.” Was she planning this cooking adventure before she came? “Where did you find them?”
“I passed them in the store, and I got them. Cute, eh? With the teddy bears?”
“Which one do you want?”
“You pick.” She holds one flat on each palm.
“Red.”
“Here.”
“You’re sure you don’t want the red?”
“I’m sure, Mom.”
We put them on. We are both skinny now, mother and daughter. The ties at our waists could wrap us fully around and knot in front. But we tie them in the back anyway and let the long ends dangle.
We begin with knives and okra, speaking of Vivek’s time at the Montessori school and Shivani’s new words. She is saying chocolate milk and, of course, Dora, Boots, Backpack. I am happy about this. I know Mala had been worried, though she had no reason to be. Children speak when they are ready to speak. I had told her this and so had the pediatrician, but Mala was impatient because the daughters of Rachna and Sima, her two close friends, started speaking well before Shivani. We dice the potatoes, and I watch Mala’s fingers. A cut this early might turn her off, or at least spoil the afternoon for her. Now that we are here together, I want to keep going. I want to talk to her like this for as long as she will stay. With cutting boards before us and a meal to be prepared, this is not a self-conscious heart-to-heart, taking place during time we have set aside to have one. The attention is off the words for once, and that inattention is sunlight. The words grow free and crack the pavement and cover the bricks in green. We talk about Rachna’s marriage to Sohum for a while, and Mala takes some pleasure in telling me how hard their daughter is to discipline. They have to hide their pens because she’s obsessed with writing on the couches. Then Mala shrugs and says how not everyone can be like Amber’s kids, “all yes-ma’am-no-ma’am.” We start talking about Amber. The more we do—about how Amber is far too strict with the boys, how Ronak needs to stand up to her more, how Dev has finally grown out of his stammer—the closer she feels to me. It is not cruel of us. Is it? If Amber were upstairs or had just stepped out, that would be different. But she is far away, and Mala is right here, opening up, telling me what she thinks, sharing stories from her last visit to New York. I know she loves Amber and Ronak and their boys. I love them, too, no question.
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