Rani Patel In Full Effect

by Sonia Patel

  “Thanks.” I wipe my chin.

  They watch me devour the rest of my lunch.

  “Everything ok, Rani?” Crystal eventually asks.

  “Yeah, everything’s ok.” I keep my eyes on my lunch tray.

  “Do you have cancer?” Richelle blurts out. Crystal kicks her under the table.

  “No. No cancer. No chemo. I did this to myself.” I rub my smooth head.

  “Oh.” Richelle tucks strands of her long black hair behind her ears.

  “Why?” asks Rayna, leaning forward.

  “It’s a statement,” I say, adjusting my glasses and hoping the interrogation will stop. I tell myself they’re genuinely worried. I mean it’s startling that I shaved my head. No girl has ever done this at our school. And it’s not like my bald headed “statement” makes me some badass fashion icon. Nope. I ain’t Grace Jones.

  Then I panic. What if they ask what statement I’m trying to make? I don’t want to let anything about my parents slip.

  “Thanks for letting me sit here.” I stand up like someone lit a fire under my ass. “But I gotta go. Got some homework I need to finish up before next class.” That’s a big lie. I always get my homework done before school starts.

  I hear them whispering as I walk away. Must be how rumors start.

  Maybe a tattoo, like Mark’s dreamcatcher, would’ve been better than shaving my head. So far people have mocked me. Now they think I have cancer. No one understands my pain. Well, especially since I haven’t told them anything.

  Boo hoo.

  I walk to the gigantic banyan tree at the front of the school and sink down with my back against the semi-smooth trunk. The long branches and densely packed leaves block out the bright sun. I close my eyes and get a major kanak attack.

  Next thing I know, someone’s tapping my shoulder. It’s Pono. He’s sitting beside me under the tree saying, “Rani, Rani. Earth to Rani.”

  “Sorry, Pono. Miles away in dreamland, I guess.” I slide my hands under my glasses and rub the sleep out of my eyes.

  “You lookin’ fierce, girl.” His voice is low and torrid, like he’s telling me a smouldering secret.

  Fierce? Funny, that’s the same thing Mark said.

  Then he grasps the corners of my glasses as if they were made out of a single dry spaghetti that would snap if handled without care. He realigns them on my face.

  Our faces are so close…

  “Thanks.” I don’t say anything else because I have to focus on willing myself to not grab his face and kiss him. I’m taken aback by his sweetness. If he’s this charming to me, a mere classmate, what’s he like with Emily? I’m holding my breath.

  “No worries. Anything you wanna talk about?” His amiable eyes reassure me and suddenly I envision we’re in a confession booth. He’s Father Damien and I’m a churchgoer ready to admit everything. Tell him all about what’s going on with my family. Pour my heart out about how much I’ve liked him since last year. That I wish he wasn’t going out with Emily.

  But all that stays locked up in my mind’s confessional. I’d never tell him the stuff about liking him because I ain’t one to stir the pot. And I’m no homewrecker. Mos def. Unlike that skeeze named Wendy.

  “No.”

  “Ok, but you know you can talk to me anytime, right?”

  “Yeah, I know. Thanks.”

  “Oh, and here are some receipts for the assembly.” He hands me a brown clasp envelope.

  “Thanks V.P.” I slide the envelope between my books.

  He smiles, then checks his ultra manly G-Shock. “Time for A.P. Calc.” He jumps up, then holds out his hand for me.

  Bald nobody and class hottie. Walking to class. Like Beauty and the Beast. Only in reverse.

  THREE STRIKES

  The large, copper svastika, the Hindu symbol of auspiciousness, hangs on the front door of our house. Trouble is, it reminds me of a Nazi swastika. The Nazi party turned the traditionally positive symbol forty-five degrees to the right to make it their own. The symbol creeps me out, at any angle. And with the recent inauspicious happenings in my life, I can’t help but think I’m walking into a Nazi lair.

  Not exactly my idea of home sweet home.

  I push the door open. The smell of Indian food drives away the thoughts of Aryan supremacy. I’m comforted by the scent of cinnamon, cumin, and coriander, redolent of the states of Punjab and Gujarat. Definitely matar paneer. Bubbling dal and bhatt too. In an instant, I’m ravenous.

  I pull my Adidas high tops off, almost knocking over the Ganesh statue on the shoe cabinet. Maaf kaaro, Ganesh. Forgive me.

  I’ve been at a student council meeting that lasted until 6:30 p.m. It went well. We got everything squared away for the school dance on September 20th. It’s a fundraiser for our senior class luau in May.

  That’s why I didn’t help Mom at the store today. My frequent unwanted visitor—guilt—comes knocking. Forgive me, Mom.

  She’s kneading wheat flour in a large stainless steel thali. She’s bearing down on the dough with all her might, like she’s pushing down on a bike pump that’s stuck only she doesn’t know it’s stuck. I look around to see if there’s anything I can help her with.

  That’s when I spot two Island Air plane ticket receipts next to the plate of the bakhri she’s already made. I wonder who’s going on a trip. Like a robber, I swipe one of the golden brown bakhri and take a bite. I close my eyes and savor the bite. It’s still warm and crisp on the outside. It tastes delicious. It puts loaf bread to shame. I open my eyes and worm my way closer to the receipts. I take another bite and lean forward on the counter. I sneak a peek at the printed names.

  Pradip Patel.

  Wendy Nagaoki.

  And I check out the destination.

  Moloka’i to Hawai’i.

  So they went to the Big Island! I drop the bakhri on the counter and my arms fall to my side. I take a step back, feeling nauseous. I clench my fists under the countertop.

  I guess Mom believes me now. That’s three strikes:

  1. Roses—Tuesday, August 6, 1991.

  2. Run-in with Dad and Wendy at Kanemitsu’s—Saturday, September 7, 1991.

  3. Plane ticket receipts found—Monday, September 9, 1991.

  Three strikes and you’re out, Dad.

  Too bad Mom hasn’t said one word about any of it. So it’s back to me being Nancy Drew.

  Rani Drew.

  I need to solve the mystery that is my mom. I should just ask her about the receipts. Seems pretty basic. But communication has never been our strong point. Not like Nancy Drew and Hannah Gruen. I mean poor Nancy never knew her mom. I think she died when Nancy was a youngster. And I feel bad for anyone who loses their mom. I can’t imagine. But at least Nancy had Hannah—her loving Mom figure and counselor. Mom’s not Hannah Gruen.

  There’s no Meera Gruen.

  Not even close. Mom doesn’t discuss difficult situations with me. Saturday night was an anomaly. I mean, I was out of my mind with emotions. I didn’t have my usual wits about me to talk myself out of telling her anything. And she acted like a real live human being.

  But now it’s back to our standard operating procedure. And the (Enormous. Elaborately adorned. Indian.) elephant in the room of our lives sits pretty. Eating juguu with its long trunk.

  I keep my face calm. “You ok, Mom?”

  “I’m ok.” She doesn’t look up from her kneading.

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m ok.” She kneads furiously.

  Dang, she’s strong.

  I stand there still as a mannequin watching her wallop the dough. I wonder how long it took her to become such a master bakhri maker.

  “Need some help?”

  “No.”

  I rest my elbows on the counter and cup my face in my hands. My eyes follow her hands as they divide the dough into small balls, then flatten each dough ball into individual discs. With a velan, she rolls each disc into a circular flat, like a tortilla. Perfect six-and-a-half in
ch diameter circles. Each exactly the same size and thickness. Without using a mold. Last time I tried to make bakhri each one turned out to be a different shape, thickness, and size. Kind of like the Hawaiian islands.

  I linger and psych myself up to ask her about the receipts.

  Come on, Rani, you can do this. You got this.

  I’m sweating. I have to pull at my shirt to keep it from sticking. Moist pits and all, I picture myself as Rocky Balboa. Donning my gloves. Hopping about in my gold and maroon colored robe to stay warmed up. Then I step into the ring.

  “Hey Mom, what about these receipts?”

  Silence.

  After five more minutes of nada, I devise a different strategy.

  Try playing piano. Maybe that’ll relax her and she’ll open up.

  I walk to the living room and play Für Elise. It’s my mom’s favorite, I think, because I’ve noticed she usually gets a half-smile when I play it. My fingers press the keys and I peek at her. I’m hoping the beauty of the piece will draw her out of her shell.

  Nope.

  She doesn’t seem to hear it, still completely absorbed in making the bakhri. So I stop playing halfway through. I drop my hands into my lap and stare out the sliding glass doors at the channel. It’s calm, like I wish I was. I get up and head to the entryway for my backpack. I wrap my fingers around one of its straps and lug it to my room.

  I’m about to shut the door to my room when I hear my mom’s voice. Groaning. I drop my backpack and slink into the hallway. All the sweat gets sucked back in and I’m dry as a bone. My eyes become binoculars and my ears a highly sensitive wire tap. I match my breathing to my heart beat and maintain complete stealth. By now I’m lying on the hallway carpet. I commando crawl to the beginning of the hallway and peer around the wall at my mom.

  She’s shaking her head and grumbling. She’s done this before—complain out loud to herself when she thinks no one’s listening. But generally she cries while she gripes. Today’s different. More anger and no tears. I didn’t think it was possible, but the V-shaped crease on her forehead is deeper than usual. I mentally record her solo tirade, translating it from Gujarati to English.

  “Salo Pradip. He’s never taken me on vacation anywhere. Maybe I’m the stupid one because I don’t ask for anything. I just do all his work. My girlfriends on the mainland get fancy clothes and houses. They go on trips. I know they speak up. I’ve seen it.”

  I’m stunned. I’m holding my breath.

  She continues her rant. “Their husbands treat them like wives and their kids like kids. Not their wives like servants and their kids like princesses.”

  Oh snap!

  “And now he’s got a new princess. Wendy. That kutri. She gets to have it all. His attention, no work, vacations. And what about poor Rani? And she thinks he’s such a good dad.”

  She thinks about me! Maybe she doesn’t hate me!

  My eyes dart around on a crazy search for nothing in particular. All I can hear is my heart beating and pushing the blood through my arteries. I let out a long, slow breath. The corners of my lips venture towards my eyes, which send tiny wet emissaries to greet them.

  WATER OVER FAMILY

  I creep my way through the bodies and plop down in the chair Pono saved for me. He gives me an inviting chin-up. His “it’s so on” smile kindles my activist flame. And ignites my Pono fire.

  He goes back to scribbling on his notepad while I consider how much I need a cold shower. I look around the large hall of the Kaunakakai Community Recreational Center. Locals are spilling out of the open entryways on either side. I can tell the meeting’s gonna be intense. My heart is throbbing at lightspeed. I’m not quite sure if it’s because the gorgeous brown skin of Pono’s arm is touching mine or if it’s the meeting. I order my brain to focus on the meeting.

  Fortunately my brain obeys. But then I realize this is my first activist meeting without my dad. I scan the room to make sure he’s not here. No sign of him. Today it’s just me. Skittishness tries to oust my courage.

  You can do this without him. You know your stuff.

  Courage triumphs and I’m ready to fight for the environment. As are most of the locals here. Public Enemy’s Fight the Power runs through my mind. And so does my own spontaneous rhyme.

  Everyone wants a piece of it—

  Moloka’i’s water. Admit it

  all ya’ll plotters wantin’ a judicial writ

  to give you free reign to buss out yo’ tool kit

  and construct for profit.

  But we won’t submit.

  We ain’t soft.

  So you best back off

  cuz you bout to be iced out—Jack Frost.

  I envision going up to the standing mic at the center of the room and spittin’ my rhyme as my testimony.

  The lights dim. I swag walk to the standing mic.

  A spotlight comes on. A DJ drops my beat. I spit…

  Pono elbows me back into reality. “Hey, Rani. You gonna give a testimony?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Cool. Me too.”

  “Yours is the one I’m looking forward to hearing,” I say, smiling.

  He smiles back. It almost makes him look shy.

  Did he just blush?

  But before I can read into his face anymore, the EPA Chair calls the meeting to order.

  After today’s hearing, the EPA will decide if the Moloka’i aquifer is truly its principal source of drinking water for the island and if contamination of it would be a health hazard for the inhabitants of the island. If they determine it is, then Moloka’i would get federal Sole Source Aquifer Designation. So any federally funded development would have to get EPA approval to make sure it doesn’t pollute the aquifer. This would be huge for keeping Moloka’i Moloka’i.

  The Chair calls for the first testifier. Auntie Hannah. She and Auntie Lani are the main activists fighting to protect the island’s water. I think of them as Moloka’i’s dynamic duo. The Salt-N-Pepa of water activism because first, Auntie Hannah is white and Auntie Lani is a brown Native Hawaiian and second, because they’ve got mad verbal skills. Watching them testify at public forums is the most inspiring thing I’ve ever seen.

  There’s buzzing in the audience as Auntie Hannah walks to the mic. The Chair calls for silence and Auntie Hannah introduces herself. Pono and I exchange ecstatic glances. He puts his left arm around the back of my chair. His fingers barely graze my arm. I do my best to listen to Auntie Hannah’s testimony and ignore my urge to leap out of my chair and jump on Pono’s lap.

  Then I hear a familiar voice.

  Oh no.

  No. No. No.

  I pivot a bit to the left and see my dad weaving through the chairs to a couple of empty ones near the front. Freakin’ Wendy’s behind him. Dad and I make eye contact, but he looks away before I can make out his expression.

  So this is what it’s come to. My dad is willing to fight for the water of Moloka’i. Willing to fight for Wendy. But he won’t fight for our family. For Mom. For me.

  My eyes don’t release my panic yet. First I feel my heart shaking. Literally. Then my entire body. My eyes eventually release salty fluid almost as an afterthought. The secondary tears drip onto my lips and into my mouth.

  I feel Pono’s hand on my back. “What’s wrong, Rani?” I turn to face him. His eyebrows are lifted and his eyes wide.

  “I don’t feel so good,” I say, my eyes shifting to my dad and Wendy. Pono’s eyes follow mine, then return to me. Suddenly, it’s like someone shoved plugs into my ear canals. I see Pono’s lips moving but I can’t hear what he’s saying. And I can’t see him clearly because it’s as if someone put an opaque plastic bag over my head and tied it at the neck.

  Air. I need air. Help!

  Next thing I know I’m near my truck. Trying to catch my breath.

  MOM’S EMANCIPATION

  Dad’s home for the first time in I don’t even know how long. It’s strange having all three of us in the house at the same time. It’s
like Dad’s a guest, a visiting raja from a faraway kingdom—with a new foreign rani—who stops by unannounced. In the spirit of hospitality, we all sit down for the gourmet meal his old kam vaari prepared. It makes me miss the days of our previous family dysfunction when our roles were well defined.

  Mom serves us the food. A million questions spring up in my mind, slow at first, then faster and faster. Like microwave popcorn.

  Why is he here tonight?

  How can he leave us?

  If I’m not his rani anymore, what am I?

  If Mom’s still working her butt off, but Dad’s not around, is she still his kam vaari?

  I watch Dad tear off a piece of bakhri, wrap it around some vegetable korma, and put the unsealed dumpling in his mouth.

  It’s freakin’ delicious, right? Bet Wendy the slut can’t cook up anything half as delectable.

  I have this powerful urge to slap the food out of his hand and grab the plate away from him.

  Selfish bastard. You don’t deserve Mom’s cooking. Go back to Wendy and let her try to cook something this good.

  He takes another bite. His eyes are focused on my head. Midchew he says, “I always wanted a boy.” His words and amused expression stun me, but my lips are wired shut and my vocal cords are paralyzed. He snickers and finishes chewing. I used to think he said the funniest things. Not right now. Right now, I’m irritated. I run my left hand over my head. I’m surprised by the bit of stubble I feel.

  We finish our meal in silence, heads down. The quiet is unbearable, making my motoring thoughts louder. I swear I’m about to burst like a huge Hubba Bubba bubble some little kid blew. I keep my eyes on my plate and focus on each bite to keep myself in one piece.

  After dinner, Mom and I clean up. I dry the last of the dishes. The tension is thick, like Mom’s homemade paneer. I wade through it and head back to my room. Before I make it halfway down the hall, I hear Dad’s booming voice.

  “Rani. Meera. I want to talk to you. Come sit at the table.”

  Finally. He’s realized what a terrible mistake he’s made. That he loves us so much. That he’s going to leave Wendy and things will go back to our normal with me and Dad. Dad and me. Raja and rani.