Nimita's Place

by Akshita Nanda

  It’s because Chia Ying needs to sleep in on Saturdays that I got the master bedroom with the attached bathroom, while she uses the junior master and shares the common bathroom with Irving.

  By 8.30am this Saturday, I am sitting at the dining table with the newspaper, looking through the property listings in The Straits Times. My coffee mug sits on the rest of the newspaper so it won’t leave a ring on the wood surface. It is instant coffee because Chia Ying is in Kuala Lumpur again and I can’t work the machine without her.

  “3-bdroom 800sq ft, $9xxK, negotiable.” Too high. Look in more down-market areas. “Yew Tee, 2 bdroom, $8xxK, negotiable.” What? In less than three months the price went up that much? “Kovan Heights, 3bdroom, $1m, negotiable.”

  Instead of circling listings, I start drawing cell diagrams over them. Nucleus, cell membrane, dots of cytoplasm, dot, dot, dot, scratch, scratch, scratch…

  The wooden door opens and closes. Irving comes in, goes into the kitchen and comes out almost immediately with a bottle of ice lemon tea. He sits down at the table, all sweaty.

  I move my chair away a little.

  Irving drinks his ice lemon tea. “One mile.”

  “Haan?”

  He takes another glug. “Half a mile and I had to turn back. That’s one mile.” He looks at the super-expensive watch on his wrist. “One mile. I haven’t run that little since I was in high school.”

  I finish colouring in the nucleus. “I told you, you’re mad to go out running today. It’s hazy.”

  “The pollutant index is only fifty.”

  I begin a map of the known Transferase-C interactions with enzymes. “You are mad or what, trusting the PSI reading? Last year, the readings went up to the 300s so this year, the National Environment Agency changed the index. What was 200 last year is only 100 this year. The agency doesn’t want people to be frightened by the high numbers recorded nowadays.”

  “What?”

  I finish my map. “Don’t just trust whatever anyone says. If you were a scientist, you would know.” Except that Chia Ying also forgets and is surprised that her nose runs when the PSI reading is only 50.

  “Excuse me,” says Irving, in a tone which means he is going to lecture me.

  My phone starts buzzing. Saved. “Excuse me.”

  Unknown number. “Hello?” Maybe it’s a telemarketer.

  “Hello, am I speaking to Nimita?” Indian accent. Still might be a telemarketer.

  “Yes, hello.”

  “Hello, beta.” Okay, not a telemarketer. Change gears. “Beta, this is Geeta-Aunty. Twinkle’s cousin.”

  Twinkle? Who in the family is called Twinkle?

  “Sorry, beta, your Alok-Uncle.” The lady laughs. “At home, we call him Twinkle.”

  Haan, Itty-Bua’s husband Alok-Uncle, technically Alok-Phupha. We don’t use pet names for him because he married into the family, but of course he must have one. All Punjabis do.

  “Hello, Aunty, how nice to hear from you.”

  “In fact, didn’t we meet that one time at whose wedding? Moushumi’s?” Moushumi is Itty-Bua’s oldest daughter, who is married and settled in London. I was 15 at the time I think. Maybe 16.

  “Haanji.” When in doubt, say haanji, yes, respected one.

  “Anyway, beta, I’m in town staying with some friends and your bua has sent a present for you. I was thinking, why don’t you come over for lunch?”

  I was going to show Irving Dr Alagasamy’s favourite dim sum place. After the failure of Pasta and Future, he’s decided to call his book Bao Wow: The International Art of Buns. I told him to call it Bunbelievable, but he wouldn’t listen.

  “Lunch, Aunty?” Naatak-baazi time. “But Aunty, you must come home, na? Or let me take you all to lunch, since you are visiting Singapore.”

  She laughs. “So sweet, beta, so sweet. Why you want to go to all this trouble? So brave, I know what it’s like, a girl all by herself.”

  I am thirty years old, but an unmarried woman is still a girl.

  Geeta-Aunty says: “No, no, you must come home today. You’ll get proper home-cooked Punjabi food. Okay? Now beta, do you have a pen? Okay, good. Write down the address. I’m staying at this place, Pinnacle@Duxton.”

  Pinnacle@Duxton? I stop naatak-baazi and start getting really excited.

  “Irving, guess what. My aunty just invited me to her place at Pinnacle@Duxton! Remember that sci-fi building near the bunbelievable place?”

  He whistles. “Nice. Are you going?”

  “Of course.” I start texting Chia Ying. “Sorry, haan, I can’t do buns with you today.”

  “What about Hafeezah?”

  “What about Hafeezah?”

  “She invited us to her iftar party tonight?”

  I finish texting. “Oh yah. But now I have to meet my aunty, right?” I wasn’t planning to go anyway.

  When meeting an older Punjabi relation, always wear your smartest clothes. That means ironing a nice salwar kameez and accessorising it with bangles, earrings and a necklace.

  When I come out again, Irving has bathed and changed and is playing some kind of pyramid-making game on his PlayStation. “Do you have any chocolates?” I ask him.

  “There’s a bar of Valrhona Gold in the fridge.”

  “No, no, proper chocolates, in a box. I need to take something for Aunty.”

  “Buy flowers.” On the TV, steps form on the pyramid’s smooth side.

  “Indian people don’t take flowers when visiting elders. Only if the elders are sick or it’s an anniversary or birthday.”

  I buy a box of chocolates at the supermarket, put it into a nice tote bag I brought from home and sneeze twice while walking to the train. Haze. Oh, this is good. I download some past research papers on throat cancers and read one on my cellphone during the twenty-minute train ride down to Outram Park station. It is difficult to read while holding a handbag and gift bag and jostling for space in a carriage packed with people, but I manage somehow.

  Pinnacle@Duxton is so tall that as I get closer, I can no longer see the tops of the buildings. Today I finally get to go inside! The building has good security. I don’t have a residents’ pass, but Geeta-Aunty said her nephew would be waiting at the gate.

  He is. And he is Gautam Bhatia. “Hi!” He smiles so wide I think his cheeks will split open.

  “Hello.” I am so surprised, I let him take my box. Of course. Alok-Uncle’s cousin is related to the Bhatias. Why didn’t I make the connection?

  He chatters all the way into the building. This is the lift to the skybridges on the 26th and fiftieth floors; later if the haze gets better, we can go up and see the view. This is the lift to his friend’s flat—turns out the friend is the son of Geeta-Aunty’s old school friend, which is how Gautam has had a place to stay in Singapore, rent free, for so long.

  Their flat is on the 42nd floor, and cold because the air-con is on full blast. It’s too hazy to see much from the full-length windows but the view must be amazing on other days.

  Geeta-Aunty pulls me into a hug, the heavy stonework on her kurta scratching my chest. “So beautiful, gori-chitti. No wonder Gautam was so happy to meet you again.”

  He grins and ducks his head and all I want to do is hand over the chocolates and run away.

  “I’m Gautam’s real bua,” Geeta-Aunty says and the nightmare is complete.

  First there are snacks. Nuts and chips and hot potato tikkies made by the Indonesian helper. “Sit next to me, beta,” says Geeta-Aunty, and she takes my hand and asks lots of questions about where I stay, who I stay with and whether I’m eating properly.

  Her friend, Lalita-Aunty—I don’t catch her surname or the name of her husband—moves in and out of the kitchen and sitting area. There is a very old man in a wheelchair, Lalita-Aunty’s father-in-law. I call him Uncleji, as Geeta-Aunty does. After I do namaste, he says: “Haan, beta, where is Prem?” and has to be told that I am not his grandson Prem’s friend but Gautam’s.

  “Haan, Gautam,” he says. “Whe
re is Varsha?” And he has to be reminded that this Gautam is not his grandson but his grandson’s friend.

  After a dozen potato tikkies have cooled on serving plates—“Have, have, beta, why are you not having?”—we move to the table for a typical home-cooked Punjabi meal. There is the usual heavy masoor dal made with cream, gobi aloo, parathas, vegetable pulao, chicken curry, and onions, tomatoes and cucumbers cut up to make a salad. “Beta, only home food, nothing special,” Lalita-Aunty says. I say how lovely everything is and how there is far too much food on the table.

  This is not naatak-baazi. I’m not acting. I actually have no idea how I am going to eat anything. Apart from all those tikkies, I am sitting next to Gautam. His cologne makes my throat close up.

  “So Gautam, you and Prem are going off to Australia?” Geeta-Aunty says. Prem, Gautam’s friend, is still at the gym or something.

  “Daddyji, some more dal?” Lalita-Aunty asks.

  “Yes, Bua. But I’ll be back very soon,” Gautam says, turning to me.

  “Dal, Daddyji, dal.”

  “Beta, you’re not eating? Have another paratha. She’s too thin, na Gautam?” Geeta-Aunty puts a paratha on my plate and some dal in my bowl.

  “Aunty, she works too much. She’s a scientist, you know, working at the National Cancer Centre.” Gautam beams, like he got me the job. “She works all odd hours so we hardly meet. We mostly text.”

  Text? You mean you send me stupid jokes and inspirational forwards and I reply with a and pray the message will sink in soon?

  This is what comes from being Punjabi. “Bua, I’m not interested,” I told Itty-Bua in a phone call and she said: “Beta, what’s the harm in making a friend?” Why can’t I just say “no”?

  Gautam’s phone starts ringing. “Excuse me,” he says and takes the call. “Prem? You bugger, where are you? Haan? Oh! Oh, okay. Okay, give me ten minutes.” He puts the phone away. “Aunty, Uncle, Uncleji, Bua, so sorry but that was Prem. He got a call from this one investor we’ve been trying to meet for weeks. If you don’t mind?”

  Lalita-Aunty’s husband nods. “Go, beta, go. Strike while the iron is hot.”

  “Haan, beta, go, go. But what about Prem’s lunch? Make sure he eats something, yah?” adds Lalita-Aunty.

  “Very good, beta. All the best,” Geeta-Aunty says. She pinches my cheek. “This girl is very lucky for you, I think.”

  “Haan?” Uncleji puts his hand to his ear.

  “One paratha, Daddyji?” asks Lalita-Aunty.

  With Gautam gone, I have space to shake out my hand and massage my wrist a little. I manage to eat a paratha and a spoonful of everything on the table.

  There are gulab jamuns after the meal, the kind I like, long brown balls soaking in sugar syrup with a faint scent of rose. Uncle disappears into his study, Uncleji is wheeled into his room by the Indonesian helper. Lalita-Aunty and Geeta-Aunty move with me to the sofa and make me give a full oral examination of my career and family.

  They also want to be sure I understand Gautam’s many good points. All I have to do is say “haanji” when they talk about his top marks, his former job at Kotak Mahindra and his entrepreneurship with Haanji. They are pleased to see the app on my phone.

  “This is a really lovely flat, Aunty,” I say when the helper brings out hot masala chai. I notice four closed doors, so that’s four bedrooms at least. The central living area looks doubly spacious because of the full-length windows and sensibly placed furniture.

  “Isn’t it nice, beta? Nicely located but a bit small,” she says, even though it’s bigger than the one I rent.

  “What about your house in Tanjong Katong?” asks Geeta-Aunty, turning to Lalita-Aunty. I can’t even think of buying a flat there. Forget a house.

  “Oh, that’s still there,” Lalita-Aunty says. “Prem and Neena will move there after marriage. This flat is under their name, of course.” She sips her tea and I wonder. Normally if there is a house, three generations of an Indian family will live together in it. If anyone moves out into a flat, it will be the youngest, not the oldest.

  “It was Daddyji’s wish to come here, you know.” Lalita Aunty nods at the closed door. “You know that before they built Pinnacle, there were some of the oldest HDB blocks on this plot of land? Back when the government was making those first few buildings, they acquired this land from people like Daddyji. Or so he says.” She moves her shoulders and her thick gold bangles clink.

  Geeta-Aunty shakes her head. “Yes, these government people are too much. Back when they were expanding Mumbai also, you know, they just took land from people and gave hardly any compensation. We lost crores, I tell you. Crores.”

  Lalita-Aunty nods. “Daddyji was very upset that we had to pay for this flat, you know, he wanted it free. Can you imagine?”

  The tea is hot and sweet and just perfect. “Your family owned land in Singapore, Aunty?”

  Lalita-Aunty turns to me. “Too much land, beta. Too much. You won’t believe. Not only Daddyji, my own father had a farm that the government took to build the MRT line. Hardly any compensation we received. Just one house now, which my brothers live in. Also in Tanjong Katong.” Lalita-Aunty would have taken her share of the family wealth in gold, of course, or the diamonds she wears on her ears. The home she was brought up in would go to her brothers.

  Geeta-Aunty clucks her tongue in sympathy.

  Lalitha-Aunty moves her shoulders again and her bangles clink again. “But you know, the government also did a lot for this country. You have to respect that old man. Even Daddyji can’t fully curse him. Look at how we live now. You can’t imagine what it was like in the 1970s.”

  “Yes, Singapore is very neat and clean and so many good opportunities,” Geeta-Aunty says.

  “Yes.” Lalita-Aunty takes another sip of tea. “I remember a time when Bangladesh was cleaner and safer than Singapore, but now look at us.”

  The aunties suggest I take a nap on the sofa and wait for Gautam to come back. I tell them that I have to go back to the lab for an experiment.

  “So nearby it is! Come back for dinner.”

  “Aunty, these things, I can’t predict how long they will take.”

  Another cup of tea, more gulaab jamuns, hugs, pinching of cheeks and then Geeta-Aunty goes into her room and comes out with the package Itty-Bua sent.

  “I’ll see you very soon, haan? Take care, beta.”

  “Bye, Aunty.” The package is soft against my chest.

  On my way out, I realise that I didn’t go up to the skybridge. Anyway, the haze is stronger, making my throat itch.

  When I reach home, Irving is still in front of the PlayStation. There are ten pyramids on the screen in front of him.

  I go into the kitchen for some water, then into my room to open Itty-Bua’s package.

  It is a brand-new churidar kurta. The fitted churidar pants are bottle green, while the kurta is peacock blue, long with high side-slits and mirror work embroidery all down the front. It’s beautiful. “For my beautiful beta,” Bua has sent in a note.

  There are matching earrings.

  I breathe out slowly. This is the thing about buas. They irritate you, they crowd you, they try to run your life for you but they also are always thinking about you in the most loving way.

  I try the outfit on and come out to show Irving. I swish around next to him until he pauses the game, turns his head and whistles. “Very nice.”

  “Bua sent. My aunty.”

  “The aunt you went to see today?”

  “No, that was my—hmm. My father’s cousin’s husband’s cousin. Just a general aunty. Different from a bua.”

  Buas are more than general aunties. Buas watch over you and worry about you and try to find lifemates for you. You can’t escape buas, even by crossing two seas.

  I need to call Itty-Bua and set her straight about Gautam.

  Irving has said something.

  “What?”

  “So are you going for the iftar party?” He points. “Since you’re all d
ressed up.”

  I swish again, loving the feel of the silk-cotton against my legs. “Well…you’re going?”

  He smiles. “Someone suggested I do hashtag halal this month.”

  It’s such a nice outfit. And Hafeezah will definitely appreciate it.

  The air-con blows on my wrist. I shiver.

  “Not today. I’m tired.” I swish one more time. “Irving, will you take a photo and send to me, please? I want to send it to my bua.”

  “Not this one. Not this one. That one—maybe.”

  “Why?” Irving turns the cooker upside down.

  “Don’t you know anything? Aluminium is the best. Ever tried lifting a stainless-steel pressure cooker full of dal?”

  “Some of us have muscles.” He crooks his arm and shows off his biceps.

  “Haha, very funny. Some of us have better things to do than show off our muscles.” Or overstrain a bad wrist.

  Chia Ying reaches out for a pan from a stack of non-stick saucepans. “I thought we were coming to Mustafa to have fun!”

  “This is fun.” Irving and I say at the same time.

  Chia Ying groans.

  Mustafa Centre never closes and stocks everything. Perfumes, cosmetics, cheap fabrics, expensive clothes, real gold jewellery, diamond jewellery, sports shoes, high-heels, construction boots, computers, dal, sabji, spices, fresh fish, frozen paneer, carpets, chairs, tables and an entire floor of kitchen appliances including different types of pressure cookers. I haven’t even started listing the contents of buildings two and three.

  I look at the pressure cookers Irving has selected. “Prestige, Hawkins, Vinod, okay, one of these. Prestige.”

  “What about this?” Irving shows me a steel-top, aluminium-bottom cooker from the National Presto Industries. Please.

  “American pressure cooker? What do Americans know about pressure cooking? India invented pressure cookers, you know.” Give me Prestige over Presto any day.

  “It was the Germans, Nimita.” Ooh, Irving is using my full name, which means full-on lecture mode. “Germany invented the pressure saucepan and turned it into a full-fledged industry. Look at this top-range WMF cooker made in Baden-Württemberg. Celebrity chefs Wolfgang Puck and Artenio Amadeus both have one at home. It gets a five-star review on Amazon.com. It’s five times the price of your Vinod.”