The Hindi-Bindi Club

by Monica Pradhan

  “Afraid so…Unless you want to tell Giru-mama to take back my ever-so-lovely Paithani sari.”

  “No…I couldn’t possibly do that,” she said ruefully. “The sari shops don’t accept returns on custom orders. Looks like I’m stuck—the Paithani and John-baba are a package deal.” She chuckled, pleased with her joke. Who knew cancer would give—or did it bring out?—my mother’s sense of humor? She sprinkled tidbits like this throughout the program, “F.A.Q.s to Commit to Memory: Hindi is a language. Hindu is a religion/way of life. Mistaking the two is a common mistake for foreigners. Misspeaking is grounds for deportation.”

  I perused her list, commenting, “I love this one…And that one…Oooh, write a novel, huh?”

  “Umm-hmm. I love to read, and I always wanted to write a book one day, just never had the time. People say you have to make time, but there are only so many hours in a day. Anyway, I’m going to give it a try. I don’t know if I’ll be any good. Guess we’ll find out….”

  “You’ll be great. Your letters are masterpieces.”

  She cupped my cheek with her hand and made a kissing sound. “I’m glad you think so. That’s the important thing. You know, writing to you really warmed up that part of my brain. First I struggled to fill the page. Now I’m practically writing short stories. The length of a novel isn’t so intimidating anymore.”

  “You can definitely do it. But, um, can I make one teeny, tiny request?” I clasped my hands. “Please, I beg of you, not another Life’s-a-Bitch-and-Then-You-Die novel. I mean, I get that no one, present company included, wants to read four hundred pages of shiny, happy people who don’t have any problems, but—”

  “No? How come?” She yawned, laced her fingers together, and stretched, palms to the ceiling, making me laugh. “Don’t worry, pillu. I’ll leave the tragedies to others. Not my cup of tea, either. I’d prefer a story that’s ultimately uplifting. Sure, there will be hardships, obstacles along the way, but I want to write about survivors. Resilience of the human spirit.”

  “Now you’re talkin’…People who take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’. That I love.”

  “Me, too,” she said, and I snuggled up to her, laid my head on her lap, closed my eyes, and fell asleep.

  “Kuryat sada mangalam…shubha mangala savdhan…”

  “Listen to the sounds of these sacred Sanskrit mantras,” my mother said in her reading. “All of us here, at one time or another, have had the experience of not being able to explain ourselves in words, right?”

  Western heads nodded, and Eastern heads wobbled agreement.

  “Well, the seers who authored the verses in the Vedas over four thousand years ago were very wise and insightful. They noted language has literal and sonic meaning. Beyond ‘word-pictures,’ painted by definitions, language creates ‘sound-pictures,’ evoked by vibrations. Now, what does that mean, Meenal? I know you’re thinking. I’ll give you an example, so you can experience for yourself what I’m talking…” Here she gave a coy smile. “Because you know I can’t explain you with mere words.”

  This, a grammatical joke. Those with a foot in each camp—East and West—got it and chuckled.

  “We define the Sanskrit om with words like all that is, or the universe. But the sound, the vibration when we chant om has additional meaning. Repetition of a mantra enables us to focus. On sound and vibration. On anything and everything. When we chant, in any language, we heighten our perception, awareness, consciousness that there is more. Out there.” She pointed to the sky. “And, in here.” She tapped a finger over her heart.

  “Kuryat sada mangalam…shubha mangala savdhan…”

  John has a new nickname. John-baba. So christened by Aji, it’s analogous to Little Johnny.

  Apparently, it’s quite common for grown Indian men to be called by highly embarrassing pet names given to them as boys. Saroj Auntie told me about one of Sandeep Uncle’s brothers, a strapping, larger-than-life, fierce colonel who’s cut down to size when Mummy calls him Bunny in public.

  John agreed a pet name like Bunny would decimate his manhood. (Sorry, Bunny!) Baba, however, works for him—pronounced like bubba, which he’s heard a lot, being Texan.

  John was so adorable at his fitting. He couldn’t stop posturing in front of the mirror, showing off his new duds, cream sherwani with gold embroidery and burgundy dupatta, worn stolelike. “Wow! Look at me! I look Indian! Don’t I look Indian?” With his blond hair and blue eyes? Um, no. But he sure looked smashing.

  I wanted so badly to kiss him right there and then, but Mom kept admonishing us this was India, no “touchy-touchy” in public. “Doesn’t the Hindu wedding ceremony have some kind of a ‘you may kiss the bride’ part?” I asked, making my aunts giggle and blush. No, no, heavens no. Even the tailor chuckled.

  “Arré!” exclaimed my sweet little old granny, startling my snoring grandfather from his impromptu nap. “Luvang-tod!”

  “Huh, huh, luvang-tod,” Ajoba mumbled and fell back asleep.

  Aji shared with John-baba and me a tradition from yester-year called clove-breaking. After the wedding ceremony, before the lunch feast, there are various fun rituals comparable to Western linked-arms champagne toast, glass-tinkling, and kiss traditions. For the luvang-tod, the bride holds a clove between her front teeth, and the groom has to break it with his teeth. All the while, the audience eggs them on, relishing their discomfort.

  Aji reminded us that back then, brides and grooms didn’t have much prior contact—some were seeing each other for the first time at their wedding ceremony! This was a highly intimate and embarrassing act to perform in front of an audience. Imagine having Your First Kiss in front of your entire family, including distant relatives. Now add everyone else you know, plus another couple hundred, even thousand other guests!

  Aji clapped, her gold bangles chiming like a tambourine. In an animated, teasing voice, she sang, “Kai bai Punyachi tariff, lavanga nighalya bareek.” How much can you praise Pune, because the cloves from there are so small.

  “Aji!” I laughed with the others. “Who knew you were such a wild woman?”

  Ajoba didn’t even open his eyes when he said, “What do you think, you get it from your mom? Hut, you get it from your aji!” Aji blushed ten shades of crimson and raised her palloo to cover her face.

  “Kuryat sada mangalam…shubha mangala savdhan…”My stomach growls. I’d kill for a smuggled jalebi! The golden, sticky sweet and other treats await—we scheduled our traditional Maharashtrian vegetarian lunch feast earlier, around brunchtime, so John and I can break our fasts, and everyone can rest before the Christian ceremony in late afternoon. (For that, John will change into a tux and I a pale pink gown embroidered with Swarovski crystals.) Our evening reception follows—non-veg—at a five-star hotel designed after a maharaja’s palace.

  At the mandap, I’m dressed in traditional Maharashtrian bridal attire. My hair up in a chignon, decorated with véni, strings of fragrant tuberoses. Diamond kudi, custom-designed by my mother, adorn my ears. My sari is a regal, silk Paithani. Mustard yellow with a forest green zari border and signature peacocks on the palloo.

  Did you know there are ninety-seven ways to drape a sari? I do now. That said, I don’t know if I’ll ever manage to tie even one style unassisted. Mom, Aji, aunts, and cousins attempted to teach me, but like French-braiding hair, I’m hopeless when doing my own. Luckily, I have a family of experts.

  While Mom dressed me, Aji told a story about Lord Krishna cutting his finger while visiting his sister. “Immediately, his sister ripped the sari she was wearing—a beautiful Paithani—and tied the strip around his finger, saying, ‘I have all the best saris, but Paithani, being best of the best, is most worthy to bandage my brother’s bleeding finger.’”

  Traditionally, Paithani saris were draped in a trouserlike style called nauvari, but Mom draped me in today’s most popular pachvari style. As I stood in ankle-length petticoat and belly-baring blouse, she went to work, my lower half first.

  Starting
at one end of the sari, she tucked the corner into the waistband of my petticoat at my naval, instructed me to hold it there, circled behind me, and returned to my naval. One loop completed, she folded graceful pleats, clipped them at the top with a barrette—I tucked the cinched packet into my waistband—and safety-pinned the pleats midthigh, so they stayed nice and neat when I moved.

  For the second round, she raised the sari higher, so it covered the small of my back, curved around my side with the fabric up to my armpit. Coming around the front, she draped diagonally across my chest, like a seatbelt’s shoulder strap, covering my stomach, breasts, and left shoulder—with my long palloo cascading straight down behind it. Another safety pin inside my blouse at the shoulder, and I was good to go.

  “Look at me,” I said in wonder. “I look Indian!”

  “Yes, you do,” Mom said with pride.

  Aji’s eyes watered. “Ai gha…” She sucked in her breath—the same sound I make when I’ve eaten something spicy and need to cool my mouth. “Kithi sundar, maji pakhru.” She cupped my face. “Umchi gunachi mulgi.”

  How beautiful, my butterfly. Our sweet, good girl.

  At my gadhagner ceremony, where close relatives presented me with gifts, Aji gave me her tanmani jewelry set and her patlia—old-fashioned gold bangles. When I touched her feet, she had this same reaction: “Ai gha…” She sucked in her breath, laying a hand on my head while blessing me, “Akhanda saubhagyavati raho.”

  Stay married forever.

  “Kuryat sada mangalam…shubha mangala savdhan…”

  When I move my arms, my bangles ting-ting-ting with music. Traditional bridal green glass, interspersed with gold. Almost three dozen: six gold on each arm, ten chuda on my left, eleven chuda on my right—an odd number for luck.

  Though mehendi and chuda ceremonies are supposed to be all-chick affairs, our visiting male guests, anxious to soak up the culture, wanted to come, too. We opened the party to everyone and had that much more fun—the guys even lined up for their own temporary henna tattoos! A shamrock. A cross. MOM in a heart.

  Uma Auntie said, “A granny with a big red bindi declared it to be the best mehendi party she’s ever attended!”

  Saroj Auntie said, “Some uppity-nosed lady was passing not-so-nice comments when her husband declared ‘chalta hai’ and put forth his hand.”

  John explained this Hindi expression is used when giving advice. The rough translation: Whatcha gonna do? Let it go. Deal.

  The next day at lunch, when the power went out, John’s father raised his stainless steel tumbler in toast, saying, “Chalta hai.”

  Glasses lifted with laughter and jubilant echoes of chalta hai! My father, too, joined in; but I could tell from the look on his face, he wasn’t thinking of the blackout, even before he raised his gaze skyward.

  “Kuryat sada mangalam…shubha mangala savdhan…”

  Mom’s strategic sari-draping technique gives me plenty of wiggle room. I can kick as high as a cheerleader without any worries that my sari’s going to fall down. I demonstrated to Preity and Rani.

  “Way to go, Meenal Auntie,” Preity said. “Now our lovely bride can dance until dawn.”

  Rani snickered. “Don’t get your hopes up there, sparky.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith.”

  “Oh, me of mucho experience.”

  Preity laughed. “Hold on to your conch shell, Jaded One. Just when you think you have this one figured out,” she said, tipping her head toward me, “she throws you for a loop.” And sure enough, at the sangeet held on our exquisite mosaic-tiled rooftop terrace, Rani ate her words.

  We couldn’t have custom-ordered more perfect weather for the sangeet. Warm and dry with a fantastic breeze. Stars from every constellation R.S.V.P.’ed, and the crescent-shaped moon appeared close enough to jump and touch. Flower beds lining the gachhi’s perimeter brought the entire florist shop home, a riot of colors with intoxicating fragrance—raat ki rani, gardenia, hibiscus, roses, tuberoses, and marigolds. Strings of tiny white lights illuminated handmade, paper lanterns—red, orange, and yellow with star and moon cutouts. Musical notes of filmi songs, bhangra, and laughter floated in the air.

  Preity, Rani, and I each dressed in pastel-colored, gauzy georgette saris. Together, we resembled three scoops of assorted melon sorbet: watermelon (me), honeydew (Preity), and cantaloupe (Rani).

  Dancing with John, I smiled across the dance floor at Rani, shrugged, nonchalant. Later, I explained, “John loves all kinds of music, all kinds of dance. His passion’s contagious.”

  Vivek lifted his collar and pretended to hide. “Borderline T. M.I. Please don’t go there.”

  The Mrs., wearing a gorgeous salmon-and-turquoise ghagara-choli, playfully socked him. “Speak for yourself, Vivek.”

  “And me,” Nikhil Tipnis backed him up. “Don’t make us stick our fingers in our ears and start la-la-la’ing.”

  The first thing Nik said to me when he got to India for the wedding was, Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m really glad it didn’t work out with us. And I said, Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I really am, too. He told me all their friends agreed: The life was back in John’s eyes for the first time since Madelline died, and it had to take a pretty special person with an amazing heart to do that. When I heard that, I got all choked up and couldn’t speak for the longest time, but when I finally pulled myself together, I told Nik that was the greatest compliment I ever received.

  Rani and I went to sit, catch our breaths. “Kiran, Kiran, Kiran.” She shook her head. “I always knew you had it in you, but if I didn’t see it with my own eyes…Preity’s going to be bummed she missed it.” Rani gestured toward her, clear on the other side of the gachhi, sitting on the swing. “Hey, if Preity didn’t actually see you dance, is she still entitled to bragging rights? You know, if a tree falls in the forest, and all that?”

  “You’re a nut,” I said. “And I love you.” Just saying it made my throat tight. “Damn it, I don’t want to cry right here in front of everyone.” I fanned myself with my napkin.

  “No, you don’t.” Rani started fanning me with her napkin. “The night’s still young. And more importantly, I’ve only had one drink. So go fetch Little Miss Muffet from her tuffet and let’s dance.” She hugged-and-shoved me on my way.

  The wooden swing, the size and shape of a picnic table top, hung from the concrete rafters. Preity wasn’t on it by the time I got there, having been accosted by an auntie every fifth step. She stood by the marigolds, gazing up into the night. Nearing, I heard her talking. To herself? No. Under that minklike veil of hair, she had a cell phone in her hand, tucked to her ear.

  “I know,” she said, her voice soft and dreamy. “Me, too…But remember, whenever you miss me too much, just look up at the sky, and know that’s what I’m doing, too. When I remind myself we’re seeing the same view—the same sun, moon, and stars—then you don’t seem so far away. The world isn’t so big. I can be here, you can be there, and our hearts are still side by side.” She kissed the air, disconnected. Dropped her head back, winded.

  I shouldn’t have still been there. I was mortified that I was. And I was stuck, because the second I moved, she’d hear me. I should have left when I realized she was on the phone, but my God, what human with a pulse could leave in the middle of that?

  “Kids?” I asked, belatedly wondering if I should’ve coughed or cleared my throat first.

  “Eric,” she said, not the least startled, or embarrassed I heard her private conversation.

  “Is that what I have to look forward to, I hope?”

  Her lips curved, and with the milky moonlight bathing her up-tilted face, she looked ethereal as an angel. “If you want it…and you work at it…and you never take what you have for granted. It probably doesn’t hurt to have a lucky star or two, either.” She winked and escorted me back to the dance floor.

  The priest calculated the precise time when the stars would align in our favor, the muhurta, to be 8:15 A.M.r />
  “Don’t be hung over,” I told Vivek, plucking the drink from his hand before he took a sip. It didn’t pass the sniff test. He protested he was a guy, he was allowed, this was India, yadda-yadda. I handed the cup to Rani. “Welcome to the Modern India.”

  “Now, don’t pout, V,” Rani said, just to get a rise out of him. “I’m an artiste. People expect me to be a lush. And wax poetic. And be eccentric. Talk about pressure. And with only one out of three, you can see why I need this drink more than—”

  “No, you don’t.” Bryan took the drink and acted like it was his, smiling and nodding at Patrick Uncle and Uma Auntie, who were looking our way at that moment. “You triple-check the eccentric box, hon. That’s the one that really counts.”

  “Honest? You’re not just saying that because you love me?” Rani batted her eyelashes. “I just feel I could do better if I applied myself. You know there’s always room for improvement with this overachieving crowd.”

  At that, we all cracked up.

  I glanced past Vivek, did a double take, couldn’t believe what I was seeing. “You guys! Check this out! Behind you!”

  John-baba had the Hindi-Bindi Club—including my mother!—his mother, and Rani’s Anandita-mashi, country line dancing in their saris!

  “Good God!” Vivek laughed.

  “For sure!” Bryan agreed.

  “This guy’s definitely a keeper!” Rani clapped her hands.

  An auntie came up to me. “Where on earth did you find him, Kiran?”

  I smiled. “My mother introduced us.”

  Preity sidled between Rani and me, linking her arms with ours. “So, shall we join in, then?”

  Rani and I turned to her. Simultaneously, we said, “You bet!”

  It was while we were dancing, all of my favorite people in one place, on a beautiful night under the stars, that I spotted my father on the sidelines, alone, looking like he would rather have been in surgery, or anyplace else that wasn’t there. And there it was again, a pinprick of sadness, reminding me of the hole in my heart only my father could fill.