The Hindi-Bindi Club

by Monica Pradhan

  Nearing the end of the sangeet, John and I managed to steal ten precious minutes alone. Vivek and Anisha kept guard for us while we necked in the shadows like two teenyboppers.

  “How much longer?” I whined. “Are we almost there?”

  “Soon.” John lifted one of my mehendi-decorated palms to his lips. “Soon.” He knew I was sad about my dad and trying hard not to be. Slowly, he traced the outline of my upper lip with the pad of his index finger, dipped his head so his mouth hovered over mine, and whispered exactly what I needed to hear, “Kai bai Punyachi tariff, lavanga nighalya bareek…”

  We laughed—the low, intimate laughter of lovers who have a repository of inside jokes. That’s what I love most about him. About us. He’s strong when I’m weak, and I’m strong when he’s weak. We balance each other on the two-person bicycle of life. And, we can always make each other laugh—life’s best medicine.

  We did it all backwards, this mating dance of ours, but it worked.

  Amazingly, it works.…

  “Kuryat sada mangalam…shubha mangala savdhan…”“For my final words,” my mother said in her reading, “I’d like to share a passage from Rudyard Kipling. Most of you know his often-quoted opening line from ‘The Ballad of East and West.’”

  She gave the relevant biographical information: The Nobel laureate was born in Mumbai, to English parents, in 1865. He left India when he was five, came back at sixteen—to Lahore, which is now part of Pakistan—and left again at twenty-three.

  “For everyone who’s ever felt misunderstood, take note. We’re in excellent company.” She then proceeded to read the stanza in its entirety:

  Oh, East is East, and West is West,

  and never the twain shall meet,

  Till Earth and Sky stand presently

  at God’s great Judgment Seat;

  But there is neither East nor West,

  Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,

  When two strong men stand face to face,

  tho’ they come from the ends of the earth!

  “Now, I offer my humble take: ‘East is East, and West is West; in Truth, the twain are One.’ ”

  John and I walked back to the sangeet with Vivek and Anisha for the finale. Saroj Auntie’s powers of persuasion had worked, and we were concluding the festive night with a traditional weepy ballad, during which Indian brides and their parents cry their eyes out because she’s grown up, leaving their house, going to join her husband’s family. Why did my mother give in and allow this? John was playing sitar, and his friend Abhay was playing the tabla—hand drums.

  They were amazing. They played to a spellbound audience. Even my father wasn’t immune. Watching, his eyes glistened. In the middle, he leaned over, said something to Mom, then stood up and left. She didn’t follow him. While it could have been that he had to use the Little Surgeon’s Room, somehow, I doubted it. I excused myself and went after him.

  I found him on the open staircase, alone in the shadows of the balcony landing one floor down, his profile in silhouette. Reluctant to intrude on his private moment—hadn’t I done that enough tonight?—I turned away, then reconsidered, looking back over my shoulder. What was one more time? As unobtrusively as possible, I walked down the steps and stood beside him.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.”

  “Nice night.”

  “Umm-hmm.”

  Neither of us looked at the other one, each staring straight ahead into the night.

  I took a breath and prepared to say some kind of good-bye, but all I could think of was: Okay, this was fun. Gotta run. Later much. Before I could come up with anything better, my father said, “I was just thinking…”

  Was he talking to me or himself? He definitely wasn’t on a cell phone—that much I knew!—so it was one of the two.

  “It’s the stiff branch that easily snaps,” he went on, “not the flexible branch…. And in the E.R., what do we see with car accident victims? It’s the rigid, unyielding bodies that break, not the supple….” He looked at me then, his eyes moist. “It’s the same with the spirit, isn’t it?”

  I didn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

  Awkwardly, he shuffled his hand along the railing. Put it over mine. Patted. Stilled. Remained. A surgeon’s hand. How many lives saved by this one hand? “Better late than never?” he asked.

  I bobbed my head, turned my hand over, gripped his tightly. “Better late than never,” I whispered, not bothering to wipe the tears gushing down my face because I didn’t want to let go of my father’s hand.

  “SHUBHA MANGALA SAVDHAN!!!”

  A final cry. A shower of rice. The antarpath’s pulled away. And there he is. My goldfish. At last. As vajantri music crescendos—shehnai and choughada played by John’s pals—we’re not the least bashful but feast our gazes on each other.

  John wears a cream, boat-shaped topi; my head’s uncovered. Matching mundavalyas frame our faces—two bands of dainty pearls tied across our foreheads, dangling from our temples, flower-and-bead tassels on the ends.

  I rise onto my toes, hefting the thick garland of red roses, white lilies, pink and purple asters, assorted greenery, and threads of silver tinsel.

  John doesn’t playfully dodge my attempt, but lowers his head, making it easier. Grinning, he says, “I couldn’t wait another second.”

  “You and me both,” I say, smiling up at him. “Could you step it up with that garland?”

  He holds my gaze, slipping a necklace more precious than gold or jewels over my head.

  We are officially husband and wife.

  Pandemonium uncorks. The music cranks, amplified to the highest decibels of the speakers. Deafening cheers soar sky-high, ricochet off the mountains. Rice arcs through the air, pours down like red rain. Giddy laughter bubbles from inside John and me, spilling over.

  I glance over my shoulder to make sure my mother’s back. She is, and beaming at us. She’s obviously forgiven Giru-mama for forgetting to bring the mango leaves which we now require—his responsibility. Dad saved the day by scaling a retaining wall and plucking them off a tree minutes before the ceremony!

  Now, between our foreheads, John holds the copper kalash containing holy water and a bouquet of mango leaves fringing a coconut. Smiling big, our gazes and hearts locked together, we lean in, touching our foreheads to the copper at the same time. And in that moment, with mayhem swirling around us, we two are standing in the calm eye of the hurricane.

  Kuryat sada mangalam…shubha mangala savdhan…

  The sacred mantras are still echoing in my head. Echoing. Echoing…

  I feel a sense of connection, unlike any I’ve experienced. With history, with the universe, with my place in the continuum of time and space. With my parents. Grandparents. My husband. Our unborn children. Even grandchildren.

  All that was. All that will be. All that is.

  Om.

  Zarkha’s Gosht Ki Biryani

  (Lamb & Rice Pilaf Casserole)

  SERVES 10

  LAMB:

  3 pounds lean boneless lamb, washed and cubed

  10 cloves fresh garlic, peeled

  ¼ cup fresh ginger root, peeled and chopped

  4 fresh green chili peppers, chopped

  ½ cup fresh coriander (cilantro), chopped

  ½ cup fresh mint, chopped

  1 teaspoon cayenne powder

  ½ tablespoon garam masala

  1 teaspoon salt

  ½ teaspoon turmeric powder

  1 cup plain yogurt

  1. In a blender or food processor, whirl to a smooth paste: garlic, ginger, chilies, coriander, and mint. If needed, add 1–3 tablespoons water.

  2. In a glass bowl, combine lamb, cayenne, garam masala, salt, and turmeric. Mix well.

  3. Stir in yogurt and paste. Mix well, coating evenly.

  4. Cover bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 1–3 hours.

  RICE PREP:

  3 cups basmati rice

  1 teaspoon salt

 
; water

  1. In a colander, rinse rice under tepid running water until water runs clear.

  2. Transfer to a glass bowl. Add cold water until rice is submerged by 3 inches. Stir in salt. Soak 3 hours.

  BIRYANI:

  4½ cups cold water

  1½ teaspoons saffron

  ¼ cup hot milk

  2 tablespoons ghee or unsalted butter

  2 bay leaves

  4 black peppercorns

  4 green cardamom pods

  1 3-inch cinnamon stick

  4 cloves

  6 cups medium yellow onions, halved and thinly sliced into half-rings

  2 teaspoons coriander powder

  1 teaspoon cumin powder

  ½ cup dried apricots, coarsely chopped

  ¾ cup golden raisins

  ½ cup cashews

  ½ cup slivered almonds, divided ¼, ¼

  1 cup canola oil, divided ¼, ¾

  ½ cup pistachios

  ¼ cup fresh coriander (cilantro), chopped

  ¼ cup fresh mint, chopped

  1. Drain presoaked rice. In a medium-large pot over high heat, bring rice and cold water to a boil. Reduce heat to low. Cover and simmer until rice is almost cooked, about 15 minutes. Fluff rice with a fork. Set aside.

  2. In a small bowl, combine saffron and hot milk. Set aside.

  3. In a large, heavy skillet, heat 2 tablespoons ghee over medium heat. Add bay leaves, peppercorns, cardamom pods, cinnamon, and cloves. Sauté until color changes, about 2 minutes.

  4. Add half the onions. Sauté until golden brown.

  5. Carefully add the marinated lamb cubes. Stir in coriander powder and cumin powder. Sear cubes so they are brown on all sides. Reduce heat to medium-low. Cover and simmer until lamb is almost cooked, about 20 minutes, stirring every 5 minutes.

  6. Add apricots, raisins, cashews, and ¼ cup almonds. Sauté about 5 minutes. Remove from heat.

  7. Preheat oven to 300 degrees.

  8. Grease a large casserole dish with nonstick cooking spray. First, layer 1/3 of the rice into the dish. Next, sprinkle 1/3 of the saffron milk. Then, layer ½ of the lamb mixture.

  9. Repeat, adding another layer of rice, saffron milk, and lamb.

  10. Top off with remaining rice, saffron milk, and pistachios.

  11. Cover tightly with aluminum foil or lid. Bake until liquid evaporates and rice is tender, about 30 minutes. (Caution: don’t overcook!)

  12. Meanwhile, in a deep skillet, heat ¼ cup oil on medium. Add the remaining almonds. Stir-fry until they change color. Remove with slotted spoon. Drain on paper towels. Set aside.

  13. To same skillet, add remaining oil. When hot, add the remaining onions. Stir-fry until brown and caramelized. Remove with slotted spoon. Drain on paper towels. Set aside.

  14. When casserole has finished baking, remove from heat and transfer to a large serving platter or bowl. Remove bay leaves, cardamom pods, cinnamon stick, peppercorns, and cloves.

  15. Garnish with caramelized onions, toasted almonds, fresh coriander, and mint. Serve immediately.

  Acknowledgments

  From inception to completion, The Hindi-Bindi Club took four years, during which time I made three trips to India. I’m deeply indebted to innumerable people with whom I’m honored to have crossed paths. Dozens of Indians and Pakistanis graciously and candidly shared their experiences and insights. To be clear: All mistakes and literary licenses in this novel are entirely my own.

  My heartfelt thanks to these off-the-chart kind, generous, and dear souls who truly went above and beyond with their time and expertise:

  Deepali Adhikari

  Usman Aijaz

  Tarun & Pratishtha Durga

  Avinash & Aruna Karnik

  Sanchayita Ray

  Javed & Farida Talat

  Osama Tariq

  Many, many thanks also to: Big T, Little Ani, Kumud B. Chitre (a.k.a. Kuma-maushi), Abhay-kaka, Varsha-kaki, Neela-atya, Ashumaushi, Vilas-kaka, the Dighe family, the Sabnis family, the Savkar family, Swati Kaushal, Bela Kaul, Meenal Madhukar, and Seema Behl.

  Dr. Paul McKendrick (a.k.a. Pei McKay of purple pen fame), my inimitably awesome high school journalism teacher who gave me these invaluable words of wisdom: “No matter what you write, someone won’t like it.”

  Dr. John Collins, one of my favorite college professors, whose ethics class continues to influence and inspire me.

  Wayne Dixon, self-professed “redneck chef,” for testing recipes.

  Kathryn Quay, one of the most intelligent women I’ve ever known, for cheerleading/gushing on demand and the greatest adventures via private Learjet.

  Danielle Girard, for the terrific Bay Area run.

  Melissa McClone, for “I’ll take the guy next to him.”

  Roxanne Richardson, for “ting-ting-ting,” “I want to die,” and her gigantic left brain.

  Valentina Plant, for “rainbows” and her gigantic right brain.

  Marc MacYoung, for “silence between the notes.”

  Sean Bosquez, for “three wars.”

  Nicholas Tomashot, for “rinse and dry cycles.”

  Swati Kaushal, for “paper tiger.”

  For the past sixteen years, I’ve been blessed to be surrounded by extraordinary writers, many of whom I’m lucky to call friends. I especially wish to thank these precious gems for sharing the journey of this novel with me and boundless support/enthusiasm for my heritage studies: Pamela Bauer, Jean Brashear, Helen Brenna, Inglath Cooper, Jennifer Crusie, Debra Dixon, Kathleen Eagle, Lisa Gardner, Danielle Girard, Rosemary Heim, Lisa Hughey, Becky Klang, Christine Lashinski, Susan Kay Law, Melissa McClone, Malia Nahas, Tina Plant, Katie Quay, Rox Richardson, Barbara Samuel, Anna Seymour, Mary E. Strand, and Valerie Taylor.

  Finally, the three godmothers of Hindi-Bindi, for whom no words can adequately express my profound gratitude:

  Karen Solem, agent extraordinaire, who’s made every recipe in this novel (and lived to tell!), and who had a bindi and threw a “Monsoon Wedding” party for her friends well before Hindi-Bindi was even a gleam in my eye. To think, I almost didn’t tell you that day in Denver in 2002, it seemed so distant, such a stretch goal! Thank you for pushing me out of the nest and repeatedly assuring me I was ready to fly when I thought I was years away. (Most memorable line from Karen: “I’ve been screaming at you, screaming at my dog, and no one’s listening!”) You were right!

  Micahlyn Whitt, dream editor, who cut her teeth on every Indian Diaspora novel ever written, and who was eagerly awaiting a novel like Hindi-Bindi many moons before it landed on her desk. I was meant to write this book; you were meant to edit it. Thank you for tirelessly championing and protecting the work, securing the extra time, wringing the best performance out of me, and letting me tell the story I wanted the way I wanted. Love you, chickpea!

  Last but not least, the place where I started in this life, and I’m so happy to have returned: my mother. Culinary goddess and wise woman bar none. Mummyji, such a treat riding on the Hindi-Bindi Express with you, my fondest stop: when you said, floored, “You are teaching me Indian history?” Oh, the devilish pleasure, the smug satisfaction, I shall cherish it always, muahahaha! No adequate words for you; however, sonic vibrations when chanting this mantra come close: Tu maji mummy ay…tu maji mummy aaaaay!

  Select Bibliography

  Over the four years I spent writing and researching The Hindi-Bindi Club, I consulted hundreds of sources. I wish to acknowledge the following authors and their exceptional works that I found particularly helpful:

  Blaise, Clark, and Bharati Mukherjee. Days and Nights in Calcutta. New York: Doubleday & Company, 1977.

  Bumiller, Elisabeth. May You Be the Mother of a Hundred Sons: A Journey Among the Women of India. New Delhi: Penguin Books India, 1990.

  Butalia, Urvashi. The Other Side of Silence: Voices from the Partition of India. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2000.

  Chopra, Deepak. Sacred Verses, Healing Sounds: The Bhagavad Gita, Hymns of the Rig Veda
. San Rafael, CA: New World Library/Amber-Allen Publishing, 1994.

  Daniélou, Alain. Music and the Power of Sound. Rochester, VT: Inner Traditions International, 1995.

  DasGupta, Sayantani, and Shamita Das Dasgupta. The Demon Slayers and Other Stories: Bengali Folk Tales. New York: Interlink Publishing Group, 1995.

  Dutta, Krishna. Calcutta, A Cultural and Literary History. New Delhi: Roli Books, 2003.

  Haeri, Shahla. No Shame for the Sun: Lives of Professional Pakistani Women. Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 2002.

  Mehta, Ved. The Ledge Between the Streams. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1984.

  Menon, Ritu, and Kamla Bhasin. Borders & Boundaries: Women in India’s Partition. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1998.

  Mitter, Sara S. Dharma’s Daughters, Contemporary Indian Women and Hindu Culture. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1995.

  Nagaswami, Vijay. Courtship & Marriage: A Guide for Indian Couples. New Delhi: Penguin Books India, 2002.

  Nevile, Pran. Lahore: A Sentimental Journey. New Delhi: HarperCollins Publishers India, 1997.

  Roy, Manisha. Bengali Women. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992.

  Salim, Ahmad. Lahore 1947. New Delhi: India Research Press, 2001.

  About the Author

  Monica Pradhan’s parents emigrated to the United States from Mumbai, India, in the 1960s. She was born in Pittsburgh, grew up in the Washington, D.C., area, and now lives in Minneapolis and Toronto with her husband.

  Monica has a B.S. in managerial law and public policy from Syracuse University and an M.B.A. in finance from the University of Cincinnati. Prior to writing full-time, she worked in investments and management consulting. She was thrilled to trade frequent flying and power suits for the two-second commute and pajamas of a novelist, her lifelong dream.