Mission Mumbai

by Mahtab Narsimhan

  “Rohit, I’m out of tomatoes for my curry,” Mrs. Lal called out from the kitchen on a day when you could have cooked an omelet on the sidewalk. “Can you go to the bazaar and get me a few, please?”

  Rohit frowned. I knew exactly what was going to pop out of his mouth. I caught his eye and shook my head. Stick to the plan, I mouthed.

  “Sure, Ma,” said Rohit, trying to sound enthusiastic. “How many do you need? Is there anything else I can pick up while I’m out?”

  Mrs. Lal stood in the kitchen doorway, clutching a paring knife while she gaped at her son. I could understand her shock. This was a one-eighty from the whiny Rohit of a few days ago. Mother and son were getting along great and I was getting all the pictures I needed as Ro went out of his way to help me explore the area around the flat. Things were working out well and life was good.

  “Thank you, Beta,” Mrs. Lal sniffed, still standing in the doorway, staring at Rohit. “A few tomatoes are all I need.”

  “Ma, are you crying?”

  “Onions!” she said, shaking her head. “Just cutting onions.”

  Neither of us pointed out that she was holding a potato.

  Nisha’s engagement ceremony was tonight. Every single relative—except Mr. Lal—would be there. I got ready by clearing my memory card and experimenting with a few different lenses that would give me soft, fish-eye, or wide-angle effects on the pictures.

  Mrs. Lal fluttered around, trying on one saree after another while bombarding us with admonishments on how to behave at the reception.

  “Remember to greet everyone properly,” she said, glancing at Rohit. “Mr. and Dr. Ramachandran are old-fashioned. Make sure you do a namaste when I introduce you. Don’t even try to shake hands with them—they’ll be very offended.”

  “Okay, Ma.”

  “Aunty Lalita likes to smooch everyone on the lips by way of greeting. She thinks it’s sophisticated. Stay well out of range when I introduce you and I’ll grab her as soon as she starts leaning in.”

  “Okay, Ma,” said Rohit, holding his head in his hands.

  “I wish your father were here,” she said softly, worry cutting deep grooves in her normally unlined forehead. “I don’t want to do this alone. They’ll all be watching us. Judging us.” She shuffled into the bedroom.

  “They’re jealous, Ma,” said Rohit. “So why should we care what they think of us?” He was sprawled on the sofa, sipping lemonade, barely paying attention to a Bollywood movie playing on TV. I sat at the dining table, cleaning my camera. I had to clean the lenses every day to make sure I wouldn’t ruin a good picture with an errant speck of dust.

  Mrs. Lal strode out of the bedroom, her heels clacking on the tiled floor. “This is your dad’s family and he cares a lot about their opinions. He’s counting on us to make a good impression. Many of his relatives had told him not to leave for the States but he didn’t listen. We have to prove that we haven’t changed.”

  “But, Mrs. L, you have changed,” I said. “Why pretend otherwise?”

  She sighed deeply. “It’s difficult to explain, Dylan. People who immigrate and come back to visit are always judged by how deep their cultural roots go. It’s progressive if someone living here adopts the Western culture, but when you actually live in the West you’re expected to be more ‘Indian’ or you’re labeled a snob. It’s … complicated.”

  “It’s not complicated, Ma, it’s nuts,” said Rohit. “But as long as we go back after these three weeks of madness, I’ll do whatever you say.”

  Mrs. Lal gave him a sharp look, which came to rest on me. I wondered if she’d guessed we knew about the conversation between her and Boa but luckily she didn’t comment on it further.

  “I’m with Rohit on this one, Mrs. L,” I said. “This is very weird.”

  Mrs. Lal poured herself a glass of lemonade from the jug on the table. “Crazy or not, that’s the way it is! Rohit, Dylan, tonight is an important event. Do not do anything to embarrass me or your father. Bua is mad at us anyway so take special care not to antagonize her any more. In fact, stay as far away from her as possible.”

  Rohit listened to her carefully and then did exactly the opposite, ruining all our plans.

  Soft music wafted through the massive chandelier-adorned lobby of the Oberoi Towers. Gold fixtures glittered in the muted light and lilies perfumed the air. We took a gleaming steel elevator to the basement level where a pulse-pounding, teeth-jarring Bollywood song greeted us long before we reached the engagement party in the Frangipani Banquet Hall.

  “Looks like the party’s already started,” said Rohit, wincing.

  “Wow, that’s loud,” I said. “Guess once people’s eardrums are shot, they really can’t figure out if the music is good or bad.”

  As soon as we walked through the doors, I stopped to gape. At the back of the giant hall were two sweet speakers turned up to full volume. In the middle was a single raised platform decorated with red roses. Nisha, in a shimmery gold saree, stood at the center of the platform with Sanjay, smiling at everyone. The room swirled with light and color from people’s clothes, silver food platters, and massive chandeliers vibrating with the pounding bass of the music.

  “I should have brought my sunglasses,” I yelled in Rohit’s ear, blinking hard. Almost all the women were laden with jewelry from head to toe. I wondered how they managed to stay upright, never mind move.

  “We have to meet a lot of people and pay our respects,” said Mrs. Lal, scanning the room. “Come along!”

  She looked regal in a deep-maroon silk saree with a gold border, but her eyes were clouded with worry. I felt her pain. No one should have to stress out this much about seeing family and friends. For a moment I could almost appreciate my own relatives. No matter how weird they were, Mom and Dad never looked so worried at family gatherings. Even Rohit, with his twitching arms and glasses perpetually perched at the end of his nose, looked more uncomfortable than usual.

  “Ma, do we have to go with you?” said Rohit. “Why don’t we wander around on our own so we don’t end up shaking hands with the Ramachandrans, or smooching Aunty Lalita?”

  “Please, Mrs. L?” I piped in, raising my camera. “I’d like to get some candid shots.”

  “Okay, but stay in the hall and please do not—”

  “Embarrass you in any way,” Rohit cut in. “Got it. You go have fun.”

  She nodded and walked away toward a bunch of ladies in psychedelic outfits.

  “Will we ever find her again?” I asked Rohit. Crowds were gathering and getting denser by the second.

  “Don’t worry. Ma will find us when it’s time to go. Hungry?”

  “Always,” I said. My nose had picked up the most delicious fragrances from the far corner of the room. We galloped toward the buffet in as dignified a manner as we could manage.

  “Describe,” I said to Rohit, my mouth filling with saliva at the array of food.

  In under a minute he named them all. We grabbed a plate each and piled them high. I had yet to meet a sweet or snack in India that wasn’t scrumptious. Indians believed in coloring their world vividly, even when it came to food. Everything on the table had a vibrant hue and oozed flavor and fragrance.

  I added dollops of green and red chutneys on my plate and was just about to add some to Rohit’s plate when he held it away.

  “Not for me, thanks,” he said. “Think I have an allergy to that stuff. Always makes me barf.”

  “Sorry, forgot!” I said, adding an extra dollop on my samosa.

  “Ahhh, Rohit Lal and his friend from Noo Yark,” said a simpering voice behind us.

  We turned around slowly. A monster in a purple saree and black lipstick stood there. I almost hurled my plate, Frisbee-style, to stop her from coming any closer.

  “Ackk,” I said softly.

  “Relax,” said Rohit. “It’s only Aunty Rita.”

  “Definitely not,” I whispered. “Your aunty has been devoured by Jabba the Hutt’s sister. We’re next.”

&
nbsp; “Haylooo, my dears,” she said, reaching out with purple talons. She pinched my cheeks hard, bringing tears to my eyes. I desperately wanted to pinch her back and only respect for Mrs. Lal (and her instructions) kept my fingers in check.

  “How are you enjoying India, dear?” she said, blasting me with garlic breath. I almost passed out.

  “Great, Mrs…. er,” I said, inching backward.

  “Call me Aunty. I see you like our humble food,” she said, stepping closer. I backed up. She reached out again with those deadly fingers. I was jammed against the table of food with nowhere to go unless I decided to climb onto a plate of tandoori chicken. Utter sacrilege!

  “Duck,” Rohit whispered as he flicked a chicken leg off his plate and dived after it. I followed his lead.

  Ignoring Jabba’s sister’s calls, we crawled under the table, emerged on the other side, and escaped to a safe corner with our plates to watch the engagement ceremony. It was completed with an exchange of rings and other token items. For a moment the crowd was one as they showered the couple with their blessings.

  Soon after, Nisha and Sanjay made their way around the hall, greeting the guests. She was amazing up close and I gaped at her, forgetting to chew.

  “Shut your mouth,” said Rohit, nudging me. “No one wants to see your half-chewed food.”

  “She looks awesome,” I said.

  “Hmmmm.”

  I swallowed, and clicked a ton of pictures as the couple approached, focusing mainly on Nisha. Her hands and forearms were decorated with the most intricate drawings in a rich brown ink that Rohit explained was henna. There were pictures of mangoes, birds, almonds, and leaves all the way up to her elbows.

  She came up to us. “Enjoying yourselves?” she asked in a soft, melodious voice.

  “Yeah … not bad,” I stammered. “I mean, it’s awesome and thanks for having me. I’ve never been to an Indian wedding before so I hope you don’t mind me taking pictures.”

  She laughed. “You’re welcome and no, I don’t mind, as long as you put only the best ones online. Okay?”

  “Deal!” I said. “Not that you could look bad in a single one.”

  “Your friend is cute, Rohit,” she said, giggling.

  I could feel my face burning up and I muttered something unintelligible.

  “So glad you could join us on this auspicious occasion,” said Sanjay, looking a little annoyed. “Chalo, Nisha. We still have hundreds of people to meet and these new shoes are killing me.”

  I guessed he must be feeling a little left out and I clicked a couple of pictures of him, too, making a mental note to delete them as soon as I got home.

  Nisha sighed. “Getting married is like running a hundred-mile race. Can’t wait for the finish line so I can rest. Ta-ta for now,” she said. Then she was gone in a swish of gold, her lemony perfume still lingering in the air.

  “Nisha is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” I said. “I think I’m in love.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Rohit said. “Girls are the worst.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You’re right.” I remembered the girls at Cedarbrae Junior High, who could be just as mean as the boys, sometimes worse. Rohit was right—it was best to keep a safe distance from them at all times.

  “Let’s see if Ma is done paying her respects to Dad’s clan so we can head home. The engagement is over so there’s no point in hanging around.”

  I wanted to stay a bit longer but decided to go along with Rohit. After all, he’d been the perfect friend and host these last few days, faithfully sticking to the plan of keeping Mrs. Lal happy.

  “ ’Kay!” I said. “I think I’ve exhausted the photo ops here.” I didn’t think a single one I took today would fit the contest theme but at least I had a good collection.

  We circled the massive banquet hall, keeping a lookout for Mrs. L. I grabbed a few gulab jamuns to sustain me on the journey.

  A familiar voice made me freeze midbite, syrup from the sweet trickling down my fingers.

  “What rubbish, Mrs. Modi! My brother, Arun, still respects his elder sister. He will do exactly as I say.”

  Rohit and I exchanged a look, mouthing, Boa. She was near us talking to a couple of women. We hid behind a group of men standing beside them and listened.

  “Nonsense, Anjali,” Mrs. Modi replied. “You’ll have to be content being second-best. After marriage a man listens to his wife, not his sister. You should know this by now.”

  “I’ll prove it to you, Mrs. Modi. Stay right here.”

  We snuck a peek and saw Boa scanning the room. Mrs. Modi, a gargoyle in an orange saree with matching hair, smirked at her companion, a stick-thin lady in a shiny white saree. Without sunglasses, it hurt to look at her for more than a few seconds.

  “We better warn Ma—” Rohit started to say when Boa’s voice boomed out.

  “Priya! Over here. I want a word with you.”

  “Crap!” I said. “Boa got to her first.”

  “Shhh,” said Rohit.

  As soon as Mrs. Lal reached the group, Boa said without preamble, “Priya, did you talk to Arun about Rohit staying back with me?”

  “No,” said Mrs. Lal, not the slightest tremor in her voice. “I will talk to him when he gets here.”

  “By that time it’ll be too late,” said Boa. “I need Arun to bring Rohit’s things with him. Not that I can’t afford to buy him a whole new wardrobe if need be.” This last was directed at her friends. “But I think he might like a few of his own things.”

  “You’re talking as if the decision is yours to make,” said Mrs. Lal coldly.

  “My money, my rules,” said Boa nastily. “I’ll call Arun now and settle it. See how simple this is, Mrs. Modi?”

  Neither Mrs. Lal nor Rohit uttered a word and my gut clenched. Boa was a venomous viper and needed to be locked up in a tiny cage, forever.

  Rohit’s face was slick with perspiration. “I can’t stay here. I won’t,” he muttered. “I won’t let this interfering cow ruin my life. She can’t bully us even if she is helping us financially. It’s so wrong.”

  I felt sorry for him. Really sorry. How whacko was it to think you were coming to India for a visit and then get forced to stay for the next six years?

  “Don’t panic,” I said. “Your mom will never agree. She hates Boa even more than you do. She’ll stand up to her, you’ll see.”

  “It didn’t work,” Rohit muttered, holding his head in his hands. “Your stupid plan didn’t work. You were only saying it so you could stay on and take pictures for your lousy competition.”

  “Hey, now hold on a minute!” I said, starting to get annoyed. “We both agreed my way was better. Your way would have just made Boa more determined to keep you here. Your mom’s been so happy with you these last few days she’s been praising you nonstop to anyone who’ll listen.”

  As if on cue, Mrs. Lal echoed my words. “Rohit is extremely well behaved with people he respects and who respect him. My son has not only settled down well in the States but he hasn’t forgotten his manners or his culture. He stays with me and we can manage very well without your money, Anjali.”

  “Rubbish!” Boa said, snapping her fingers. “Love has made you blind to what’s best for him and I say he stays here. I know my brother will listen to me.” She whipped out her cell phone. I did a quick calculation in my head to figure out the time in New York. It was early morning there and she was sure to get ahold of Rohit’s dad right away. Double crap.

  “I have to do something,” Rohit said, realizing the same thing. His eyes were wild and panicked. “Now!”

  “Relax, Ro. Let’s go home and talk this over—”

  “Forget it,” said Rohit. “Dad will never stand up to Bua. She’s too bossy. I’m finished!”

  “I’ll call Arun and tell him to bring the rest of Rohit’s things with him,” Boa said, thumbing buttons on her cell phone. “Whatever he can’t carry, I’ll buy from here. My nephew will have the best education ever! Harvard and Y
ale will be begging him to enroll after he finishes school.”

  “Anjali, don’t you dare!” said Mrs. Lal, her voice like shards of glass. “You have no right.”

  “Try and stop me,” Boa said and deliberately turned her back on Mrs. Lal.

  My jaw dropped and stayed there. How could someone be so mean and cruel to her own family? She truly was the most horrible person ever. Worse than the White Witch.

  “That’s it,” said Rohit. “Time to act.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked. “Talk to me, Ro!”

  “I know exactly what will work,” he said. He walked unsteadily to the buffet table with me right behind him. My stomach oozed into my toes as I saw him mix the red and green chutneys into a bowl, and before I could stop him, he drank all of it. He looked like Harry did in The Chamber of Secrets when he had to take Skele-Gro—totally grossed out.

  “You okay?” I said, staring at him. “That was really stupid, Ro.”

  “I’ve only started,” he said, beginning to sweat. He undid the top two buttons of his shirt, taking deep, ragged breaths. He looked green but he was smiling. It reminded me of the crazy, evil grin plastered across Gollum’s face every time he looked at the One Ring.

  “That stuff inside you can’t be good,” I said, worried about the allergic reaction he’d mentioned earlier. “You look terrible, bro.”

  “Chill,” said Rohit. “It’s all coming out now.”

  Before I could decipher what he meant, he strode over to Boa and threw up all over her green silk saree.

  FOR A MINUTE BOA STARED AT ROHIT. THEN HER eyes shifted to Mrs. Lal and finally came to rest on me. I could feel her wrath building up, like a volcano about to erupt. A sour smell hung in the air.

  Mrs. Modi came to the rescue. “Poor, poor boy,” she said, rushing over to him. “Anjali, you scared this child so much, he threw up. Shame on you! Are you all right, Rohit?”