Bombay Blues

by Tanuja Desai Hidier

  I realized a part of my mounting excitement was to see my dear Dadaji — and though my rational mind acknowledged the futility of this, my emotional organs still couldn’t quell the sense that this was the closest I could get to him.

  Memories flooded back now of exhilarated arrivals, after countless miles minutes years, finally gazing into the weathery face and oceanic eyes of my grandfather, here in this very building. Irises that made a seashell sound, sang of a faraway place he could make home for me. The push-pull desire to lose myself in that most safe and unconditional of embraces — but also to stand back and take in that treasured visage, soak it up like a map sinking through skin, my immersion in India entirely begotten through his eyes, nose, smile.

  We finally creaked to a halt and walked up to the front door of the apartment. A marigold garland hung off the frame, fresh from the phoolwallah no doubt, with a baby-blue image of Krishna poised above it. To the right, on the corridor floor: a metal cage containing a fledgling sparrow, a feathery flicker where surely her pindrop heart was beating.

  —Zepploo, our latest addition. Akasha saves birds, Kaka explained.

  Akasha was the daughter of family friends, who was living with my uncle and aunt while her parents tried to get a Häagen-Dazs franchise off the ground in Atlanta — no easy feat with families skimping on luxury scoops during the economic bust.

  —She is home today; it’s an Islamic holiday.

  —She’s Islamic?

  Kaka chuckled. —No. Not Mussulman. Her religion is just the holiday part.

  The door was split in two, the top ajar. And then, like a magic trick, an avid face appeared.

  —Akasha, my uncle announced.

  She was a nine- or ten-year-old girl with eyes as piercing as the sparrow’s, shining out through a bob of black hair spilling from spotty bandanna. She wore a Loins of Punjab Presents tee and cutoffs, inner pockets hanging lower than the hems, and fizzed with Thums Up energy.

  —Dimple, the last time you saw Akasha, she was a baby, my mother enlightened me.

  I had no recollection of this diminutive creature, but at the sight of me, the alert-eyed savior of winged things squawked with excitement:

  —Dimple Maasi!

  Although I wasn’t, in fact, her mother’s sister (or anyone’s), I didn’t mind simulating a blood tie to this perky little person.

  Now both panels of the door flung wide, revealing my Meera Maasi and, close behind, two visages appearing perched on either of her shoulders like a maternal balancing act. Kavita and Sangita.

  I’d never before noticed how much my aunt resembled my mother — they were like sketches of the same person, but whereas the artist had used an expert index to smudge soft the edges of my mother’s features, Maasi’s lines had been left untouched. Her face was a jumble of angles and points, but if you connected the dots, it was my mother’s face. My heart seized: The tiny woman before me looked like she’d aged eons in the time since we’d last met — whether it was due to wedding stress, the loss of her father, or the way pictures froze a certain time in your head that fell out of sync with real time passing, I wasn’t sure. Somehow it made my mother look older now, too.

  I’d foreseen a feeling of emptiness here, but my heart was overfull. For the puzzle pieced together by these precise people, it struck me, was just about the exact shape of the space Dadaji had left behind.

  —Shilpatai, said my aunt, almost shyly to my mom. —So much weight you have packed on!

  —And too much you have lost, my mother said, a little shy as well. They stood staring at each other, perhaps accounting for the years, and pounds, between.

  And then they hugged. A time-traveling, even time-effacing, hug.

  —I can feel, I heard my aunt whisper. —He is happy. So happy we are together again.

  My mother nodded, mute.

  Oddly, considering that at NYU Kavita was always sporting a salwar kameez and, weather permitting (three months a year), chappals, Bombay Kavs was dressed in black skinny jeans stretched gloriously beyond their bounds on her generous hips and gravity-defying butt, and a ribbed rainbow tank under a plaid man’s-style shirt.

  Just behind her, a version more like the Kavita I knew from America: Sangita, the bangled and bindied bride to be, in long loose top over ankle-clinching pants. She stood anxiously twisting a string of mahogany beads around her neck.

  —Sisters, unite! I declared, throwing an arm around each of them.

  Kavita sighed with what seemed relief, squeezing me close. Sangita didn’t move, but a little smile sparked her face and she actually clapped her hands, eeking out a suppressed squeal. Akasha even pummeled her way into the cuddle zone, then abruptly be right back’d, lifting Zepploo’s cage and heading down the hall.

  Now my aunt took my arm, ushering me farther in.

  —Welcome, beta, she said warmly. —Welcome home.

  I smiled back. —There’s no place like it, Maasi.

  Inside, we added our shoes to a sprightly jumble of chappals just past the threshold. I peered farther into the space, could almost see Dadaji coming down the hall, speechless with joy….

  A moment after we’d entered, the bell jingled, door opened, and Arvind deposited our luggage just inside without entering. He smiled, nodded at me, and disappeared.

  My aunt now scurried her daughters off to the kitchen, while my uncle led the rest of us to the stripy sofas.

  My nose ached: a familiar hot buttery scent with undertones of sandalwood and overtones of dust — a tickling sensation, a whiff of coconut-oiled hair fanned on pillows. Mosquito hum; the soothing whirr of a lazily spinning overhead fan. From the kitchen, a clanging concerto of stainless steel, intermittent sizzling, the soft scuff of bare feet on ceramic tiles — reverberating through the entire building, perhaps, as dinner was cooked in mustard-seed-popping pans throughout Ramzarukha.

  It was as it had always been. At first. This front sitting room with the large grilled rectangle of window from which scads of buildings were visible, many under construction, some of the lower ones patched in blue. In the distance, something higher than a skyscraper: a brownish-black jut of a hill, turretingly atop which was a just-visible white edifice.

  A strain of the muezzin uncoiled from somewhere in this landscape. My mother was close beside me now, gazing out the window. Her hand hovered over the arm of the cushioned chair there, still angled to face out the frame.

  —Dadaji loved this hill, she said softly. —He often told me it was the one place you were guaranteed space, peace in Bombay.

  I’d seen that hill on visits past, a fixture in this fenestra. As a child, I’d believed America lay just on its other side — as, in the USA, I’d imagined India was a mere tobaggan ride beyond the early-snowed slopes of Rice’s Fruit Farm.

  My eyes began to note the present in the room: the plethora of cell phones, the thinner-than-air laptop by a Bhagavad Gita, a handful of magazines — Vogue, Elle, People — all with brown-skinned, brunette (and sometimes henna-highlighted) cover girls.

  My aunt poked her head out of the kitchen.

  —Dimple, why don’t you freshen up if you like? Down the corridor to the left.

  Not the first bathroom: That was just for bathing, entire space tiled, a smattering of pink and orange buckets, hand pitchers in one of which a splish of thick paintbrushes soaked. The intoxicating scent of Mysore sandalwood soap.

  Nor the second small room over, with its Indian-style toilet: a hole in the ground, a hose for washing up. Sangita gently nodded me to door three: the Western-style toilet Maasi had installed for a past visit (my mother claimed she’d never heard the end of it though she’d been perfectly happy to squat). Just before I entered, my aunt hurried over and pressed a fluffy pink something in my hand.

  —Especially for you, beta, she said.

  A roll of Western-style toilet paper. My mother appeared behind her shoulder.

  —Western Heston girls, she said with the barest wink. —Such trouble.

  Bl
adders relieved and faces splashed, we found ourselves sofa’d once more, my cousins now bearing steaming cups of Maasi’s famous chai our way.

  Mugs, actually: ebullient with a rainbow pattern much like the one on Kavita’s tank.

  —I picked these up recently, Kavita explained too casually. —As a little gift for the family. The chosen family.

  She gave me a significant look. I started. Was this her warm-up to letting them know?

  —At Shoppers Stop? my uncle inquired.

  —We went to Bandra. I took Sangita to Azaad Bazaar.

  —Freedom bazaar? my mother asked … then nodded, comprehension dawning.

  —Do they sell khadi? my father, though aware of Kavita’s sexual orientation, now queried. —Gandhiji used this homespun cotton as a passive resistance protest against the British. The charkha.

  —No resistance at all, Kaka! Sangita giggled. She smiled sweetly at Kavita. —Darling little shop! I made sure to pick one up for Deepak as well.

  Kavita rolled her eyes at me. Clearly, her message had been missed. I downed my queer-friendly tea like a tequila shot, and in a blink it was refilled, my cousins serving us as if royalty had arrived. Any attempt on my part to lend a hand was shushed down as if I were an invalid, or a man.

  —This is the best chai ever, Maasi, I declared, to show Maasi mercy. Then, to exhibit sisterly solidarity: —In … the best mug ever? The secret ingredient?

  —Love, my father said with a smile, gently winking at my aunt.

  —Love shove! Meera Maasi snorted, to his delight (and my shock). —Freshly grated ginger, lemongrass, a dash of clove powder, and a sprinkle of black pepper.

  —Just like Mummy’s, my mother observed wistfully.

  My aunt nodded sympathetically … at my father.

  —Only tea bags in America, I imagine, Rohitbhai? Or this ridiculous purported chai syrup concoction at the coffee bars?

  —Shilpa Maasi’s tea is exactly the same as yours, Kavita said now, staring defiantly at her mother. —You both had the same teacher, remember.

  —We remember, my father said graciously. Sangita returned from the kitchen with roasted chana and chakri. He patted the seat beside him.

  Sangita looked alarmed at the thought of respite, but caught between that or disrespecting an elder, she set down the tray and perched next to him.

  —Too difficult to imagine our Sangita beta all grown-up and about to be wed! he said.

  —Very difficult, ji, she replied quietly.

  —Yes, commented Kavita. —Very.

  She sounded so much like Sabz, now that they’d split.

  —And where is the man of honor? my father inquired.

  —He has been in Delhi for work, Kaka, Sangita filled us in. —His family business is there. Though there is a new office in the suburbs here. Santa Cruz. But he will be joining us for dinner tomorrow.

  —I’ve booked a table at the Samudri Ghoda, my aunt divulged, excitedly. —The Seahorse. So you can properly meet him.

  —He may be able to help you with any Delhi arrangements, Sangita offered, addressing my parents. —How wonderful you will be celebrating your anniversary in Agra … just as you did your honeymoon!

  —But we will be here to help these few days, and back again before the festivities begin, my father now hurriedly said.

  My mother took her time, however.

  —Your mother insisted we go, she revealed now. —We Americans would be of little help with an Indian wedding. Isn’t that right, Meera? In any case, you and Deepak are being very modern and organizing much of it yourselves, from what we gather?

  Sangita looked at my mother, and her own, with sorrowful eyes. I wasn’t sure what she was lamenting, or if it was just the permanent state of her gaze. She had very soulful eyes, I realized now, an aurulent haze underlying the amber, just like Dadaji’s. My mother noticed her expression as well and seemed to regret her words.

  —Our anniversary is not the main event. You, my dear, will be the loveliest bride the world has seen.

  —The world? my aunt scoffed. —How will the world see it? They are insisting on keeping it very small. Just us and a few of their friends.

  —All the more beauty just for us to behold, then, I jumped in. —Sangita, you look … different. I mean, you always looked good, but …

  —Pyaar ho gaya hain! my father clarified for everyone but me.

  —She had her eyes lasered, my aunt announced proudly. —By that doctor in Breach Candy, no less. Courtesy of Deepak’s generosity.

  —Deepak didn’t dig glasses, Kavita sneered.

  —It is not that, Sangita protested mildly. —He just … it’s better for my peripheral vision.

  —Deepak is a highly educated man, my aunt added. Sangita nodded.

  I scrutinized my cousin now, trying to draw the free-spirited girl I’d known as a kid from this demure creature before me. I recalled the story of how she and Deepak had met at a matchmaking event of the CKP, my mother’s branch of the Kshatriya, or warrior, class. His parents initially had issues that Sangita wasn’t fair enough. As in light-skinned, not justice-serving. I wasn’t sure how sincerely glad I could be for my cousin, marrying into such a family. But what came out my mouth was:

  —I’m really happy for you, Sangita.

  Sangita nodded again. —Well. Thank you, Dimple. And, Maasi, Mummy, I don’t think any brides could be as lovely as you both.

  She swept aside the magazines and newspapers on the coffee (tea?) table, revealing a panorama of photographs under a transparent glass sheet.

  The pictures were yellowed, furled — some Polaroids even. Two black-and-white wedding photos kitty-cornered the display: one of my parents, one of my uncle and aunt. From the way they were angled, it seemed my mother and aunt were gazing at each other diagonally across the table. A withheld goodbye on the very days of their newly wedded lives?

  My eye moved to a honeymoon shot of my parents in that standard tourist pose, them “lifting” the Taj Mahal: my father grinning, airborne fingers pinching the air, creating the illusion of hefting up the sumptuous structure by its tip. My mother was by his side, simulating panic, arms outstretched as if to catch the swinging monument of Shah Jahan’s love for Mumtaz before it crashed to the ground.

  I was in nearly as many photos as Kavita and Sangita, an equal member of this household as far as the (grand)paparazzo was concerned. There was Kavita and Sangita and me dancing in torn sheets in a long-ago monsoon rain; in stitches in the shoe house at Hanging Gardens, perspective bottom-up as we chugged down in a three-child train. My high school yearbook wallet-size photo — eyelined and wild-haired — and many of my class pics from the years before, moving backwards through time to a childhood Halloween shot. In it, I was dressed up in a sari, anklets, bangles … as an Indian girl.

  Sangita indicated a shot of me cross-legged poolside in my infamous OshKosh overalls.

  —Magnifishent, Dimple! I remember staring at this picture for hours — wondering about a world with such shades of blue. We have it here, too, of course, but not where you’d expect. Not always in the sea, the sky. It’s my favorite color. Perhaps because it was the color of where you were.

  —And I loved this one, I said, pointing to the monsoon shot, moved. —Do you remember? A second after, you were the first one to tear everything off, go running through the rain!

  That same gleeful clap when I’d entered: She’d joined her hands that way on the day of this photograph, too. Only, back then, the squeal hadn’t been suppressed but reeled out like a mighty kite in the inundating night sky. Patanggg!

  —That’s the Sangita I remember, Kavs said. —Running free.

  My aunt pressed her lips together. My uncle quickly spoke up:

  —Born blue. Perhaps this is why you love that photograph, Sangita, beta.

  —What does that mean? I asked.

  —Sangita was born blue, my uncle explained now. —Well, or so it appeared at first. Premature: a veiled birth.

  —Veiled
birth? I asked. I knew my cousin-sister had arrived ahead of her time but not this fact, nor what it meant.

  —Born intact in the amniotic sac. Legend has it these babies can never drown.

  —Doesn’t always feel that way, Sangita said quietly.

  —What altoo faltoo! my aunt cut in sharply. —Girls. Enough chitter-chatter. Let’s get dinner on the table. The America-returneds must be famished!

  It sounded like America hadn’t been happy with us, had dug out its receipt and shipped us back. But Maasi looked my way, forced a smile.

  They seated me first, with my father and uncle. My mother was about to pull up a chair as well, but noting the muttering maelstrom of my aunt in the kitchen, she cleared her throat, shrugged at me, and followed her sister to the hob. I couldn’t resist, and followed, too, camera at the ready.

  Sweat beaded my aunt’s upper lip as she rushed back and forth, frying puris to popworthy proportions with a passive-aggressive panache.

  A cupboard, partly open, revealed a top-row glim of amber jars. The dubba sat lidless on the counter, its stainless steel cups of dry spices creating a heady full-circle arc en ciel.

  On the exposed shelf between condiments and chutneys, a temple like our own in Springfield — down to a framed black-and-white of Dadaji. It was a version of the one in our kitchen, taken by yours truly with Chica Tikka the last time I’d seen him. They’d been clicked a split second apart: In the USA print, his eyes were wide and all-seeing, and in this one, heavy-lidded, as if he were half dreaming. I must have caught him mid-blink.

  My mother bowed her head before it. I squeezed her shoulder, and she immediately busied herself passing me the milk, still on the counter from our chai marathon. I moved to the fridge to stow it — noticing a large keyhole in its door.

  —The kamwali was stealing from us, my aunt whispered, though I was pretty sure the maid in question wasn’t around. —I looked the other way for months, but now with Sangita’s upcoming nuptials, we cannot take a chance. I have made kanavla for this occasion, all of the last week.