—It works differently in America, my aunt went on, lobbing this back towards my mother. —Here, we think of others, of the family, the community. And besides —
I stiffened as I could feel an ace serve about to happen….
—Dimple isn’t getting married.
—Dimple, my mother said now, a bit sternly, —is in a very serious relationship with the finest of Indian boys. Karsh Kapoor.
—He’s coming in just two days! I eagerly proclaimed, relieved to shift to a topic I was genuinely happy to discuss. My uncle smiled.
—Karsh Kapoor? Yes, we’ve been hearing about this Karsh. Kavita has been singing his praises.
—More than we’ve ever heard her sing any man’s, my aunt added. —Does this Karsh have a brother?
—Me! Soon! Deepak alleged now. —I look forward to meeting my future bhai. But, Dimple, is he serious about his intentions? He will be careful with your heart?
—Totally, I assured him, wondering how this had become entirely about me. —He’s particularly gentle with the atria and ventriculae.
—And never forget the auricle, my father, cardiologist extraordinaire, added proudly into the sound of no one laughing.
—What does this Karsh do? my aunt asked suspiciously. My father’s voice was touched with pride:
—He’s a student. At the NYU, like Dimple and Kavita beta.
—Software, my mother hastened to fill in. —The hardware.
—I thought Kavita mentioned he was jockeying? Maasi pressed.
—No issues. The DJing is just a hobby, Kavita snidely comforted her mother.
—But we do love hobbies! Sangita piped up brightly. —I forgot to mention Papaji, Mummy. Karsh is playing our wedding; we’ve canceled the other DJ.
My aunt visibly relaxed. —He is a wedding jockey?
—Really, he’s a musician, I clarified protectively.
—A classical musician, my mother rapidly adjoined. —He plays the tablas. On the side.
—In front, actually, I corrected her.
—Well, regardless of from the front or side, we’re looking forward to meeting him, said my uncle. —Where will he be lodging? We can always set up a room for him at Vipin and Vinanti’s.
—Thanks, Kaka, but Karsh and I are going to be in hotels. Then you won’t be so crowded at home, either.
He appeared stunned.
—Didn’t my parents tell you? I asked, confused. My mother and father looked completely blank, though we’d gone over the details a million times.
—But you are staying with us, beta, no?
—For now. But the gig promoters are putting Karsh up, Kavita said, exasperated. —The rooms are paid for already.
—Gig? my uncle asked, baffled.
—Promoters? my aunt asked, horrified.
—In fact, we’re at this hotel to start off, I explained, aiming for a mix of inspiriting and unswayable. —Then they’re moving us to Bandra, I think. Lands End?
As soon as I’d named this suburb, no one seemed remotely interested in what the mysterious gig being promoted was.
—Bandra? my aunt faltered. What was so alarming about an ancient fishing village?
—Queen of the suburbs, Kavita roosed. —West, not East.
—You know what they say: If you throw a stone in Bandra, it will hit a pig, a priest, or a Perreira, Deepak grinned broadly. —Though these days, property developer might be more apt!
I had no idea what the hell a Perreira was (a sports car?), or why people were throwing stones at them. My mother leapt in again.
—No issues, Meera. By coincidence …
—Dimple will be staying in these hotels as well, my father, ever the honest man, concluded.
—With her girlfriends from NYU.
I raised my brows at my ab-fabulist mom; she lowered her own at me.
—Ah! I think Maasi thought you meant Dimple and Karsh were staying in the same quarters! my uncle laughed. My mother laughed, too, a touch too robustly.
—But even if they were, Deepak moderated. —Sounds like Dimple and Karshbhai will surely be the next wedding our family will be celebrating!
My uncle smiled. —Soon, soon. But perhaps Kavita will be next.
Deepak nodded reassuringly. —Don’t worry, Mummy, Daddy. I will make sure to take care of Kavita, too. After all, she is going to be my Tai!
Kavita glared at him but Deepak had already turned to Sangita.
—And you, my darling, don’t worry your pretty little head, he said, patting her on it now. —No need for you to fret about this art school. I was going to tell you later, but this may be the perfect moment: I have just accepted the job in Delhi — and put down a deposit on a wonderful farmhouse in Mehrauli!
Sangita looked up at him, startled. Meera Maasi literally paled a shade.
—Delhi? she whispered.
—I thought you could do the job from Bombay, Deepak? my uncle joined in, brow furrowed with worry now.
—My father believes it will be easier to have me in place, Deepak explained. —But no worries: There is more than enough room for you both, Mummy and Daddy! My parents will be happy to have you as well.
—But what about my painting? Sangita hazarded faintly.
—My jaan, we’ll take it with us! Your Gilbert Hill will be the first painting we hang up in this new home!
I was pretty sure she’d meant her art in general. Evidently pleased with his own reply, Deepak lifted his lassi again to toast. Most of us had already drained our sweet-and-sour curd beverages and raised empty glasses.
Sangita’s eyes were shiny with emotion.
—If you’ll excuse me, Kavita said, rising suddenly. —I do believe I will pay a visit to the ladies’.
Her eyes were shiny, too. Not good shiny. I knew that look. She fled hastily for the foyer. I rose as well.
—Actually, be right back, too.
I clattered through the polished lobby, past the Kashmiri man flogging pashminas in the in-hotel store, and found the bathroom by the elevator bank — complete with smiling saried bathroom attendant, who uttered a good evening, madame as I entered. Inside, below one of the stall doors, I could make out Kavita’s Vans.
—Kavita?
The door gave, and I joined my sister-cousin in the cubicle, where she was clearly not peeing but slumped head in hands on the lidded toilet. She glanced up at me with red-edged, furious eyes.
—Kavity, I whispered. —Are you okay?
—Am I okay? Dimple. I’m in a city founded on shaadi, matrimony, isn’t it? Worse, a dowry! And now no end to the pressure on me to meet a suitable boy. Did you see the way Mummy was looking at me when they talked about Vinanti Aunty’s son?
I thought they’d been looking at me.
—Yes, but wasn’t part of the plan during this trip to tell the family about … your leanings?
—Leanings? I’m no Tower of Pisa, Dimple. When I love, I fall completely. And you see how frazzled Mummy is? I can’t drop the bomb now. Once the bloody wedding is done and they can rest assured they’ve got one offspring who did the right thing …
—The wedding might not be … bloody, I suggested, leaning against the toilet paper dispenser. —Maybe she wants to get married. Maybe she’s found the person she wants to spend the rest of her life with.
—But you have to have a life first.
I was leaning a little too hard; the toilet roll suddenly popped out and rolled away, out of the stall.
—Life might be all right for her, Kavs. For one thing, it’s so unlonely here! Such a sense of community, of family.
—Believe me, you’ll be craving loneliness at some point.
Very gently, the disembodied hand of the bathroom attendant passed a fresh roll under the door. I took it from her. Kavita gave me a See? look.
—But you’re home, right, Kavita? That must feel nice, after so long?
—I’m not so sure this is home for me anymore, Dimple. It’s not like I left it; I’m not like I left it. I can’t trul
y talk to anyone here about how I feel, what I want. I mean, thank god you’re here! But do you realize this is the first time we’ve been on our own for two seconds since you arrived?
The bathroom attendant coughed.
—I know, Kavita. But we’ll find a way. Mallika Mulchandani’s in town, too; she texted about meeting up tomorrow. You could join us, let off some steam?
I decoy-flushed and whispered:
—And maybe … you can try dating some other people? There must be a, you know … queer scene in Bombay?
Kavita rolled her eyes at me. —I’ll show you the scene I’ve seen. In three minutes. Things have been a little on hold since those crackdowns on Bombay nightlife.
—So, what — the Shiv Sena’s outlawed booty calls?
Kavita gave me a warning look. Fresh water bubbled back up into the bowl. She levered it down again.
—You know that little shop in Bandra, where I picked up those mugs? It’s fantastic; the owners are like gurus of being yourself … but it’s moving to Goa soon. I thought I’d bring Sangita along to begin to let her know what’s going on with me. But she just seemed to find all the colors cute.
—Didn’t the vibrators clue her in?
—Dimple! Sex toys are illegal in India.
I stared at her, making a mental note to wrap another pair of socks around the (very) personal massager currently holding its bunny breath in my suitcase.
—Section 292. Up to two years in prison … in the land that created the Kama Sutra, Kavita informed me, having clearly done her research. —Oh, and not to mention, homosexuality is now illegal again. That’d be 377. Which follows 375, 376 — the sections that kind of do not recognize marital rape as a crime.
She took in my surely freaked expression. —Just because they’ve built a few malls doesn’t mean Bombay’s all futureward, Dimple. Anyway, I’m not into any scene. You know that.
Just then, la dame peepee uttered a good evening, madame; I low-frequencied:
—Okay, okay. Just, Kavs … if you love Sangita, you have to be happy for her.
—Of course I love Sabina. With all my heart.
—Um. You said Sabina.
—No, I didn’t. I said Sangita.
—Right. Anyway, Sabz sends her love. I ran into her on campus a few days ago.
—I know. She’s been sending it to me directly, too. Even called to tell me it was the biggest mistake of her life: our breakup, her cheating. I mean, what am I supposed to do with that information, Dimple? How can I trust her again?
We stepped out then, and nodded to the toilet lady, who flicked on the cold water faucet and stood at the ready with her little towels. She gave us a sympathetic look.
A flush. Kavita turned her mirrored eyes to mine.
—It’s still very hard to live without Sabz. And, frankly, it’s pretty hard to live with your parents after you’ve been independent. You know, Dimple, sometimes it just feels like things couldn’t get worse….
Someone exited the stall just then. Behind our faces in the mirror: Sangita. Kavita and I slid looks at each other. How much had she overheard?
Sangita marched over now, bumped her hands into ours under the still running tap, and with uncharacteristic bluntness blurted out: —Worse? Than living with our parents? Imagine — I’m supposed to live with Deepak’s!
We perused her sincere but twinkling eyes in the mirror.
Then all burst into giggles.
It felt like the three of us were we three again. But when we got back to the pavilion, Sangita suddenly looked miles away, staring out to sea. An instant later, I wondered if I’d imagined it, as her diffident smile slid back into place when she sidled up by her fiancé at the table. The bill had been paid — thanking very much Deepak’s generosity, my aunt exulted. A long yawn escaped me.
—We should push off now, my uncle said. —Get some sleep. Especially you, Dimple! So you’re in the pink of health for your real Bombay experience.
I nodded gratefully. I could tell Kavita and Sangita were spent as well.
Out front, the wedding party vehicle was instantly recognizable, so garlanded it appeared topiary. We split up into two cars: Deepak got a head start with the Pradhan posse (my uncle, aunt, and cousins). We Lalas went with Arvind.
—Um. Ma? I whispered as we pulled out the hotel drive. —Why did you totally lie out there about Karsh? And the hotel and all?
—I resent that. I did not totally lie, my mother replied, not whispering in the least. —I just spoke half the truth, Dimple. Full disclosure is overrated; we are not the Internet.
—They will not look upon it … well, my father surprisingly agreed. —When in India, do as India, no?
—Is that how they do in India?
—I don’t want the family to feel we have become too Western Heston, lost all our values and morals, my mother disclosed.
My father nodded. —It is funny how we return to our roots here. As soon as I set foot to this soil, I do not want to eat meat, even fish, any longer. How I crave my simple childhood meals in Varad …
—And how I crave mutton! my mother exclaimed.
—And roasted chana! Singhdana! Remember that vendor at the top of Juhu Beach — the one with the silver beard? I wonder if he’s still there….
And they were off down memory lane — Memory Marg — spiraling back through the years, looking younger (and hungrier) as they collectively recollected delights lost and perhaps now possible again.
—The way you feel is your truth, I surmised. —Even if you tell a half-truth now and then….
—Truth is beauty and beauty, truth, my father quotingly added with great feeling. —Gandhiji.
I was pretty sure it was Keats, but I reckoned Gandhiji would have agreed. I considered Sangita’s feigned — or felt? — happiness at the table. And Kavita’s commitment to following her hidden heart. My parents’ half-truths were, I supposed, a way of protecting our freedom; maybe total bean-spillage was overhyped.
—I guess I’d rather lie and live the truth, I said thoughtfully, —than tell the truth and live a lie.
—Keats? my father wagered. I did a noncommittal side-to-side nod-shake, snuggling up between them.
—Remember that other song you used to sing when we would stroll on Juhu Beach? my father was saying to my mother now. —Roop tera … mastana …
My mother smiled and launched immediately into a pitch-perfect melancholically sweet rendition of the song.
—… pyar mera diwana …
They were gazing across me, into each other’s eyes, like the young lovers they’d once been. My father accompanied her now, dropping into an off-kilter hum wherever he’d forgotten the lyrics.
And after a beat — on it, actually — with a delighted rearview glance at us, Arvind joined in as well.
—Lie and live the truth … I whispered to myself.
Back in Andheri, before we turned off to hit the hay, my eye was drawn to the stretch of wall behind Dadaji’s chair, by the Gilbert Hill view window.
The wall gaped, blank, a square patch a shade brighter than the rest of the paint around it.
That presumptuous groom-to-be …
Sangita’s painting was missing.
I washed up, got to our room. Kavita and Sangita were already tucked into the unrolled futon, courtyard lights filtering in through the grille. I was exhausted, but when I finally lay down on the not-quite-queen, sleep was the last thing on my mind.
My cousin-sisters were still up, too, toss-and-turning the dark. I decided now was the moment to give Sangita her gift; I was certain her eyes had hung on that space on the windowed wall, too, when Deepak had left, and I wanted to fill them with something beautiful. I cracked open the wardrobe, dug around, then handed the package to her.
—I was going to give it to you later. But maybe you can break them in before the big day?
Sangita looked up, startled, then tentatively lifted the lid. She unpacked the tissue, pulling out first one platform then the other
, setting them atop the box, where they glittered as if strung with miniature fairy lights. We three stared. They were gobsmackingly grand, those shoes, and Sangita seemed too moved to speak, just gently ran her fingers over the collaged corners, the feathered heels.
—Cerulean, she whispered. And fell silent, smileless. Then, very carefully, she repacked the platforms in the glowing papers and placed them ever so gently back into Zara’s electric-blue shoebox.
—You don’t like them, Sangita? I said, astounded, disappointed. I looked towards Kavita for some kind of explanation, but she lay perfectly still under the thin sheet. —I thought you —
—They’re wonderful, Dimple, Sangita replied quietly. —And all my favorite colors. But Mummy will never approve. And Deepak … ?
—You don’t have to wear them for the wedding. Just … when you like.
—I’m not even talking wedding — I mean they won’t want me to wear them … ever!
Suddenly, sifting up through the shadows, Kavita’s voice:
—Then put them on, for god’s sake. And never take them off.
I was stunned by her vehemence. But the box had already been pushed below the bed, and Sangita’s head was now buried beneath the sheet. A muffled sound into her pillow grew quieter, then stilled. And a final whisper:
—But one of us has to live out Mummy’s dreams, isn’t it?
The next night, Kavita and I were to meet Mallika (of Ye aai Karshki bibi! renown) in Bandra. To Kavita’s chagrin, and maybe even mine, Meera Maasi insisted Sangita join us, to distract her from the fact she was fasting for Shivratri. I didn’t see how our dinner would do that unless Sangita wasn’t so sweet on ancient fishing village fare, but as Meera Maasi didn’t hesitate to point out, in this country, one respected her elders’ wishes.
We climbed downhill from Ramzarukha and scrammed into the narrow confines of a rickshaw at Shoppers Stop. A tight squeeze; maybe that’s why the tuk-tuk hadn’t taken off in triple-chinned America.
Please Do Not Touch Me read the sign on the meter, which, upon Kavita’s command, the driver — one leg folded under him, bare foot of the hanging one sticking insouciantly out the non-door — levered to zero. I was reminded of the low-railed cramped seats of the amusement park rides of my childhood: flying chair swings, bumper cars — and a combo of the two seemed to be the ride we were on as we narrowly missed a paanwallah on the right, only to nearly veer into a massive Horn OK Please–adorned Tata truck to the left … which itself had barely spared the life of a grizzled man sitting serenely just off the scant sidewalk, on the road itself, mending shoes.
Bombay Blues Page 7