Behind the pool area, a decorative gazebo came into view. It was designed, it seemed, as an homage in miniature to the Taj Mahal. He’d noticed only the colorful sheer drapes before, but now he saw beyond them to the place where two ornate thrones were perched, along with Maddy and Birendra. At their feet were several floor pillows in vibrant pinks and blues, and there was a pile of presents to one side. From this distance his sister looked like a madam running a harem. Birendra was in a turban, though his was not white like those of the servers; it was purple and gold, with a peacock feather at its center. Edward finished his drink and grabbed another on his way over, passing an area on the grass to his right that had been sectioned off by a knee-high picket fence. A few babies and toddlers played inside under the supervision of yet another costumed woman, hired for the occasion. A second sign read:
Baby Bollywood
Edward froze on the first step of the gazebo. Maddy was silently communicating a greeting to someone on the other side, through the drapes, with her glass raised high in the air, a rock-and-roll curl of the lip, and the kick of a sequined platform shoe. Jane would have died at the sight. Edward was doing his best to reserve judgment. He caught Birendra’s eye over Maddy’s raised foot and searched the boy’s face for an indication of how he might be reacting to his own party. He lit up when he saw Edward and slid off of his throne. Maddy caught him by the shoulder, pulled him close, and whispered into his ear. Over his nephew’s head, Edward could only make out Maddy’s eyes, which seemed to be glowering at him. Maybe it was just the makeup. When she released Birendra, Edward could see she was smiling at him, but it was not a smile that made him any more at ease. She was drunk. He stepped up and through the gap in the hanging fabrics, entering their chambers.
“Hi, Uncle Eddie!”
Edward got down on one knee to admire the fake sword attached to Birendra’s side. Then he handed Birendra his present, the heavy book sinking nearly to the ground in his hands before he adjusted for its unexpected weight.
“Who are you supposed to be?” asked Edward.
“I’m a Sikh warrior,” he said, ripping open the wrapping paper.
“It’s twenty-two volumes. The rest are inside.”
Birendra looked as though Edward had just handed him a puppy. He held the book up for Maddy to see, but she was still talking to her friend.
“This is so awesome, Uncle Eddie,” he said, then set the book down so he could hug Edward.
Trying to ignore the Indian garb, Edward sensed how much Birendra had already changed from the boy he’d met just over a month ago. Hearing him say “awesome,” with hardly a detectable accent, with mannerisms so sure and at ease—it was all evidence of a transformation. How quickly children adapt to their surroundings, he thought. He supposed this happened whether the surroundings were good or bad. But what did it mean to respect an adopted child’s cultural heritage while at the same time ensuring that he was adjusting to his new environment, comfortable in his new life? It seemed somehow impossible to achieve both. The answer was certainly not an Indian Jane Fonda, an elephant, and Bollywood goes Hollywood. Surely Maddy knew that. But then this was not really his nephew’s party in the end. As much as he loved her, Edward knew his sister well enough, her insecurity, her need for attention. Traits she’d fought against but that she’d learned at their mother’s knee and that she’d never entirely eradicated. As he took in the “Taj Mahal” and its thrones, his nephew’s costume, her own, he had to admit: this was a party Maddy had thrown for herself. To show off the beautiful boy she’d “rescued.”
“Are you having fun, B?” He was admiring his book again. “Careful—there’s a little money in the front.”
Maddy’s cackle drew their attention in her direction. Her head was thrown back again, and the beads and jewels of her headdress flashed around her in the soft light that filtered through the sheer fabric walls of her palace. She said good-bye to her friend and turned her attention to Edward and Birendra.
“Hey, Maddy,” he said.
Her eyes were outlined in thick kohl and swimming under the weight of her false lashes. An ornate composite of jewels, just like the ones her greeter wore, flickered between her eyebrows. She composed herself like a queen addressing her subject.
“Come to pay tribute, dear brother?” Then, animated with the wave of a silk-draped arm, but otherwise more or less herself again, she said, “Did you see my elephant?”
“I did. Amazing. Truly. You’ve outdone yourself.” She nodded in agreement. He turned to his nephew. “Why don’t you show me around, B?”
It was the second time he’d called Birendra B in a matter of minutes. It had not been intentional, but suddenly the nickname, a term of both familiarity and affection, felt just right, and it struck Edward that using it held the additional benefit of not contradicting his sister by calling him Birendra in front of her.
“Do you remember your ninth birthday, Eddie?”
Her excited tone and reference to his youth made him feel like her kid brother again. He softened a little. This was his sister, even under all the garish makeup, the garish costume, the drunken gestures—the elephant!—and he tried to put aside his thoughts of the self-centeredness that lurked just beneath the surface of his sister’s generosity. She might have meant to say his eighth birthday, the last they’d actually spent together. But now she’d brought his ninth birthday to mind.
“I do. You called to wish me a happy birthday from New York,” he said. “Mom was off wherever she went those days. I was so happy to hear from you.”
The look of confusion on her face stopped him from wanting to needle her further. She’d obviously meant his earlier birthday, which they celebrated together in his bedroom.
“Do you maybe mean my eighth birthday?” he asked. “When you brought me a tray of eight Hostess cupcakes you’d bought with your allowance, each with its own candle, and sang ‘Happy Birthday’ all the way from the kitchen?” He could tell by her smile they were now sharing the same memory. “That was really sweet of you, Maddy. In fact, on my ninth birthday, before I went to bed, I put a candle in a Hostess cupcake and wished that I could join you in New York.”
Something cool pressed against his neck. Birendra had stepped forward from his throne and extended his sword. Edward had learned that the name Birendra in Sanskrit means “great warrior.” Had this informed his costume? Had Birendra told Maddy the meaning of his real name? Edward just hoped that it didn’t signify a lifetime of battles awaiting him.
“Yield,” the boy gleefully commanded.
“I yield, great warrior. I yield.”
The pride in his expression moved Edward.
“Do you want to see the elephant I painted?”
“Absolutely. Let’s go.”
Edward took his nephew’s hand. Maddy looked sorry to see them leave. As if she didn’t know what to do with herself. These past weeks, he’d felt close to her in a way he hadn’t in years. He’d long since thought of his sister and himself as casualties of the same war. The battlefield: the home of an emotionally unpredictable mother. This had created its own Cold War between them as adults. Maddy went away to school, and by the time she returned Edward was already gone to college. And he was with Jane. They both had their own lives, perhaps maintaining a safe distance from each other to keep their shared past at bay. He’d watched her become the woman she was today, trying to judge her as little as possible. But he would have to talk to her. He wasn’t sure exactly what needed to be said, but he had to warn her not to screw everything up, as their mother had. It was time to put the past behind them for the future who was right beside him.
XXVI
Birendra could hear they were still arguing when he finished brushing his teeth. He went to the top of the stairs, but he didn’t want to be caught listening, so he went to his room and changed into his pajamas and set aside the book he was going to read to Uncle Eddie. Still no one had come up. He peeked his head out of his room, then returned to the top of the s
tairs and listened. Now he could hear Uncle Eddie talking. He was asking Mama Maddy to do something, or maybe to not do something. “It’s his birthday,” he said. They were arguing about him. But why? What had he done? Mama Maddy had already been acting strangely, and now she sounded angry. “Is it so much to ask? One night? I haven’t seen anyone in months. They’ve offered to take me out.” It sounded like they were in her office. It grew quiet. He slipped down to the next step. Mama Maddy was saying something, but she was no longer raising her voice. Birendra closed his eyes and listened harder. She said she’d be back tomorrow. He wondered where she was going.
He heard footsteps approaching and almost tripped up the stairs but caught the banister in time. He hurried to his room and got under the covers. He couldn’t stop feeling like he’d done something wrong. He turned on his bedside lamp. The book he’d checked out discussed southern India. When he found it at the library he’d thought of Uncle Eddie, who so often asked questions about Birendra’s life before. He knew he wasn’t supposed to talk about it, but he thought reading this book would be okay.
Uncle Eddie turned off the overhead light and came closer. He was smiling down at Birendra.
“Are you too tired? We can read some tomorrow if you are.”
“No,” he said. And scooted himself over. “I’m not tired.”
Uncle Eddie picked up the book on the bedside table.
“Is this what you want to read?”
“Yeah. I got it for you.”
“For me? Why for me?”
“I don’t know. I thought you would like it.”
Uncle Eddie opened it to the title page.
“And I do,” he said. “That was very thoughtful of you. It’s about your home.”
He nodded. The front door closed downstairs, and he felt Uncle Eddie stiffen.
“Where’s Mama Maddy going?”
“Oh, she’s just going out with some friends. She feels like dancing.” He was smiling now, but his mouth was pinched. “You’re stuck with me tonight, all right?”
“I don’t mind,” he said and smiled at his uncle.
He scooched up a little more and took the book from Uncle Eddie, opening to the beginning. He paused to see if his uncle was ready, then he began to read:
Siva is one of the most important gods in Hinduism, the main religion of South India. Known also as Lord of the Dance, or Nataraja, this powerful god governs the universe by dancing and endlessly repeating the cycle of destruction and rebirth.
Uncle Eddie placed a finger on the opposite page to study the pictures of Siva.
“So this is one of the many gods?” He pointed to a painting of Siva, blue and dancing in the flames. “You know, you’re a very good reader, Birendra. It’s amazing how quickly you’re losing your accent,” he said. “Not that it’s a bad thing to have one. It’s not. But your English is so fluid now. They say it’s much easier to learn languages when you’re young. Of course, it must have helped you to have an aunt in London.”
Bindi recalled how he and Aunt Nayana used to speak in English on the phone, usually to discuss whatever note or drawing he’d recently sent. Sometimes they talked about school. He remembered what his mother had said about his aunt and uncle when he was writing his report. They were generous.
“Yes,” he said. “They paid for private school for me, and we spoke in English there.”
“What? Who paid for private school?”
He repeated himself, then shifted to look at his uncle. His eyes were big, and he looked really confused. Birendra regretted talking about his aunt now. Maybe the book hadn’t been a good idea. He’d only told the truth. And if he wasn’t supposed to say anything, why did adults ask him questions in the first place?
“Were you and Mama Maddy fighting?”
Uncle Eddie took the book and set it on the nightstand. He pulled the covers up to Birendra’s chin and smiled at him.
“No, not really. We just have different opinions sometimes. It’s normal. Don’t worry—we’ll work it out.”
After Uncle Eddie kissed his forehead, turned off the light, and left the room, Birendra pulled down Ganesh from his shelf, which he hadn’t done since his first nights in America. He felt comforted holding it again and forgot about the angry voices he’d heard as he drifted off to sleep.
In the morning, Uncle Eddie made them scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast. Then they set up the Sega Genesis and played the game, but neither of them was very good. It was sunny and already warm outside, so they decided to swim. Uncle Eddie taught him a fun game called Marco Polo. After a few rounds, they each got on an inflatable bed and floated around the pool. Occasionally they bumped into each other, laughed, then floated apart again. The sun felt good. Uncle Eddie fell asleep for a bit and was worried when he woke up about getting a sunburn, so they went inside and decided to go see the movie that Uncle Eddie had worked on, the one about the dogs.
They tried calling the number for the little black phone Mama Maddy carried in her purse to tell her about the movie, but it was turned off, Uncle Eddie explained, and he left a not-so-nice message. He wore the same frustrated expression he’d had the night before.
“What’s the point of carrying the stupid thing around if it’s not on?”
They took Mama Maddy’s car to the movies. Uncle Eddie checked Birendra’s seat belt at a stoplight, even though they’d already been driving for a while. “You said your parents met in the north, right? In Delhi? And then they later moved to Kerala?”
“Yes. I was born in Trivandrum.”
“That’s in the south, right?”
“Yes.”
He was getting nervous again and wished Uncle Eddie would stop asking so many questions.
“I’m sorry. It seems like you might not want to talk about it. I don’t mean to push you.”
He was torn. Of course he didn’t mind talking about his mother and father and his life in India. He liked it. But Mr. Channar had said he wasn’t supposed to.
“I just don’t want to get in trouble.”
“Birendra, why would you get in trouble?” He looked surprised that Birendra had thought he might. “I want you to be able to share anything with me, remember. Where you came from, what your life was like there. It’s all part of you, and I’d love to learn about it.”
“If I tell you, will you promise not to tell Mama Maddy?”
After a pause, when he was sure he’d seen his uncle’s grip tighten on the steering wheel, Uncle Eddie said, “Can I ask why? Did Mama Maddy say something to you to make you think she didn’t want you to talk about certain things?”
“No, she didn’t,” he replied. “Mr. Channar said that it would make her upset if I talked about it.”
“I’m sorry—who’s that? Mr.…”
“Mr. Channar. Mr. Nair’s cousin, at the orphanage.”
“I see. And Mr. Nair is your uncle is London.”
“No. He was my neighbor in Varkala.”
“Ah, okay. And what is your uncle’s last name?”
He could see it on the envelope, then it was gone.
“It starts with a B,” he said. Why couldn’t he remember? He could see the stamps and parts of the address in his mother’s handwriting on the envelopes he used to bring to the post office in Varkala. And then he remembered his letter, the one he wrote with Mrs. Nair. And now he saw the name he had written. “I remember. It’s Bhatia.”
Uncle Eddie had him spell it, then asked his uncle’s first name and why Birendra thought Mr. Channar told him not to speak of India. Birendra shrugged, afraid to say anything more but also realizing he’d never understood the reason himself, only that it might make him an orphan again.
“Well, I’m pretty sure, Birendra, that Mama Maddy wants you to be comfortable telling her anything as well. She was always a good listener when I was young. Did you know she’s nine years older than I am? She took care of me when I was little.” Uncle Eddie parked and turned off the car. “You know something, B? Adults aren’
t always right. Remember that, okay? Sometimes only you can know what’s best for you. You know what I mean?”
Birendra had never imagined overruling an adult before, and he was grateful to his uncle for trying to help him understand. Mr. Channar had thought he’d known what was best for Birendra. But maybe he’d been mistaken.
They stopped at the pay phone outside the movie theater and called Mama Maddy again. Uncle Eddie hung up and swore when the phone took his quarter, then he apologized for swearing.
“It’s okay. Mama Maddy says that all the time.”
“Well, she shouldn’t.”
He tried calling her at home, but no one answered there, either.
“Is she okay?” Birendra asked, feeling his uncle’s anxiety infecting his own.
“Of course she is. I just thought I’d catch her before the movie.” He was talking the way adults do when they don’t want you to worry or know the truth. “I’m sure she’ll be home soon enough, B.”
XXVII
If their previous losses had weakened the foundation of their marriage, this recent scare was a wrecking ball. Nayana had not lost the baby, but she hadn’t come away unscathed. Its survival had a cost she was only beginning to make sense of in the days since leaving the hospital. There was too much relying on the fetus she carried, an insufficient mass to hold her there, on the ground, in her marriage, in England. She had simply been dehydrated and overly stressed; she’d worn herself out, according to Dr. Shah, and that, combined with natural changes in the cervix, caused an unfortunate confluence of events. Her doctor had been trying to reassure Nayana, but that wasn’t possible. Nayana remained terrified, and Dr. Shah would only understand the reason when Nayana returned to request a paternity test.
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