Born Confused (11 page)

But I could hardly complain. Thanks to their overwhelming magnanimity, I now had pretty much everything I needed to try out color.

Finally, I tore open the package they made me save for last. Inside, padded carefully between layers of tissue, was an unbelievably resounding salvar khamees, one of those Indian outfits consisting of loose-fitting pants with a long top and scarf, or dupatta. The deep crimson fabric screamed sanguinely open. A river of nearly neon gold dye wound noisily through its length. The salvar was ornately embroidered with gold and silver and garnet beads and little bells that made a racket even as I lifted it out of the box. All in all it was, in fact, so loud I could hear it. Heavy, too—funny how all those little driblets could add up. It looked nothing short of a wedding combo: red, the color of fertility, was the bridal hue in most Indian unions (white, the color without color, being that of mourning).

—It’s even more expensive than Sangita’s, said my mother, as if she’d heard me.—Now maybe you can model it for us.

I was still staring dumbly at the roaring combo, wondering where my shades were when I needed them.

—Now, said my mother.

I returned to the room feeling a fool in the blaring outfit. The dupatta was sheer, gold, gewgawed, and enormous—I hadn’t known what to do with it, and now it trailed behind me like a glitzy, gory bridal train. I was about to trip on all the fabric. My folks had certainly themed the presents well this year: I would definitely be needing my brand-new camera kit if I ever put these duds to film; frock, they could turn black and white to color!

But one look at my parents and there was no way I could complain just yet. They were beaming at me as if I were walking down the very aisle (even though Hindu ceremonies involved going in circles, which was much more my forte).

—Baapray, beta, you look…why, you look just like your mother did on our wedding day! my dad proclaimed, visibly moved. He turned to my mom and smiled.—Ketli sunder chhokri chhe.

Nil chance I could diss my new look now. My mother was busy draping the dupatta till it formed a crisscross across my body, like a Miss America banner. She stood back to survey her work, clearly pleased.

The two gazed at me now not only approvingly but adoringly. I realized then that my father’s comment, coupled with this outfit, had transformed me in their eyes. They weren’t seeing the hungover bad girl who felt dressed like a circus attraction; before them was the good Indian daughter, kheer-saver and homely girl, demurely previewing her wedding day duds. In other words, they weren’t seeing me at all.

—Beta, come up! I heard the car! my father called, slicing a shaft of light into the darkroom with his voice. I’d been so lost in my thoughts (and in setting up my guilt-giving gifts) that I hadn’t heard a thing. Reluctantly I exited. And he was right. No sooner had I mounted the stairs than the bell rang.

—Now you be nice to your cousin, whispered my mother, nodding me towards the door. As if I were planning to throw spitballs the second she entered.—She’s only coming because it’s your birthday, you know.

I mustered up whatever enthusiasm I could—considering that I was at a negative level, I did to my credit manage to bring up my lack of joy (at the idea of spending a migrainous night being compared to and jeered at by my Bombay-bred cousin) to level zero.

So I yanked the door open. And for a second I couldn’t believe my eyes. Someone was standing on the porch, all right. But not at all the someone I’d been expecting.

She was a sight, a jovial and superlatively radiant brown angel landed on the front steps. And it wasn’t those terra-cotta bronzing blocks that I don’t need but use anyways sometimes to capture that special glow. She didn’t seem to have any makeup on, save for a thick stroke of kajal on the upper lid of each mischievous eye, extending out slightly and up, Cleopatra style.

Gone was the rail-track girl floating in stiff taffeta hand-me-downs and knees poking out. Undone the two tight plaits of hair like heavy black ropes dragging blood from her temples, which had always lent her a frenetic appearance, even with her eyes closed, even
asleep. Everything had seemed too big on Kavita when we were little, from the dresses to her facial expressions; her features took up so much space it was as if they would devour her very visage. And she’d been thin; when she moved, her bones shifted beneath her skin translucent like fish sliding under water. But now it was as if the rest of her had grown up to accommodate the huge eyes, the angling nose, in the left nostril of which a once chunky diamond now twinkled tinily like a caught star.

—Howdy, our dear cowgirl cousin! she giggled. Her mouth was a laughing mouth, as if it had just heard or said the funniest thing ever, and it was open wide in a toothy grin.—Many happy returns, old lady!

That was the same. The grin, that chuckle. I’d always found it taunting, like she was enjoying some private prank against me every time she spoke.

—Hey, Kavita, I said.—Thanks for coming.

—Are you joking? I couldn’t miss this most auspicious of occasions! And you, dear Uncle and Aunty, are looking in the pink of health!

She talked like she wrote in her letters.

—Thank you, beta, said my father, peering over her shoulder at the slunked-over bottle-green VW parked in our drive.—So you are owning a car now?

—It’s Sabina’s, she said. She must have sensed our collective question mark.—My roommate. It’s a cutie, heh?

She was gazing lovingly at the Bug. Her hair was a spun jungle in this heat, spiraling from her shoulders down her back in Magic Marker curls. I’d never even realized it was curly, as it had always been in braids when I’d seen her. Now, it was gorgeously wild, as if she’d been racing horses across the Mongolian plains or, even more
unlikely for her, windily kissing all night in the bleachers. Actually it was a lot like mine, but on her it looked good, on me just unkempt.

—Dimple, aren’t you going to take your cousin’s bag? said my mother, indicating the shopping sack in Kavita’s arms.

—Oh, I’ve got it, Maasi, she said hurriedly.—Though it
is
for the birthday girl!

Taxi! With that Hindi label and all those curlicue peacock designs it was sure to be yet another salvar khamees to jazz up my prehistoric look.

—Well, you’ve come a long way, beta.

—Not so long, just NYU, Kavita grinned, voicing my grumpy inner thoughts exactly. She kicked off her chappals and stepped inside, blinking twice, befuddledly, at the photo-frame photos on the shelf before passing.—Though I guess you’re used to thinking of me as far away.

As we walked through the house, Kavita exclaimed delightedly at all sorts of things I’d long stopped noticing: a thigh-high vase blinking with peacock feathers in the foyer, the sandalwood chariot with the miniature Krishna and Arjuna, the Mexican birds my mother had attached to a houseplant via those twistie things that seal bread wrappers. She stopped at the edge of a handwoven rug, rolling over the corner where I could now see thick black script.

—Baapray! I remember when you bought this—you signed it here, the Kashmiri storekeeper’s way of assuring you the rug later shipped was indeed the one chosen. And after—after he drank with us to celebrate the deal, isn’t it? Hot tea in glasses, with nuts at the bottom.

Her voice rang through the house like a bell, water spilling over stones, and I felt a great weight lift off me in spite of myself. Glorious sound after all the silence today.

My parents looked relieved, too. Here was a grinning cotton kurta’d direct line back to the motherland. And what a timely entrance, considering how far I’d strayed in their eyes since the innocent age of sixteen.

—It is so good to have you here, Kavita. For a while I had the impression you were still in India, we heard so rarely from you, sighed my mother.—We haven’t seen you practically since you started the NYU!

—Yes, I know, ji, said Kavita. She was beside the shut jet-black piano I hadn’t touched since I’d quit lessons with powdery Mrs. Lamour.—I’m so sorry—I’ve just been in over my head from day one.

Ji is the suffix denoting respect in India. I knew this because I did a report on Gandhi and his philosophy of satyagraha and passive resistance in junior high and a lot of our books on the subject refer to him as Gandhiji, or Mahatmaji, or Bapuji (bapu meaning father).

—Well I hope all that studying has worked up your appetite, said my dad.—Your aunty has cooked up a wedding’s worth of food.

—Oh, I have an appetite all right, Kaka, Kavita laughed, patting her belly. I noticed then that it was straining the fabric. She never used to eat much; I remembered how self-conscious I’d felt in India reaching for my second butter naan when she’d torn off only an economical edge to pinch up her entire meal’s worth of bhaji.

—You
have
put on a lot of weight, said my father, nodding approvingly. I couldn’t believe he’d told her what we were all surely thinking—but a moment later I was even more stunned by her response.

—Thank you, ji, said Kavita merrily, running her finger along the dusty piano lid then pushing it open to reveal the keys. They shone like beast teeth in a night forest.

—Dimple, why don’t you show your cousin her room? I’ll just
go check the gosht, said my mother. “Your cousin”; sometimes she said “your father,” even “your mother.” I wasn’t sure why she felt this need to confirm our particular positioning on the family tree.

I must have been just standing there pondering this, because she added:

—Dimple had a little bit of an adventure last night, Kavita. Killed a few brain cells. Apparently the ones needed to listen to her mother. Sorry if she’s a bit slow.

—An adventure! cried Kavita.—Ooh! Do tell!

I went promptly into toe-scrutiny mode.

—Okay, maybe not on an empty stomach, Kavita said quickly.

—Oh, I think Dimple’s stomach is empty all right, my mother snorted.

Kavita looked at her, then at me.

—Shall we check out your digs, then, cowgirl?

I nodded theatrically; I was ready to exit this conversation, and Kavita slipped her arm through mine as we went to my room. She always leaned in conspiratorially, which made me a little uncomfortable. And this close she smelled like nuts, the sweet kind my mother and I bought off the stand from the Indian guy on the Upper East Side that time we went to New York for the visa (she’d insisted he was Pakistani, but to be honest I couldn’t see the difference).

Kavita set her bags by the entry to my room.

—Dimple, she said, smiling happily into my eyes.—It is so good to see you. You haven’t changed a bit!

—I haven’t? I said glumly. I was hoping I had.—Well, you look different. I mean,
good
different.

—I feel different, said Kavita.—It took a long time to get to this place and now I don’t ever want to leave it.

—Yeah, well, you’re always welcome.

—No, silly, she giggled.—That’s not what I meant. I meant,
just. Well, you know I was very depressed after Dadaji passed on. It was awful. Going back and not seeing him. In a way I envy your being able to go on, pretending he’s there—I mean, you haven’t been to India and seen the hole in the house. And to think I didn’t get back in time because no one wanted me to miss an exam. How absurd is that? And now I will never see him again. I have to say, it really taught me what it means to seize the day and know what is important. Life is too too short, Dimple.

It was funny—most times my own seemed to be dragging on and on in no direction whatsoever.

—Well, there’s always reincarnation, I said, trying to cheer her up.—Maybe we have nine lives.

She looked at me intently, and it was funny, but her mouth unchuckled.

—But this may still be the last one, she said.

All day the house had smelled of spices, and now before our eyes lay the resulting combustion of all that kitchen chemistry. The feast my mother had conjured up was extravagant, and I realized how hungry I was; I wasn’t a big fan of Indian food, at least not on a daily basis, but today the sight of it was sheer poetry.

Brown sugar roti and cloud-puff puris just itching to be popped. Coconut rice fluffed up over the silver pot like a sweet-smelling pillow. Samosas transparent, peas bundling just below the surface. Spinach with nymph-finger cloves of garlic that sank like butter on the tongue. A vat of cucumber raita, the two-percent yogurt thickened with sour cream (which my mom added when we had guests, though she denied it when asked; I’d seen the empty carton, not a
kitten lick left). And the centerpiece: a deep serving dish of lamb curry, the pieces melting tenderly off the bone.

Oh, and of course, small but deep bowls of kheer, coronated with crushed pistachios and strands of saffron, vermillion like tiny cuts in the foamy surface.

The table exploded with food, creaked with the weight of it. Everything was laid out all together, sweet and salty side by side, Indian style. (I’d never quite realized this was an Indian thing till that time the other kids looked on with desire and disgust as I ate my Hostess cupcake alongside my tuna-fish-and-chutney sandwich in the cafeteria.)

When Kavita entered, her hair now number-two-penciled into an already unraveling bun, she stopped dead in her tracks at the sight.

—Baapray! she cried, unfreezing and scrambling into her seat.—Aunty, I feel like it’s
my
birthday, being included in this!

—Oh, it’s nothing, really, beta, said my mother.—I just whipped it up before you got here.

I suppose yesterday does technically count as “before you got here.” My mother had begun the lamb last night (it was day-after food, even more succulent after hours of marinating in her fresh ginger garlic sauce), and she must have been up at the crack of dawn to get the samosa crust so thinly rolled. My father and I looked at each other but kept mum as my mother now insisted to Kavita that she sit at the head of the table.

—Oh no, Aunty, she said.—The cuisine queen should sit facing her king.

—Oh, don’t worry, beta, my mother said.—I don’t usually sit much during a meal.