Born Confused (12 page)

It was true. Often we didn’t need even three seats; when my fa
ther was on call or late coming home from the hospital there would be two dinnertimes in our household: one where I contentedly chowed down spaghetti or peanut butter and mango jam sand-wiches among my schoolbooks, and one where my father sat down to his khichdi kadhi, my mom munching on bits of both in between. When we were all three there, or at home with guests, my mother usually spent the entire meal on her feet, keeping the naan warm and refilling water glasses, ladling into our plates for the fifth time “just one more spoon, there’s only a little left, think of all the starving people in India” despite satiated groans of protest. She never even let me help, except with loading the dishwasher after. But Kavita wasn’t having any of this.

—No, Aunty, she said firmly.—Despite the fact that I am dying to throw myself headfirst into that gosht, I refuse to eat until you sit with us.

My mother looked around helplessly then up at the stove top Ganesha as if for authorization from a greater force. She glanced shiftily back at us, and my father raised his eyebrows and did that Indian side-to-side head tilt that served as a yes in the East but looked more like a moment of indecision (or hinge gone loose) in the West. We were both overwhelmed by the concept. It had never occurred to me to do what Kavita had just done, and I felt ashamed. The extent of my mother’s efforts hit me like a brick in the belly.

—Yeah, come on, Ma, I said, trying to act like I thought of it, did it all the time.

She laughed shyly as she pulled out her seat, as if the most popular boy in school had just asked her to slow dance in the school gym. Then she put her elbows on the bamboo mat, clasped her hands, and set her chin nervously on them, like a china cup on a steeple tip, a pose of studied relaxation. I had an urge to say grace.

—So, what can I get you to drink? asked my father.—Kavita, beta?

—Oh, I wouldn’t mind a glass of wine, said Kavita. I nearly choked on my tonsils.

—You…wouldn’t? asked my father, glancing at my mother. I knew he’d been thinking more along the lines of ginger ale, cranberry juice, or water. He was particularly big on the benefits of cranberry juice.

My mother glanced back at my father. I looked down so I wouldn’t laugh. Here was an unexpected twist!

—Uh…said my mother.—I don’t think we have any…

—Sure we do, I said, still checking out my lap. Being the alcoholic in the family, I had to live up to expectations now.—You know, all those Christmas gifts in the Christmas gift closet in the study. I can go get it if you want.

—No, no, I’ll go, said my father, who liked to avoid awkward situations by plunging right on into them when they arose.

We had quite an alcohol stash for a nearly teetotaling family. All the doctors at the hospital gave us bottles of Johnny Walker and wine, Black Label and cognac at Christmas. The only bottle open was Bailey’s, which my mother liked to put in milk at the holidays, but then she usually suffered a headache and intense longing for her childhood in Kolhapur for three days after.

After some cartoonish gymnastics, my father finally got the cork out of the Beaujolais Nouveau (I wasn’t sure how Nouveau it was at this point, but the label was convincing) and splashed out the wine, filling all the glasses, though in mine he let runneth exactly one droppeth, which, today, was fineth by me. His own glass was burgundy to the rim; to be honest, he probably needed a drink at this point, after all the events of the
A.M.

—So, said my mother, in her cocktail party voice.—Since when did you become a drinker, Kavita?

—Oh, I wouldn’t say I’m a drinker, per se, said Kavita.—But a glass of wine with a meal as fantastic as this one would serve as quite a lovely complement.

Who said flattery got you nowhere? Flattery could take my mom from Kuala Lumpur to Rio in a nanosecond.

—Do you really think it looks fantastic? she asked, coy-eyed.—I mean, Meeratai must cook like this all the time at home.

—Are you kidding? Mummy can’t cook to save her life! It’s Papaji who’s got the gift.

—You call him Papaji? my father said, evidently moved.—This is so touching. I myself always called my father Bapuji. So much nicer, so much more respect than Father or Pop like they do here. Back when there was respect for the parents.

He sighed dramatically, gazing morosely into his glass, like the last man at the bar at closing time, or a Turkish coffee-cup reader with unpleasant news. But my mother had latched onto the alternative detail.

—No, you can’t mean that! she said.—Meera can’t cook to save her life?

She looked a little pleased but was trying very hard to appear stunned. Like that time the salesclerk told her,
Oh you couldn’t be her mother! I thought you were her older sister!

—Believe me, said Kavita, winking at my mother.—This is a real treat. And regarding the wine, frankly Mummy is so stressed with the wedding and all, I think it would do her good to have a little nip now and then. But you didn’t hear that from me.

My mother placed her hand to her ear, smiling.

—Hear what? she said.

Kavita raised her glass.

—To a very special occasion!

—Yes, said my mother, raising her own.—To Sangita’s wedding!

—Oh, that, too, said Kavita.—But I meant Dimple’s birthday.

—Oh, yes, to Dimple’s birthday, said my father.

—To Dimple’s birthday, said my mother.—Anyways, so, beta, how is Sangita doing? She must be just thrilled with all the hubbub. I imagine there’s a lot to prepare by November.

That’s when Sangita’s wedding was to be. Which was a long engagement in proportion to how long it took her and Deepak to get engaged: exactly one week from the day they met—and that only because their astrological charts had to be cross-checked for potential turbulence and all the sires, too, via a collective meal including both chicken chat and chitchat about politics, and, more hazardously, cricket.

—Well, there’s not much to prepare really, heh? said Kavita.—It has all been written, Maasi, isn’t it?

—Well, yes, said my mother, approvingly.

—And Sangita, she is quite happy about it, no? said my father.—At least from Meeratai’s letters it seems that way.

—Well she should be, ji? said Kavita.—I mean he is a suitable boy, correct, from a good family, good business prospects, their stars match, five foot eight. Which is tall in India, isn’t it?

She had that same tone of voice she’d had as a child, but now I couldn’t tell if it really was taunting after all. I wasn’t sure if she was questioning my mother, or herself, or his height.

—But what I don’t understand, and maybe you can explain this to me, is how come no one is saying what a catch Sangita is? I mean, she is just lovely. I know she is my sister. But it’s the truth. She feels so
lucky
to have Deepak.

—Oh, we are so happy for her! my mother nodded.

—No, no, Aunty: I mean,
too
lucky. He’s the lucky one if you ask me.

Her wineglass was half full now, and a flush was centering in her high cheeks.

—If Dadaji were here, he would never stand for it, she added.

My mother looked as if she’d been slapped. Her eyes smarted and she even took a sip from her glass. She must have forgotten it was wine, because she immediately made a citric face.

—Well, yes, of course he’s very lucky, said my father, diplomatically. He rubbed his thigh anxiously.—Sangita is a wonderful girl. Roti, anyone?

—We must live every moment fully, said Kavita.

—Be productive, nodded my father through a mouthful of molasses, eager to change the subject.—So, Kavita, been doing a lot of thinking the deep thoughts at the NYU?

—Yes, said Kavita.—I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, that’s true.

—Why don’t you show Dimple around sometime? It’s never too early to start thinking about colleges, beta.

—Oh, I would
love
to—it’s a
maaagical
school, Dimple! Full of incredible people. And all of New York is the campus—which feels like all the world. In fact there is quite a large South Asian community there.

—South Asian? said my mother.—You mean Indian?

I was wondering as well; for some reason it was bringing to mind Cambodia.

—Indians included, smiled Kavita.—Thanks to Sabina, I’ve gotten very involved in the South Asian scene. In fact, we’ve been helping to organize a convention on South Asian identity; the kickoff party’s coming up in just a couple of weeks.

—South Asian identity? asked my dad.

—South Asian scene? I said. What scene? I usually felt like the only Indian on the planet, when I felt Indian at all.

—That sounds like it might be a good thing for you to attend, Dimple, said my mother.

—Ma…

—Especially after the events of this morning, young lady, she said firmly.—Can anyone go, Kavita?

—The more the merrier!

—Do you know by any chance…said my mom now, too casually, twiddling the Bounty roll napkin in her hand—…a boy named Karsh?

Oh no, here we go…

—Karsh Kapoor? Oh yes, of course—he’s very involved in the South Asian scene, too.

Nerd alert! Why wasn’t an alarm going off?

—I knew it, said my mother proudly, as if she had something to do with it. I rolled my eyes.

Kavita glanced at me. And—as usual with her lips-up bone-shigh flower-cheeked face that smiled even when she wasn’t smiling—it was hard to read her.

By the time Kavita washed up and came into the room I was truly ready to call it a day. I lay spread-eagle under the sheet; it was hot still, but somehow I always felt safer with a cover of some sort.

—Good night, Kavita, I said.—And thanks again for coming to see me.

I figured she must be exhausted, too; there was something sort of somnambulistic about the way she was moving, the loose-fitting
nightgown drifting languidly around her calves. Me, I could barely keep my lids up; they kept gliding down like loose panes.

—No mention, she said reaching for the light.

Turning off the lamp was tantamount to turning on the moon, which now poured through the window, a smaller satellite than last night’s, but still plump with light. I could see the outline of Kavita’s body through the muslin. I expected her to lie down then but she just kept hugging her knees to her chest, the nightgown creating a filmy mountain, her hair a craggy escalade down the back of it, cascading a coromandel shadow all the way to the sheets as she stared up at the ceiling. She was gazing so intently I wondered if she’d discovered a fault line ominously emerging, an upside-down earthquake. I asked her if she was all right.

—I guess all that talk about the wedding just made me a little sad, she said softly.—My life is so unlike Sangita’s.

Was she jealous of her sister? I could imagine that. When Gwyn and Dylan first got together I was really happy for her, but when I realized that I was going to be the one left out of the loop, try as I might I found it kind of difficult to share her enthusiasm. I mean, my birthday was almost officially over and she hadn’t even called. She’d never forgotten before.

—Yeah, I said.—I can definitely relate.

—Yes? I just worry sometimes that my sister has a lot of pressure on her because of my behavior.

—What’s your behavior? I said, up on an elbow now.—Premed, good school, Indian crowd—Kavita, you are a dream child. My parents would swap in a second.

—Don’t talk rubbish, said Kavita.—In any case, it’s still not staying in India and meeting a nice boy and not getting too overqualified to be a perfect wife. Which is exactly what Sangita’s
doing: settling in Mumbai and giving up on half her interests. It’s funny how history seems to repeat itself.

—What do you mean?

—Like our mummies, for example. Yours went off to have the adventure; mine stayed at home to be the good girl. And now look at them—they can hardly discuss the weather without measuring themselves against each other! They’ve lost a bit of their capacity to simply
enjoy
anything, because there’s always this invisible scoreboard they’re watching.

I’d never really thought of it that way, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

—And I don’t want that to happen with me and Sangita.

—Well, does she love him? I asked.

—She’s showing all the symptoms of love. Or faking them, like a flu when you don’t want to go to school. But how would she know? She’s only seen him twice, and that surrounded by other people.

—Twice? I cried.

—That’s how this kind of marriage works, Dimple.

—And Maasi and Kaka are making her marry him? I’m sorry, but that’s barbaric!

—I don’t know if it’s barbaric. I’ve seen cases where it works out, though I suppose you never really know; the divorce rate is low in India, but so is the speaking-up rate when it comes to women. In any case, they’re not taking out the talwar or anything. But Mummy—I’ve just never seen her so nervous. I mean, to put out an ad!

—Ad?

—Yes, said Kavita, sounding surprised.—You didn’t know?

—Like that “homely girl seeking” stuff?

—Exactly. Except Mummy of course neglected to mention that Sangita is thin, dark, and astigmatic, like our Mama uncle was.

And this was a bad thing? Astigmatic, okay—but the rest?

—None being such good selling points in the marriage market, Kavita explained.

—Frock, I said.—Here she’d be a supermodel!

—Well of course she won’t come here now. The girl has no confidence after all that’s happened.

—What happened?

—Well, the first meeting—you know, after my parents already went with my Rahul cousin to investigate the family—she cannot even get by the mother because of her height.

—The mother was tall?

—No, no! Sangita wasn’t tall
enough.
The mother of course, chutia that she is, is a good inch shorter, and was in some fancy imported shoes as well, whereas Sangz was just in chappals.

Kavita was up on her knees now.

—The meeting with boy two seems to go well, but at the last minute his family makes the condition that she must have eye surgery before anything is officialized. You know, get rid of the glasses. And—imagine this!—they suggest she use a pumice to lighten up her skin.