Born Confused (16 page)

—You’ll never lose me, said Strikingly Average Boy Who Is Computer Geek And Mama’s Boy To Top It Off.—I’m just moving across the river, not across the country. And even then.

—Aaray, how sweet. Dimple, did you hear that?

—I’m only across the room, Ma, not across the country, I said.

Karsh grinned.

—And Dimple, what are you thinking? said Radha.

—You’ll never lose him, I said, hoping the sinister implication that things would never work out between us was coming through static-free. But my voice ended in a question mark, as usual.

—No, no! Radha said.—What are you considering
doing.
You’ll be finished with high school soon, right? You must be thinking a little about what you want?

—Oh, I don’t know about that.

—You mean you haven’t figured your whole life out yet?

Her eyes jingled with laughter, but I didn’t know if she was laughing at, with, or just very near me.

—Well, I…I’m trying to work on my, well, photography this summer, I blurted out.

—Dimple is an honors student, my mother hastily added.

—So is that what you want to be, then, a photographer? Radha asked, her regard focused keenly on me.

—I like taking pictures, if that’s what you mean, I said, fidgeting nervously. Why was Karsh staring at me like that? I passed the coconut cutlets to him to give him something else to look at, and he promptly got up and brought them to my mother, who now accepted her first one, everyone else having had two already.—But I don’t know if I could make a living—

—So you’re doing what you like and liking what you do, Radha interrupted.—Well, that’s the first step, and the last step, and all the steps in between for the road to real happiness. It has very little to do with the money, Dimple—it’s just how seriously you take it.

—Baapray, all this talk, said my mother, on the verge of biting down on the syrupy pink-swirled sweet. She looked annoyed, but more at Radha than me for some reason.—It’s just a phase, isn’t it, beta.

And one that like a tiny benign tumor would probably go away with time, was the implication. My mother’s voice was nearly pleading, and I felt bad, so I nodded.

—Is it just a phase? said Radha, this time watching my mother.—Like you and your dancing, Shilpa?

My mother’s eyes widened but she caught herself in time.

—Yes, she said firmly. She put the cutlet down, unbitten.—That was just a phase. What I wanted to do was medicine. So I did. I
chose
to do that.

—It’s a shame you gave up medicine then, said Radha.—Bloody hell, you were such a goddamn good dancer, Shilpz! I was so surprised you didn’t continue with it.

—How could I when I came here? said my mother.—There were no teachers, no schools.

—You could have taught, you were so good, Radha insisted.—High hell, even I still dance—for myself, really—but I was never as talented as you.

My mother looked pleased and panicky at the same time, like someone getting an award with no speech prepared. And I, who’d never seen her do much more than occasionally tap her foot to the beat, was doing a major rewind.

—Mom, you were a dancer?

She didn’t say anything.

—Did she dance? Radha snorted.—Did she
dance?
Dimple, my dear, your mother was a serious sole-stomping prizewinning Bharat Natyam babe back in the day!

—Indian stuff?

—Not just Indian stuff. The foxtrot, ballroom. You name it. But yes, above all, Indian stuff.

—Prizewinning? I cried.

—Multiple, nodded Radha.

—Dad, did you know this?

—Of course! How do you think I fell for this woman in the first place?

—Well, why doesn’t anyone talk about it?

—Oh, it’s not worth talking about, said my mother.—It’s been too many years.

—It’s never too late, said Radha.—Not for someone as gifted as you.

—Sometimes it is, Radha, said my mother in a way that made Radha bite her tongue.

My mother was now clearly and completely panicking for some reason. Her eyes fell, as they often did in this sort of social situation, on the piano. And then it was my turn to sweat.

My parents always used the piano to fill the silence, sometimes even when it was just the three of us. But with the way I played, you’d soon be wishing for silence again. Admittedly, I could do a mean version of “Chopsticks,” the bottom part to “Heart and Soul,” and the right hand to most anything without the black keys. But that was about it.

Everyone followed my mother’s gaze, and then the dreaded question was asked.

—Do you play, Dimple? asked Strikingly Average Computer Geek/Mama’s Boy With Amazing Ability To Say Just The Right Thing. He got up and went to sit at the piano. I realized then the lid was still up from when Kavita had been over; it had been a long time since the keys had been in view.

—Yes, said my mother, grasping at a straw, at the same time that I cried:

—No!

—Of course you do, said my mother.—All that money we spent on Mrs. Lamour. Go on, why don’t you play us something.

Sweat pooled in the hollows above my nostrils. I’d taken piano lessons for two years exactly. Five years ago. Mrs. Lamour had one eye and her husband was constantly raking; I could see him out the window when I did my scales. Mrs. Lamour was, however, more concerned with the state of my curtsy than that of my chords prior to my first recital. I was to perform a simplified version of “Für Elise.” And the day of the performance, I sat at the piano and froze. My mind: blank as a weekend chalkboard. Then I jumped up and did what I did best: ran to the corner edge of the stage and dove into an impassioned knee-splitting curtsy. A little too impassioned, I suppose, as I promptly fell off the stage. Luckily, “stage” was a grand term for what would probably be more accurately described as a
slight modulation in the floor plane, and there was no external damage other than a scraped knee. But my ego had suffered third-degree burns; I didn’t think I’d yet recovered from them.

—I love that one, “Free Elise,” my father piped up.

—I really don’t think I should, I said, enunciating each word carefully in case they didn’t understand English all of a sudden, which happened sometimes in conversations like these (they never forgot how to speak it, just how to hear it). I could feel the terror mounting up the hole in my spine, like a malevolent rock climber. This was worse than those getting-caught-naked-in-class dreams—and when it was my chubster body we were talking about, that was saying something.

—Oh, come on, Dimple, be a sport, said my father.—What were all those piano lessons for?

—For learning a well-executed curtsy, I said, then prayed he wouldn’t ask me to at least do that, then.

I thought I heard a snort. Was Babe the Pig in the room? Both Karsh and Radha burst out laughing.

—I really don’t remember it, I said.

—Well, isn’t the music in the seat? said my mother.—Karsh, can you take a look, beta?

Karsh got up and opened the bench a crack and peered in. He furrowed his already furrowed brow.

—No, he said, sighing.—Bummer. It’s empty.

—Empty? Are you sure?

—With a capital M, he said, setting the lid carefully down then sitting on it. Whew!

—You must have put them all in the study, said my mother accusingly to my father, who, whether he’d done them or not, readily admitted to things when blamed.

—Well, in any case, there’s no fear of falling from there, I said.

—At Dimple’s first recital she, er, panicked and fell from the stage, my mother responded to Radha’s upraised brows.

—Then why the bloody bollocks are you asking her to play, yaar? cried Radha. I liked this woman. Could I just take her for a mother-in-law and skip the son part?—Still a perfectionist as ever!

—She only scraped her knee a little, my mother said, pouting.

—Oh, never mind, no biggie, said Karsh.—I just asked ‘cause I’ve always loved the piano.

—Do you know how to play? my father inquired.

—I’m not sure, said Karsh.

—Excuse me?

—Well, I’ve never really tried, so I don’t know whether I can play or not.

Strikingly Average Smart Aleck. But the heat was off me, so I’d let this one go.

—Karsh does not play the piano, said Radha.—Yet. But he plays the tablas and harmonium and flute and a little bass, don’t you, rajah? He has trained on tablas for—how many years now? I can hardly remember. When he was still very small he was taken in under the tutelage of Zakir Mehra, who happened upon him helping cook dinner one night—you know we always had these sorts of people over because of my husband’s involvement in the entertainment world. Zack told Karsh that he chopped baingan like a true percussionist.

Now it was Karsh’s turn to have a Mom,
puh-leeze
look on his face. But when he said the mother part, it wasn’t really bitter, more like a gentle protest. Passive resistance?

—You may be vying with them for his attention, Dimple, said Radha in an amped whisper.—He’s very passionate about his drums.

—Mother! Karsh said now; he still didn’t seem angry but he did a side-to-side with his head, then lifted his hands in a surrender.

—I’ve heard of Zakir Mehra, said my father.—He is a classical player, no? So Karsh is classically trained?

—That’s right, Radha beamed.

Classically trained? The next thing you knew he’d be telling us he listened to Lata Mangeshkar! She was this really annoying Indian singer with a voice so shrill it could double-pierce your ears and leave hoops hanging.

—The next thing you will be saying is you like Lata Mangeshkar! said my father excitedly. What did I tell you?

The only reason I knew about Lata Mangeshkar was, well, she was one of the only two crooners to know about, apparently. I was under the impression that she and her stridently similar sister Asha Bhonsle had a monopoly over all the songs in the Indian movie industry (either that or all the female singers were trained by the same whinging voice coach). They also had a monopoly on my father’s record collection and video bootlegs from Jackson Heights.

—Gotta love Lata, said Karsh perking up.—But I’m equal for Asha—she rocks!

Rocks. Not the word I would have chosen, but hey, liberty for all. So he loved Sister Squawk. No, not Madonna or U2 or something cool—even the Beatles, who everyone pretended to be so over but then sang along to, even the “Hey Jude” outro intact, when they happened to strum up on the radio or in an elevator. But Lata and Asha. My father had already darted out of the room, no doubt to rouse them. Frock, Kavita wasn’t kidding when she said Karsh was involved in the Indian community! I mean,
South Asian.

—He listens to all my records, Radha announced.—And I have a sneaking suspicion that when he moves out next semester, I might find more than a few empty slots on the rack.

Hello? So the Strikingly Average Boy listened to his mother’s records?

—For me nothing beats the excitement of the needle touching down, Karsh went on.—All that fizz and dust and then—bam! Music!

Then date your stereo, I thought.

—I didn’t know Lata Mangeshkar was even still moving, I said now, wondering whether we should phone a paleontologist, quick.

—In this case, what you don’t know
can
hurt you, Karsh replied. Add Smug and Self-Satisfied to that list.

My mother and Radha were looking left, right, left, watching us as if we were the Wimbledon semifinals incarnate. Luckily, just then my father came staggering back into the room with a colossal cardboard box.

—This is wonderful! he said, struggling slightly to keep his grip.—I rustled up my records. Would you like to see them? Imports, exports. Deports.

—Are you kidding? I’d love to! said Karsh, jumping to it to help him.

The two sat down cross-legged on the floor. My father suddenly looked twenty years younger, his spine unfolding like a ladder up a building. What ensued was an enthusiastic conversation about which tunes (if that’s what you call a gnat on helium in your ear, except with a chorus) they liked best, which movies (“fill-ums” as my father called them) they rated at the top. That they could tell them apart stunned me; I’d drifted off to sleep and back the last time we were on a flight to India, and for the life of me I hadn’t been able to tell if the actresses leaping around palm trees in the Ooty rain (and seconds later, pyramids in the Egyptian sun) were part of the same interminable fill-um or whether I was watching something else alto
gether. And the fact Karsh got my dad’s inscrutable references wigged me out even more.

But, as it turned out, Karsh owned pretty much all the same music as my father.

His toes curled up and down while he talked, like my father’s did when he prayed. I couldn’t believe what a loser this guy was. I mean, he was chilling with my dad! Wasn’t he supposed to be paying attention to me?

My father was flushed and nearly breathless by the time they lifted their heads from the LPs and CDs, like two divers coming up for air.

—Well, this is just terrific. I would call this a cause to celebrate. Would anyone like a drink?

—No thanks, said Karsh. Figured.—I’m going to be driving back later.

My mother nodded approvingly.

—Whaddaya got? said Radha.

—We’ve got water, ginger ale, cranberry juice, or…—here my father took a deep breath.—Red wine.

My mother looked at my father. He stared pointedly up at the boats sailing off the coast of the Cape.

—It’s already open, he told a commodious pastel yacht.—From Kavita’s visit.

—Hellfire and spitstone, I’d love a glass, Radha declared.—We don’t want it to go to waste. Like I always say, think of all the sober people in India, goddammit!

My mother almost forgot to look horrified, but caught her giggle just in time, using it to purse her lips instead.

—I’ll go get it!

My father jumped with his newfound energy and was off.

—Oh come on, Shilpz, lighten up! cried Radha.—Haven’t you read the studies? They found the French are even healthier from drinking a glass of wine now and then.

—We’re not French.

—And you’re just now realizing this? Blustery bollocks! Then you definitely need a drink, Shilpoo!