If Today Be Sweet (16 page)

Tehmina smiled back. “Yeah, this is the Parsi community at its finest. Guess they don't act all that different in America than in India.”

“Well, thank God this is a buffet. If this was a sit-down dinner, they'd be standing behind the chairs of the diners, waiting for them to get done.”

“You remember that?” Tehmina asked.

“God, Mom, how could I forget? Remember the reception that you and Rustom pappa threw for us in Bombay after we were married? Jeez, I thought I'd never get to sit down to eat that night, the way those people were waiting to grab the tables.”

“It's a strange custom, this eating in shifts,” Tehmina mused.

As superfluous as it was, Perin was circulating in the large dining room urging her guests to fill up their plates, to not be shy. Tehmina knew this was the remnant of an Indian custom and she was glad that Perin was doing it even as she realized how unnecessary it was. Still, it was better than what she had observed in the homes of Susan and Sorab's American friends. After all her visits to America, she was still appalled at the practice of not urging—even forcing—guests to help themselves to seconds. One time, when they had vis
ited the home of Sorab's colleague Bob Carol for a buffet dinner, their hosts had actually packed the food away while they were still there. “Oh good,” Bob's wife had said. “More leftovers for us.” And even while Tehmina heard the good-natured joking in her voice, she was appalled. The thought of not pressing guests to help themselves to more food was as alien to her as eating with their hands was to most Americans. The only exception to this occurred when they had dined at Eva's home during their last visit. Even Solomon had fussed around them just as if they were in Bombay, filling their glasses with wine each time they took a sip, while Eva heaped food onto their plates without asking for permission. Susan had hated it, had declared that it was the height of rudeness, but Tehmina had basked in the warmth behind the gesture.

As she looked at all the food, Tehmina's thoughts flew to Josh and Jerome. What were they doing tonight? she wondered. Had they had their dinner yet? Did they have a shiny Christmas tree in their living room like the Jasawala's did? Did that mother of theirs actually buy them anything? And when would she be able to give them the gifts that she and Cookie had picked out for them?

Perin, who had worked her way up to them, interrupted her thoughts. “Susan. Tehmi. Why are you not eating?” she cried.

“Sorab and Percy are fixing us plates,” Susan said.

“Oh, okay. Good, good. Listen, as always, we've ordered so much food. My Homi has this phobia about running out of food. So as usual we've overdone it. So remember to pack yourselves doggy bags, okay? Please?”

“We'll see, we'll see,” Tehmina murmured. As much as she loved giving, she hated receiving gifts from people.

But Susan spoke up. “Why, Perin, that would be lovely. Thank you. That way, I won't have to worry about what to pack for lunch for Sorab and myself for tomorrow. Though watching how these
Parsis are attacking the food, we may be being unduly optimistic,” she added with a laugh.

“Oh dear, no. You should see how much food there is in the kitchen.” She looked around. “Is Cookie eating in the other room with the kids? Good. We ordered pizza and milk shakes for the kids. Hope he likes both.”

“You really thought of everything, Perin,” Tehmina said. “Thank you.”

Perin grinned a wide, open grin that transformed her face. “Oh, don't mention it. We like having a good time with our friends.” She suddenly leaned forward and hugged Tehmina. “It's so good to have you here, Tehmi,” she said. “You are such a wonderful addition to our group. Now when are you going to make your decision and put all of us out of our misery?”

It was Perin's firm that would be handling her immigration papers, Tehmina realized. She wondered if Percy kept her abreast of all the developments. “Soon, I hope,” she said weakly. “Just waiting for the holidays to be over.”

“Ah, the holidays.” Perin sighed. “So much pressure it puts on everybody. Still, it's hard to believe that Christmas is just three days away.”

T
he growling in the bathroom began again and Sorab tensed. What the hell was Mamma doing up so early? He turned his head away from the sounds coming from the bathroom and felt a stabbing pain between his eyes. Gotta stop drinking so much, he thought groggily. Both he and Susan had drunk too much at Homi's house last night. And now the last thing they needed was to be awoken by Mamma's antics. He opened a cautious eye and glanced at Susan, expecting to hear her muttering under her breath. But luckily, Susan was giggling.

Mamma was in the bathroom, sounding for all the world like a caged lion. She had always made these fierce, loud sounds while brushing her teeth and tongue. As a young boy, he had found it hilarious, the thought that his meek, mild, even-tempered mother had a ferocious animal lurking within her. “Garrrrrrrrrrr. Gaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrr,” he would growl at the top of his lungs as he ran around the apartment, imitating her, teasing her, until his father, himself shaking
with laughter, would ask him to stop. “But, Daddy, why does she make those stupid noises?” he once asked, and Rustom shrugged.

“Just one of her idiosyncrasies,” he said.

“What's that mean?”

“Idiosyncrasies? It means…it's what makes people who they are.”

He was so used to his mother unleashing her inner lion in the bathroom that he had barely noticed her furious gargling the first time his parents had visited him after his marriage. But Susan had sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “What the—what on earth is that noise?”

He blushed. “That's just—I forgot to tell you. That's my mother gargling. She always makes these funny noises in the back of her throat.”

Susan looked at him incredulously. “You've gotta be kidding. Jesus, it sounds like a freight train running through the house.”

As if to prove her right, Tehmina emitted a particularly loud gurgle, followed by the unmistakable sound of her spitting phlegm into the sink. Susan flinched visibly. “What the hell is she
doing
?”

Sorab pulled his wife down toward him. “Aw, come on now, honey. She's old and set in her ways. Just ignore her. Just…chalk it up to a cultural difference, would you?” He prayed fervently that his mother would clean up the sink before she left the bathroom. Susan was a stickler for cleanliness, he knew. She had once made him rinse and wipe down the sink because he had left a fleck of hand soap in the bowl.

Susan raised her eyebrows. “Cultural difference, my foot. If I ever hear you make that awful ruckus in the bathroom, my darling Sorab, I'm filing for divorce the next day.” But she was smiling.

Two years after that first visit, they had visited his parents in Bombay and Rustom had had the bright idea of taking his son and
daughter-in-law to Goa, by train. It's a good way to see the countryside, he'd told Susan. That's where India lives, you know, in her villages.

It was on that train ride that Sorab realized that he was now an official member of the American middle class. Athough his father had spent a lot of money getting them reserved, first-class seats in an air-conditioned car, everything about the train repulsed Sorab. He noticed the worn-out blankets they were given to lay over the hard, drop-down wooden bunk beds, the shabby, thin, dirty-looking sheets, the paan stains in the corner of the bogey. Above all, he noticed the unspeakably filthy conditions of the bathrooms. He prayed fervently that the ladies' room was in better condition than the men's—he could, after all, hop off the train at one of its many stops and relieve himself in the bushes behind the desolate train station—but one look at Susan's pale, shocked face told him that his prayers wouldn't be answered. “How long is this train journey?” she whispered to him, making sure his parents wouldn't overhear her.

“I dunno. At least twelve, thirteen hours.”

“I'm going to have to hold it. There's no way on earth I'm going in there again.”

At six in the morning, the train stopped for a half hour at a rural station and they jumped off to get some fresh air. “You want—you want to walk around and see if there's a place where you can go?” an embarrassed Sorab asked his wife. “I'll keep watch.”

She grimaced. “No. It's just a few more hours, anyway. I'm okay as long as I don't think about it.”

Just then they heard it. And saw it. Several of their fellow passengers had also disembarked from the train and stood along the edge of the platform, carrying little plastic containers of water. They were brushing their teeth and spitting and hawking on the railroad tracks. Everybody, it seemed, gargled furiously and hawked ferociously. It was as if Tehmina had spawned a score of disciples. “Shit,” Susan
said, with something like awe in her voice. “It's not just your mother. It's all of India.”

He bristled as he did whenever she made a generalized statement about all things Indian. “Susan, please. Don't exaggerate. It's not
all
of India. It's just some—uncouth people.”

She moved away from him, her eyes dancing with glee. “Fuck. This is a genuine, bona fide, national trait. Don't deny it, honey. I'll be damned. A whole country where people make love as quietly as mice but gargle and clear their throats like wild tigers. A country where you can't hold hands in public with your own husband without getting stared at but you can perform the most private rituals in public.”

Despite himself, he laughed. “You're onto something here,” he said. “That's a good observation.”

“What're you children giggling about?” Rustom had come up behind them.

“Oh, nothing, Dad. I'm just showing Susan the sights and sounds of our Mother India.” Sorab grinned, sweeping his hand against the landscape of the row of people in front of him.

“Ah, yes. Our beloved Manibens and Pandovjis in action.” Just then, a man in a white dhoti let out a particularly loud hawk and Rustom flinched. But he recovered almost immediately. “Look at that chappie over there. Thinks he's a virile, healthy male with his vigorous gargling and whatnot. Saala, my Tehmi could turn him into a mouse with one hearty gargle of her own. Just the force of one of her offerings could blast him all the way to Goa and back.”

Sorab had believed that Susan had long made her peace with his mother's unfortunate habit. But this visit was so different from any of the others. For one thing, his father was not here this time—his father, who had always known how to make Susan laugh, who had teased his wife, cajoled his daughter-in-law, and forged with his son a mock, world-weary solidarity based on their malehood. And on
this visit Mamma was staying so much longer than the usual four-week visits of the past. This was on his insistence, of course, which made him feel even guiltier for the fact that he had yelled at her after Persis's late-night phone call, had blamed her for a situation she was not responsible for. He remembered what Percy had said to him last night. “Saala, are you sure this is what you want? For your mother to live here permanently? It's not easy, you know. And once you make her sell the Bombay flat and everything, there's no going back. Wouldn't be fair to her, you know that.”

“It's tough at times but we'll manage,” he had said with a heartiness he didn't feel. “Susan, too, is convinced it's the right thing to do.”

And right now, watching his wife's forgiving, indulgent countenance, Sorab was sure they were doing the best thing. “She better stop her freight-train impersonation soon,” he muttered. “I have to pee badly.”

“So get your lazy ass out of bed and go use the downstairs bathroom.”

He yawned. “I don't want to. Besides, I gotta jump in the shower as soon as she's out. Grace has called for an eight o'clock meeting. She wants to go over everybody's vacation schedules, among other things.”

Susan groaned. “That woman is an ogre. God. Why did Malcolm have to retire?”

He opened his mouth to answer but just then Tehmina emitted a particularly aggressive growl and Sorab instinctively drew the comforter over their heads. Under the covers, they both giggled like children. “I think that was the grand finale,” he whispered, putting his arm around Susan's waist and finding that she was shaking with suppressed laughter.

“It's like fireworks on July Fourth,” Susan whispered back. “She builds up to the climax, each morning.”

Sorab thought to many a morning on this visit when neither he nor his wife had been so indulgent about his mother's morning ablutions, when, at the first sound of Tehmina's bathroom roaring, Susan would groan and roll over to her side, holding a pillow over her head. He had been slashed with so many contradictory feelings then—mortification at his mother's uncharacteristically uncouth idiosyncrasy; irritation at his wife's uncharitable response to it. Filled with gratitude for their closeness on this morning, he squeezed her hand. “Did I ever tell you I love you?”

She rolled over to face him and he noticed the crust around her still-sleepy eyes. “I feel happy this morning.”

He laughed for the sheer joy of it and then, to cover it up, “Amazing what a couple of glasses of good wine do for my girl.”

“Hey. I never claimed to be anything but easy. I'm a cheap date, you know that.”

“Yeah, right. In that case, can I return the subwoofer that I just got installed in your car?”

Susan smiled gently. “Sure you can, hon. And then you live without sex the rest of your life.”

“Speaking of which…” He made a quick calculation even as he was pulling Susan's body toward his. There was time to make love and still be at work by eight. His hands felt for the hem of her nightie and he cupped her buttocks after rolling it past her waist.

“Whoa, easy, cowboy,” Susan said, but she was straining against him, too.

He undid the drawstrings of his pajamas hastily as he kissed her fervently, his tongue nestling deep in her mouth, which tasted of sleep and salt. Yet even as he climbed on top of her, even as he lost himself in the welcome of her body, one part of Sorab was alert, distracted. He was acutely aware of the fact that his mother was a mere few feet away from him while he was fucking his wife. He smothered Susan's mouth with kisses knowing that he was doing
this in part to suppress her low but unmistakable moaning; even as Susan's frantic, incomprehensible whispers flooded his ears, even as a cruel, inexorable power flooded his body, he was listening for the sounds of his mother's footsteps as she left the bathroom. He heard her enter her room, place her brush and powder box on the dresser that was against the wall between their two bedrooms. He paced the rhythm of his thrusting so that the bed didn't squeak and sing out its painful, unmistakable beat. There was a hot, confusing pleasure in being this silent and it turned him on even while he resented the hell out of having to be this furtive. He heard the crash of something fall in the other room, but then it didn't matter because he was crashing himself, his whole body felt like a powerful wave crashing against the rocky shore. He bit down on his lip to prevent the groans that wanted to leak out of his mouth and at the same time he was excruciatingly aware of the fact that Susan had not exercised the same self-discipline, that she was moaning under him. He forced the side of his hand into her mouth and she bit down on it hard, the pain making him wince.

“Well,” Susan said a few minutes later. She was leaning on her elbow, her hand under her golden hair. “That was some good-morning greeting.”

He kissed the inside of her elbow. “I'd like to exchange good-morning greetings every morning,” he said.

Her eyes were the color of amber. “I bet you would.” She slapped him lightly on his arm. “If you're not up in thirty seconds, I'm going to beat you to the bathroom.”

“I'm going, I'm going,” he grumbled. He threw the covers off and leaped out of bed. Standing up over the bed, he glanced back at his sleepy wife. “Just wham, bam, thank you, man,” he sniffed. “That's how all you women are—only after our bodies. I feel so—used.”

Susan's soft laughter followed him out of the room.

 

They had had the upstairs bathroom remodeled earlier this year, and standing under the hot, rushing water, Sorab experienced that deep feeling of satisfaction that he felt each morning as his eyes wandered over the rich marble wall tile, the expensive pewter fixtures, the Jacuzzi tub. It had taken him many years to accept the fact that he enjoyed the good things in life. During his early days in America, he had been haunted by the sudden wealth that engulfed him. Even when he was a poor graduate student, he was aware of the fact that he enjoyed a standard of living that in some ways was higher than that of his parents. This despite the fact that Rustom had always earned a good living and Sorab had never known a day of hardship or destitution. But the simple act of turning on a faucet and having hot water flow from it—so much more convenient than having to fill a plastic bucket with hot water from the electric geyser and then pour that over himself with a large metal can—was something he could never take for granted. In the early days, he used to walk the streets around campus, marveling at the fact that he could drink three Pepsis a day and not think about the cost; amazed at the fact that he could buy a used Chevy eight months after arriving in America; guilt-ridden by the fact that filling the tank cost him a fraction of what it cost his father in India.

For years, visiting India had been hard on him. The beggars on the streets, the servants in the house, the unpainted, neglected walls of his parents' apartment, the persistent dust that sat on all their possessions despite daily cleanings, all mortified him. He felt guilty about everything—the fact that his father still drove his old car that didn't even have power steering; the fact that his mother sat in terrible traffic jams when she went out grocery shopping; the fact that his old servant looked older and thinner each time; the fact that men three times his age called him “sir” as they begged for money. He wanted to apologize for the relentless pounding of the
monsoons, the cruel fury of the sun, the garbage on the streets, the emaciated stray dogs outside their apartment building, the blaring of the traffic horns, the murky grayness of the polluted sea. After all, he had escaped it all—and they hadn't. While he lived in an apartment building where the electricity never failed, and took showers under reliably hot water and breathed air that was crystal clear and sweet, while he drank Pepsi whenever the urge hit him and withdrew money from an ATM machine whenever he needed to, millions of people—including his own mother and father—lived trapped in a hot, polluted, overcrowded, poverty-stricken, crumbling city where the only reliable thing was chaos and unpredictability. And the worst part was, as a grad student, he didn't really have enough extra money to help any of them.