The Hindi-Bindi Club (36 page)

I’m stunned to realize my mother was right.

My feelings
are
too strong. The risks
are
too great.

How can we just have coffee, or lunch, or dinner? It won’t be enough.

Tears spring to my eyes. I whirl in the opposite direction, walk for blocks in a stupor before hailing a cab. At the hotel, I have myself a good, cleansing cry, then pick myself up, brush myself off, and go downstairs to the lobby. I ask the concierge to recommend a Goan restaurant. Once there, I order
bebinca
and start to write.

It takes several drafts to get the words right. When I’m satisfied, I print a final copy and phone Rani in Pune. “Hi, I need a huge favor, no questions asked. Would you be willing—?”

“Just name it.”

This time, I watch from a distance, observe the delivery, make sure it reaches Arsallan’s hands, wait until he opens my envelope…

Once upon a time long, long ago, in a land far, far away, there was a young princess who met a young prince from another kingdom. For some unknown reason, the princess and prince were instantly familiar to each other, drawn together, as if their hearts recognized one another from another time, another place.

The princess loved the prince before she had any concrete concept of love. She had no need to label her feelings, knew that whatever she felt, the prince felt. A mirror reflection. That’s how it is when two souls connect. No insecurities, no second-guessing. You just know…

Their romance was sweet and innocent and pure. But before their love could take root, or take flight, the princess died a sudden, mysterious death. She journeyed to her next life, not realizing that her soul, like all souls, carried the memories, the lessons of her past, including the prince’s love. You see, once you are touched by true love, it remains part of you, even if you don’t consciously know it.

Among other things, the former princess’ experience of the Real Thing set the bar for every subsequent suitor. She knew to wait, not to settle. And sure enough, when the love of her new life came along, she recognized him as the one fate intended for her. Together, they built an enchanted life. It wasn’t always easy. Life challenged them plenty, but they held fast to their commitment to each other, trusted and supported each other, and overcame every obstacle, learning and growing stronger together.

Then one night, out of nowhere, the past whispered in her ear. She remembered. Memories of her past life, her past love came to her, as messages in bottles, thrown out to sea, finally washing ashore, reaching their intended destination. Amid happy memories, she recalled a terrible injustice that occurred before she died. A mistake she was never able to put right because the prince never received the last, parting letter she wrote to him. It broke her heart to realize she’d unwittingly broken his.

The former princess couldn’t bear this. She had to find the prince—an old man now—wherever he was. Even if she had to turn the world upside-down and shake it. He had to know the truth; she had to set the record straight: She loved him. Now. Then. Always. Forever.

When she found his dimension, many changes had taken place in her absence. At evidence of the prince’s wonderful life and achievements, her heart filled with joy. At the same time, a bittersweet realization came to her: Though she could see the prince’s dimension, she couldn’t touch it. Even with a pure heart, she couldn’t reenter, not without grave peril, for the words she wanted most to gift him were forbidden to them now, fraught with danger. Contained in their sweet nectar was a poison capable of killing the others to whom they’d pledged their love.

With utmost care, she composed another letter and watched from a distance as the courier hand-delivered it to the prince. Then she turned and walked away without looking back, secure in the knowledge the prince would understand the message contained therein:

“We were together before; we shall be together again. We need never say good-bye; with soul mates, it’s until next time…”

Bebinca
(Layered, Upside-Down Coconut Custard-Cake)

SERVES 6–8

2 cups coconut milk

2 cups dark brown sugar

1 cup rice flour

½
teaspoon salt

¼
teaspoon ground cardamom

¼
teaspoon ground nutmeg

10 egg yolks, lightly beaten

¾
cup melted ghee or unsalted butter, divided

3 tablespoons toasted almond slices

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

2. In a small saucepan over very low heat, combine coconut milk and brown sugar, stirring frequently until sugar dissolves. Remove from heat. Allow to cool to room temperature.

3. In a mixing bowl, sift together flour, salt, cardamom, and nutmeg.

4. Stir in coconut milk mixture to dry ingredients, then add the egg yolks. Mix until smooth—neither too dry, nor too runny. (Add a little water if too dry, or a little flour if too thin.)

5. Grease a deep, 7-inch round aluminum pan with 2 tablespoons ghee.

6. Pour 1 cup of batter into pregreased pan. Set on middle rack of oven. Bake until top turns golden. Remove from oven. Pour 1 tablespoon ghee over top layer. Bake until top turns golden brown. Remove from oven. Using spatula, remove “pancake” and stack on plate.

7. Repeat step #6 until batter is finished. Stack all pancakes in pan and bake 15 minutes.

8. Cool to room temperature. Turn pan upside down onto plate. Gently extract bebinca, so the shape stays intact.

9. Garnish with toasted almond slices. Serve at room temperature.

Kiran Deshpande: Shaadi

Kiran & John

TOGETHER WITH THEIR PARENTS

YASHWANT AND MEENAL DESHPANDE WILLIAM AND LAURA LEIGH COOPER

INVITE YOU TO SHARE IN THE JOY OF THEIR MARRIAGE IN PUNE, INDIA ON NOVEMBER
24, 20XX

A
t the altar, John and I stand facing each other, but we don’t see each other.

The countdown to the zero hour, the
muhurta,
has begun…

“Kuryat sada mangalam…shubha mangala savdhan…”
wedding guests recite ancient, sacred verses in Sanskrit, reading from their programs, which provide the English translations as well:
May this marriage bring happiness…the auspicious time for the marriage is coming…

Per tradition, I stand on the west side of the
mandap,
an outdoor gazebo, facing east. John stands on the east, facing west. Both of us in clear view of the officiating priest and guests—north and south respectively—we’re hidden from each other. Between us hangs the
antarpat,
a white curtain with a
kumkum
-drawn auspicious swastika—right-facing, rotated forty-five degrees, a dot in each quadrant—a sacred symbol of good luck in Hinduism dating back to the fifteenth century
B.C.E
.

The
antarpat
symbolizes our separate identities, poised on the threshold, about to come together in holy matrimony. At the precise time of our
muhurta,
not a minute before or after, the
antarpat
will be removed—from the north. Amid much fanfare, John and I will gaze upon each other, garland each other with fresh flowers, and be pronounced husband and wife. Until then, the priest continuously chants the
mangalashtaka,
eight
shlokas
of prayers and blessings, and guests shower
akshata
—uncooked, unbroken grains of vermilion-dusted rice—while they recite, excitement mounting,
“Kuryat sada mangalam…shubha mangala savdhan…”

From where they sit, it’s excitement. From where I stand, it’s anxiety. Waiting to see and be seen by my groom, I’m a nervous wreck! I expected it to be nail-biting to stand up in front of everyone, the center of attention, but I didn’t realize quite how unnerving it feels knowing everyone
else
is seeing what I can’t,
the whole picture,
while John and I are limited to half, a partitioned pair of goldfish in a fishbowl.

What’s the other goldfish doing over there? I want to see his face. His eyes.
Some
gauge of what he’s thinking. Is he thinking what I am? That he’s either crazy in love with me, or just plain crazy, or else he wouldn’t be here! Can he feel my presence? Can I send a telepathic message?
E.T. phone home!

Holding the garland I’ll give him, I think of the brides and grooms who came before, over
thousands
of years, who stood as we are. At their
mandaps
. Separated by their
antarpats
. Awaiting their
muhurtas
. In the olden days, brides and grooms had little to no prior contact. Imagine what
they
must have felt in these agonizing moments….
Uh, then again, Kiran: Let’s not go there right now.

I’m fasting this morning, as is John. That’s all we need after everything everyone’s been through getting to this point, for me to start hyperventilating and pass out at the altar.

“Kuryat sada mangalam…shubha mangala savdhan…”

M
y father finally gave his blessing. I wasn’t expecting a Hallmark card, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed. The unvarnished version is, Dad felt outnumbered, beleaguered by the army of open-minded people that surrounded him. He didn’t have the energy left to fight anymore, so he surrendered. His “blessing” went, and I quote:
“Do what you want. It’s your life.”

Makes you all warm and tingly, doesn’t it?

My mother said, “Give him time. No one changes overnight.”

I kept thinking of Uma Auntie, who would have loved even that much from her father. I tried to focus on what I
did
have, to be grateful, and see the glass as half full. But as wedding plans kicked into high gear, and Dad went through the motions on autopilot, doing what was expected of him—his duty, as written in some instruction manual titled
Responsibilities of the Father of the Bride
—I couldn’t help but feel pin-pricks of sorrow, never far beneath the surface of any joy. I wished he and I could see eye to eye, that he could share my happiness. But we never had, and it was unlikely he ever would.

T
he first time John and I met in person, my nerves were so frazzled, I had to take a valium beforehand. “What if he doesn’t like what he sees?” I said to my mother. “What if I don’t? What if he smells funny? What if…? What if…?”

She sat me down, took my hands, and looked me in the eye. In a voice as serene as a yoga instructor, she said, “Trust me. Do you think I
ever
would have let things go this far if I had
any
doubts?”

It was late summer, and John and I had continued to “date” long-distance. That was my father’s mandate, his prerequisite for any chance at his blessing.

“If you haven’t changed your minds by then, we’ll see….”

“Fair enough,” John said.

We were going to meet in Paris, just the two of us, in May. We planned our itinerary and everything. Then, right before we booked it, we both—independently—reached the same conclusion: We’d come this far, let’s keep doing this Indian-style, the old-fashioned way, by the book. For the novelty, if nothing else.

And so, in August, John and his family flew from Austin to D.C. to meet my family and me. Traditionally this was called a “bride-viewing.” Mom seated his family in the living room; Dad escorted and presented me.

When I came in, John was the first to stand. He shot up from the couch, clutching a huge bouquet of roses, lilies, and freesia. He wore a navy sports jacket with gold buttons over a white shirt that showed off his golden tan. The instant I saw him, the moment our eyes met, my heart turned to mush. All those clichés—weak in the knees, short of breath, you name it—I felt every one. And from the besotted look on John’s face, I knew he felt the same.

It was so cute—his mother nudged his arm with her elbow a few times, and when he didn’t respond, she whispered, “Flowers, Johnny. Give her the flowers.”

We hugged, but with everyone watching, nowhere near as long as we wanted. Separation was pure agony. Minutes crawled by as I poured tea, served snacks, did the customary chitchat. It was disconcerting to hear John, his voice so familiar I’d recognize it anywhere, coming from this handsome stranger’s mouth. To be sure, it was great packaging, but unfamiliar. I kept stealing glances at him—I wanted to stare outright—trying to reconcile the known and the unknown.

Finally—
finally!
—our parents left us alone. We lunged for each other. Smushed together. Clung. Breathless. I pressed my cheek to his chest, my ear over his racing heart. He threaded his fingers into my hair, cradling my head, cradling
me
against him.

“You’re so tall,” I whispered.

Him, “You’re so beautiful.”

“You smell good.”

“You
feel
great.”

“I can’t believe you’re real.”

A chuckle. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m nervous.”

He leaned down, whispered near my ear, “Don’t be nervous…I love you, Kiran.”

My eyes stung. My fingers bunched his shirt. I looked up, into his eyes, blue irises swallowed by desire-enlarged pupils. “That’s what I was waiting to hear. I love you, too. So much.”

He kissed me then. A soul kiss. A you-were-meant-for-me-and-I-was-meant-for-you kiss. Pure magic.

We both agreed: It was worth the wait.

T
rying to incorporate two faiths to show respect for both families, their traditions and beliefs, is no easy feat.

I asked Rani, “How did you and Bryan do it?”

“A secular ceremony at the university chapel,” Rani said.

“Okay, you’re no help to me.”

“Sorry. Ask Preity.”

I did. I called. We bonded. It was weird. Imagine if Batman and the Joker struck up an alliance—there’s something hinky about that, isn’t there?

Preity and Eric had two ceremonies, two weeks apart. A Lutheran ceremony at his family’s church in Minnesota, and a Hindu ceremony at a mansion in Middleburg—Northern Virginia horse country. Eric rode in on a white mare!

I should have gone,
I was kicking myself.

John and I were leaning toward one combined-faith ceremony until I talked to Preity. “I have one word for you,” she said.
“Wardrobe.”

An excellent point, which steered John and me toward the idea of two separate wedding ceremonies in one whirlwind day.

I found myself phoning, none other than, Preity—again—for a gut-check. Was it too much? Was it feasible to pull off? We brainstormed, and at the end of the conversation when everything met with her enthusiastic approval, I was not only excited but relieved. I thanked her profusely for letting me bend her ear, for being my sounding board.

No one else in my life could have related to the thousandth decimal point the way Preity could. I didn’t have to explain myself to her. She could explain me to me! And she did! She knew exactly what I was trying to accomplish with the nuptials and what I was up against, because she’d lived it.

As children, we didn’t have anything in common beyond our parents being born in the same country. Now, like our parents, Preity and I, too, had shared life experiences.

Holy samosas, Batman.

F
or my first wedding, I did all the planning, and I did it all
my
way. This time, I deferred to my mother. “Whatever you want,” I said, handing over John’s and my proxies. “Just tell us when and where to show up, and what we’re supposed to do.”

Mom and the aunties got right on it. She must have thought,
If only you’d done this sooner, my
pillu,
life could have been so much less complicated.
Not that
this
way was any cake-walk, mind you.

Since Indian wedding rituals and traditions differ according to subculture, each auntie had her own must-haves. I happened to be interviewing with family practices in the D.C. area, so I was in town for the Hindi-Bindi Club’s first brainstorming session, lucky me, and watched with amusement as Mom presided, something akin to herding hamsters.

“Any minute now,
someone
’s going to suggest conch shells,” one auntie said.

“Am I that predictable?” said Uma Auntie.

“You’re that
Bengali,
” said Saroj Auntie.

Uma Auntie was pushing for the blowing of conch shells. Minor, compared to Saroj Auntie, who was lobbying hard for two prewedding bashes and for the groom to ride to the wedding ceremony on a white horse, accompanied by a marching band. All this before anyone had even
broached
the subject of food!

Across the room, Mom’s and my gazes met.
Arré deva!

“Maharashtrian weddings are
simple
affairs,” Mom said, ever so diplomatically to the aunties. “It’s more about
sanskar
than
naatik
.”

Here, I leaned over and consulted the nearest auntie for English subtitles.
Sanskar
means “rite of passage.”
Naatik
is “theatrics.”

“So let the wedding ceremony be boring—I mean, simple,” Saroj Auntie said.

“You meant boring,” Mom said. She turned to Uma Auntie, tattling like a schoolgirl, “She meant boring.”

“Come now, Meenu,” Saroj Auntie said in her conciliatory voice. “What’s a little
masala
between friends?”

“And don’t Punjus have enough to spare?” said Uma Auntie with a wink.

“I just think if you’re going to do it, do it up,” Saroj Auntie said. “Let the wedding ceremonies be traditional, but before and after? Why ho-hum if you don’t have to? When will you and your guests all be together again? This is once-in-a-lifetime only. Everyone should have fun, fun, fun,
hai na?
”

Mom appeared to reconsider. “Maybe a little
chutpata
…” She asked me, “Would you like a
sangeet
the night before the wedding? And a
mehendi
party before your
chuda
?”

I leaned back, held up my palms. “Whatever you want, Mom.”

At this, the aunties crooned over what a good daughter I am. (Ha! Selective amnesia, anyone?)

Sangeet
means “singing session.” It’s a song-and-dance bash.

Chuda,
the Maharashtrian version of a bridal shower, is a bangle party. The bangle-
wallah
brings his wares to the home, and the bride and her girlfriends play games and select their bangles. The bride’s bangles are green glass—the auspicious color of new life—which the mother of the bride ceremonially presents at the
chuda
.

Mehendi
is henna. With a cone akin to that used for icing decoration on a cake, a skilled artist paints intricate designs on the palms and feet of a bride, a gesture of wishing the bride luck.
Mehendi
takes several hours to dry and stains the skin for up to two months—at first, a deep red that fades to terra-cotta tones, then gradually disappears, like a temporary tattoo. A
mehendi
shindig, like the
chuda,
is a women’s party. Attendees often have their palms decorated, too, for kicks—though nowhere near as elaborately as the bride’s.

I didn’t tell the aunties this, but the day before, when my fiancé (I’ve loved saying that…but will love
husband
far more!) and I were discussing wardrobe requirements for our impending East-West fashion show, John said he was
most
looking forward to me modeling one outfit in particular…. He couldn’t wait to see me dressed in just “
mehendi
and moonlight” on our wedding night.