The Hindi-Bindi Club (25 page)

John pushes the cart to our final security checkpoint. A guard checks our passports and paperwork. Then we’re out the automatic glass doors that take us into the warm blanket of a tropical winter night.

I heave a sigh. “Free at last.”

“You can say that again.”

A crowd waits behind an iron railing, on the lookout for arriving family and friends. I spot Dilu-
dada
and Giru-
dada
waving and grinning like little boys. Little boys with
ajoba
faces.

“That’s me,” I say.

Up front, a shuttle service representative holds a sign reading
Mr. Cooper
. “And this is me,” John says.

I hug my brothers and introduce my new friend, whom they promptly invite over, offering tea, food, a bed for the night. That’s Indian hospitality for you.

John thanks them, requests a rain check, and invites us to a concert in Pune where he is playing sitar. We promise to try to make it. Dilu-
dada
and I escort him to his shuttle van. We make sure he’s all set before we take our leave and join Giru-
dada
and Ramesh, our driver of five years, who’ve loaded my bags into the trunk of our silver Hyundai Accent.

Ramesh grins from ear to ear, as overjoyed to see me as my brothers. “
Namaste,
madam. How was your trip? Was everything okay?”

I smile at the trio. “It sure is nice to be back in India.”

W
hen I was a girl, joint families usually lived in a single house or flat. Now, joint families often occupy multiple flats in a single building, appealing because nuclear families have a bit more personal space and autonomy, but the extended family’s still together.

As the eldest son, Yash provided for his side of the family two adjacent flats in Mumbai. On my side,
Baba
and
Ai
had a big windfall when they sold our family bungalow that enabled them to purchase two sets of two adjacent flats—four flats in total—in Mumbai and Pune.

Dilu-
dada
and Giru-
dada
told me that a renowned builder has broken ground on a multistory complex a few blocks from ours in Pune. The flats have gone fast; only a few remain. I’m anxious to visit the sales office, check out the designs and floor plans. I’d love if Yash and I could have a flat nearby, especially new construction.

India is a great place to be old. Society heaps respect upon your feet like marigold petals. Your son (at least one), his wife and children live with you. They’d never dream of putting you in a nursing home. They don’t consider elderly parents a burden. Nor guests, even when they stay for weeks, sometimes months. Western concepts of privacy are alien; an Indian is rarely alone, rarely wants to be, rarely likes it.

In India, I am never lonely.

9 January

Dear Kiran,

Greetings from Mom in Mumbai! How are you? How is the groom search progressing? I’m anxious to hear the latest!

You must be surprised to receive a handwritten letter. Aji and I were talking over tea and Shrewsbury biscuits from Kayani Bakery, and she said what a pity it is that with new technology, we’ve lost the art and beauty of writing letters by hand…email can’t replace the personal touch of seeing and feeling what you’re right now holding in your hands. Our handwriting lives and breathes.

I realized she’s right. I remember when I first came to Boston…with my two suitcases of saris and silverware.
How eagerly I awaited the mailman each day, always hoping he would bring me a blue aerogramme from home. Here, everyone similarly anticipated aerogrammes from Boston. In fact, Aji saved them! Yours and Vivek’s, too! I want to read every one, but I’m not ready yet. Just the sight of the handwriting on the envelopes makes me teary, so I fully expect a sobfest.

I remember that in the beginning, we wrote frequently…every sparrow and crow’s story, as Aji says. (Remember this expression for “every little detail”? Sounds much better in Marathi
). Then fewer details, less often over time.

Now, Aji tells me she loves hearing my voice on the phone, but she misses my letters. “No one wants to write letters to an old lady anymore,” she says. And you think YOUR mom is good at guilt trips! Ha ha.

I promised Aji I will return to writing genuine letters, with stamps. Then I thought it might be nice to write to my daughter, too. You don’t have to write me back this way. Your time is more limited than mine. But you may enjoy receiving a letter in the mail every now and then, instead of the usual junk…bills and catalogs.
Anyway, let me try it out, and we’ll see how it goes.

All is well here. Neelima-mami and I are having a great time sari and jewelry shopping for Sneha’s wedding. No new saris for me…I already have enough for several lifetimes. You know I’m not like Saroj Auntie who must always have AT LEAST a dozen of the latest styles, but I sure did feel like her when I met with the tailor to have a dozen new sari blouses stitched!
(Higher necklines, you know why.)

Sneha’s trousseau is impressive! So many saris, collected since the day she was born, most of which she’ll never wear (she dresses exclusively in Western-style), but each so lovely. Her bridal sari is absolutely breathtaking, silk Banarasi, the kind every little Indian girl and her mother dream of. The bride’s sari is traditionally a gift from her mama, but Dilu-mama said rather than Hema-mami selecting and him getting credit, Sneha should choose whatever shalu she wanted. Of course, Dilu-mama still got credit, because he paid! But everyone was happy…that’s what matters!

It’s so hard to believe I’m not feeling my usual jealousy, not even a tiny bit. I learned so many things this year I keep wishing I could have learned sooner. If I knew then what I know now, I wouldn’t have wasted so much energy on petty jealousy. Take it from me, preoccupation with what others have that you don’t blinds you to what you DO have. And jealousy, like all insidious negativity, is every bit as toxic as cancer. Sometimes, I think that’s what caused my cancer. And getting rid of it cured me.

Lately, I’ve been dreaming about your wedding. Not just daydreams, but at night, too. Mostly they’re good dreams, but sometimes, I dream I’ve forgotten something critical…like my CLOTHES!! Typical Mother-of-the-Bride anxieties.

Kiran, you’ve given me a ray of hope I never expected, so please, even if you already know you’re dead-set against having an Indian wedding, don’t tell me just yet. Let me dream for a while longer…

There is something I never told you. It’s difficult for me to think about, let alone write…I, too, collected saris for your wedding trousseau every time we visited India, until Dad and I decided to settle permanently in the U.S. So there were not too many. I say “were,” because I gave them all away when you married Anthony. I can’t tell you how sad, angry, and ashamed that makes me feel (about myself).

I’m sorry, Kiran. We can’t change the past, but we can change the future, with each day we have, and each lesson we learn.

Take good care. I love you very much, pillu.

Love,

Mom

P.S. I want to hear “every sparrow and crow’s story” on your groom search!!