“Where are the factories?” Asha looks again at the small huts and outdoor fires, trying to envision a factory floor full of machinery.
“Homes on this level, factories upstairs. Most everything is done by hand, or with primitive tools,” Meena says. “Remember what I said about the extremes of India? Well, here you find it all: the good and the bad, living side by side. On the one hand,” she says as they walk alongside the settlement, “poverty, filth, crime—some of the worst aspects of human behavior. On the other hand, you’ll see the most amazing resourcefulness here. People make things out of literally nothing. You and I will earn more in one year than they will in their entire lives, and yet they find ways to survive. They’ve formed a whole society here: gang lords, moneylenders certainly, but also healers, teachers, holy men. So you see, Asha, there are two Indias. There is the world you’ll see at your father’s home, with spacious flats, servants, and outrageous weddings. And then, there is this India. It is a good place to begin your study.”
36
IN GOD’S HANDS
Mumbai, India—2004
KAVITA
“IS VIJAY COMING TO THE TEMPLE?” JASU CALLS FROM THE BALCONY where he’s shining his shoes.
Kavita waits a moment before answering. The small balls of dough sizzle as she drops them carefully into the cast-iron pot. When the crackling oil settles back down to a safe level, she turns her head to the doorway and says, “I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
“So, we don’t need to wait for him.” Jasu’s comment could just as easily refer to the past three months as to today’s outing. After the incident with the police, they tried talking to Vijay. He insisted the police were only after him because he refused to pay bribes from his messenger business. Since then, he has withdrawn, spending most of his time out with Pulin and others.
Kavita pulls the last of the fried dough balls out of the pot and slips them onto the paper-lined tray with the others. She wipes her hands on the dishcloth tucked into her sari. “I can put these in syrup after we come back. I’ll go change.” She decided to make gulab jamun for Diwali, even though it’s a great deal of trouble for just the three of them. Both she and Jasu were feeling particularly sentimental about Diwali this year—they would have liked to go back to Dahanu for a visit, but Jasu couldn’t get leave from the factory. She thought this little touch of home might help them, and she can also take some to Bhaya’s luncheon this afternoon. She hurries to the bedroom to change her sari. They’ll try to make it to the temple before the crowds descend. It is the busiest day of the year at Mahalaxmi Temple, and unlike Sahib and Memsahib, who gave her and Bhaya a rare day off, they do not have a driver to drop them near the entrance.
“KAVITA BEN, YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE GONE TO SO MUCH TROUBLE!” Bhaya says when she opens the door and sees her holding the large bowl of gulab jamun. “But, of course, we will be happy to enjoy the fruits of your hard work. Come in, please.” Bhaya smiles and ushers them into the apartment. Kavita is surprised at how small the space feels, these two rooms that are almost identical to their old chawl apartment. It is filled with their old neighbors and Bhaya’s family. Everyone greets them warmly.
“Jasu bhai, you’ve put on a little in the tummy, heh? What is your wife feeding you over there in fancy Sion?” Bhaya’s husband chuckles.
“What a lovely sari,” one of the neighbors says to Kavita, admiring its deep burgundy sheen.
“Thank you.” Kavita looks away, uncomfortable with the attention. Fortunately, they are soon all sitting with full plates of food on their laps. They talk of the weather (poor), the quality of the tomatoes this year (good), the price of bread (high). They speak of their children and grandchildren, their achievements in school and their adventures on the cricket fields. Inevitably, the discussion turns to the latest Hindi films.
“Have you seen Dhoom, Jasu bhai? You must see it.”
“Excellent film,” another neighbor says, nodding.
“Hahn, we saw it last week,” Bhaya’s husband says. “It is excellent. First-rate. Not that standard Bollywood nonsense. It’s about this gang of criminals who ride motorcycles, see? Not the scooters you see everywhere, but real fast motorcycles. They ride all over Mumbai, robbing places and creating mischief, see? Only the police can’t catch them because they drive away so quickly. Every time!” He slaps both his hands on his thighs and rocks backward.
“Abhishek Bachchan is so smart and handsome, nai?” Bhaya says to her sister.
“Hahn, but I prefer John Abraham, so naughty!” They break into girlish laughter that belies their combined century of life.
“Speaking of gangs,” Bhaya’s husband says, “have you heard Chandi Bajan’s criminals have come together again? Hahn! He has a whole crew working for him in Mumbai, see? Selling drugs. Very big drug trade. Heroin, they say.” He raises an eyebrow and nods wisely, one of the few in the room who can read the newspaper.
Kavita takes a bite of the vegetable biryani and glances at Jasu to see his reaction, but sees a blank expression on his face. She decides to venture into the discussion.
“Where are they operating? The gang? What part of Mumbai?” She tries to sound only casually interested.
“Everywhere. Right here even, in our own neighborhood. You know that boy Vijay and Chetan used to play with at school? Patel…uh, Pulin Patel? They live over there on M.G. Road, two blocks over? I hear he’s mixed up with that gang. The police have been watching him.” Bhaya’s husband shakes his head and puts a large bite of rice in his mouth.
Kavita has a raw feeling in her chest, as if a horrible truth is scratching at her from the inside to get out. She tries to focus on eating, but the food has no taste. The conversation turns to the latest government scandal, then meanders back again to films. Eventually, the women congregate near the kitchen and laud Bhaya’s food, while the men stay behind in the main room.
“Kavita, when will you look for a wife for Vijay? He’s almost twenty, no?” Bhaya says.
“Hahn, I know.” Kavita is relieved to turn to the more mundane issues concerning her son. “I think it is time too, but he doesn’t seem too interested—‘too young, too young, Mummy’ he says.” She shakes her head and smiles for what feels like the first time since arriving.
“Don’t wait too long, ben. It’s getting harder now, with so many boys and not enough girls.” Bhaya lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Some families are even having to pay money to bring brides from abroad, Bangladesh and such.”
Kavita’s fleeting smile melts away as the raw feeling in her chest returns. So many boys. Not enough girls. The raw feeling escapes her body and surrounds her. She smells the earthy monsoon air, though it is November. She feels the deep rumble of thunder, though the sky outside is clear. She closes her eyes, knowing that next she will hear the high-pitched cry echoing inside her ears. When she opens her eyes again, Bhaya and her sister are laughing, teasing their husbands for poking around in the kitchen for sweets.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur. Kavita doesn’t even taste the rich sweetness of the gulab jamun someone serves her, the dessert she spent all morning preparing. She feels as if she is standing outside on the balcony, watching her friends through the window. She is desperate to leave and run back to their home. Yet deep inside the same raw place, she knows there is nowhere she can run that will make the feeling better. Not even Jasu can do anything to make it go away. When the group begins to break up, Jasu and Kavita say good-bye to their friends. They walk in near silence for a few blocks. “Jasu? Do you think it’s true what the police were saying? Do you think Vijay is wrapped up in that Chandi Bajan gang?” Kavita says.
He takes too long to respond, and when he does, it is an unsatisfactory answer. “We’ve done our best, Kavi. Now it’s in God’s hands.”
AT HOME, KAVITA GOES THROUGH THE MOTIONS OF LIGHTING the diyas and placing them along the windowsills. As a child, she loved Diwali simply for the sweets and firecrackers. Only later, as an adult, did
she come to understand the true meaning of the occasion, the commemoration of the battle of Lord Rama, a celebration of the triumph of good over evil. She steps out onto the balcony and sees the thousands of tiny lights that shine in the windows of people’s homes across Mumbai. She thinks about what Jasu said about God’s hands and wonders if they are holding Vijay tonight. What else should I have done for him? How could I have kept him from this fate?
In the distance she sees the first bright snap of light just before the crack of the fireworks. She watches for a while, so deep in her thoughts they are barely interrupted by the startling booms and bangs that splatter across the night sky. She doesn’t register the sound of the front door opening and closing until she hears water running in the kitchen. She turns to see Vijay hunched over the sink. “Vijay?” She walks toward him, then stops and gasps when she sees the blood dripping down his shoulder. She rushes to him. “Arre! What happened, beta?”
“It’s okay, Ma. It’s not a deep cut,” he says.
She insists he remove his shirt and sit at the table while she fills a bowl with warm water and gets some bandages. “Beta, what have they done to you? I knew it was just a matter of time before something like this happened. They’re no good, these boys you go with—Pulin and the others. They’re dangerous, Vijay. Just look what they’ve done to you!” She presses a cloth firmly against his shoulder until the bleeding abates, then begins cleaning it with water. “Please, beta, I’m begging you. Don’t get mixed up with them.”
“Ma, they’re not the ones who hurt me,” Vijay says with a defiant shake of his head. “They helped me. My brothers look out for me, defend me.” Kavita flinches at the mention of Vijay’s siblings, real or imagined. She bites on her lower lip to fight the tears that want to come. The phone rings. Someone calling to wish us Happy Diwali? “We take care of each other, Ma. Who else can you trust, heh? The police? Nobody helps anybody but themselves, Ma.”
The phone stops ringing, and the fireworks outside continue cracking. Jasu comes into the living room. “Kavita…,” he says quietly.
Jasu never uses her full name. She looks up.
He does not appear fazed by the sight of his son, shirtless and bloody. He looks directly at her. “It’s your mother.”
37
TRUE INDIAN BEAUTY
Mumbai, India—2004
ASHA
“ASHA, BETI,” HER GRANDMOTHER SAYS ACROSS THE TABLE OVER breakfast. “We are attending a big wedding this weekend. The Rajaj girl is getting married. You’ve heard of the Rajaj family? They make nearly every auto-rickshaw and motor scooter in all of India. Anyway, it will be a lovely time, and I’ve asked Priya to come this afternoon to take you to Kala Niketan to choose something to wear. A nice salwar khameez or perhaps a lengha?”
“Oh, that’s okay,” Asha says, “I don’t want to impose, since I don’t know them. You guys go ahead. I don’t mind staying home.”
“What impose? Nonsense!” Dadima says. “The family is invited and you are family, no? If we have twelve people or if we have thirteen people makes no difference. There will be thousands of guests there. Besides, I want you to see this. A true Mumbai wedding. Very fancy. So be sure to choose something special, achha? Something…colorful,” she says, glancing at Asha’s tan cargo pants and gray T-shirt. “Priya will come fetch you after lunch.”
“Okay, Dadima.” After only a few weeks, Asha has learned when not to argue with her grandmother. She is a formidable woman, exuding strength in everything she does, yet she shows pure tenderness toward Asha. It helps her see her father in a new light, as the boy who was raised and shaped by this woman. She can even see echoes of her dad in Dadima’s smile. She really hopes her parents come to visit, though her father didn’t mention anything during their last phone call. Her mother spoke up only at the end, to ask if Asha was taking her weekly malaria pill.
“HELLO, ASHA? WHERE ARE YOU?” PRIYA CALLS OUT, WALKING down the main hallway of the flat. She stops at the door of Asha’s room, dressed in a sleeveless chiffon salwar khameez the color of mango sherbet and holding sunglasses in one hand. Her black hair hangs thick and straight to her shoulders, its henna tint glowing reddish in the sunlight. “Ah, there you are! Ready?” Priya flashes a confident smile and links her arm through Asha’s. “We’ll find you something gorgeous for the wedding. Strict instructions from Dadima.”
Thirty minutes later, stepping into the sari shop, Asha is thankful to have Priya by her side. When her cousin sent the driver off with directions to return in two hours, Asha was baffled, but now she can see why this will take some time. The entire perimeter of the store is lined from floor to ceiling with shelves holding thousands of saris in every hue and fabric imaginable, a rainbow wonderland. The shop caters exclusively to women’s fashion but employs only men. One of them engages Priya immediately, clearly having deduced who’s in charge of this expedition. He points to bright bolts of fabric stacked on the shelves, talking without pause like an auctioneer, until Priya holds up her hand to silence him. Then, with a few curtly administered directions, she proceeds to navigate their way through the overwhelming selection.
“Kanjeevaram bathau! Nai, chiffon nai. Tissue silk layavo! Pistachio green, pastel colors?” As Priya issues her rapid commands, the man behind the counter unfolds the piles of silky fabric in front of them, pointing out the elaborate borders sewn with gold or silver thread in detailed patterns of paisley and peacocks. Asha sees each sari for a few seconds before it is buried beneath the next one. She catches only the odd word, watching in astonishment the quick-fire volley between her cousin, the man behind the counter, and his two clerks, who dart back and forth to distant parts of the store to retrieve armfuls of new saris.
No one asks Asha for her opinion, nor could she proffer one. Another clerk presents them with stainless steel tumblers of steamy fragrant chai. Asha, accepting her incidental role, busies herself with alternately sipping and blowing on her tea to keep a skin from forming on its surface. Periodically, she glances around the store, where every few feet an elegant mannequin with a black updo and feline eyes stands with perfect posture and a gracefully extended arm holding her sari. This is the quintessential garment for women across India, according to Asha’s research, a six-yard rectangle of fabric wrapped and tucked around the body without a single button, hook, or zipper. It can be draped in a number of different ways, depending on the region, and one size is used to fit women tall and short, fat and thin. It all sounded very democratic when Asha read about it, but the smiling mannequins now seem intimidating.
Finally, Priya turns to her and says, “Okay, Asha, I’ve made a few selections. Tell me if you like any of these.” When Asha glances down at the glass countertop, she sees most of the saris have been pushed to a big pile on the side and two are displayed in front of her. “This one is tissue silk,” Priya says, showing her a papery thin pale green bundle with delicate gold beading. “Tissue is the latest thing. Very modern. You cannot be plump and wear tissue silk, it is too fluffy. You have to be thin like a rail,” she says, holding up a pinkie finger. “This color would look lovely on you.” She holds it up to Asha’s chest.
“It is beautiful.” Asha wonders if she is rail-thin enough to carry off the tissue sari.
“And this one is more traditional, very elegant,” Priya says, sliding her hand over a deep-gold-colored lustrous sari with a dark red and gold border. “It has a bit of a shine to it. Good for nighttime. The silk is a little slippery, but we could pin it in place. You could wear it with a gold and ruby choker. Dadima has the perfect one.”
Asha pictures the six yards of slippery gold silk sliding off her into a puddle at her feet. “I don’t know, Priya. They’re beautiful, but…I’ve never actually worn a sari before,” Asha admits quietly. “I’m not sure I can do it.” She gestures helplessly to the nearest mannequin. “Is there something a little less complicated I can wear?”
Priya looks at her for a moment, head tilted to one side, an indiscernible expression o
n her face. Asha feels a rush of warmth to her face, ashamed she can’t do this.
Suddenly Priya stands up, waves her sunglasses, and says to the men behind the counter, “Achha, challo, let’s go upstairs. Show us some lenghas please. Wedding lenghas. Only your best ones. Jaldi.” Priya heads for the staircase, and Asha follows her upstairs. A lengha, Asha learns, is a two-piece gown comprised of an ankle-length drawstring skirt and matching top. There doesn’t seem to be the same risk of it falling off, though the long skirt looks like it might trip her up. Priya selects one in a deep rose satin topped with a layer of sheer organza, the sleeveless tunic studded with shimmery silver beading. Asha agrees to try it on.
Standing alone in front of a narrow mirror behind a flimsy curtain, Asha is taken aback by the extravagance of the outfit. The lengha looks like something you might see at the Oscars or at a beauty pageant. She feels awkward, as if she has been caught wearing a Halloween costume on the wrong day. It feels uncomfortable on her body. It hangs heavily upon her, the drawstring of the skirt cutting into her belly. It is itchy at her neckline, the metallic thread and beads irritating her skin.
“It’s perfect!” Priya says, poking her head behind the curtain. “Look at you, a true Indian beauty! What do you think?”
“Fine,” Asha says, relieved to get back into her cargo pants. “Let’s go.”
“WE’RE HEADED TO THAM’S RIGHT NOW. COME, MEET US. WE’LL go for dinner afterward,” Priya says into her mobile phone as they leave the sari shop. “That was Bindu,” she explains to Asha as they slide into the backseat of the car. She directs the driver and replaces her sunglasses.