“Who’s Tham?” Asha holds on her lap a string-tied red box containing her new lengha.
“Not who, bena, what? Tham’s is only the best beauty salon this side of Mumbai. I’m taking you for waxing, Asha.”
“Waxing?”
“Hahn, bena, waxing. Your arms?” she says, raising an eyebrow above the rim of her sunglasses. “Your lengha is sleeveless, yaar, you can’t show all this.” Priya points to the hair covering Asha’s arms.
“So, you wax your arms? Can you do that?” Asha asks, incredulous her cousin might have a solution for this embarrassing problem she has suffered from her whole life.
Priya throws her head back and laughs. “Are you kidding? I get everything waxed—arms, legs, face. I go every three weeks to Tham’s, and I’m telling you, they practically wax me from head to toe. You’ve never done it?” Now it is Priya’s turn for disbelief. “I can’t believe it. Everyone here does it, bena, as common as coconuts at a puja,” she says.
“Doesn’t it hurt?” Asha asks.
Priya shrugs her shoulders. “Not really. A little, I suppose, but you get used to it,” she says, as if this is wholly beside the point.
One hour later, Asha is not sure she can be as dismissive of the pain involved in waxing. She is, however, very pleased with her resulting smooth arms, now fragrant with rose petal lotion. Tham’s is filled with Indian women, most of them young like Asha and her cousins, but older ones as well. Just as Priya described, many of the women appear to be spending the day here, getting one treatment after another—waxing, threading, bleaching, plucking. Everyone here is completely comfortable discussing the bodily issues that have secretly haunted Asha since puberty. Bushy eyebrows, hairy arms, and splotchy skin are simply common annoyances to be treated here at Tham’s. It doesn’t take too much prodding from Bindu and Priya to convince Asha to give eyebrow threading a try. Since it appears no needles, razors, or hot wax are involved in this procedure, Asha concludes the pain must be negligible.
She is only partially correct. She is told to slide down in a salon chair until the back of her head rests on the top of the chair. The stylist, with a nameplate that says KITTY pinned to her white smock, instructs Asha to close one eye and hold the skin above and below it taut with her fingers. Kitty holds a long piece of thread looped between her fingers and her mouth, and begins bobbing her head uncomfortably close to Asha’s. The vibrating thread burns against Asha’s brow bone and causes a tickling sensation in her nose. Kitty stops a few times when the thread breaks, and a few more times for Asha to sneeze. Thankfully, the whole thing is over within ten minutes. Asha sits back upright in the chair, her eyes watering as Kitty hands her a mirror with which to inspect her freshly sculpted eyebrows. Kitty turns to Priya and says something in Hindi, which her cousin seems to acknowledge with a sideways bobbing of her head.
“What did she say?” Asha asks.
“She said you had a lot of hair. Don’t wait so long next time and it won’t hurt as much.”
THEY SIT TOGETHER—ASHA, PRIYA, AND BINDU—IN A SMALL vinyl-covered booth at China Garden, famous for its Indian-style Chinese food. Bindu passes a plate of sweet and sour chicken to Asha as she and Priya discuss the upcoming wedding. Asha has learned all of her cousins, and even some of their parents, consume “nonveg” food when they dine out, though they still maintain the unspoken illusion of being complete vegetarians at Dadima’s home.
“I heard the jamai procession has six white horses, one for each of the male cousins, and the groom himself is coming in a white Rolls-Royce,” Bindu whispers across the table. Asha takes a bite of the chicken, which tastes far more spicy than either sweet or sour to her.
Priya nods her head while biting into a spring roll. “Arre, someone told me they’re spending close to a crore. They’re planning to feed ten thousand people!” Priya explains to Asha. “A crore is one hundred lakh,” and then she whispers, “ten million rupees.”
“The bride is wearing eight carats of diamonds in her necklace alone, not to mention the earrings and nosepiece. She is changing between three different sets—diamond, emerald, and ruby. And thirty bangles of twenty-two-karat gold on each arm. They’ll need one security guard just for her jewelry.” Bindu grins and pours more green tea for all of them.
“You came at a good time, Asha,” Priya says. “This is going to be the wedding of the year. Lots of eligible bachelors there.” Priya winks at her over the fried rice, and all three of them dissolve into the giggles of a bunch of old girlfriends. Asha laughs so hard that green tea comes out of her nose, and tears from the corners of her eyes.
BEFORE GOING TO SLEEP, ASHA CHRONICLES THE DAY’S EVENTS in her journal. She is surprised by her own discovery that, although the food may be spicy, the clothes uncomfortable, and the beauty treatments painful, this place is starting to feel like home, and these people like family.
38
SLIPPING AWAY
Menlo Park, California—2004
SOMER
SOMER INWARDLY COMMENDS HERSELF FOR COOKING THE chicken perfectly, as she knows the praise will not come from Kris. Since Asha left for India last month, all the conflicts they had spent years repressing erupted freely, living with abandon under their roof, a thousand disturbing houseguests. Somer has struggled to understand why Asha made the choice she did. She’s tried to let go of her anger toward Krishnan, but his complicity lingers in her mind.
Kris takes several bites without comment, and then speaks with his mouth full. “We need to decide about India. Asha’s going to keep asking until we give her a date.” Looking up, she notices the Tabasco bottle next to his plate. He has a habit of dousing everything she cooks with some kind of hot sauce, one of the varied assortment he keeps in the fridge. It’s as if he means to obliterate any delicate flavor she tries to impart to her cooking—a touch of rubbed sage on the chicken, lemon-scented rice—all of it lost under his red blanket of heat. She pokes her fork at the wandering green beans on her plate. “I can’t just pick up and go to India on a moment’s notice, I only have a week off over the holidays—”
“Just get someone to cover, Somer. They’ll get by without you.” She bristles at the remark, though she should be used to it, his being dismissive of her work, as if anything less than the brain-saving surgeries he performs is unworthy medical practice. Kris removes his glasses and begins rubbing them with his handkerchief. “I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s the perfect time to go. Asha’s there, her first trip, my whole family’s there. I haven’t been in nearly a decade. You haven’t been in…God knows how long. Why wouldn’t we go now, Somer? I thought you were worried about her, I thought you’d want to keep an eye on her.”
Of course Somer wants to see her daughter, but she is not sure Asha feels the same. She thinks of the fight they had just before Asha left, and the awkwardness at the airport. Her daughter has been pushing her away ever since she made her decision to go to India. The idea of seeing her there, in that country that brings to mind only difficult memories, is hard to abide. She already feels like an outsider in her own family, this family to whom she has given her whole life. She doesn’t have the strength to go to India now and feel out of place in a country full of strangers.
“I haven’t seen my family in eight years,” Kris says, his voice getting louder. “Eight years, Somer. My parents are getting older, my nephews are growing up. I should have gone earlier, but now will have to do.” Kris pours himself more Cabernet and sits back in his chair.
“Don’t make it sound like it’s my fault,” she says. “You’ve always come and gone as you’ve pleased. I haven’t stopped you from going. That’s your own damn fault.” He snorts and takes a deep swig of wine. “It’s harder for me, Kris. You know that,” she says. “I don’t have a connection like you do, it’s different. You don’t know what it feels like.”
“What do you mean, you don’t have a connection?” Krishnan says. “Your husband is Indian, and your daughter is Indian, in case you’ve forgotten.”
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“You know what I mean,” she says, pressing her eyes closed and rubbing her forehead.
“No, I don’t. Why don’t you explain it to me? The way I see it, there are only a couple of explanations. Either you have a problem with Asha getting to know my family, which is also her family, I remind you. Or you have a problem with her becoming a little bit Indian. In either case, Somer, the problem is actually yours, not hers. We’ve done a damn good job raising her. But now she’s an adult, and you can’t control everything she does. You’re always the one saying we should accept her as she is, we should support her interests. For God’s sake, at her age, I moved halfway across the world and my parents didn’t fall apart.”
“It’s not quite the same,” Somer says, tears forming at the corners of her eyes.
“Oh yeah? How’s that?” His wry smile does little to veil the cruelty in his eyes.
Because they were your only parents. They didn’t have to worry about losing you. “It just is,” she says, the only words she can speak out loud.
“It’s different because I came to this fantastic country, full of milk and honey that no one would ever want to leave? Is that it?”
She shakes her head and the tears spill out of her eyes. She can’t find the words to make him understand, to penetrate the impassive look in his eyes.
When he finally speaks again, his voice is calm. “I’m leaving December twenty-eighth, if you want to come.” Every word out of his mouth cuts as precisely as a scalpel. She looks up at him in disbelief while he continues. “Yes, I bought tickets. It gets very booked up at this time of year, I didn’t want to take chances.”
She feels the hollowness expand to fill her stomach. “When…did you do that?”
“Why does it matter?” he snaps, and then takes a drink. “September. After Asha left.”
“So, that’s it? It’s all decided then.” It is now clear. She has no voice in this decision, just as she had no choice in Asha’s.
“That’s it.” He stands up and carries his plate to the sink, where his silverware clangs against the basin. “Come if you want. Or don’t. Maybe it’s better that way.”
THE NEXT DAY FEELS SURREAL. SOMER SEES HER PATIENTS, CONSULTS their charts, writes prescriptions. She goes through the same motions as every other day, but something has shifted. It feels as if someone has picked up her world and tilted it off its axis. Everything familiar to her is slipping away. Kris and Asha not only don’t need her, but they also can’t seem to tolerate her in their lives any longer, betraying her to make their plans.
At lunch, she walks the few blocks to Whole Foods and picks up her usual boxed salad and lemonade. On her way out of the store, she pauses in front of the community bulletin board. She scans the postings for dog walkers and garage sales until she sees one advertising a Palo Alto sublet. She tears off one of the dangling phone numbers and slips it into her purse. She calls and arranges it all quickly before she can change her mind.
That evening, she tells Krishnan she will not go with him. That it may be a good idea to each have their own space, just for a while, a few months. They agree Asha doesn’t need to know. Somer is prepared to say more, but she is surprised at how unsurprised he seems.
“I hope you can find a way to be happy, Somer,” is all he says. After he goes upstairs, Somer stays on the couch in the family room and weeps. The next morning, she begins to pack.
39
A PROMISE
Mumbai, India—2004
ASHA
DADIMA INSISTS ASHA ATTEND THE BRIDE’S MEHNDI CEREMONY with her cousins, though she herself is not going. “I am an old lady, these things are not for me. You girls go and enjoy.”
Priya brings Asha a pale blue chiffon salwar khameez, thankfully less ostentatious than the outfit they purchased for the wedding. On their way to the party, Priya explains the mehndi is only for women, close family and friends who gather before the wedding to decorate the bride’s hands and feet with henna. The Thakkars are invited because Dadima’s mother was good friends with Mrs. Rajaj’s mother from their days in Santa Cruz, though both women are long since deceased.
When they arrive at the palatial Rajaj home, Asha discovers that the allegedly intimate nature of the mehndi means this evening’s guests will number only in the hundreds, rather than the thousands who will attend the wedding. Inside the vast marble foyer, there are musicians playing lively Indian music, a harmonium player and a tabla drummer. In the distance, Asha sees a dining table set with a magnificent buffet of silver dishes and begins to drift in that direction. Priya catches her by the arm and whispers, “First, we must say hello,” nodding slightly with her chin in the direction of the grand living room. The bride is seated on a thronelike chair atop a raised platform. One woman sits at her feet, another works on her hands. Each of them holds a small plastic cone filled with olive green paste. As she draws closer, Asha sees the women are creating designs on the bride’s skin that are indescribably intricate—a flowering branch climbing up the back of her hand and over to her palm, which is covered in swirls and spirals. Even more impressive, both mehndi artists appear to be drawing freehand, without looking at anything. In fact, they carry on a conversation with each other and the guests all the while.
“Come on now, make sure it’s nice and dark.” One of the bride’s friends teases the hand artist. “We want the mehndi to last a good long time!”
“And make sure you make the initials as small as possible. We want him to really look hard.” Another friend laughs, kissing the bride on her head.
Priya guides Asha toward a cluster of older women as she explains, “It’s a tradition on the wedding night, the groom has to find his initials hidden in the design before the bride will let him…you know.” Priya smiles and winks. “Come, here she is.”
“Manjula Auntie!” Priya presses her palms together and bows slightly to one of the older women, swaddled in a burgundy silk sari, her artificially jet-black hair tied neatly into a bun. “Dadima sends her regards she couldn’t come tonight. This is my cousin from America,” she says, quickly turning to present Asha. “She’s just arrived. She’s come on a special scholarship. From America. Very prestigious.”
“Hello, namaste.” Asha tries to emulate her cousin’s easy way. “Nice to meet you.”
“Welcome, betis. So nice to have you,” Manjula Auntie says, taking Asha’s hands in her own plump ones. “Are you enjoying your time here? I do hope you will come tomorrow—we have a charter boat sailing around the harbor. I always say, that’s always the best way to see the lights of Mumbai at night, far away from the pollution!” She laughs heartily at her own joke, causing ripples through the belly rolls of fat exposed by her sari. “Please, help yourself to food. There is so much of it,” she says before excusing herself to greet another guest.
“Okay, that’s done,” Priya says and they head off to the buffet table. On the way over, Asha sees two more mehndi artists creating less elaborate, but still beautiful, designs on the hands and feet of other guests. Asha piles her china plate with samosas, kachori, and pakora, but is sparing with the assorted chutneys, having learned these tend to be too spicy for her. She reflects on Manjula Auntie’s comment about the harbor cruise and Mumbai’s pollution. She’s noticed the thick blanket of smog that covers the city most days and finds herself coughing quite often outside, but it also seems most of the fumes are emitted from the auto rickshaws and scooters that bear the Rajaj name. Manjula Auntie, old family friend, also happens to be quite the hypocrite. While they stroll around the vast house, Asha discreetly checks out the large marble statues of Indian gods and heavily embroidered tapestries that line the wall. Priya introduces her to several other women, but Asha misses much of the quick Gujarati banter among them.
Asha eats and watches the mehndi artists demonstrate their handiwork. When one of the artists is free, Priya nudges her forward. “Something simple,” Asha says, “like that, maybe.” She points to a sun design worn by another girl. In under five minut
es, both of Asha’s palms are adorned with radiant spheres. The mehndi artist applies a layer of lemon juice and then oil to the design after it dries, and tells her to leave it on for as long as possible for a dark stain. In the morning, she is fascinated by the beautiful red designs left behind after she scrapes off the dried mudlike material, and can’t stop looking at her own hands all day.
THE WEDDING TAKES PLACE TWO NIGHTS LATER. AS SOON AS Asha walks through the gates of the Cricket Club of India, she stops cold at the sight before her. The entire grounds, perhaps the size of two football fields, are covered in luxurious furnishings that have been transported here for the occasion: ornate chaise lounges, carved tables, silk pillows, tented ceilings draped delicately overhead. It looks like an enormous outdoor palace. There are thousands of guests milling about, and an almost equivalent number of servers holding silver trays of food and drinks. Asha’s concerns about looking too flashy in her new lengha are supplanted by the realization that she is rather underdressed compared to other women, draped in lustrous saris and dripping with jewelry.
“Come on, yaar,” Priya says, grabbing her by the elbow. “Close your mouth, you look like you’ve never been to an Indian wedding before!” Asha follows her cousins around mutely for a while, staring in wonderment at the transformation of the cricket field. She wonders whether her parents’ wedding was like this, and then remembers the framed photo that hangs in their bedroom, of her mother in a simple sundress and her father in a suit at Golden Gate Park.
“…And this is Asha, my American cousin. She’s not only beautiful, but brilliant too,” Priya says, nudging her in the ribs. Asha shifts her attention to see an extended hand in front of her, and follows it all the way to its owner. Her eyes widen at the sight of him.