"Kumar hates all business" declares the beautiful Jaya. We are in my kitchen, heads bowed over a bowl of okra. It's the second day of my sister-in-law's first visit. She and her husband have come so far after so long to see me for themselves: the blonde American who waylaid their favorite son on his way back to India. Oh, what plans they'd all made for him and his shiny new credentials! Now, like a cheated-on spouse, they want to know what went wrong. They need details. Kumar, Hope your work at the college goes well. What new results you have got from your theorems? Please send $750 by bank draft made over to Hubby for a new scooter only. Waiting list is 5 years. What is your programme this side? When you come bring at your convenience only: dozen pair of socks, shirts and trousers for your nephews and Hubby, electric mixer for baking cakes occasionally, slippers for mother's cold feet, perfume bottles, cassettes of music (western is ok), also empty cassettes. Also remember to send congrats to our junior brother and bride. They will explain their wedding gift requirements. Marriage is important step for all Indians! Affectionately, Jaya "Of course Kumar doesn't hate all business-that would be absurd!" I argue delicately. "Business is not his field, however, science is. You've seen how it takes up all his time. But I know how proud you must be of him-- to have made such a success of himself, all by himself in a strange land!" Jaya's lip stretches out flat, straight and stoic, just like her brother's when he doesn't want to concede a point. I check off all that's familiar in her face, and for a moment I wonder what it might be like to touch her. Kumar, My daughter has married with Krishna. We have no news from you regarding same, so must assume your invitation became lost in transit. I have enclosed the boy's CV, and I charge you to cooperate in his business plan that side. This is of grave importance! It is a matter of prestige! Afftly, Yogesh "All Kumar does is work, work, work, it seems'' says my sister-in- law's husband, startling me. "What about retirement? It's not too soon to think!" Of course he would say that. He's a strong, healthy 58 year old, who is spending his own ridiculously early retirement going from one religious festival to another; he wants the whole world to join him, I guess, except whoever he's secretly chosen to take care of him. I suspect he'll have to change his plans about all that, now that his son will be taking on a wife who has no family wealth to spread around. Maybe that's why the first words out of his mouth to Kumar were, "Got any American dollars?" Bet he was a pickpocket in a previous life. Well, I can't just ignore the old boy. I'll have to respond to whatever drops out of his mouth as if it's a real conversation: "My husband certainly does work hard," I say, "but we manage to have our fun--one of the perks of a love match." Four black eyes quiz me. I think they're waiting for me to make a cultural faux-pas, something they can gossip about later. I plow ahead: "Our last dinner party was given to honor the science counselor of India. I prepared about a dozen south Indian dishes; later, I played the piano for them." For a long moment there is no sound but the methodical chopping of the doomed okra. Then Jaya sighs tragically and says, "These are the things we never hear about." Silence thickens the air, makes it electric as if we were expecting a storm. But the moment passes; the okra gets slammed into the fridge, and Jaya speaks, all business now: ''I will make for my son masala dosa tonight. Kumar will come early? We need supplies from the Indian grocery.'' She tries a tone she hasn't tried before, part schoolmarm, part insinuation. I wonder how many times she has been refused anything in her life, anything at all. She probably keeps a record. ''Kumar is at work, you realize. I never interrupt him there. In fifteen years, there's never been an emergency serious enough for me to call him away early. You wouldn't want me to break my record now, would you?'' I know I'm smiling; I can feel my mouth turn up at each corner. Jaya stares at me blackly; we wait to see who will blink first. "We could take a cab to the store this afternoon,'' I finally offer in as nonchalant a way as I can. "As you wish," Jaya replies. She gathers up her sari and regally ascends the stairs. She'll dress her husband and together they'll whisper their new crop of complaints against me in relative privacy. Our cabbie, as luck will have it, is Indian. He and his two countrymen talk past me in a language that sounds like gravel in their mouths. When we reach our destination, there is an awkward moment before I realize I'm holding things up; they're waiting for me to pay the fare. ''That driver claims to have a brother who is medical doctor in this country!'' Jaya informs me in a stage-whisper, after we've shut the door. "Yeah, so?" She looks at me incredulously and explains it all: "He is lying! No brother who is so well-settled would allow his own blood to do such lowly work! I cannot believe! Correct?" Dear Kumar, My son arrived last month. Mother and child are both fine. Recent events have no bearing on my plans to come to USA. Be advised keep up all effort on my behalf full strength! If you still love your brother you will pull necessary string for admission to your university. Since already you have tenure and promotion, it will be easy to make a place for me. Please pay all application fees as conversion rates rupees to dollars is unfavorable. Also, now is time to think about marriage, or else you will be a bald, lonely professor emeritus without family ties. You are well-qualified for finding a suitable bride. Send me your requirements and leave all details to us. Affly, Anil The grocer has small cruel eyes and an avid mouth. He has a decision to make: which of us is the customer, which of us will best respond to his oily brand of subservience? Jaya tilts her perfect nose in the air, sniffs in an ambiguous way. Yes, my good man, I think, she's the logical choice. I loiter at the counter looking over the Hindi-movie music tapes and batting flies away from the trays of sweets. Nothing more is required of me until it's time to pay the piper. As I hand over the crisp American bills, the grocer's attention is suddenly all mine. He bends toward me, close enough for me to catch his aroma of leftover curry, sweat, and bay-rum toilet water. "When you return home today, your sister-in-law will instruct you to make proper dosa for your husband!" he whispers as he fondles my money. "Too bad he'd rather have a pizza!" I stage- whisper back. Kumar, Hope this finds you in good health. Mother had asthma last month, but is a little stronger now. Bangalore is too cold for her still. Please send leg tights of the same type as before, but try another color, just for change. Your nephew passed recent exams with 85 in arithmetic and 80 in language. Not so good marks for us. He will have to do better. You have given no further news of your marriage. Surely there is a child by now? I hope you will not use this marriage as excuse to postpone your trip this side. You owe it to Mother and your real family to visit at least a few weeks every year at least. Do not forget we are your blood, and you will always be Indian! Jaya When we arrive back home, Jaya’s husband resumes his perch at the kitchen table, armed with today's catalogues. "Watch me carefully" orders my sister-in-law. She begins the ritual of love and nurturing, the all-important task of bringing these simple sourdough pancakes before her family with exquisite concentration. Of all her abilities and talents, this is what she's taught her relatives to value most in her. I watch her soak and grind and stir, completely absorbed in a task she's repeated hundreds of times. I watch helplessly, as a single dark strand of hair escapes her braid and a bead of perspiration forms on her upper lip. I could help her here, let her in on some shortcuts I learned by myself, by trial and error, but nobody here believes I can cook in the Indian idiom. I am an extra in my own kitchen. Dear Mama and Mami, Hope this finds you both well. I am sorry to have not written sooner to thank Uncle for all his help in making my U.S. study possible. Please ignore requests for further application fees, references etc. as I am coming August 10 to your house only. I will stay one week then I will travel to my friend's apartment in Amherst. I can stay with him until I have secured my own apartment. Uncle, you will be my only blood-tie in U.S. and Mother requires me to think of you as I would a Father. I will take notice of all advice. Love, Ram p.s.: I need you to advance me the price of an auto, second-hand is O.K. "I bet you are looking forward to visiting with Ram tonight," I say to Jaya, as we mix the dhal with rice flour. "Correct, correct," she responds absently. She's worried that time is running out both for tonight's dinner and her tenure as the most important woman in her son's life. She sighs and says, "This visit is the final one we share with Ram only, marriage will change --" She waves the spatula around in an enormous and aimless gesture. Suddenly she looks every hour of her age. "But you approve of this bride, don't you?" I ask ingenuously. "Her family is good," Jaya says slowly. Her voice is lukewarm, one big shrug. "Also the important thing is horoscopes match. One cannot discount astrology!” I can, I think, but now there is no more time for our pointless arguments. The doorbell's rung and Ram the virgin bridegroom falls into our three pairs of waiting arms. This kid likes me; he calls me Aunty and touches me at the slightest provocation. I notice his parents hate our easy familiarity. Jaya shuttles between kitchen and couch like a nervous cat. "Where's Kumar?" she keeps asking me. "We are almost ready for Dosa!" She yanks her head in the direction of the phone; I allow a vaguely puzzled expression to settle over my features. "So, talked to your fiancee lately?" "Oh yes Aunty, every week I talk. I am on Cloud Nine!" "So what can you tell me about the girl? So far all you have said is her nose is too big, and she is not allowed to wear high heels when she is with you in public." "Hmm, well she meets most of my requirements for marriage," he says, a wariness creeping into his voice. "Almost?" I pounce on him. I recall a long-ago sorority house now: the little girls clasping their bridal magazines, fantasizing their perfect mates out loud to each other, as if that could materialize them. "Well, I insist she learn to speak Kannada," the boy tries for a strict tone. "And I don't like her accent when she speaks Telugu, but I will soon put a stop to that!" He throws back his head and laughs. His teeth are very white. Dear Kumar, Trust this finds you in good health. There is no point asking after your work and your program for next visit as your answers always the same. I am advised that it is best to own a fire-arm in Hyderabad. I have hence obtained a license for a revolver. I will be happy if you will gift me a 0.32 bore Smith & Wesson from USA. The cost is about $200 and also include an affidavit saying you are staying abroad for more than ten years. Reply to all parts immediately. Affly, Thumbi In the morning we say an elaborate good-bye. I give Jaya gold earrings in the shape of the Pyramids ("American gold, only 14 carats," I overhear her mutter). I make ritual false promises-- to buy a pressure cooker (“for Kumar's sake”) and to write ("A few lines to everyone once month is good. Let Kumar add greetings to everyone at the end"). We divide the photos from last night. I notice the boy remembered to suck in his stomach in all but one of them. Now, finally, Jaya steps off the porch flanked by her men. The wind carries her voice back to me as she moves away, "Even as a child, Kumar held a book in his hands." Her sari, embroidered with gold thread by her blue-eyed grandmother, glints in the sun. She could have told me more, that time when we had the chance.
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"Sisters!" The Voice sails his one word across this bar where the air is hung like August. That pitch always gets me, I have to look. You can tell he likes his own effect: he turns on a dangerous light in his eyes, dilates his own pupils at will.
But I'm way too slow. Kat has already inhaled all pertinent visual information. I see her cross her long legs and let out a low moan. In the next second, she'll waft toward him on a trail of pheromones and I'll be left to fend for myself. She's my sister and I love her, but I have the sneaking suspicion that she knows I saw him first. No fair, no fair! I shriek inside my head, but the plot has already thickened in its usual way. Ever since I got fat, this is the only kind of fun I get. Theoretically, I should be able to sop up Kat's overflow of men. Oh, well. I wonder if this is what Mother means when she says you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him buy you a drink. You know, I was always embarrassed by the bigness of my bones, but I thought I was off the hook when they finally revised the height-weight charts. But no matter how many times I pointed out that I was not off this chart's scale, old X was not impressed. "Gain five more, I'm gone," he growled. I looked down to see his enormous forefinger pumping my well-upholstered belly. And then he tried to help me, carrot-and-stick fashion. He set the scale in front of the refrigerator door plastered with Polaroids of my cellulite sites. He made me weigh in every morning and in only two weeks I had gained the required five pounds. For the first time in his life, old X kept his promise. But that was then and this is now. I should be able to forget about X, what with all the fun I'm pushed right up against. I don't see hide nor hair of Kat for the next few days, but, not to worry, I know where she is. When she finally fills the doorway of our apartment, she is wearing one broken high heel and the look I get after a pint of rocky road. "We better go to the hospital again," she says. "I just can't stomach the taste of latex." I get to be included in this little errand because Kat is terrified of needles and she always faints. But it's different this time. Kat hasn't crashed off her love-high and she spills every detail of her tryst with the foundling. The nurse misses her vein twice, she's so intent in her eavesdropping. Kat barely winces and she can't seem to shut up. My mouth begins to water. I go from thirsty to desperate for a Gatorade. When it's time to go, I'm the one about to faint. Kat and I stop off at a lunch counter we like. The waiters are so cute, all younger and taller than me, although we weigh about the same. I'm in the mood for their Fatburgerboy and a giant coke. I start to tell Kat this, but she's concentrating, tongue creeping out, on pulling off her band-aid. I look at the red spot on the gauze and the puncture inside her elbow. Suddenly, the desire for that burger leaves me and I feel my eyes well up with tears. "I'll just have a plain salad," I say in a voice-for-church. Kat jerks her head up, eyes wide and stretching wider. She mulls it over, then tells the waiter snappily, "Two plain salads, and ice water." What's happened to me I just can't explain. It's been weeks and weeks now; surely I must be hungry. There's the taste of ashes in my mouth and a drawing feeling under my skin so I feel like I'm melting. Still, I can't eat, not like before. The lump in my throat is almost too big to swallow now. This is my new routine: I'm sprawled on the couch, swaddled in one of X's old shirts. It smells like him, but not enough so I'd gag or anything. I wield the clicker like a man now. I bet I can reach the end of my youth before carpel tunnel sets in. Kat floats into the room all blonde and fluffy. She gracefully sets a bowl of fruit at my feet, careful not to make any sudden moves. By now, she knows better than to ask me to come along with her. After Kat leaves, on a cloud of perfume, I stretch out all my empty body parts along the couch. I know I'll pay for this later, but I let the tears come anyway. I cry until my ducts hurt. Ha! Another two pounds, I bet! Which is worse, being fat, divorced, living with my sister on my mother's money, or this giant headache knocking at each temple? I grope my way into the kitchen and try to unscrew the cap to the aspirin. The effort squinches my eyes shut tighter, then the right eyebrow shoots upward as if it has to be somewhere else. At the kitchen table, I try to focus my eyes on an object. The toaster is good, it's not so shiny anymore. I peer into it like a mirror and see that I am crying on one side of my head. This is the way it always is, but somehow this time I look different. I watch the toaster more carefully, half expecting it to yield my extra chins. They're gone! Toaster must be really dirty, I think. I push it away and take another look. I can see a torso, but it looks only faintly familiar. My hands wander up and down my sides, looking for old boundaries. Part of me has been abducted, erased, amputated out all of my great big bones! I need some more proof, so I grope my way over to the couch, pulling my clothes off as I go. I arrange things so I'm framed inside the dark, blank TV screen, like a butterfly on a slide. I gingerly move my limbs in various Barbie poses until I am convinced at last. Funny how endorphins can eat up an entire migraine like this! Won't Kat be surprised! I leap up at the first squeak of the door and see shock widen her eyes and redden her cheeks. I stand there, grinning stupidly, and suddenly I'm rooted to the floor, frozen, naked. A man has just somersaulted into the living room right behind Kat. He jumps up, more eager than ever before in his life. "All right! Two of you!" he says with a ravenous show of teeth. He rubs his hands together. Kat gets mad and scowls profusely as she shoves the acrobat into her studio, leaving me to feel for my own feet. Next day, I pay off my sister. "Got anything I can wear tonight?" I ask, and watch her face dimple with every kind of delight. She pulls clothes out of closets and drawers and floats them like clouds onto the bed. In the end, I choose standard biker-babe stuff, despite Kat's warning that black leather makes you sweat; plus, it sticks to everything and everybody. Kat sends me out into the night like a benevolent fairy-godmother. First stop -- the arts bar down the street from the art school. Even if I don't get lucky, at least I'll be entertained. The first thing I see is a pair of lovers in black clothes and corresponding nose-rings. They slap each other's pale cheeks, politely taking turns. They've gathered an audience, none of them blink. They might miss something. Someone presses into me from behind, nuzzling me and lifting the hair off my neck with a calloused hand. His voice grazes my ear. "It doesn't really hurt when you get hit, did you know that?" He jabs the air toward the slapping couple with his fist and all the hairs on the back of my exposed neck stand up and salute. I mumble nonsense and wheel out of his vicinity, sinking into the nearest available booth. There is a naked girl dancing on top of the bar. She must have undressed fast, because by now all she's got on are socks, grey ankle socks wet with spilled booze. She's in her own little world, driven by instinct. She's oblivious to the crowd until their clapping becomes the accompaniment to a chant. 'Whomp, there it is' they scream until the sound penetrates her brain. She stops abruptly, gasps, then crisscrosses her body uselessly with her arms. Laughter erupts and she begins to cry. I slip from my booth and follow the stream of people out the door. I'm okay with this; some of them I think I've seen before. We stop only a few feet away at a desolate train station. It's not used for anything anymore and is a ruin, especially under a cold, wintery moon. It looks good and spooky. The kids mill around a fire escape, pulling flasks and bottles from the inside of their coats. They arrange themselves prettily on railings and steps and all at once I see we're gradually, slowly creeping our way toward a window with a light burning in it and scratchy radio music coming from it. It smells like a locker room cum sauna and it's so loud I don't think anyone can hear my leather pants squeak. I can see a real possibility of getting stuck to someone without ever making contact. We're all moving like some high-tech gyro: the lighter ones (me!) being jostled inside the circle of more stationary heavies around and around the room. I can't even absorb all this before someone kind of rollers into me. He speaks to the top of my head. "When I'm blocked I feel the static in my third eye," he intones. "Uh huh" I say into his collarbone. He talks and talks and I begin to pray for some kind of wind vector that will separate us. His hot, poisoned breath starts to seal up everyplace I can breathe with. Don't faint, don't faint, I command myself. And something finally pushes him on his way. The poet whirls away from me quoting Italian from Dante and Virgil's Excellent Adventure. "Another one bites the dust," I exhale gratefully. Then my ears open like some sea anemone to the voice that narrates my best dreams. "Yo, the other sister," my foundling croons, this time directly to me. It's what I've come here for, I see that now. The crowd has mashed us together so tightly I wonder if our hipbones will ever unlock. I try to speak but he's reading only from my eyes; and the air thickens suddenly into a purple haze that chokes off speech and makes my eyes water. He might have come to my rescue on a white horse for all his gallantry. He moves me toward the door, his face always toward mine, as if we're dancing. He wants to take me to a room at the end of the hall. I'd like to skip down this hall but that wouldn't be cool. Instead, I unfurl my unfat body on the boy's sleeping bag and watch his cigarette glow in the dark from across the room. It takes forever for him to finish that smoke. As he comes toward me at last, I can hear my stomach growl. Later, first light ruffles his curls and I fancy I hear angels singing. But it's only the little girl across the way. She skips rope and she sings this: I wish I had a nickel, I wish I had a dime, I wish I had a lover who'd love me all the time. I'd make him do the dishes, I'd make him scrub the floor, and when he was all finished, I'd shove him out the door! -first published in Nightsun magazine Twenty Questions for Amma
1.What is the name of the book where we would first meet you? Shiva’s Arms by Cheryl Snell. I come back in Bombay Trilogy. 2.What do you think of the author? You can tell us the truth. She is soft like Alice, my daughter-in-law, but she is like me also. We know what is best for our children. 3.Tell us a little about yourself. How would you describe your appearance? That's more than just really cute or drop dead gorgeous. Give us enough detail to get a clear idea of how you look. I am not yet five feet tall. My hair is half as tall. It is gray with my years. I wear the widow’s white sari only, for my husband’s sake. 4. What character are you in the book? Are you the hero, the best friend, the side kick, the hero and heroine's child or someone else? We are always the hero in our own stories, correct? Correct! I am the mother of Ramesh. He went after a love match, shame, shame! What can I do but teach his girl our ways? 5.Is there a specific reason why you're in the story? Don't give us any story spoilers, but you can share some teasers if you want. I am in for Alice’s conflict. I fight for Ramesh. He must not become too Americanized. 6.How did you convince your author to put you in this book? For example, did you visit a dream or make yourself known some other way? Oh, like how the goddess came to the mathematician to scribe formulas on his tongue? No. I stand in the center of the book. Others swirl around me. Alice thinks it is her story only, ha! 7. What time period do you live in? Modern times. 8. Where are you from? Kerala, India 9. Do you live in the same place now? No, I live with my son Ramesh and the wife Alice. Joint-family is honorable tradition, not like you Americans, keeping the old people in old people homes! 10. Tell us about your hometown and your current home. I was raised in Kerala in Appa’s big stone house. When I was a girl, I shot the dacoits to defend family only. I married with Sambashivan at fifteen, and we escaped his mother, that blue-eyed devil, to Bombay. We raised many children. Since my husband died, I am staying with each son for some time. Then I come to America, for American tour only. Now I stay. 11.Tell us how your hometown or your current home affects you, the things you do and how you feel about life? Once I stayed in Ramesh’s room only, but now those two are keeping me in the basement, in-law apartment, kitchenette included. There is shrine also, to teach my grandson Sam the pujas. I am the namesake of Shiva, god of Creation and Destruction, and he must know. 12. What special skills or abilities do you have? I make dosa. 13. How do those affect your part in the story? Friends come from all over to eat some. Indians are hospitable. Alice can stay in her room. 14. Are you happy with the story? It was not yet time for my ticket. I am alive after stroke, and nice and sweet. Family gathers for my sake. Author is making me love Alice like family. Story is good. 15. Is there anything in your story you wish you had not done? Why? I should not have fought fists with my daughter-in-law. Such excitement gave me stroke. 16. Tell us about your past. Can you share one really good experience and/or one really bad experience? I know that bad experience can be tough, but it would tell us more about what you've been through. My daughter Nela disgraced me. Then we mended the fence, at last. 17. Who is the most important person in your life? Tell us about them. Grandson Sam. He is good boy and loves his grandmother. When he was a baby, he slept with his little hand on my cheek all night. 18.Is that person in the story we're talking about? Yes. 19. How does that person impact you and your life? He brings Nela to me in hospital. He sings to me, and I recover. 20. Do you think your author is going to write another story about you? Or, are you part of a series? Yes, author is working! Nela is main character this time. I make the cameo. Author should have me be main character only. Title is Shiva’s Arms! I am Shiva, not Alice. My arms embrace and push away. My footfalls heard across continents. It’s been great to talk with you. If you want to tell us anything else, feel free. Also, tell us about a website where we can learn more about you and where we can buy the book. Thank you also. I am here and here. |
AuthorCheryl Snell is an award-winning poet and novelist, author of the new family saga Bombay Trilogy, a retelling of her previous novels Shiva's Arms, Rescuing Ranu, and Kalpavriksha. Archives
October 2020
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