by Anne Cherian
“Frances is a Catholic and wanted to have a dozen kids,” Jay explained. “I reminded her that Jesus never had any children, so he would understand if we stopped at three, which of course is a mystical number in Hinduism, though, in deference to Frances, I like to think of it as the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”
Frances sighed. “See what I’ve been coping with all these years?”
“Aren’t you going to introduce us to your trio?” Lali tightened her grip on Jonathan’s hand, and he squeezed hers in response. When they were first married, they had talked of creating their own basketball team.
“This is Amanda, our first attempt, though we call her Mandy. Lily is our second child, our little flower, and this fellow here, Sam, is the one who gets to carry on the family name.” Jay stood behind each child as he introduced them.
Lali looked at Mandy’s bored face, at the big smile on Lily’s face, at Sam’s darting eyes. She didn’t want to ask them the obvious “How old are you?” “What grade are you in?” questions, the adult versions of which she had just suffered through.
“Mandy, did you want to come here today or did your parents drag you?” she asked, and Mandy, who seemed to be fascinated by something at her feet, immediately looked up at her.
“Still trying to make gul-mul, huh, Lali Manali?” Jay shook his head. “This time you won’t be able to stir up any trouble. Mandy was looking forward to coming this evening.”
“I wanted to come,” Lily said. “I wanted to wear my red shoes.”
“And I wanted to drink sodas and Indian drinks,” Sam announced.
“And I want to know where your son is,” Jay said, “or am I not invited to meet him?”
“Aaron is still in Boston,” Lali said, freeing her hand from Jonathan’s grip. She didn’t look at her husband as she searched in her purse for the picture. She now wished she hadn’t picked the photograph of Aaron wearing his Harvard T-shirt.
“Oh, yes, I forgot that, like Vic, you are experiencing the empty-wallet syndrome,” Jay laughed.
“Here’s the person who has emptied our nest, and our wallets.” Lali handed the photograph to Frances.
“Just one picture?” Jay remonstrated.
Frances turned the photograph this way and that, trying to view it in the best light. The crimson sweatshirt was just like the red flag that matadors use to incite bulls. The large HARVARD letters emblazoned on his chest stirred her jealousy, and she had difficulty breathing, as if envy constricted her airway. Her children were supposed to be the ones doing brilliantly. Instead, they were rushing Mandy to India, going backward, to try to get her on the path that Lali’s son was on.
Frances said the first thing that came into her mind: “He looks like you.”
“Poor fellow,” Jay commiserated. “Imagine looking like Lali for the rest of his life. Let me see,” he peeped at the photograph, then exclaimed, “You need to check your eyes, Frances. He looks nothing like Lali, thank God. He’s as handsome as his father.”
Frances looked, for the first time, at the face above the sweatshirt. Jay was correct. Aaron was as white as Jonathan, and though she could not see his eyes, the blond hair indicated they were blue. Once she had dreamed that her children would look like this. From the time she was young, she had known that it was better to look, act, be Western. Goans were very proud of their Portuguese heritage and felt superior to Indians because their forefathers had blue, green, hazel eyes. Frances used to be jealous of her older sister’s brown eyes, the reason her parents had named her Hazel.
When her sisters had teased her about becoming Mrs. O’Sullivan, they had also told her that her children might be white-skinned and blue-eyed.
It was surprising that Lali, who had the sort of skin Mama used to say was so dark it was no use hiding out from the sun, had a fair, American-looking son. He would never be called a “sand nigger,” never have to worry about being shunned because he was different. In post-9/11 America, all brown-skinned people were suspects. She had seen a number of clients relax visibly when she assured them that she wasn’t Middle Eastern and had been raised in India because her Portuguese ancestors had settled there.
“And he must take after his father in the brains department, too,” Jay continued. “Didn’t you do your medical studies at Harvard?” he asked Jonathan. He wanted to bring out the famous university early in the conversation. He knew what it was like to belong to an elite society. Was Jonathan a boastful type or would he act normal?
“Guilty,” Jonathan said.
“So if anything goes wrong today, medically speaking, we can count on you, right?” Jay confirmed.
“I’ll do my best,” Jonathan responded.
The short answers assuaged Jay. He didn’t need to worry that Jonathan would look down at his MBA from U Can Leave Anytime. Harvard, of course, was too high and mighty a school to have its name parodied.
“Let’s get something to eat and drink,” Frances suggested. She hadn’t had anything since lunch and was hungry and thirsty.
“That’s a great idea,” Jay said. “Let’s toast to our finally getting together, shall we? Sam, Lily, get your beloved sodas and come meet us here.”
“Mandy, you can get a soda too.” Frances did not understand why Jay had excluded her.
“Today’s special.” Jay’s voice was replete with indulgence. “I’m getting Mandy her first Cosmopolitan. Would you like that?” he asked, belatedly hoping she would agree. Sometimes he forgot that his children, because they were raised in America, would not consider drinks, so common here, a treat. For all he knew, Mandy had already tried wine, beer, and who knows what else. Liquor was easy to acquire in America, unlike in India, where the good stuff either wasn’t available or was expensive, while the cheap daroo was too dangerous to drink.
“Sure,” Mandy shrugged.
“You men get the drinks,” Lali said. “We’ll fill up some plates. That way we can beat both lines.” Jonathan and she had been lucky. They had come so early that they didn’t have to deal with the crowds.
“Mandy, can you go with your sister and brother and make sure they’re all right?” Frances was relieved when Mandy nodded and followed her siblings.
“HAVE YOU SEEN Vic?” Frances asked Lali as they made their way toward the food.
“Saw him as soon as we arrived. Priya, too.” And just like that, it felt as if they were back at UCLA, walking together, chatting about other people. They had always enjoyed doing a postmortem after any party or dinner. This time they were doing it beforehand.
“I met her when she first came,” said Frances. “I can’t believe it’s been more than ten years since I last saw her. Jay and I kept meaning to have them over for dinner, you know, but every time we called, Vic was busy, and then I had Lily and Sam so close together. Jay is the one who has kept in touch. He drives down about once a year to have lunch with Vic. Tell me, what’s Priya like? She had learned to speak English, but, if I recall correctly, was one of those who never wanted to leave India.”
“She must have changed her mind, because she fits in very nicely,” Lali said. “And her English is excellent. She sounds like us, actually. I thought Vic had married a convent-educated girl rather than some villager his parents chose.”
“I thought she’d remain one of those saree-wearing types who smiles all the time because she’d rather not speak English.”
“You’re right about the saree,” Lali said. “but it’s very elegant. Not one of those gaudy ones dripping with zaree,” she added, eyeing a red saree, its bright color in competition with the gold threads that covered every inch.
Frances laughed and said, “That saree reminds me of the invitation.”
“All that gold must have been Vic’s taste. I’m telling you, Priya seems very much like us. If you haven’t seen her in years, then you mustn’t have met Vic’s children.” Lali was curious about them. Were they stereotypical products of immigrant parents or were they Americanized?
“We met Nikhil
when we first walked in. He rescued us from Priya’s cousin.” Frances put some pakoras on the plate.
“Oh my God, did he try to get you to buy life insurance too?” Lali laughed. “Jonathan was getting caught in the ‘I have the best quote’ line when Vic saved us. He ordered Priya’s cousin not to bother people. I guess that cousin isn’t a good listener.”
“Jay and I were on the brink of being rude when Nikhil appeared.”
“I think we have enough food,” Lali said, surveying the plates they had loaded with samosas and pakoras, making sure to ladle on some chutney. “I shouldn’t be eating this oily stuff, but it’s too tasty to resist.”
“Can your husband handle spicy food?” Frances asked.
“This stuff isn’t spicy. Vic told us he ordered food that everyone can eat. But Jonathan isn’t your typical white guy. He’s actually better than you, ‘Miss I can’t eat hot chilies,’ ” Lali said. “On our first date, we went to a Vietnamese restaurant, and he didn’t flinch at the chilies. I thought they were a bit spicy, but he kept eating.”
“After living with Jay so long, I’ve gotten accustomed to spicy food. It’s funny how I could always eat my pork vindaloo but never anything else that had chilies in it. Too bad Vic’s a vegetarian. I’d love to have some pork vindaloo today.”
“I had never eaten vindaloo until you made it for us. People in Kerala eat a lot of beef, but hardly any pork. Hey, is it true that Goans don’t have indoor toilets and let the pigs eat their poop?”
“Where did you hear such nonsense?” Frances asked.
“From this Goan girl I met who was raised in New Delhi. She said she used to freak out every time she visited her relatives. She would go to the bathroom and the pigs would come running and she could hear them eating the you-know-what. Then afterward, her uncle would kill the pig and expect her to eat it. Gross.”
“Not just gross. It’s false,” Frances lied.
She had grown up like that but would never, ever admit to it. She had even kept quiet about it in Hyderabad. Back then, it was because Hyderabad had a large Muslim population, and she didn’t want to remind people that she ate pork. In America, she didn’t want anyone to think that she came from a backward home. Lali’s reaction confirmed her suspicion, and she was glad that she hadn’t mentioned this part of her growing up. Lali would think her home was worse than Vic’s village. She preferred that people imagine beaches when thinking of Goa.
“Wonder why that girl lied to me?” Lali said.
“Here come the men,” Frances said, glad to get away from Lali’s questions. “And here come Lily and Sam. Where’s Mandy?” she asked as Lily joined them.
“Mandy’s talking to Nick, Mom,” Lily answered. “She said she’d come soon.”
“Can I have another soda?” Sam asked.
“If you drink too much soda, the food will drown in your stomach.” Jay picked up a samosa and sighed with satisfaction. “Good food, a great drink, and oh, yes, not bad company.”
“Here’s to you, too,” Lali raised her glass of wine.
“To the Gang of Four,” Frances said. “Jonathan, we’re making you an honorary member because Vic isn’t here.”
“Thanks. I’ll drink to that.”
“Delicious pakoras,” Lali said. “I can’t seem to stop eating them.”
“Hey, save some for me,” Jay said as he playfully grabbed some.
“Actually, I should give you all of mine. We ate when we first got here,” Lali said.
“They also met Vic and Priya,” Frances said.
“I’ve been keeping my left eye out for Vic,” Jay said, “but every time I turn around, I see his wife’s cousin. There he is, probably trying to con someone else into buying life insurance.”
They looked at Rajesh and watched as he swayed and then sat down very quickly.
“He doesn’t look well,” Jonathan said.
“Oh, he’s not sick. He’s probably drinking too much. I guess Lali hasn’t told you that Indians love free booze. I think airlines started charging for liquor because Indians drank too much,” Jay said. “See that glass in his hand? The cousin is taking full advantage of the open bar. If he’s not careful, he’s going to be out of commission before dinner is served.”
“I hope he has a ride,” Jonathan said.
“He’ll probably crash in one of Vic’s many bedrooms. I won’t be surprised if Vic himself gets smashed. He never drank when we were students, but since then I’ve seen him put away three drinks by the time I’ve had one.”
“You’re driving us home, Jay,” Frances reminded him, “so you’d better stop at one.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jay saluted. “See what an obedient husband I am? Ah, here comes Mandy. One Cosmopolitan for the lady.” Jay handed her the glass.
“Can I have a sip, can I have a sip?” Sam begged.
“When you’re seventeen, you can have more than a sip,” Jay said firmly. “Until then, it’s water, and soda on special occasions.”
“Mandy, can I have a sip?” Sam boldly flouted his father.
“No.”
“Then I’ll tell Griffin you were talking to Nikhil tonight,” Sam threatened.
Frances wished she had left the children at home. Sam and Lily had already opened up the can of C’s that was Mandy’s report card. Now Sam was hitting back at his sister because she was doing the right thing by not letting him have a sip. Mandy was so volatile these days that Frances had no idea how she would react to her brother teasing her in public.
Jay ruffled Sam’s hair. “Never believe what comes out of the mouths of babies.”
“I’m not a baby.” Sam jerked away. “I’m wearing a suit. I’m almost all grown up.”
Everyone laughed, and Frances hoped that meant the potentially tense moment had passed.
Then she heard Lily. “Nikhil’s not Mandy’s boyfriend, silly. He’s Mom and Dad’s friend.”
“Griffin won’t like it,” Sam persisted.
“You’re so lame,” Mandy said, rolling her eyes. “Griffin’s gay.”
“What’s gay?” Sam asked.
“Someone who’s happy,” Frances said quickly. “Go get another soda.” Now everyone would think Mandy was an idiot who hung out with gay classmates. Frances wasn’t so Catholic that she objected to gays because of the Bible. She just didn’t like giving the impression that her young daughter was spending time with a gay boy. It made Mandy seem like a social loser.
Jay initially thought Mandy was just fobbing off her siblings. But she was serious. Was Griffin really gay?
Jay felt like a fool. He had thought that Griffin liked Mandy, that they were boyfriend–girlfriend, as they used to say in India. Why was Griffin hanging out with Mandy if that wasn’t on his mind? Nikhil’s comment resurfaced. Classmates must have teased Mandy. They must also have teased Griffin. Both were oddballs. Was that the glue in their togetherness? They kept each other safe from the mean comments and knowing laughter?
“I remember the days when one soda could make me happy,” Jonathan said, looking at Sam’s retreating back.
“Oh, yes, I know that feeling,” Jay said, relieved to move onto another topic. “I was pretty young when India kicked out Coca-Cola, but how I loved Thums Up. My mother would want me to drink homemade lemonade, but of course I wanted the shop-bought soda.”
“I grew up drinking fresh coconut water. My father hardly ever bought us any sodas. He told us they were made with dirty water and were bad for us,” Lali said. “He was lying about the water, but it turns out he was right about all that sugar and stuff not being good for us.”
“I guess your dad and mom didn’t buy too many snacks, either,” Jonathan nudged Lali. “Remember how you’d go shopping when we were first married and I’d ask you where the snacks were and you’d give me a blank stare?”
“No, I’d give you fruits and nuts,” Lali reminded him. “I still think those are the right snacks to eat. Not the chips and cookies and other packaged stuff that is filled wit
h salt and preservatives.”
“I thought salt was a preservative,” Jay said.
“That was in Roman times, Dad,” Mandy said.
“Uh, oh, am I embarrassing you with my lack of Western knowledge?” Jay asked Mandy. Then he told the others, “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been told I don’t have an American sense of humor, or I don’t know something because I was raised in India.”
“Aaron tried the same thing with me,” Lali laughed. “I squashed it right out of him. I was so angry that his school only taught the Greeks and Romans that I went in and told them all about Mohenjodaro and Harappa.”
“Aaron and I had a good laugh when we watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Have you seen it?” Jonathan asked the others. “Remember when the father says that every word comes from Greek, and the girl asks him, ‘What about kimono?’ Well, for years Lali would say that every good thing, from the decimal point to plastic surgery, came from India. It reached a stage where before she could even give us the answer, Aaron would say, ‘Yes, Mom, I know, it’s from India.’ ”
“Hey, easy for you to laugh, but we immigrants have to stick up for where we came from,” Jay said, glancing at Mandy. She was listening intently, not with the bored, faraway look she often had.
“What makes you think I’m any different?” Jonathan inquired. “Jews aren’t exactly mainstream Americans.”
“But you didn’t have quotas keeping you out,” Jay said.
“Of course we had quotas. I couldn’t have gone to Harvard a hundred years ago, and there are still some country clubs in America that won’t allow me to join. Not that I’d want to join them, but it’s the principle.”
“I didn’t know that,” Jay was shocked to learn. He had assumed that Jews were as American as apple pie but with the added topping of being good academically. Lucy and the other neighbors had never let on that they did not fully belong.
“I THOUGHT JAY knew everything,” Priya smiled as she joined them. “Jay, Frances, thank you for coming tonight. And for bringing the children.”
