by Sonia Patel
Crowing roosters. I jolt up, trembling. The beads of sweat on my forehead trickle into my eyes and down my cheeks. I blink several times, then rub my eyes. It’s dark. I realize my pj’s are drenched and sticking to my skin. I’m chilled. I curl into a compact ball for warmth and squeeze tight. I grope the desk for my glasses. My fingers find the frames and I slide them on.
The dream. No, the nightmare. I reassure myself that I’m safe. He’s with Wendy now. He hasn’t “tucked me in” recently. My mind waffles.
Your nightmare used to be reality.
Get over it, Rani. You’re not crippled. You’re not starving. You’re not homeless. You’re not poor.
I try to make the nightmare go away. I glimpse out the window. The glow of the big Moloka’i moon offers solace and reminds me of Moonlight Sonata. I played it last night after Mom and I got home. It helped quiet my painful churning emotions. Mom went straight to bed, but I played my heart out. I haven’t wanted to play recently. Last night was different. The moonlight was streaming through the sliding glass doors, illuminating my fingers. I felt connected to Dad as I played.
But it’s too early to play right now. So I listen to Moonlight Sonata in my mind and close my eyes, trying to find good Dad-memories. He introduced me to the piano when I was six years old. He drove me to lessons every Thursday without fail. Why he picked the piano is a mystery. I mean he doesn’t play any instrument. But he encouraged me to practice hard, that it would all be worth it someday. He’d hold my hand and smile at me. I believed him and felt secure. I practiced everyday. I wanted to make sure my piano teacher would have nothing but rave reviews to give my dad after each lesson. I try to hold onto these memories as I wipe the remaining sticky sweat from my forehead. But it’s no use. Thoughts of the nightmare charge back in. I realize it’s the same nightmare I’ve had over and over since Dad starting being distant last spring. I feel myself sinking.
‘Nuff already.
I kick at the damp comforter—and the loitering hurt—then jump out of bed.
I shower and dress. Then it’s to the kitchen for breakfast. Finding tasty leftovers for the most important meal of the day is never a problem when your mom’s Gujarati. There’s a note on the counter. Mom’s handwriting.
“Rani, eat the prasad. You have the day off. Lani and Colt are covering the store and restaurant with Auntie Maile and me. Mom.”
Yes!
It’s the first Saturday I’ll be free in months. Too bad I have no friends to go holoholo with me.
I dig into the prasad: strawberries and sweet cream. Delicious. Since kicking husband-God out, Mom’s restarted her daily sewa of her true Lord of the House, Thakorji. Service to Thakorji includes the offering of food and drink. I scrape up the last bits, relishing every bite. Yummy and holy, what could be better?
I wash and dry the prasad bowl and spoon and carefully place them in the kitchen drawer reserved for Mom’s Thakorji stuff. This drawer is a treasure chest of Thakorji paraphernalia. Miniature silver toys. Multi-colored cloth frame coverings with silver and gold trim. Matching clothes. Tiny sparkly jewelry. Deep burgundy and yellow velvet pillows. Silk blankets. All the makings of a luxurious hang out for her beloved Thakorji. Today I find a buried prize amidst the spoils. Partially hidden under a gadi, the bent, glossy edges of old photos jut out. Like a pirate, I claim my pictographical loot.
The first photo is of Mom and me. She’s wearing a gorgeous green silk sari with gold paisley print. Holding me. Gazing deep into my eyes. Smiling. I must be around two years old. I’m sitting on her lap, my arms wrapped tight around her slender neck, smiling back at her. We’re seated in front of Thakorji. Maybe she was in the middle of teaching me a prayer. I bring the photo closer and examine her eyes. There’s tenderness and love. I try to match my smile in the photo. My eyes get moist, thinking about life before Dad hijacked my childhood.
The next photo is of Mom, Lalita ba, and Sunil dada. Mom’s draped in a red sari, weighed down from all the intricate gold embroidery. It’s her wedding sari. She’s beautiful, with her neatly braided hair, layers of ornate gold and diamond jewelry, kohled eyes, and cryptic smile. I can’t take my eyes away from her loveliness. Her mangalsutra hangs around her neck.
The mangalsutra noose.
Lalita ba and Sunil dada are expressionless.
Hereditary poker face, huh, Mom?
Their faces were anything but blank the year I lived with them in Nairobi, Kenya. Dad sent me there when I turned six because he didn’t want to do the extra parenting while Mom took a year-long intensive computer technician prep course for General Electric. I frown, remembering that day on the JFK tarmac which I often relive in my dreams. Like this morning.
It was Lalita ba who first introduced me to strawberries and cream prasad and the intricacies of Thakorji worship in their small Nairobi apartment. She told me that she’d learned the rituals from her mom, Agneya ba. She also told me what happened to Agneya ba. Even though I was only six years old I remember every detail of her description.
Mom spent her childhood in those cramped quarters with Lalita ba, Sunil dada, and her two younger brothers. Beatifically, I reflect on how Mom and I both experienced the hot, lazy afternoons there as children watching Lalita ba lead a gaggle of other bas in satsangs.
Sunil dada worked hard as a travel agent, but he really knew how to play. And when he played with me he practically turned into a kid himself. We laughed. We sang. We chased each other in a sprawling Nairobi city park. We went on adventures. My mind drifts to the day he and I danced with the Maasai in a random river on the outskirts of the city.
Then there was the feminism. On the car rides home from our exploits, he’d convert back into a grown up. Then he’d say some version of, “Rani, don’t get married. Get your education instead.” Thinking about his words, it’s pretty clear that Sunil dada was quite the champion of women’s rights for an old school Gujarati male. And that must’ve been radical in the culture back then. Come to think of it, seems like it still is.
That’s why it doesn’t make sense that he told Mom that “husband is God.” Especially since I’m sure he knew what happened to Agneya ba. I wonder if Lalita ba thought of Sunil dada as her God, along with Thakorji. My brows furrow and I shake my head.
The last photo is of Mom and Dad in front of our large, modern Connecticut house. I recall the view of the house from the bottom of the long, steep driveway. The same view I had each school day after stepping off the bus. With its sharp, angular design and frosty gray color, that house resembled big icicles at the start of winter. Growing more cold and rigid with time. I took this photo of them on the day we moved in. They bought it right after I got back from Kenya. Standing shoulder to shoulder with big grins, they look like a happy couple. But things got worse after we moved in. Much worse.
Mom worked longer hours than Dad. Sometimes she was gone overnight, fixing computers in other states. Many days I didn’t see her. She still did all the cooking and housework. She’d have meals prepared for Dad and me ahead of time. Dad didn’t lift a finger at home. By the time I turned eight, the shift in Mom’s life from full-time mom and housewife to full-time computer technician and housewife made her bitter and distant not only from Dad, but also from me. The closeness she and I once shared evaporated like the waters of Lake Nakuru in the Kenyan sun.
The nightmare from this morning surfaces in my head again. I drop my face into my palms, breathing deeply. I need to get out of my head, out of the past, and out of this house.
Hopping into the 4runner, the thrill of my free day builds. A full belly and a full tank of gas. Perfect combination for a drive east. Only thing missing—a girlfriend partner in crime. I wish and sigh. Driving alone, I’m left with my thoughts. Then again that’s nothing new.
Rani, my princess, I need you. Why do you need friends?
You’re gone, Dad. Stop commandeering my thoughts and dreams.
I pop in my The Devil Made Me Do It tape and fast forward to Break the Grip of Sha
me. Oscar Jackson, Jr, aka Paris, raps. I nod my head to the dope beat. I lip sync his socially conscious lyrics and try to zone out. I apply the words to my situation with my dad.
And eureka!
Ok, I’m not Archimedes, but I think I get it. I haven’t let go of him. He’s already let go of me and let Wendy in. I’m still clinging to him in my mind, so of course he’ll enter my thoughts and dreams.
With each mile east, I imagine cutting the cord connecting us. But by the time I get to Murphy’s beach at the 20-mile marker, I realize I can’t do it. I can’t sever the cord. Especially the strands of hope that maybe he’ll come back. How is it that he can so easily excommunicate me, but I can’t stop having faith in him? Even after everything he’s done?
I drive further east. The road becomes more narrow and winding. No signs of human civilization anywhere. The foliage grows lusher and more vibrant. I pretend I’m exploring some faraway land. Reaching the lookout, I pull over to the side of the road. From this vantage point, Halawa valley is picture perfect. The falls, deep in the mountains to the left, gush. To the right, the bright blue ocean purls the small curvy beach below. Everywhere else is intensely green.
I drive down into the valley and come to the end of the road. I park on the side, near the sandy path that leads to the beach. On the opposite side of the road, the stony skeleton of an old church overgrown with jungle, catches my eye. Every time I’m in Halawa valley I notice it. Like most people, I forget about the archaic remnants of the building as soon as I look away. But today I’m drawn. I cross the road and stand in front of the church, like I’m Dr. Henrietta Watson “India” Jones, the brilliant archaeologist sister Indiana Jones should have had. And I’ve stumbled upon a mysterious place of worship. A career-making find.
The ancient atmosphere fills me with awe. On each of the three steps leading in, I pause, and soak it all in. Inside there are only four partial walls with sky as the roof. Who prayed here long ago? If it was the original Native Hawaiian inhabitants of the valley, what did they think of western religion?
Sitting in the far right corner, I ease my head back against the wall and stare at the sky. The peacefulness makes me drowsy. Hoping for a nap I close my eyes.
Instead of sleep, I fall into distressing Dad-thoughts. Dad berating Mom to her face and behind her back to me. His continuous mocking of her dedication to daily prayer. How she relinquished her daily worship because of his derision. His scorn of Hinduism and all religion in general.
Rani, there is no God. If there is a God, why are there wars and starving people? Anyone smart is atheist.
Of course I wanted to be smart. So I didn’t believe in God. I believed in Dad.
Mom was raised to think husband is God. That’s why she followed and obeyed Dad. All along, through Dad’s words and actions and Mom’s lack thereof, haven’t they also raised me to believe that Dad is God?
How do you stop believing in God when He’s stopped believing in you?
I try to stop all the thoughts. I force myself to follow a gecko as it makes its way across the cracked cement foundation. I take my glasses off, fold them, and lay them on the ground. I thump my forehead with my lower palm. But I can’t shut off my brain. I’m breathing fast and shallow. I drag my legs up and wrap my arms around them. With my head on my knees, I sob.
I shut my eyes tight to try to contain the surge. At some point the tears stop. The first thing I see is blue. That’s when I realize I’m on my knees. My head lifted to the sky. My hands in prayer.
THE PROFESSOR AND ME
A small gray-brown mongoose took five in front of the Ho’olehua Post Office sign. It cocked its head in my direction. From its smug expression, I swear it was thinking, “You fell for it, sucka.” I leaped up from the sidewalk and shook my fist at it. “Beat it!” I shouted. Then I flipped it off. That’s right. I gave the finger to a mongoose. It deserved it.
Talking to a furry critter in a deserted parking lot—a new social low, even for me.
As it scurried away, I yelled, “Me and my decked out MC self got some place to be!” It turned its head back and smirked right before it disappeared into a bush. No joke.
Decked out? Fo’ sure. Baggy dark blue jeans sitting low on my hips. Now I ain’t in the Lo-Life gang, but I made sure the Polo name logo on the waistband of my black and white Ralph Lauren plaid boxers is clearly visible. XS cropped white male basher. My answer to the wife beater. Tummy showing, of course. XL gold hoop earrings. A couple of thick gold chains. A wide black belt with a gold buckle. Black Adidas high tops with gold stripes and insignia. And tonight my black nerd glasses add a special touch of mysterious intelligence. I hope. Salt-N-Pepa would approve. It’s all about Expression after all.
So you see, you four-legged hater, I’m MC Sutra in effect.
Darkness is descending so I check my Egyptian hieroglyphic design Swatch. Almost 7:00 p.m. No Professor in sight. I’m starting to feel ridiculous.
After I got home from Halawa valley, I spent the rest of the afternoon locked in my room listening to hip hop CDs. The goal was to lyrically overcome the emotional smorgasbord from the morning. I emerged a couple of hours later all Bobby McFerrin. By the time 5 o’clock rolled around, I was trying to figure out what to do until hot bread time. That’s when the 4eva Flowin’ audition resurfaced in my mind. Guess all the hours I’d spent immersed in beats and rhymes left me wanting to believe that something so good could be true. Besides, things couldn’t get any worse could they? I went back and forth for the next half hour.
In the end I couldn’t resist. I had to see for myself whether or not 4eva Flowin’ was real. Maybe it was the mystifying moments in Halawa. Or maybe it was something else. But I decided to take a chance.
I check my Swatch again. 7 p.m. I crumple my face. Five more minutes. That’s it. Then I’m leaving. Defeated.
I haven’t seen a single car or truck pass by since I got to Ho’olehua. This town is almost in the middle of the island. There’s lots of land here but very little development. It’s where MHIS, the airport, and most of the Hawaiian homestead lands are. I take in the view. From where I’m sitting at the post office, all I can see is undeveloped land for miles intersected by two roads. I use the peace and quiet to run through the lyrics of my bravado rap, “Girl in Effect.” Just in case.
Half way through, a lifted black Toyota 4runner with tinted windows pulls up. The driver’s side window comes down. It’s Pono.
“MC Sutra,” he calls out, his arm resting on the chrome window sill. He gives me a chin-up.
“Pono?”
“Naw, call me Prof. Short for Professor P. Get in,” he says, motioning with his hand.
Pono usually gets dropped off at school because his mom’s a teacher at Kualapu’u Elementary School near MHIS. I’ve never seen him driving. I’m impressed. His sweet ride is tricked out. The powerful headlights provide enough illumination to catch a glimpse of the chrome-plated suspension, rims, and foot rail. I spring up and climb into his truck. The inside’s immaculate. And the bass is kickin’. L’Trimm would approve because they like the Cars That Go Boom. So do I. He’s got the new Public Enemy CD cranked up. He turns on the dome light and fiddles with some buttons on the center console. The bass gets heavier. Bobbing my head to the wicked beats and rhymes, I inspect his bumpin’ stereo system. I envy the bobblehead doll on his dashboard. I look back and notice a small Hawaiian flag sticker on the lower right corner of the rear window.
Clearly he’s spent much of his hard-earned cash on this truck. But thankfully not on naked woman silhouette stickers or fuzzy dice.
“Surprised?” he asks with a mischievous smile as he flips his black L.A. Raiders snapback. No board shorts. No tank top. No slippahs. I didn’t think he could look any better, but woah. In his oversized black hoodie with the sizable image of an ali’i crowned in a red and yellow mahiole, baggy jeans, and Timberland boots, the boy looks super fly. Super duper fly.
Did I mention he looks really good? And I’m feeling all
tingling, like someone’s tickling me under my skin. The same way I feel when I hear Push It. Rubbing my sweaty palms on my jeans I recall the words of my lyrical muses, Salt-N-Pepa.
I want to giggle! I roll my eyes instead and reply, “No, not at all. An underground hip hop crew on Moloka’i? That makes perfect sense. And you in it? That’s a no-brainer.”
He laughs. “But fo’ real, this was the hardest secret to keep. At school, I wanted to holler, ‘Yo Sutra, I’m an MC too!’”
“And to think I wasn’t going to show up,” I say, shaking my head.
He reaches up to turn off the dome light. His fingers brush my shoulder.
“You won’t regret it. Guaranteed.” Now the light is off, and we’re sitting in the dark. The moonlight hits his face at the right angle. He’s looking at me and his eyes Stir It Up Bob Marley style. My heart beats a little faster. I turn my head towards him but he looks away real quick, focusing out the windshield. We pull out of the parking lot onto the main road.
“Where are we going?” I’m working hard to not let myself think about his eager eyes.
“The A-frame at Pala’au. There’ll be about ten or so other 4eva Flowin’ crew there tonight to judge. You nervous?”
“This new jack is hella nervous.”
“No worry, you get ‘em. Besides, MC DVus told me your slam poem was something else. Your rap can’t be that bad,” he says. I’m pretty sure he winked.
Who’s MC DVus? And how does he know about my slam poem?
“If you make it onto the crew, you’ll get to perform at the monthly 4eva Flowin’ hip hop jam at Mo’omomi.”
“Cool,” I say, trying to be just that. But my excitement is growing like Jack’s beanstalk.
“You ever been to Mo’omomi?”
“Over a year ago, with my dad on a Nature Conservancy hike.” I pause, contemplating how on earth a hip hop event takes place on a 921-acre coastal dune preserve. “But isn’t Mo’omomi considered sacred by Native Hawaiians?”
