by Shashi Bhat
She would tell them to the wall, she decided through her tears, share her emotions with the wall next to her bed. She began to speak out loud, hysterically, in almost-gibberish, thinking in a rush of thoughts, going bananas, you are going bananas, and the only one left to hear you is the wall.
Ravi waited for a moment in the open doorway. She man- aged to catch only a glimpse of his too-short pants as he hurried away, the ill-fitting clothes a reminder that not much had changed. She went back to crying, softer now, stopping finally when she heard sirens like babies crying, approaching their house. Then she heard a doorbell. And an insistent knocking. Wiping her face with her palm, Mira went hesitantly to answer it, a little afraid.
On the front step, a policeman greeted her. Ravi came nearby, his face lit up because he was especially fond of policemen, who had once rescued him when he’d wandered lost around a shopping mall.
“My mom?” Mira said. A car crash, she thought. It must be.
“We’re just checking on a call,” he said it as a question.
It took Mira four seconds to understand what had happened. She clutched her brother’s shirtsleeve now with fierce affection, knowing that Ravi had seen her, had run to the telephone, and had dialed, just as she had instructed him to do if anything ever seemed beyond their own abilities to fix what was wrong: 9-1-1.
“It’s fine, we’re fine,” she tried to explain to the police officer, wiping her face, gasping as she resumed crying. Out on the driveway, the siren sound had been shut off, but the red lights remained, flashing through the soundless neighbourhood.
The Family Took Shape
GAMES WITH RAVI tended to crescendo to his turn. On occa-sional weekday nights, Mira and Ravi and their mother played Scrabble. They unfolded the board and each reached blindly into the bag of shaken letters. Mira and her mother would hold their breaths and mute the television when Ravi formed words. “c-a-r,” he had spelled the last time, fumbling the letters over their squares. “Car? Is that the best word you can make, Ravi?” their mother asked. Mira glanced at his letters and then took back “car” and replaced it with “charting,” building off a letter “g” that was already on the board, and managing to locate it over the triple-word-score square.
On long drives, they played twenty questions. Mira’s mother would choose something easy — the steering wheel, the green clock numbers — which Mira would guess in three questions. Mira tried hard on hers. The last time she’d had to provide them with a hint after fifteen fruitless inquiries: “It’s intangible.” Still nobody could guess, so she had to tell them, “frustration,” and her mother said, “Ohh, frustraaaation, how do you expect us to get that? Come on Mira. Now I am really frustrated.”
When Ravi went, Mira and her mother asked more than twenty questions. Finally, “Is it outside the window?” Mira asked, and they looked out at the empty sidewalks, the emerald-coloured highway signs and the short glass office buildings. He answered yes, but they couldn’t figure it out even after he tried explaining. Whatever Ravi had chosen, it was something he’d spotted before they’d even begun playing, before the slow lurches of the traffic jam — something outside the window from which they’d long since driven away.
LALA AUNTY HAD signed Ravi up for a bowling league, even though he should have been past games by now, even though what he needed was not bowling, which would have no effect on either his economic situation or his weight problem. He needed a proper job. She had come into their kitchen, pulled a pamphlet out from her triangle-shaped purse and placed it on the counter. Mira’s mother was dicing tomatoes, lamenting that the knife wasn’t sharp enough — “You need a serrated knife,” advised Lala Aunty — so Mira, sitting on a stool next to the counter, snacking on stolen, dripping tomato pieces, grabbed the pamphlet with her free hand. She read the slogan on the front — “Let me win, but if I cannot win, let me be brave in the attempt.” Underneath was a picture of a man with Down’s syndrome, about to fling a bowling ball towards the camera. The pamphlet’s earnestness embarrassed her.
“Ravi is very special, and so he is perfectly suited to the Spe- cial Olympics. It will be good for his self-image. And bowling! I know he would be good at it,” said Lala Aunty, who had begun searching through the freezer for who knows what.
“I’ll take a look at it when I get a chance,” said Mira’s mother.
Special Olympics, thought Mira, as though the real Olym- pics weren’t already special.
Lala Aunty was pulling everything out from their freezer and putting it back in again. “You need a vacuum sealer,” she said. “I will get you one. Then the vegetables, they stay fresh.” The problem with letting Lala Aunty in your kitchen, thought Mira, was that afterwards, everything possessed a new order. She rearranged the spice jars, switching the places of the cumin and fennel seeds, and at least twice now, Mira’s mother had tossed a handful of the wrong one into her frying pan. Lala Aunty shelled the pistachios, encroaching on Mira’s single great food-related pleasure, of using her nails to snap open the smooth, dusty shells. She left the crack-prone glassware in the lower rack of the dishwasher, the kettle in the cupboard instead of on the counter, the broom upside-down against the wrong wall, and, walking past, hand on wall, Ravi had once received an unexpected handful of dust.
Mira knew Ravi would end up joining the bowling league. Her mother had started using a Brita pitcher when Lala Aunty had made disparaging remarks about Toronto tap water; she’d purchased Clairol when Aunty found grey in her pony-tail; she’d had an unnecessary talk with Mira after Aunty said that nowadays kids really did start having sex at fourteen. Mira was seventeen now, and though it had been a year and a half since she and Nathaniel had ended, there was no chance of her having sex any time soon.
Lala Aunty’s influence spilled from mere kitchen arrange-ment into actual mealtimes. She would stay and make them dinner, some gross concoction of broccoli and breadcrumbs, for example, or a mess of carrots and cream of wheat. “You’re eating with Aunty, today!” she would exclaim, Eating with Aunty being the name of the radio show she still hosted, which she aimed to work into conversations. Even on those nights when Lala Aunty didn’t stay for dinner (she had many social events to attend), Mira’s mother would cook her recipes. Mira would come home from Cynthia’s and see her mother sitting on the window seat under the half-circle window, listening to Eating with Aunty, writing down a recipe. Out the window, the vegetable garden remained unplanted even though the season approached late spring.
“We should plant vegetables,” Mira said.
“Uncle said he would pick up some seeds for us,” said her mother, pencil in mouth, getting up to check the fridge for ingredients.
“We should do it ourselves,” Mira said.
“This recipe actually sounds okay,” said her mother. “No, not okay, it sounds delicious, and isn’t it funny how Lala sounds exactly the same in her radio show as she does when she’s at our house? I mean, I suppose that isn’t strange, because why should she sound different?”
“You don’t even cook,” said Mira.
“I cook you dinner almost every day,” her mother said, taking the pencil out of her mouth, turning to look at her. Mira glanced down at the slanting words of the recipe — turmeric powder, colocasia leaves.
Six years earlier, in a whim of generosity, Mira had baked her brother a flat birthday cake. She’d hidden it in her closet, covering it with a clean dishtowel. It was the first time she had used the oven on her own. She worried someone would detect the smell of warm chocolate and find its source. The next after-noon, on his birthday, she was up in her room and heard them all come home, and, heart palpitating, anticipating the glorious surprise — “Mira, you made this? That’s so nice of you. Ravi, isn’t this a beautiful cake?” — she removed the dishtowel (only a little frosting had stuck to it) and carried it down the stairs, turning the corner to the kitchen, only to see them all — Ravi, her mother, Lala Aunty —
lighting the candles on an ice cream cake, which it was clear Lala Aunty had purchased (“Wasn’t this nice of Lala Aunty, Ravi? Ice cream cake, your favourite,” said her mother), and Mira ran back up the stairs, her amateur cake attempt nearly falling to pieces in her hands. She stashed it in her closet and went and sang happy birthday with the rest of them, and grinned and stood for photos and helped rinse the plates for the dishwasher. That night, she went back up to her room and hid the evidence of her cake by eating it, high frosting and all, and since she couldn’t risk sneaking a fork, she ate it with her hands (like a barbarian, she thought), though she couldn’t finish the whole thing, so she wrapped what was left in the dishtowel and buried it in the garbage can, making sure to drop an old banana peel on top to minimize chances of the cake’s discovery.
RAVI HAD BEEN searching for work for six months now, since he had turned nineteen and left high school. The grocery store where he’d pushed carts had switched owners and let him go.
In the kitchen again, Lala Aunty, Mira, and her mother had examined a printed draft of Ravi’s resumé.
“Can we cut the Objective to get it down to two pages?” said Mira.
“Yes, does he need an Objective? Isn’t that the old style?” said Mira’s mother.
“Objective — who cares? It is the personality that is most important,” said Lala Aunty. “His personality must shine from this piece of paper. It must literally shine.”
“Literally?” asked Mira, but Lala Aunty ignored her.
“Reading this, they should see his warmth, his helpfulness, his good nature.”
They had been editing and proofreading and cutting and building the resumé, which described Ravi’s one job experience. The rest of the space was filled with a list of times he had helped out at Lala Aunty’s dinner parties by making runs to the Indian store, and with adjectives describing him (“warm,” “helpful,” “good-natured”).
He had been trying to find a job, trying with an obsessive zeal. His resumé came in three different renditions. He left the house at eight each morning and drove around Richmond Hill and the surrounding area, dropping copies at the customer service desk of every grocery store and Shoppers Drug Mart and every coffee shop and anywhere he saw a help wanted sign. The problem was that no matter how they dressed up his resumé, he couldn’t make it through an interview. Though Lala Aunty coached him before each interview and grilled him afterwards about the questions, he simply couldn’t articulate his “greatest strength” and “greatest weakness,” and he did even worse at the questions about specific work situations — “What would you do if a customer didn’t have enough money and harassed you for a discount?” “What would you do if you caught someone stealing?” Employers doubted he could work a register. They said as much when Lala Aunty, angry at each failed interview, phoned up the company and demanded to know the reasons behind his rejection. “You are making a big mistake, let me tell you,” she said, huffing and puffing, wagging her finger as though they could see her.
They realized now that despite its trials, school had been a cushion for Ravi. In his former nightly four-hour homework period, he now watched two hours of game shows and sitcom reruns and then went outside and repeatedly circled the block on his bicycle.
DESPITE HER FIXATION with Mira’s household, Lala Aunty did have her own family, which consisted only of her husband. And despite Mira’s irritation with Lala Aunty, she was fasci-nated by Uncle, and visited him every other week. Whenever she went over to their house, he would offer her an apple or an orange and then invite her to sit on their sofa and eat it in front of him. While she ate, biting or sectioning, he would speak to her in English spotted with Hindi. Occasionally he recited Sanskrit verse, gesturing so spectacularly that his hands would catch in his long, white hair. He had been an adjunct Sanskrit lecturer in some distant past life. He often offered her a glass of fruit punch — his preferred beverage — never failing to mention that the word “punch” came from the Sanskrit “panch,” meaning “five.” “Five fruits!” he would tell her, and she would nod. She had only just discovered from her mother that his name was Rajgopal. But nobody ever called him that. Everybody called him Uncle, including his own wife.
“Uncle wants to know if he can help with the gardening this spring,” “Uncle would like to find out if Ravi has an email address,” “Uncle asks what type of apple, Mira, you prefer,” were all past inquiries Lala Aunty had related from her husband. That was how their garden bloomed with peren-nial tulips, how Ravi learned to send birthday ecards, and how Mira grew weary of Honeycrisp apples (though she kept eating them, to be polite).
When Aunty brought Uncle with her to social outings, he tended to amble around behind her without saying much. Sometimes he would find a chair, place himself in it, and just watch his wife as she took over other people’s kitchens. She would toss her body around the room, zipping over the tile floor like a cartoon, the end of her stylish selwar kameez lingering for a second in the air before following her.
UNCLE FOLLOWED AUNTY when the family went bowling together the first time. Before entering, they all stood uncer-tainly under the sign that said Superbowling, unsure if it was open. Inside, the place was empty, except for one attendant, and the lights were all off except above their lane. The twenty-five-cent candy machines were covered with a skin of grime.
“I will not be playing,” Uncle assured them. “I will merely be in this plastic area, reading my book.” He pointed at the orange plastic chairs and cozied himself into one, opening up a pocket-sized volume of the Bhagavad Gita to a yellow page.
“Excuse me, no street shoes allowed,” called the attendant from up near the shoe rentals.
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir!” Uncle hastily removed his shoes. One of his socks showed a large hole, and he placed one foot over the other to cover it.
Ravi put his rented shoes on, and sat next to Uncle.
“These shoes don’t go together!” said Ravi.
“No, dear, it’s just the laces that don’t match,” Aunty told him. She began to help him tie his laces, even though, at nine-teen years old, thought Mira, he certainly knew how to do up his own shoes.
Mira’s mother took her turn first, then Mira, then Aunty, and finally Ravi. When Mira went up, she picked the first ball on the shelf and it proved much too heavy for her. With two hands, she propelled it across the lane and then hurried away without waiting to see how many pins she’d knocked over. She didn’t like the feeling of all of the others behind her and watching, felt suddenly sure that everyone was looking at her rear end.
“Since when do Indian people go bowling?” Mira asked.
“Being Indian has nothing to do with it!” Lala said.
It did have a little to do with it, thought Mira. For example, Lala Aunty probably shouldn’t have worn a selwar. She was having trouble figuring out how to wrap her silk shawl behind her so it didn’t disrupt her bowling technique. Lala Aunty prepared for her turn by lifting each available bowling ball and testing its weight, passing it between her hands and making exaggerated eyebrow movements. She checked if it fit her fingers, removing her two garish rings and setting them next to Uncle. She chose a ball that glinted neon pink as it travelled slowly and without aim down the striped wood. When she hit a single pin, she jumped up and down and gave Ravi a high five. Her second ball headed straight for the gutter. HA! thought Mira, meanly, in her head.
“Oh, darn!” said Lala Aunty. She collected her rings and playfully stole Uncle’s book. “Why did you come with us if you are not going to watch?”
“I came to see the young Ravi,” he said. He held his hand out for the book.
“You’re up, Ravi,” Aunty patted his back. Ravi lumbered forward and picked up the heaviest bowling ball with no effort at all. Aunty shouted useless directions at him. “Keep your eye on those little arrows. Just like Arjuna’s arrows in the Mahabharat.”
“Well, not really,
” said Uncle.
Ravi pulled the ball back with one hand and dropped it in front of him. Its path was perfect from the second he let go.
THAT EXACT MOMENT, the moment when the bowling ball left his hand, was the beginning of Ravi’s winning streak. Mira and her mother tried to accompany Ravi to his first practice with the local Special Olympics bowling league, but a man wearing an aquamarine-and-black bowling shirt met Ravi right at the door and shooed the two of them away. When he came home from a practice two weeks later with a ribbon, Mira’s mother took it from his hand and looked at it, holding the ribbon up from one satin corner, then asked uncertainly, “Should we put it on the fridge? No, we should buy a frame, right?” and Ravi clapped his hands together at this bright idea. So they framed the ribbon and nailed it to the wall of Ravi’s bedroom, next to a poster of a yellow Lexus. His luck in bowling transferred into other things — his skin seemed slightly clearer, he lost ten pounds. His laughter seemed easy, natural, uncompulsive. When anybody asked him how he was, he’d say, “I’m doing pretty good!” After one match, he came home and told Mira and her mother, “My friends all were cheering for me!” and Mira realized it was quite possible nobody had ever cheered for him before, and more than that, he’d never had friends before. Afterwards, she and her mother and Lala Aunty would ask him often, “How are your friends?” and every time he’d say, “They’re cool guys and girls. They’re good friends of mine.”
