A Group of One

by Rachna Gilmore

  Normy wanders in, stares unblinkingly at Naniji, then turns her back and waddles away contemptuously, gut swaying from side to side. Way to go, Normy!

  It’s uncanny, looking at Maya in Naniji’s lap. They’re so alike—the same wide forehead, firm mouth, small straight nose, the same solid cheeks and strong chin. Every feature is deliberately and carefully in the right place, and they both have the same direct, see-everything gaze.

  Mom puts the jug of juice on the table and starts the pancakes.

  “Need help, Ro?” asks Dad.

  “No thanks, love. I can manage. You sit and talk to Mummyji.”

  The traditional womanly thing! Oh, vomit! That’s a first for Mom.

  Nina bounces in and sits down.

  “Fresh-squeezed juice? Mmm. How wonderful, Mother.”

  Nina? What the heck? I stare at her, but she doesn’t even notice.

  Naniji starts asking Nina and me questions about school and stuff. I answer as briefly as possible, my tone scrupulously polite but unmistakably dismissive. Dad frowns, but I ignore him. I haven’t forgotten the last few weeks. I haven’t forgotten what Mom told me about her.

  Naniji raises her eyebrows slightly, but turns to Nina.

  I watch Mom. She’s actually following a recipe in The Joy of Cooking. I wait for her to fling in something bizarre, but she measures everything carefully, and the pancakes are perfect.

  “Delicious, Rohini,” says Naniji. “You know, I’ve only read about pancakes and maple syrup, but I’ve never had them before. Your mummyji is a wonderful cook—isn’t she, girls?”

  Beam, beam, all round, even Maya. What is this—an episode of Leave It to Beaver? I squint at Nina, What the heck are you doing? She mouths What? and turns away, scowling.

  Naniji looks at me penetratingly. I raise my eyebrows and stare back. This is my house, lady, you’re not going to intimidate me.

  She swallows, and manufactures a fake smile. “I hear you play an instrument, Tara. It’s the violin, isn’t it? Your daddyji says you’ve been practicing a lot lately.”

  “Mmm,” I grunt.

  “It’s an invaluable skill, learning to play an instrument. When I was your age I played the sitar. It still gives me great pleasure.” She turns to Dad. “Do the girls know sitar music?”

  Dad shifts uncomfortably. “No, no, they don’t.”

  Naniji’s face is carefully neutral, but she’s blinking too hard. She’d better not try that superior Indian stuff here.

  “I’m afraid there aren’t any competent sitar teachers in Ottawa, to our knowledge,” says Mom, with a hint of her British accent.

  Yeah, right! Mom wouldn’t know a competent sitar player if she fell over one.

  Mom continues, “It’s a most difficult instrument, girls. Your naniji is quite accomplished. It’s a shame you couldn’t bring it here, Mummyji.”

  I almost choke on my pancake. Dad’s the only one in the family who actually likes sitar music—Mom says it sounds like dying cats.

  Naniji smiles politely. “Never mind. But I would like to hear you play, Tara. Will you play something for me after breakfast?” Her tone is polite but commanding.

  “I’m afraid I don’t perform for strangers,” I say, smoothly.

  Naniji twitches. Her eyes flash.

  Dad’s face ripples with shock. “Tara,” he snaps. “That is out of line.”

  Mom’s laugh is measured and controlled. “You know how children are about playing in front of others, Mummyji.”

  Children! I glare at her.

  Naniji says, “It’s all right. I’d forgotten how I used to feel when people asked me to play when I was that age.” But she doesn’t look at me again.

  Nina pipes up. “I’ll play you something. I still know some piano pieces pretty well.”

  She’s such a freaking Judas! Anyway, the only piece she still plays is “Thunder and Lightning,” because it’s hideously noisy.

  “That will be lovely, Nina.”

  I push my chair away from the table, scraping it harshly.

  “I’m going out for a bit. See you later.”

  “Tara, dear, your naniji just got here.” There’s a warning edge to Mom’s gracious voice. “Don’t you think you should spend some time at home?”

  For a fraction of a second I teeter on the brink of bite me, but I don’t particularly want to be grounded for life.

  Naniji says, “No, Rohini, please. I don’t want anyone to change their lives because of me. But before you go, Tara, I want to give you some little things I picked up for you.”

  She glides to the hallway and down the stairs.

  I roll my eyes. Mom darts me a furious look.

  Dad says thinly, “Tara, watch it.”

  In a way it’s awful seeing that look in his eyes—hurt and angry. Well, tough. I cross my arms tight. I’m not joining this pathetic little charade.

  When Naniji comes back up the stairs, she puts small packages on the table. Very small. Nina’s eyes gloom over. Ha! The bubble’s burst for her. I bet whatever it is stinks.

  “This is for you, Rohini,” Naniji hands Mom two packages. “And for you Raj, Nina, my little Maya, and Tara.”

  We all get two, even Dad, but she barely looks at me as she gives me mine. They’re hard and knobbly, wrapped up in magenta tissue paper. I unfold the smaller package. Dangling pearl earrings.

  Mom gasps, “Oh, Mummyji, they’re beautiful.” She’s gaping at diamond earrings and six gold bangles.

  “Oh, how gorgeous,” squeaks Nina. She has red earrings and two silver bangles.

  I open my other package. Two silver bangles. Maya has small gold earrings and silver bangles. Dad has a pair of gold cuff links.

  “Thanks, Naniji,” squeals Nina. “I just love them. What kind of stone is it?”

  Turns out it’s rubies.

  “Papaji’s watch,” says Dad, in a funny voice.

  Maya gives Naniji a big hug and a noisy smack on the cheek.

  “Mummyji, we can’t let you do this,” says Mom. “It’s far too extravagant.”

  Naniji smiles. With the eyes as well as the lips, this time. “It’s my pleasure. I’m so glad you like it.”

  I have to admit, my pearl earrings are really gorgeous. Small, but beautiful. Exuding good taste and discretion—like Naniji. Like our gaggy little family.

  Mom hesitates a fraction of a second, then hugs Naniji. Naniji pats Mom’s back awkwardly, almost in the way guys do.

  When the orgy of gushing and thank-yous is out of the way, I say flatly, “Thank you. The earrings are beautiful and so are the bangles.”

  “You’re welcome, Tara. I’m glad you like them.” Naniji hesitates, then reaches over and squeezes my hand.

  Her hand is surprisingly soft, yet firm. It’s as though she’s saying I know and also It’s okay.

  Somehow, that just makes me madder.

  Formidable is right.

  CHAPTER 12

  “You’re nuts, Tara,” says Erin. “She gives you pearl earrings and you see that as being subversive? And why the heck aren’t you wearing them? I want to see them. And your bangles.”

  I sigh. We’re in her room, sprawled on her bed. Erin’s room is a total pigsty as usual—clothes everywhere, crusts of bread with rainbow shades of mold—but I had to get away from my house.

  “You just don’t understand. She’s so … so … it’s like she’s taken us over. You should see Mom. She’s the most nauseating mixture of Marmee-Smarmy and Martha Stewart.”

  Erin lets out a crack of laughter. “But it’s always different when you have visitors. It doesn’t matter who it is, you have to adjust. It’s the same here, when my grandmother visits, or Mom’s sisters.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Listen to your yeah but, yeah but. You’re weird, Tara Mehta. If anyone gave me pearl earrings, they could take over my home anytime.”

  “But it doesn’t feel like home. Everyone’s so formal. Like we’re on show. It’s such a sham.” Oh God, I�
��m italicizing like Mom.

  “It won’t last long,” says Erin soothingly. “Everything’ll get back to normal in a day or two. Trust me, the bubble will burst.”

  I shake my head. “You don’t know. You haven’t met her.”

  When I finally go back home, late in the afternoon, Mom, Dad, Maya, and Nina are together in the living room. Still the perfect little magazine family, kids with shiny scrubbed faces—it’s like being trapped in one of those fun-house mirrors where everything is distorted.

  “Tara,” calls Mom, in her most sickening Marmee tone. “Come and join us.”

  “I’ve got homework.” I head towards my room.

  Mom catches up with me near the top of the stairs. “Tara, what is the matter with you?” she whispers.

  “Me? What’s the matter with you?”

  Mom raises her eyebrows. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”

  “All this, this fake, polite stuff. What’re you trying to do? Be the perfect, goody-goody Indian daughter-in-law?”

  Mom’s eyes flash fury. “I am merely trying to make her feel welcome, which, apparently, is more than you are.”

  “Hey, I’m not a hypocrite like you.”

  “It is not hypocrisy to be hospitable. If we all behaved like you, she’d leave in a day.”

  “Isn’t that what you really want?”

  “No, it is not.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, right. That’s such a lie. Everything about you is such a lie.”

  Mom grinds out the words: “It seems my concerns about confiding in you were entirely justified.”

  “Oh, please.” I almost spit. “I’m not influenced by anything you’ve said. If you weren’t being so—”

  Mom’s lips disappear. “She is your father’s mother, and if you had one iota of concern for anyone else, you’d stop behaving like a spoiled brat and try to make her feel at home.”

  My face flames. “I don’t care if she feels at home—I don’t feel at home.” I run up to my room and bang my door shut.

  Loser, loser, loser. All this time I’ve been supporting her, soothing her, and now she’s sold out to the enemy. We’re supposed to be united against her—the outsider.

  At dinnertime, they send Nina up. She smiles at me sympathetically and rubs my arm. “Mom and Dad said you have to come down.” Then, tentatively, “What’s wrong, Tara?”

  I shake my head in disbelief. “Only you would have to ask.”

  Nina’s smile fades. “What d’you mean?”

  “You and all that … gushy-wushy stuff with Naniji; you’re so—”

  Nina’s eyes slit. “Get a life, Tara.” She flounces off.

  Fine. Who needs her? I head downstairs, humming nonchalantly. I barely glance at Dad, who’s helping Mom dish up. I avoid all eye contact with Mom.

  Dinner’s in the dining room, of course. The best crystal and china, not to mention manners. Even the food is perfect. Indian—everything separate. I never thought I would be, but I’m actually nostalgic for Mom’s one-pot bhaji—at least it’s familiar.

  “What a lovely meal, Rohini, Raj. Your pullao is delicious, Raj. I didn’t know you could cook so well.”

  Ha! So Dad helped this time—I knew Mom couldn’t keep up the traditional thing for long.

  Dad shifts uncomfortably. “Well, here, with no servants, we try and share the work, so…”

  “Of course,” says Naniji, a shade too forcefully.

  Mom’s smile is fixed.

  As Naniji gathers a forkful of food, Dad says, “Please, Mummyji, use your hand if you prefer.”

  There’s a sudden pause.

  “Yes,” says Mom creamily. “No need to be formal.”

  The cutlery thing. Good!

  “No, this is fine.” Naniji smiles. “This is how you live, and when in Rome, you know.”

  Mom’s face is carefully neutral, but is she turning red?

  “What’s Rome got to do with it?” asks Nina.

  “It’s an expression,” says Naniji. “It’s actually When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Meaning you adapt to your hosts.”

  Dad glances uneasily at her, then at Mom.

  There’s a brief silence, then Naniji repeats, “This is really delicious, Rohini.”

  “Thank you,” says Mom.

  Naniji turns to me. “So—how did you get along with your homework, Tara?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  She continues determinedly. “Do you normally get a lot?”

  “Sometimes.” Hey, I can be just as determined.

  Mom and Dad fling eye-darts at me, but Naniji just starts talking to them about people Dad knew in New Delhi. Nina and Maya chip in with questions.

  I concentrate on my plate.

  Then Naniji slips into Hindi, talking to Dad.

  I see how Mom’s body tenses.

  Naniji looks at us. Another fake smile. “I know the girls don’t speak Hindi, but do they understand any?”

  Yes! Showdown!

  Dad says hastily, “No, no, they don’t.…”

  Mom’s tone is pleasant, but there’s a hint of iron under satin. “No, the girls are all in French Immersion, and Tara is considering Spanish, so it seems that their plates are pretty full.”

  Naniji’s face is expressionless. “Of course. After all, where would they use Hindi? And your parents didn’t speak Hindi to you when you were growing up.…” A slight pause before she continues, unconvincingly, “Not that it matters.…”

  Blood rushes to my face. Gabby and Gampy aren’t perfect, but I love them, and, okay, Mom’s a pain, and I’m mad at her, but …

  Mom flashes back sweetly, “No. My parents wanted our English as strong as possible, especially once we were living abroad.”

  “Of course,” says Naniji.

  Mom glances at Dad. It’s a blatant nudge.

  He blinks and clears his throat. “Yes, it’s perfectly natural.”

  The air’s thick with things unsaid. And, I’m guessing, things that once were said.

  Then Nina pipes up. “Say, Naniji, I’d like to learn Hindi. What’s Hindi for fart?”

  I want to stand up and cheer. Yes! Nina’s back to normal.

  “Nina!” says Mom in a properly horrified tone, as though we never utter the word, much less do it.

  “That’s not funny,” snaps Dad.

  Naniji says, “I think it’s preferable to learn words in context, Nina, don’t you?” She doesn’t seem shocked, but nor does she have even a glimmer of the laughter Gabby and Gampy have at Nina’s BFT.

  Nina subsides, half grinning, half squashed.

  “Prefra … Preferrra. What’s that word, Naniji?” asks Maya.

  “Preferable.” When Naniji looks at Maya, the smile is always genuine. “It means better.”

  Maya tilts her head to one side and thinks. Then says triumphantly, “It’s a better word for better. Preff-rable.”

  Naniji turns to Nina. “If you really want to learn Hindi, I’ll be very glad to teach you. That is, if your mother and father don’t mind.”

  Nina grins sheepishly and shrugs.

  “Mind?” Mom’s voice rises at least two octaves. “Certainly not. Why would we?”

  The dinner limps along to the end.

  Naniji gets up. “Now, Raj, Rohini, I insist on helping clear up. I’m also used to doing things, you know.”

  “I thought you had lots of servants,” says Nina.

  “Yes, I do have some, but these days in India, it’s hard to get good ones, so I’ve learned to take care of myself. And I don’t want your parents to wear themselves out for me.”

  “No, Mummyji,” says Dad. “Please, sit. I’m clearing. You just got here.”

  Naniji says, “Poor boy, you work all week, now you’re waiting on your mother.”

  Mom flushes scarlet, and Dad says quickly, “Rohini works, too, you know, so…”

  “Of course, of course, I didn’t mean…” says Naniji. “With Rohini working as well, it must be hard. Why don’t you let m
e do some cooking? Can I cook for you on weekdays?”

  “Oh, it really isn’t necessary,” says Mom hurriedly.

  “I didn’t mean…” says Dad.

  “Raj, please. Don’t treat me like a guest.”

  I almost snort out loud. Bit late for that.

  “Mummyji,” says Dad, “this is your holiday.”

  “Yes, and it’s already a break from my familiar routine. At home I sit on a few volunteer boards which take up a bit of my time, but here I have nothing. Of course, I don’t mean to interfere, but if I can help, it would give me pleasure.”

  I see the war in Mom’s eyes—primitive territoriality versus practicality.

  Dad looks at Mom, then says, “Well, Mummyji, if you insist.”

  Oh great! Now she’s taking over the cooking, too.

  “I’m a plain cook.” Naniji smiles. “I’m afraid I don’t make fancy things like your mummyji.”

  “Preff-ra-ble,” sings Maya.

  “I’m sure your naniji’s cooking is preferable to mine,” intones Mom.

  I can’t take it anymore, I just can’t. I have to burst this bubble, inject a dose of reality.

  I push my chair back. “Excuse me, please.”

  “We haven’t had dessert yet, Tara,” says Mom. She’s still mad, looking through me.

  I feel like saying, Who needs dessert? I’ve already overdosed on sweetness. But I say politely, “I’m afraid I don’t want any. I have a phone call to make, and it’s getting late.” Please let them ask who I’m calling.

  “Who do you have to call that can’t wait till tomorrow?” asks Dad.

  Yes!

  “Jeff. I promised I’d show him around this weekend.” I turn to Naniji. “Jeff’s my…” I pause deliberately. “… friend.”

  Naniji’s eyebrows rise, then fall again. She keeps her face carefully neutral, but her eyes swivel to Mom and Dad.

  Mom and Dad don’t even glance at Naniji, but I know what’s darting through their panic-stricken minds—what’s Naniji going to think of that? Do good little Indian girls have boyfriends?

  Flash! Exposed!

  “Tara,” says Dad, “I don’t know if you should be making plans…” He looks quickly at Naniji.

  Naniji lifts both hands. “Please. I want everyone to continue as usual. You have your lives and your way of doing things, and times have changed now.”