A Group of One

by Rachna Gilmore

“Oh, hi.”

  “Remember me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So how’re you doing?”

  “Okay. Fine.” I tuck my hair behind my ear.

  A long pause. Erin sighs. “What the hell’s gotten into you, Tar?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Hello. This is me, your best friend. Remember? Talk to me.”

  “I didn’t think you’d want to hear my problems.” I blink my eyes hard.

  “Boy, are you ever an idiot!” She’s half laughing.

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “You’re welcome. You asked for it.”

  “Thanks a lot again.”

  “You’re welcome again, dummy.”

  “Dummy to you, too.”

  “Yeah, well, double dummy to you.”

  We both shout together, “Dummy to the power of infinity.”

  The knot in my chest is starting to loosen.

  Erin says, “So, dummy to the power of infinity, how come you didn’t wait for me after school?”

  “How come you didn’t come by this morning?”

  “For God’s sake, I had band practice—it’s Monday.”

  “Oh! I forgot!”

  Erin clicks her tongue. “Like I said, double dummy to the power of infinity.”

  The knot is almost all gone.

  I hesitate, then say, “What about lunchtime? Did you really have to help Ms. Gelder, or—”

  “Of course I was helping her! You didn’t think…?”

  “Okay, okay! Just checking.”

  Erin sighs dramatically. Then casually, she says, “By the way, I thought I smelled something gooood as I walked past your house. What did your mother make this time?” She makes a slurping noise.

  I let out a crack of laughter. “Erin, you pig!”

  She’s laughing, too. “That’s me.” Her tone becomes pleading. “So what is it?”

  “It’s the grandmother. Samosas.”

  “Samosas!” moans Erin.

  “Okay, okay, come on over.”

  “You sure? Shouldn’t you ask her?”

  “Look, it’s my house. And do you, or do you not, want samosas?”

  “Hey, don’t get all bent out of shape. I’m coming. Love ya.” She makes a kissing noise and hangs up.

  I run downstairs, then stop outside the kitchen.

  I take a deep breath and pop my head around the door. “I just want you to know, I have a friend coming over.” My voice is carefully polite, but there’s no trace of asking in it.

  Naniji looks up and smiles. No, beams. A tidy, well-contained beam, but still a beam. “Of course.”

  “Can I have my friends over, too?” pipes up Nina.

  “Sure.” I flush, look defiantly at Naniji.

  “Of course,” says Naniji quickly. “Whatever your parents normally let you do.”

  Nina’s eyes glow. “They let me have anyone over.”

  “Then it’s fine with me.” Naniji smiles.

  “Thanks, Naniji.” Nina jumps up. “I’ll go call them.”

  “I’ve had two samosas, Tara,” says Maya.

  I give her a big kiss, then run outside to wait for Erin. As I reach the bottom of the driveway, she comes tearing up. We hug each other.

  “I’m sorry,” I wail. “I was such an idiot.”

  “Aww! I’m sorry, too,” says Erin.

  I squeeze her hard. “But it was more my fault.”

  Erin pokes me. “Okay, I’ll give you that.”

  Then we’re inside, and Naniji is shaking hands with Erin and ushering us into the kitchen.

  There’s a big plateful of samosas on the table, along with some green chutney.

  This feels so strange. Why is Erin standing around, instead of diving in?

  Naniji indicates the plate. “Please.”

  As Erin takes a samosa, I slowly reach for one, too. Am I caving in?

  “Oh, this is fabulous,” breathes Erin. She looks like she’s having a spiritual experience.

  “It’s good,” I say, awkwardly. There are potatoes and peas and some spice—cumin, I think—that’s just right. And the green chutney is minty and garlicky and pretty terrific.

  “Fabulous,” says Maya, watching Erin with complete and utter fascination. She half closes her eyes and tilts her head back, just like Erin.

  I laugh.

  “I’m so glad,” says Naniji. She looks genuinely pleased—as Mom does when we like something she’s cooked.

  “You’ll have to tell me the kinds of after-school snacks you like, so I can make them.”

  I look sharply at her. How long is she staying, anyway? And is Mom going to work late every night while she’s here?

  Nina comes running into the kitchen. “I have a bunch of kids coming over, okay, Naniji?”

  “Of course.” Another beam.

  I grab my chance.

  “Come on, Erin, let’s go to my room.” I take a small plateful of samosas and we head upstairs. Erin smiles widely at Naniji and says thank you.

  “Hey, she’s not that bad,” says Erin after I shut my door. “Kind of stiff, maybe, a bit old-worldish, but basically okay.”

  I ruffle Erin’s wiry hair. “Yeah, well, you’d sell your soul for samosas.”

  Erin thwacks me, but picks up another samosa. “Come on, admit it, what’s to hate?”

  I sigh. “Okay, okay, I don’t know. I guess I don’t actually hate her—but what’s to like? She may not be a total monster, but…”

  “Big of you.” Erin grins.

  “Hey, I’m not a stomach like you—a few samosas aren’t going to win me over like … like a heathen converted to the light.”

  Erin bursts out laughing.

  I start laughing, too.

  CHAPTER 15

  After Erin leaves I take out the pearl earrings. I hesitate, then try them on. They are exquisite, as Maya says—I guess it doesn’t hurt to leave them on. I make a face at my reflection, then pop on my gracious smile.

  When I go down, Mom, Dad, and Naniji are yakking away in the kitchen, while Naniji stirs something on the stove. So she’s cooking dinner, too.

  Naniji notices right away. “Thank you for wearing the earrings, Tara. They look beautiful on you.”

  I flush. She makes it sound like I’ve done her the favor.

  Mom kisses me and strokes my cheek. “Lovely, sweetie,” she says.

  Even Dad smiles approvingly. I feel a pinprick of irritation, but I can’t be bothered to react.

  When we sit down to eat—in the kitchen, because Naniji insists we carry on as normal—the dinner is perfect. A chick-pea curry, rice, a cauliflower-and-potato bhaji, and a green-bean bhaji. All separate. And chapatis. Actual chapatis, perfectly round. Mom never makes them, because they’re too much work.

  “Oh, this is delicious,” says Dad, visibly relaxing. “Sour chick-peas—my favorite when I was little.” He takes a huge portion.

  Naniji glows. “See, I remembered. I remember everything.”

  Mom says, “How nice. We both do so appreciate you cooking.”

  Did she say that a shade too brightly, or am I just being paranoid?

  “My pleasure,” Naniji says, smiling.

  “Pleashure,” says Maya, eyes fixed on Naniji.

  The chick-pea curry is good—it has surprising chunks of tomatoes and onion in it, but, unlike the stuff Mom flings in, they actually belong there.

  Nina raves on and on about it, and I feel my body relax as Naniji’s food works its magic on me. Whaddya know, I’ve gone mellow. Naniji must’ve put something in the food. Hash. Ha! I’ll have to tell Mom later. But perhaps, the way she is now, she wouldn’t find it funny.

  I catch something Naniji is saying.

  “… he interviewed me about it.”

  Dad says, “I’m glad. Papaji’s contribution shouldn’t be forgotten. Or yours.” He glances uneasily at Mom, who is smiling stiffly.

  What? What did I miss?

  Naniji tears a portion of chapati and wraps it around
some cauliflower. I wonder if Mom’s noticed that Naniji is now eating with her hands.

  “I don’t know if we need yet another book about the Independence struggle, but I think this one is more personal history rather than all the facts. You know…” She says something to Dad in Hindi, then catches herself, looks at Mom, and says in English, “All the little-little things that don’t make the textbooks, the costs to personal life.”

  Mom’s jaw tightens. She carefully loads her fork with rice.

  Nina pipes up, “My grandfather’s going to be in a book? And you? Cool. What kinds of things did you do? I know he went to jail and stuff, but…” She glances at me, then away.

  I stifle my grin and spear some beans.

  Maya chips in, “He was a hero. Dad said.”

  Naniji sits straighter. “Yes, his whole family suffered terribly, but they followed Gandhiji’s ideals, even when it wasn’t convenient. Three years he spent in jail. Three. And his father, your great-grandfather, he was in and out of jail—nine years in total!”

  One little, two little, do I hear three little jailbirds? I shove a large forkful of food into my mouth to choke down my laughter.

  “Why? What was the reason?” Nina blurts out.

  Naniji’s voice is startled. “Don’t they know?”

  Dad swallows hastily. “Yes, yes, of course they do. I’ve told them about the Independence movement, and Papaji being jailed. But they don’t know all the specifics, maybe.”

  “I see.” Naniji’s lips are tight.

  Here she goes again!

  Nina says, “Dad’s hopeless with details, Naniji.” She puts down her fork. “Why was my grandfather arrested?”

  “Civil disobedience.” Naniji’s face is calm, proud. I fleetingly remember Mom saying something about the high moral ground. “The laws were terrible, unjust—the whole British rule, their presence in our country, it was wrong. And Gandhiji taught us that the right thing to do with injustice was to oppose it.” Naniji raises her eyebrow disdainfully. “So we boycotted British goods, and we refused to obey their unjust laws. Tilak, your grandfather, was arrested for picketing a shop carrying foreign cloth from England.”

  I stop, fork midway to mouth.

  “Why foreign cloth?” asks Nina.

  For once I’m glad she asks. I kind of want to know, too, but there’s no way I’m acting all interested.

  Dad chips in, “Because it took away work from Indian spinners and weavers, the cottage industries, and the profits ended up in England.”

  I look from Dad to Naniji. She’s his mother—they don’t look anything alike, but they have this shared history. I tear off a piece of chapati and chew it slowly.

  “That’s right,” says Naniji. “Before the British rule, we used to export textiles.”

  Mom says deliberately, as though reciting a lesson, “Yes, I remember my father saying that the British didn’t come to India because it was poor, but because it was fabulously wealthy.”

  There’s a funny look in Naniji’s eyes—sort of surprised, but guarded. Mom flushes.

  “Exactly,” says Naniji. “But they completely bled us dry. They sent our cotton over to England, to make work for their people, and brought it back to sell at huge profits.” Naniji squares her shoulders. “So we boycotted all foreign goods.”

  Her face—it’s like she’s fully awake for the first time since she got here.

  “And the freedom fighters, we wore plain white khadi—homespun cotton, hand-woven. It was rough, but we refused to wear the imported. And we protested nonviolently—Gandhiji was adamant about it. That was the way of a Satyagrahi.”

  “What?” asks Nina.

  “The freedom fighters, that’s what they were called,” says Dad, helping himself to some more chick-peas. He looks so eager, like a kid.

  Mom smiles faintly as she fiddles with her napkin ring.

  “Yes, it means an upholder of the truth—that’s what the fight was about, truth and justice. I remember Tilak, wearing khadi, going to join the demonstration, carrying a Quit India sign—that was the cry in ’42—just Quit India.”

  All I know about 1942 is World War II was going on. I think.

  “So why was he arrested?” Nina asks.

  Naniji’s eyes glitter. “Oh, just for protesting. He and thousands of others. All nonviolent protestors. Even Arjun, my oldest brother. You know what they did, the British? They were on horses, and they charged the protestors. They hit unarmed people with sticks, lathis—big, long five-foot sticks, with steel tips—and they aimed for the head, that’s what they did. And fired into unarmed crowds. Thousands died, thousands.”

  There’s a shocked silence. Maya’s eyes are round.

  “For picketing?” I squeak.

  “Yes.” Naniji’s face is grim. “It was a terrible time. All our civil liberties, they were taken away. Gandhiji, all our leaders were arrested, many with no trial.”

  I lean forward. I can’t help it. It’s the first genuine conversation we’ve had since she got here. Even Mom seems reluctantly interested. And we’ve all stopped eating, even Dad.

  Naniji continues, fiercely. “There, in Europe, the British were fighting a war for democracy and freedom, but that didn’t apply to India, oh no. And when we protested about the arrests, they cracked down even more. They banned demonstrations, meetings, they closed down newspapers—the police were like licensed thugs, they had full power.”

  Mom says, “Yes, it was all in the movie Gandhi—the curfews, the injustices. A complete disgrace.” She adds defensively, “My parents have talked about it, too.”

  Naniji hesitates, then says, “Yes. I suppose it was hard for everyone.”

  Dad’s shoulders come down.

  “But for the Satyagrahis…” Naniji shakes her head. “I remember how they used to come, the British soldiers, to Tilak’s parents’ house. You know”—she turns to us—“your great-grandfather’s? They lived next door to us. I remember looking out my bedroom window and seeing the British taking away half the furnishings, and big, big paintings. All confiscated, because his father refused to pay their fines.” Her eyes flash. “They faced terrible hardship. But Tilak and his father, they demonstrated anyway.”

  “Wow!” breathes Nina.

  Maya’s mouth is full but she’s stopped chewing.

  Dad says, “Of course, the main reason they locked up Papaji was because he was his father’s son.”

  Naniji’s eyes are moist. “He was so badly beaten. Three years he lost. He was just about to start his engineering degree. He was brilliant.” Her voice is thick with emotion. “You should have seen him when he came out—he’d lost so much weight. He looked ten years older.”

  Nina looks soberly at me. I feel kind of squirmy that we laughed about it, but also a bit annoyed at Dad. Why on earth didn’t he explain it better?

  “Were you engaged to him back then?” asks Nina quietly.

  “No, not until later. But he and Arjun were close. In fact, it was because they were so close that some of my family were arrested.” She pauses, then jerks out, “On my fourteenth birthday.”

  “What happened?” I’m a bit surprised I’m asking, but I really want to know.

  Naniji takes in a deep breath, as though she’s lifting a weight. “I’ll tell you some other time.”

  It strikes me—this small woman is actually my grandmother. I know nothing about her stories. Gabby and Gampy, we’ve heard so many of theirs: Gampy’s days at Cambridge, their honeymoon in Paris.…

  “Were you involved in the Independence movement, too?”

  Naniji looks pleased I’ve asked. “Yes, I was. After that terrible time in ’42.”

  “Way to go, Naniji,” says Nina.

  She flushes, smiles suddenly. “I even used to spin khadi. I remember how hot and sticky the cotton would be in the worst of the summer, but I did it for Gandhiji.”

  “You met Mahatma Gandhi, didn’t you?” says Mom eagerly. He’s one of her heroes. “What was he really like?
”

  Naniji’s face glows. “He was so inspiring! You can’t imagine—here was this small man, wearing a dhoti—you know, the loincloth—being Indian, and completely routing the British. He wasn’t intimidated by those big-shot white sahibs. Do you know, one of his most devoted followers was an English woman, the daughter of an admiral? The British, they were so outraged that one of them could actually support the natives.” She spits out the word.

  It’s like a punch in my stomach.

  Is that what it was like? Mom and Dad have told us bits, but it’s always been remote; history—I never felt it before. Native. That’s how it was here, with the Native Indians, as well as black people. It still is, at times.

  Naniji leans forward. “But Gandhiji showed us that we could be proud of ourselves—we weren’t just as good as the British, but better, morally.” For the first time she isn’t filtering her words. Her voice exudes scorn. “We didn’t have to shed everything Indian like a dirty skin and become brown sahibs, dressing like them, talking like them—and scrambling and scratching to live in the west.”

  It takes a few seconds to register. Then Mom sits back, her smile a scar on her face.

  Naniji blinks. “Not that there’s anything wrong with…”

  “No, of course not,” says Dad. His eyes are angry and pleading at the same time.

  A slight pause before Naniji says, “After all, many of our leaders were educated in the west. I went to an English-run school for a while; there wasn’t much else, and…”

  I fumble for something, anything, to mend the silence. I mean, it was just starting to get real. Tolly.

  My words spill out: “Naniji, I have to do a project on a personal life during a moment in history. Could I maybe ask you about the Indian Independence movement, you know, things you did, and … and use that?” I’m slightly breathless.

  Naniji’s smile is so brimming with gratitude, it makes me squirm.

  “I’d be delighted, Tara.”

  “Wonderful idea,” says Dad. He quickly turns the conversation to safer grounds.

  I slowly let out my breath and watch Naniji covertly. I don’t know what I feel about her, if I even like her. But one thing’s for sure, she’s got guts. She isn’t a subservient little woman. In many ways, she and Mom are more alike than they realize.

  Hey! Maya is like Naniji, and Mom often says Maya and I are alike.… Connect the dots.