Karma Gone Bad

by Jenny Feldon

  Considering how little electricity—and therefore wireless access—I’d grown accustomed to having, I never thought the friend I desperately needed would come to me via the Internet. With Peter and Alexis gone and Jay, Kyle, and Diana consumed with work, I’d resigned myself to just the household staff for company until we moved back to the States. And while I was especially fond of all of them, I longed to have a real friend again.

  In those early days before Twitter and Facebook, the web wasn’t really about reaching people or making connections—it was still just an information dumping ground, an uneasy digital hybrid between the encyclopedia and the yellow pages. I’d never intended my blog to be a means to connect with people in my situation. It was just a way to keep myself sane, to remind myself how to get words and emotions down on a page. But I opened up the blog site one day, and there it was: a comment, from a real, live, flesh-and-blood Hyderabadi female, on the ranting post about how much I hated my Indian haircut.

  Ummm, I hear you about the hair. I look like I have my finger stuck in an electric socket…forever, the comment said, floating there in cyberspace. I hate getting my hair cut in Hyderabad too. And I was born here. Maybe we could grab a chai sometime.

  So I did the unthinkable. I emailed her, a total stranger who may or may not have been an Internet-stalking, serial-killing ax murderer, and left my mobile number. Anjali called the next day. Over the phone, her honey-smooth voice blended American slang into a lilting Indian accent with unlikely harmony.

  “I’ve been reading your blog long enough to know how you feel about coffee,” Anjali said. “I can’t guarantee their lattes are any good, but there’s a place in Jubilee Hills near my parents’ house that does a decent chai. Shall we try it?

  Mocha, a hookah bar on Road #1, was crowded with the hippest-looking Hyderabadis I’d ever seen. Forget Coffee Day…clearly, this was the place to be. Silk patterned lounge pillows were scattered around private alcoves. Low tables set with flickering candles. I waited, anxiously, just inside the entrance.

  A tall man in a business suit appeared in the doorway, with a young woman gliding gracefully behind him. Anjali had warned me that her father, traditional and strict, would need to see me with his own eyes before he’d leave her in the company of a Western stranger. I smoothed my hair down one last time. This had to be them.

  Stern and forbidding, the man raked his eyes over me before offering me a solemn hand. I couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed to find me as his daughter had described. As his car pulled away, Anjali flung her dupatta off her head and adjusted her kurti over her bell-bottom jeans. “Thought he’d never leave,” she said with a wink. “I’m Anjali. Nice to meet you.”

  I checked for hidden weapons, sneaky and fast so she wouldn’t catch on. Then I shook her hand and smiled.

  Being with Anjali made me feel like I’d known her forever. She laughed at my jokes. We liked the same American music and the same Bollywood movies. Her effervescent energy reminded me of a younger, more carefree version of myself. A recent college grad, she had single girl stories to tell, about nightclubs and beach holidays and bad-boy boyfriends gone wrong. I laughed so hard my stomach hurt. Our conversation stretched for hours. The part of my soul that had been starving for companionship felt nourished again.

  “So…what about you?” Anjali asked, stirring the dredges of her tea. “I mean, I read the blog and everything. It just seems like there’s more to the story than you’re sharing online.”

  “I’m trying to figure things out,” I admitted. I broke the remnants of my veg samosa into tiny crumbs. “It hasn’t really been going like I’d planned.” And then, ignoring the fact that she was a total stranger, that I’d known her for all of five minutes and she might still be an ax murderer, I spilled. Every detail, every worry and failure and heartache. Anjali listened and nodded and laughed at the right places. Finally, when the tea was freezing cold and my tears had run out and the restaurant was loud with new crowds of hookah-smoking hipsters, she signaled the waiter and ordered a new pot.

  “You can do this two ways,” Anjali said, pouring more chai in my cup. She was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. Her long dark lashes cast shadows across delicate cheekbones. Even doing something as simple as pouring tea from a teapot made her seem mysterious and ethereal.

  “Stop, I’m being serious,” she said, catching my faraway stare and assuming I’d stopped paying attention. “I’m giving you the benefit of years trying to blend these two lives together. You can come here and fight back against all the things that aren’t the same, all the things you can’t get and can’t wear and can’t do. You can try to force it to be like New York and it won’t be, and you’ll keep making yourself miserable in the process.

  “Or you can love it for the things that it is. Love it for the mangos. Love it for the chai and the sunshine and the festivals. It will never be New York, but it will be India…and if you can learn to live with that, you’ll be fine.”

  My eyes burned and I gulped my tea, trying to rein in my emotions. Regret. Shame. But most of all, hope. Love it for what it is. A single sentence that would become the mantra for the rest of my journey—and the rest of my life.

  “You know, we’ve been here all this time…and I haven’t eaten a single mango. Pathetic, right?”

  “Very,” Anjali agreed.

  “You know I forgot to ask you in my email, but how did you find my blog, anyway?”

  “I was searching for ashtanga yoga classes in Hyderabad. It popped up in a Google search, and I just kept reading.”

  “But I haven’t been to a single yoga class since I’ve been here,” I said, confused.

  “I know. But you’ve sure been complaining about it a lot. Enough for ashtanga yoga Hyderabad to bring up your blog first in the search engines, anyway.” Anjali winked. “Don’t worry, I found one for us. We can go this week. Right after we feed you your first mango.”

  ***

  That night, Jay and I ate with Anish and Sunita at Ginger Court. For the first time, being in their company felt like eating dinner with friends, not strangers. My heart-to-heart with Anjali had smoothed my rough edges. Better still, my recent activities left me brimming over with things to talk about—Bollywood, Charminar, the hipsters at Mocha. I even tried my best to chat with Sunita in Hindi, which she endured bravely without so much as a raised eyebrow. Across the table, Anish covered his laughter with a fist.

  “You might remember,” he suggested gently, “that the national language of India is English. We much admire your attempts at learning Hindi, but we are equally happy to speak to you in your native tongue as well.”

  I stuck my native tongue out at him. “Just wait. Soon I’ll be speaking Hindi better than you do.”

  This time Anish didn’t bother to squash his laughter. “I believe you just might. First Hindi, then Indian cooking…what’s next, Indian dress? Shall we see you in a sari on our next occasion?”

  “Don’t push your luck,” I said. “I’m just trying to blur the edges, not totally reinvent myself.”

  “You would look very well in blue,” Sunita mused, looking me up and down. “Perhaps we should visit the master at my clothing shop. He would…”

  “One thing at a time,” I laughed, scooping up chana masala with a piece of tandoori roti, leaving my fork untouched beside my plate.

  Jena buzzed around us, pleased to see such a lively conversation between his favorite customers. He too was bursting with news to celebrate.

  “My wife and I will be having a baby,” he exclaimed, bouncing on his toes so high it looked like he might actually launch himself into the air.

  “Jena, that’s wonderful news! Congratulations,” I said, getting out of my seat to give him an exuberant hug. For a split second, he looked shocked—yet another breach of Indian etiquette, it seemed—but he recovered, returning my embrace with grateful intensity.<
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  “To new beginnings, Sir and Ma’am!” Jena cried, toasting us with custom cucumber mango drinks he’d delivered on the house. A single, thick slice of mango was proudly displayed on the edge of each glass. Almost like Jena had known about my conversation that day. Almost like karma.

  I took a bite. The fruit swirled into my mouth like butter. Creamy sweet and floral, like edible perfume…unexpected and heavenly. Love it for the mangos. Under the table, I reached for Jay’s hand and squeezed hard.

  Chapter 22

  I sat on the kitchen counter, dangling my bare legs against the cabinets and sipping smuggled-in Starbucks House Blend. I was making a grocery list. Anjali was coming to dinner tomorrow and I was eager to show off my developing culinary skills. I wanted everything to be perfect. Below me, Tucker was curled into a ball on the cool marble floor, gnawing on a smuggled-in beef treat. It was amazing how the smallest luxuries from home made life in India easier for both of us. Outside, I could hear Venkat humming as he applied yet another coat of wax to the Scorpio’s already shiny exterior. Recognizing the song from Dhoom 2, I hummed along. It was going to be a good day.

  “I may be dying,” Jay announced from the stairs. “Or someone might need to come kill me.” He was paused for effect on the landing, clutching his briefcase and looking greenish-pale beneath his collared shirt.

  As usual, I’d spoken too soon.

  “Oh, no…is it your stomach?” I ran a mental checklist of the things we’d eaten yesterday: Captain Crunch and yogurt for breakfast, aloo palak at Ginger Court for lunch, Sundar’s black lentil dal with onion-stuffed parathas for dinner. Nothing especially out of the ordinary, but maybe the samosas were bad? Or perhaps I’d been just a little too optimistic about buying that expired yogurt at Q-Mart?

  “It’s not my stomach. I have a cold. A bad one.”

  I jumped off the counter and felt his forehead.

  “Should I take your temperature? Or do you want DayQuil? There’s some in that box of drugstore stuff Peter and Alexis left.” I tried to pry the briefcase from his grasp. “Go back upstairs and go to bed. You shouldn’t go to the office like this. Plus Anjali’s coming tomorrow night after we visit the orphanage I was telling you about. I’m excited for you to meet her. I need you to be healthy.”

  “No, I need to be at work,” Jay said, shrugging into his jacket with his best martyr expression. “I’ll survive. I guess.” He kissed me good-bye without touching my lips. “If only I had…”

  “What? I’ll get it. Tea? Cough drops? That shack behind the halal butcher sells them, I think.”

  “Chicken soup,” Jay said, his brown eyes big and sad. He sneezed. “I wish I had some chicken soup. Like my mom used to make.”

  Chicken soup? Like, from scratch? In a country where edible chicken was as rare as Bigfoot? Um, OK. I could do this. No problem.

  “With celery,” Jay called over his shoulder as he slunk into the car. “My mom always uses celery.” The man could handle third-world corporate politics with ease, contemplate hiking Mount Everest without batting an eyelash, but a common cold had him calling for Kevorkian and his mom’s chicken soup? Unbelievable. I felt a stir of excitement as I watched him go. Finally, he wasn’t the strong one. He needed me. After so many months of him having to care of me, I was getting another chance to prove I could take care of him too.

  The Scorpio pulled around the bend and out of sight. The electricity clicked off, right on schedule. The air conditioner whined to a halt. Tucker growled in disappointment, abandoning his treat to nuzzle my ankles. Adjusting my eyes to the now-dim light, I sighed and went back to my grocery list. Apparently, I needed some extra ingredients. I crossed my fingers and prayed a bag of noodles would be waiting for me at Q-Mart.

  Forget his mom—my mom made the best chicken noodle soup in the world. Like most Jewish mothers, she believed wholeheartedly in its medicinal powers. Served with fresh, thick slices of challah or homemade whole wheat bread, just a whiff of that soup’s fragrant steam made me feel safe and cherished. The soup wasn’t just for sick times, either—it was for sad times, crisis times, and celebrations. The day I was elected sixth-grade class president? Chicken soup. When my best friend stopped speaking to me over a boy we both liked in my sophomore year of high school? Chicken soup, with extra noodles. When my grandfather died, there were fresh pots of chicken soup simmering on the stove for a week straight, even when no one felt like eating.

  Chicken noodle soup was the cornerstone of my mother’s nurturing strategy. She filled that pot with a complex assortment of herbs, vegetables, and good intentions that, when combined, formed the perfect alchemic expression of maternal love. The South Indian wives wove their communities together with iron pots of biryani. My ancestors had their own version of nourishment that embodied an entire culture, and it started with a simple broth.

  I looked at the VOIP phone with longing, knowing it was useless until the power went back on. I missed being able to “reach out and touch someone,” like the old AT&T commercials used to say. I wished I could call my mom to get the specifics of the recipe. I vaguely remembered her chopping a pile of this and tossing a handful of that into her giant fire-orange Le Creuset stockpot. She’d be here in just a few more weeks, but I couldn’t wait that long. Worse yet, no electricity meant no Internet—even Google couldn’t help me now. I was on my own.

  Venkat beeped the horn from the driveway. He was back from the office and ready to go. I ran upstairs to change out of my cutoffs and into jeans and a sky-blue kurti with delicate gold embroidery. I’d been making a careful study of Anjali’s East-meets-West style of dressing. And while it would never be the same as an afternoon at Barneys, I was learning to love shopping Hyderabadi-style too, now that she’d shown me some trendy, insider-only places to go. A personal introduction from Anjali went a long way.

  Look the part, my dad used to remind me when I got ready for interviews or presentations. He’d meant neat fingernails and properly ironed cuffs and collars, but the working principle was the same. If I looked like I belonged, the challenges of actually belonging were easier to manage. Alexis had tried to teach me that lesson long ago. I just hadn’t been ready to listen. I accessorized with a few bright bangles and smiled at myself in the cracked mirror. Not so bad.

  The vegetable stand was crowded—not a good sign. I needed to make this quick if I was going to hit Q-Mart for noodles and still make it home in time to start cooking. I grabbed a shopping basket. The woman next to me, exquisite in a red and gold sari, delicate arms covered with bangles, examined a fresh crate of mangos.

  “Are they any good?” I asked, reaching for one and offering a tentative smile. I’d never been good at choosing fruit; they all looked the same to me. Jay always complained that I wouldn’t recognize a decent pear if it fell off the shelf and hit me on the head.

  “You need them like this,” she answered, holding out a smooth, thick-skinned green mango. Her bracelets slid together with a melodic chime. “It should feel firm but flexible in your palm.” She skimmed her fingertips through the pile with practiced efficiency, tossing a few into my basket. “Dhanyavad,” I said, grateful. They’d be perfect for breakfast tomorrow morning.

  “You’re welcome,” she replied, moving toward the cash register.

  The stand was jam-packed with customers rifling through bins of produce, gossiping to each other in Telugu or haggling with the cashiers. I shut my eyes tight and tried to visualize the exact ingredients my mother tossed in her chicken soup pot. Butter—we still had some Amul in the fridge. Carrots, of course, and onions. Those two were easy. I’d need to make a trip to Q-Mart for ever-elusive chicken, and some pasta to sub for the Manischewitz egg noodles my mom always used. There was something leafy and dark green in there…parsley, maybe. And then Jay’s celery.

  A hand tugged at my basket, interrupting my thoughts. Instinctively I clung to the plastic handles, protecting my mangos from the
would-be thief. A little boy, no more than seven, with a shaggy bowl haircut and impossibly long black eyelashes tugged back. The basket was almost as big as he was. He shuffled his feet, bare and filthy, along the dirt floor.

  “I carry, please,” he said. He wore a blue collared polo shirt like the ones the cashiers wore. Could he work here? He was so little.

  “Vimal,” he said, pointing to his shirt with pride. “I work.” I let go of the basket. Vimal pointed to my list. “I finding.”

  “Oh, OK.” I’d never had a shopping helper before. “Umm…carrots. And I need some onions. And do you have celery?” I struggled to find a Hindi or Telugu word that would convey the essence of celery and came up blank. “Green, pale, with stalks? And leaves?” I pantomimed with my hands. “I also need parsley. And garlic.”

  Vimal dashed off, grabbing handfuls of things from hidden places in the jam-packed aisles. He returned with a selection for my approval. Since he clearly knew more about produce than I did, I thumbs-upped his picks and smiled my appreciation as he dashed off for round two. Within minutes, I had everything on my list, plus a crate of fresh dates, several gorgeous pomegranates, and an unidentifiable melon Vimal assured me, via body language, would be delicious. The only thing missing was the celery.

  Damn celery. My soup was shaping up nicely, at least in raw material form, but how could I fail to include the one ingredient he’d specified? With my luck, celery was the only vegetable in the mix that actually contained magical medicinal properties and my whole chicken-soup-will-heal-you mission would fail.

  “Celery,” I told Vimal. “My husband really wants it.” Again, I pantomimed the long stalks with my hands. I’d always been terrible at charades. Vimal nodded in concentration and disappeared into the back of the store. I waited, impressed with his tenacity. He returned moments later, clutching a damp cluster of greens in his triumphant fist.

  “Finding, Ma’am!” His enthusiasm was terrible to squash, but what he was holding wasn’t celery. I swallowed a sigh of disappointment.