by Jenny Feldon
My dad spent a couple of days with us in Hyderabad, fixing things as he’d done in every apartment I’d ever lived in—reinstalling faulty toilets, fixing the broken lock on the front door, teaching Venkat how to vacuum, wash, wax, and service the engine on the Scorpio.
“Do you want me to take care of that broken glass upstairs?” he asked, scrubbing at his grease-stained hands with a dishtowel and taking a deep swig from a can of soda. “Blech, what’s wrong with this Diet Coke? It tastes terrible.” He reached to grab another one, but I stopped him.
“They’re all like that. Manufactured in India. It’s an acquired taste.”
“Just like Indian food.”
“Exactly. Speaking of which, we’re taking you guys to Ginger Court to meet Jena tonight. He’s been taking very good care of us.”
“Won’t Sundar be offended?”
“It’s his night off. Someone has to go home and feed all those wives, right?”
My dad laughed. “That’s right; I knew there was one thing left on my souvenir shopping list! I wanted to bring home another wife. Think Mom would be mad?”
“Depends on how good her Indian cooking is.”
“That, and I want one of those metal lunch pails the construction workers use. And a turban! A gray one, so it looks like my real hair and no one will know I’m bald.”
“Dad?”
“No turban?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, little peanut.” He pulled me into his arms for a hug. I took a deep breath, inhaling his scent—shaving soap, breath mints, Tide laundry detergent—and felt home.
“So, do you want me to fix that broken mirror or not?”
“No, you can leave it. I’m used to it.”
“I’m your father. I’m supposed to fix everything, remember?”
“You do fix everything, Dad. Always. But this one thing, I think, was meant to stay broken.”
“If you say so.”
“Dhanyavad.”
“God bless you.”
***
My dad had to fly home and go back to work, but I’d convinced my mother to stay on in India so we could explore more of the country together. After one last night all together, reminiscing and feasting on Jena’s “especially for Sir and Ma’am’s wonderful family” specialties, Venkat escorted my father to the airport for his trip back to Boston. The next morning, my mom and I hopped on a SpiceJet flight and headed south to Kerala.
My mother’s spirit of adventure was huge. She embraced other places and cultures in a way I’d sometimes teased her about but secretly envied. Her unconscious habit of mirroring an accent within minutes of conversing with a foreigner was a standing family joke. She’d read extensively on Indian customs to prepare for this trip. Now she was happily identifying local flowers and addressing every man wearing a turban as “Mr. Singh.”
If being at the Taj Mahal had felt like walking into a history book, Kerala felt like walking straight into an episode of National Geographic. The backwaters were quiet and still, lush with flowers and fruits that grew along narrow channels sheltered from the sun by low hanging vines. Hidden among the riverways were entire villages; craftsmen absorbed in their art, women hanging laundry in the whisper-like breeze, children diving naked from cliff tops into the gentle waters below.
Together, my mom and I paddled through quiet canals that shimmered in the sunlight. We whispered in elaborately painted churches and browsed endlessly through craft stalls along the fisherman’s wharf.
“Do you have these in a size medium?” she asked the woman behind a cart of brightly-dyed cotton fisherman’s pants. Her speech was tinged with the slightest trace of an Indian accent.
“Mom. You’re doing it again.”
“Oops. Sorry.” She paid for the pants with an exaggerated eye roll in my direction. The woman laughed as she handed my mom back her change.
“You won’t think I’m so crazy when you have kids of your own,” she said, watching me haggle with a vendor over a strand of sandalwood prayer beads.
“I don’t think you’re crazy. Not anymore, anyway.”
“Very funny.”
“Remember when I’d get mad because you’d park the car outside the lines when we went to the grocery store?”
“You still do that.”
It was sort of true. Mystified, I’d watch her wiggle over the white painted lines, oblivious and unconcerned. A couple inches off on one side or the other just never seemed to bother her. How, I wondered to myself, can she just get out of the car and walk away knowing that she hadn’t paid attention to the simple guidelines on the pavement?
It was the same with her chocolate chip cookies, which despite my best efforts I’d never come close to replicating. But when I made my (subpar) versions, I carefully measured and molded each ball of dough before placing it on the baking sheet, ensuring that the cookies would be evenly baked and perfectly round when they came out of the oven. My mom’s cookies were misshapen and oddly sized. Sometimes she forgot to set a timer and the cookies stayed in the oven too long, turning deep brown on top. But her cookies always tasted amazing, no matter what they looked like.
Life in India was one big browned, misshapen cookie—delicious in spite of its imperfections. Or maybe because of them. Nothing here was ever the way I thought it was supposed to be. My mother knew how to let go of the “supposed to’s” and live life outside the lines. Years after she’d taught me to read and draw and tie my shoelaces, I was still learning about life from her example.
“Motherhood isn’t about being perfect,” she said, winding the necklace of prayer beads I gave her around her neck, running her fingers over the carved wooden spheres. “Life isn’t either. You can try as hard as you possibly can and it still won’t be enough. If you can’t keep learning, keep evolving, you might as well stop living. It’s like my wedding vows with your father. I’ve probably told you a hundred times. We took them from a Wiccan wedding ceremony.”
“To the evolution of each other,” we said together. She laughed. “So I’ve told you before.”
“Just a couple of times.”
“Are you and Jay doing OK?” my mother asked. I could tell she was trying not to pry too deeply. “It seemed like you were having a rough go for a while.”
I fingered the japa mala strand around my own neck. “It was hard. I thought for a while we might not make it. I never knew you could be with someone and still feel so alone.”
My mother put her arm around my shoulders. “You both have such strong personalities. Neither of you can stand to be wrong. But from watching the two of you the past few days, I think the worst is over. In marriage, you can do it two ways: you can get through it or you can get over it. From what I’ve seen you and Jay are getting through it.”
“I think so too.”
“Which,” she continued, looking mischievous, “is a good thing. I’ve always thought the two of you would make gorgeous babies.”
“I hope so.” I looked at my watch. “Speaking of gorgeous, I’ve got a surprise for you. We’ve got appointments at the Ayurvedic spa in an hour. Kerala is the birthplace of Ayurveda. It would practically be sacrilegious if we left here without at least one treatment, right?”
Shockingly, my mother—a lifetime poo-poo-er of all things girly, especially frivolous “time wasters” like manicures and facials—grinned with pleasure. “I guess I could stand to learn a thing or two about Ayurveda,” she said. “Isn’t that where they pour oil all over your head?”
“Yep. And cucumber slices, and a neck massage…sounds relaxing, right? We’ve done enough exploring for one day. Let’s go get pampered.”
Chapter 26
“Ma’am? Are you OK? You have stopped reading.”
Kamala’s caramel eyes, wide with worry, stared into mine. I looked around, startled. I must have zoned out for
a minute.
“Sorry, sweetheart. I just…spaced out for a second. Everything’s fine.” I lifted the copy of Peter Pan I’d been reading from. “Can you show me where we left off?”
“‘Spaced out?’” Kamala repeated, wrinkling her forehead in confusion. “What is the meaning of that?”
I laughed. Coming from her mouth, the American expression did sound strange.
“It just means I got distracted for a second and forgot what I was doing. It’s nothing to worry about. I’m OK. I promise.”
But the truth was, I wasn’t OK. For weeks now, I’d felt awful. My head hurt, I was exhausted all the time, and my body ached in strange, inexplicable ways. My skin was extra sensitive, breaking out in acne on my face and hives on my body. Even showers were unpleasant—the weak stream of water felt like tiny razors on my irritated skin.
Worst of all, India had become intolerable again. I couldn’t stand the dirt or the heat or the traffic. The staring I’d finally gotten used to now made me as bitter and resentful as it had the day I got off the plane. And the noise—the constant, cacophonous riot of car horns and livestock and construction workers banging on cement. My head throbbed with the assault from morning till night. My battle with food poisoning was back in full force. For weeks, Sundar had been making me pots of boiled rice I ate morning, noon, and night. Leaving the house was a major production; I’d been skipping yoga and sending Venkat to the office to play poker all day. All I wanted to do was lie in bed or watch movies on the couch with Tucker curled up next to me. It was like I’d gotten caught in a time warp, transported backward and trapped inside my first few months in Hyderabad instead of enjoying my last.
“I just don’t get it,” I told my mother on our VOIP call that night. “It’s like my body is going totally haywire.” It was the middle of the night for me, but despite my chronic exhaustion, I couldn’t sleep. For her, the day was just beginning. Over the staticky crackle of the phone, I could hear the sounds of her morning: the gravelly whir of the coffee grinder, the clink of her cereal spoon against a ceramic bowl, the rustle of the newspaper she’d have read cover to cover by the time breakfast was done.
“Maybe you’re pregnant,” she suggested. “I was exhausted all the time before I found out I was having you. Also, I had the hiccups. With your brothers too. Do you have the hiccups?”
A frisson of excitement started in my toes and coursed through my entire body. It would be early…but it was possible.
“I don’t have the hiccups. But I have been burping. Do you think that might be the same thing?”
“I don’t know. Couldn’t hurt to take a test.”
***
“What was the date of your last menstrual cycle?”
“August 26.”
“And what does your husband do for work?”
“Consulting.” I fidgeted, nervous and queasy, in a metal folding chair, my hands resting protectively on my stomach.
“Your husband’s father? What is he doing for work?”
“He’s an engineer. A civil engineer.”
The OB-GYN scrawled a note on her pad. “And your father? What does he do for work?”
“He’s a doctor. But I don’t see how that’s relevant. Aren’t you going to examine me or something?”
Dr. Rao peered at me above her wire-rimmed glasses. “Do you want me to?”
Prenatal vitamins, thermometers, ovulation calculators. For some reason, it had all seemed like a silly science experiment…right up until the moment we saw two tiny blue lines on a pregnancy test. And then another, and another. My mom had been right. My body wasn’t going haywire after all—it had just been taken over by one last, very special, made-in-India souvenir.
Jay and I had been dreaming of a baby since before we got married. We’d had maybe-names picked out for ages and talked about moving to Brooklyn once we started a family, where there were grassy parks and fleets of rainbow-colored Bugaboos ambling down the sidewalks. With our departure from India just a few months away, the possibility of a future together, not just as the two of us plus Tucker, but as a real, full-fledged family, was finally beginning to feel real.
Dr. Rao took out a cardboard calendar wheel. “You have, I assume, taken a home pregnancy test.”
“Yes. Three, actually.” I let out a nervous laugh. The tiny room smelled like formaldehyde, reminding me unpleasantly of my sixth-grade science classroom where we’d been forced to dissect frogs. I gagged a little behind a polite fist. There was a reason I hadn’t pursued a career in biology, and it wasn’t my poor math skills.
“And they were coming out positive?”
“Yes. That’s why I’m here. To make sure I’m really pregnant and everything.”
“You are due twenty-sixth of May, next year. You may call your husband in, if you wish.”
I opened the slim metal door and crashed into Jay, who’d been pacing on the other side. “She says you can come in.”
“Congratulations, Sir. We have confirmed the pregnancy,” Dr. Rao told him as he sat in a metal folding chair next to mine.
“That’s great!”
“No,” I whispered. “She means we have. You and me. All she’s done is ask me a bunch of questions about what our fathers do for a living.”
Dr. Rao cleared her throat. “We have tested you for HIV, malaria, hepatitis A and B, and a variety of other sexually transmitted diseases. You have passed all tests. You are very fortunate for your American vaccines, you know. Many Indian mothers come to us with no such protection for themselves or their babies.”
“What about a pregnancy test?”
“No, Ma’am. You are telling you already performed one, true?”
“Oh. Right.” So far, I had no more information than I’d walked in with, and that was from spending half the night on BabyCenter.com.
“You will be having the baby in India? Or in U.S.?”
“U.S.,” Jay and I said simultaneously. Earlier, I’d collected a urine sample over a hole in the ground in a unisex bathroom. There had been no sink to wash my hands. From there, I’d gone for a blood test, waiting over an hour for the nurses to produce a hypodermic needle that was still wrapped in manufacturer’s plastic. Across from me, a man in an orange dhoti with filthy feet and bloodshot eyes scooped handfuls of curried rice into his mouth from a Styrofoam bowl, staring at me with every bite. We were at the best hospital in Hyderabad.
“That is good,” Dr. Rao declared. We looked up at her, surprised. “I do the best I can here,” she said, meeting my eyes for the first time. “I’m proud of my education and my training, my staff here. But there is only so much we can do, so much care we can provide. In U.S., you will get better care. And, if you are choosing, you will be allowed to know the sex of your baby.”
“Allowed? You can’t find out the sex here? Don’t you have ultrasound machines?” Jay asked.
“We are having ultrasound, yes,” she answered. “But it is illegal in India to know the gender of an unborn child.”
“Why?” I blurted out, even though I was sick to my stomach imagining the answer.
“Sometimes the baby girls, they don’t make it,” Dr. Rao said, polishing her glasses with an edge of the lab coat she wore over her charcoal-colored sari. “Accidents happen. This is the only way we have of protecting them.”
Outside in the sunlight, I blinked a few times, readjusting myself to a world that suddenly felt upside down. I looked down at my stomach, flatter now than it had ever been thanks to all the yoga. I couldn’t believe there was life somewhere in there, a tiny being that might survive to see a brilliant blue sky just like the one above us now. Jay put his arms around me and held tight, wrapping me up in his arms like I was a child myself.
“Are you happy?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“Very.”
“Should we go meet everyone for brunch? We�
�ll only be a little bit late if we leave now.”
“Yes. Let’s go.”
***
Our sea container was packed and ready, waiting to begin its voyage back to the United States. All that was left was our clothing and the essentials we’d need for our remaining weeks in India—dishes, cooking pots, sheets, and towels. The house looked strange without the furniture and artwork we’d collected. I wandered from room to room, looking into empty cubbies and rubbing at the marks our belongings had left on the black marble floors. One day, these faded imprints would be all that was left of us in Hyderabad. Another family would move in and fill the rooms with beds and clothing, the smells of their cooking and the sound of their laughter. The puja room would be filled, as it should be, with idols and altars. The servants’ quarters in the yard, instead of being stuffed with old issues of Us Weekly and Elle, extra dog toys, and spare parts for the Scorpio, might become home to someone’s cook or housekeeper. Our crazy American habits would disappear along with us into the Hyderabad night, and the house would be returned to its Indian roots. I traced my finger along the crack in the bathroom mirror. I hoped whoever’s face it reflected next would learn to appreciate the imperfection as much as I had.
Soon I would be headed back to the States to spend a few months with my parents in Boston while I organized the details of our repatriation. Jay would stay on in Hyderabad, bunking at the Novotel hotel until the transition out of his Region 10 role was complete. We would spend our last weekend together in Mumbai, celebrating Diana’s birthday and doing some eleventh-hour sightseeing. Then we would head back to Hyderabad, where I’d planned a bon voyage feast for our friends, Indians and expats alike. We had a few cases of wine left to finish, and a lot of good-byes to linger over. Never, when we began this journey, would I have imagined that saying good-bye to ’Bad would be so bittersweet.
Mumbai was crowded and messy and exciting. We feasted on seafood at Trishna and had drinks at the Intercontinental on a balcony that overlooked the entire city and beyond it, the Arabian Sea. Here, there were lights—twinkling and bright and spread out for miles. In the distance, the Gateway to India rose out of the glistening water, majestic against the foggy night sky.
