by Varsha Bajaj
I dutifully repeat and then find paper and a pencil and write the sentence down.
“What’s your middle name?” “Tara, after my dad’s mother.”
Shaan gives me a strange look. “My mom calls Naveen Kumar’s mom Tara Aunty.”
The silence roars and the quartet bows furiously. Oh Schmidt. My guard was down and I let what I thought was an innocent piece of information slip. I groan inwardly.
He lets the words lie there between us like a ball lobbed in my court.
Do I want to hit the ball back? I have a decision to make. Can I trust Shaan? I know that he’s stumbled onto my secret. All I need to do is say yes. Unlike Priya and Zoey who are eight thousand miles away, Shaan is here. He could be someone to talk to about all of this.
But what about my promise to Dad? What if this leaks out in the wrong manner, hurts Dad’s career, and ruins Mom’s private life?
Shaan taps my knee. “Tum, chup kyon ho?” he asks. Then translates, “Why are you silent?”
My eyes beg for understanding. “Because I’m thinking. Because I’m scared. Because I really want to tell you my secret and I really don’t. I’m so confused.”
“Hey, relax. It’s not a big deal.”
I take a deep breath. “It’s embarrassing to watch my dad trace zigzag lines on some glamour babe’s bare back,” I say, drawing out each word confirming his suspicion without saying the words.
Shaan’s eyes pop. “Wow! You’re joking, right?”
“It’s true.” There, I said it. My mouth is dry, but my shoulders slump in relief.
“There’s something about the way he is with you. Like a father.” Shaan spreads his hands out helplessly.
“Do you think others have noticed too?”
Shaan thinks about it. Then he looks me in the eye and says, “No.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I don’t think anyone else watches you as closely,” he mumbles. I can barely hear him, but I heard the words.
I feel a monumental blush creeping over my face. I’m as red as Rani’s skirt.
Where should I look? What should I do with my hands and feet? I’m thrilled and overwhelmed.
A new bag of chips lie near Shaan. I fish for the two
largest chips and mumble through my chapped duck chip lips, “Thank you, Shaan.”
Am I saying thank you for him noticing me or for assuring me that others haven’t noticed or both?
“I know we can’t talk right now with so many people around but call me tonight,” I say.
“Sure. You know you can trust me with your secret. We can sign a contract in blood if you like,” he teases.
“I’ll take friendship bracelets instead please.”
We’re distracted by Miss Glen yelling at one of the production men. “I need more extras. Touristy-looking extras. This shot is in front of the Taj.”
She spies us. “You two!” she calls out. “You would be the perfect tourists.”
I guess it’s pretty obvious I’m a foreigner to her. Then she says, “One phirang-foriegner to boot! Line up for make up.”
She does not ask us. She orders us.
Shaan and I stand up. We’re programmed to respond to adult orders.
“Oh my God! She’s crazy, Shaan. We’re not extras,” I whisper urgently.
“I know. She’s nuts but imagine how awesome it would be to be in a Bollywood movie for two seconds.”
“No way! I can’t dance like that,” I protest.
Shaan tries to convince me. “They’ll teach us. We’re
supposed to be tourists, not dancers. We’ll be in a crowd. We’ll probably never show up in the movie.”
“I don’t know, Shaan,” I waver. A not-so-little voice in my head says, It would be cool to be in a movie for even one second. Especially one that stars Dad!
Dad comes out of his meeting and walks over. Miss Glen intercepts him. “Naveen, I need these two kids as extras. I don’t have enough and they would make perfect tourists.”
Dad looks at us, “Sure, but it’s their decision to make.” Shaan grins. “I’m in. Watch the birth of a star.”
His attitude is infectious. How often will someone ask me to dance in a Bollywood movie? “I’m in too.”
Game on! Dhak, dhak, dhin, dhin!
We stand in line with the other extras for makeup. I’m so nervous but Shaan keeps me laughing. He pretends to be interviewed by an imaginary reporter.
“I got my break as an extra in a Bollywood film,” he replies to a pretend question.
Shaan assumes the imaginary reporter role with a water bottle microphone. “How do you feel on the eve of the premiere of the summer blockbuster?”
Shaan responds without the water bottle microphone, “Oh, it’s amazing, yaar. What a journey it’s been!”
I can feel my nervousness melting and I get into the spirit.
How can I not when I’m around Shaan?
Dad and Rani lead the charge. Rani has changed and is now decked out like a glamorous rock chick, complete with a guitar, super tight T-shirt, and tattoo creeping up her lower back. She strides onto the set and tosses her wig. How many personas and costume changes would she have through this song?
We extras stand behind the front row of expert dancers. The steps are a bit like the Macarena, with a twist of the Texas two-step and a garnish of Bollywood enthusiasm. I learn to shake my hips. A skill I’ll use back home, I’m sure—if only to hula-hoop!
I start out stiff and conscious but then see Shaan get into the mood with gusto. I can’t let my dad down; I’m his daughter after all. I try to move my belly as ordered and almost throw out my back.
Dhak-dhak, shake-shake, dhin-dhin, spin—and bump into Shaan’s head. Ouch! His head feels like a block of concrete.
We do the moves repeatedly until we get them right.
We dance until my mouth hurts from smiling and my feet blister. It’s a day of excitement!
Dhak, dhak, dhin, dhin. The song from the movie shoot has embedded itself into my brain. What’s the cure for a perfect earworm?
I play the tune on my violin that night and bask in the admiration from Shiva, Dad, and Grandma Tara. They smile, rock, and clap, and I get into my groove, improvise, bow, and trill.
“More! More!” they cry when I stop. So I play some more.
Chapter 19
Building bridges
Grandma Tara and I turn the pages of my photo album for the third time. She obviously can’t get enough of my baby pictures. It’s as if she’s studying my every moment as a child. “In this picture, you look like Naveen,” she says, pointing to a picture of me sitting on the floor with mashed bananas all over my face.
I’m probably a year old in that picture. “You think so?” I ask skeptically.
“Yes,” Grandma Tara says. She asks Shiva to get a picture from her room. He comes back with one of my father’s baby pictures as proof. There is a distinct resemblance, the grin, the chin, the way we both embrace the camera.
Mom should see this! “Can I have this picture?” I ask. “Of course you can have the picture. I wish I could
have cleaned your face after that banana feast,” she says wistfully.
I squeeze her hand. I would’ve liked that too.
“Abby, I’m getting stronger again and I want to search through my husband’s old papers and see if I can find anything. I vaguely remember him telling me that one of Naveen’s American friends had called. Naveen was in Delhi then for his job.”
My heart flutters.
Grandma Tara looks through me as if she’s looking at her past. “I told Naveen this yesterday. So many of us have lost our children to America. My husband was afraid that Naveen would go back too. But I don’t think he would have ever kept the news of a child from Naveen. Not his own flesh and blood. He valued family too much. I have to believe that. If he read your mother’s letter and knew about you but still decided not to tell Naveen or me, it would break my heart, beta.” Her eyes shimm
er.
I don’t know what to say so instead I lean on her shoulder. “Your mother says she is sure the letter was received?” “Yes, she registered it,” I explain.
After that, Grandma Tara and I don’t say anything. We don’t have to. Instead she brushes my hair till it shines.
I want Mom to know Dad again, today’s Dad. I want her to be friends with Grandma Tara and Shiva. On any
given day and moment, I alternate between anger at how things worked out and trying to accept that none of us could change the past.
I talked to Shaan about it last night when we were returning from the movie studio. Now that he knows my secret, it’s nice to share honestly.
“It sucks that you didn’t have your dad growing up,” said Shaan. “But what you can do? It’s the past.”
I laughed. “You have a point.”
Shaan’s practical advice burst my whiny self-pitying mood.
“Hey, could you write a song about it?” Shaan suggested with a smile.
“I ain’t got no daddy?” I sang in a jazzy blues wail. “No, Shaan, I don’t write songs. I could play a violin piece.”
“You should do that!” Then he turns serious. “You know how they say live in the moment and stuff?” Shaan was trying to be helpful. “Like I know I can’t change the fact that I didn’t play baseball as a kid, but I can play now if I want to.” “So you’re saying focus on getting to know Dad today?”
I asked.
“Yup!” Then he changed the subject. “Hey, watch this hilarious clip on YouTube of a baby who’s scared of his own mom when she sneezes.” Once again, Shaan has lightened my mood and made me smile.
A few days ago, I said to Shiva, “I wish I’d known you all my life.” He clucked at me, wagging his finger. “No change life. You friend now.”
I guess Shaan and Shiva both agreed to not regret the past.
It feels weird though to have these two sides of my family who haven’t met each other. Like the two banks of a river and I’m the bridge. They’re all a part of me. Why can’t they be part of each other?
Two cultures. Two countries. Two Abbys? No. I’m still one, thank God. So I come up with the next best solution. Technology. I decide I’ll introduce Mom and Grandma Tara over Skype.
Grandma Tara is reluctant when I suggest the meeting. “I don’t like that thing,” she says, gesturing to the computer.
I plead and Grandma Tara melts.
Mom is hesitant too. “Abby, are you sure your grand-mother is up to it?”
“She is, Mom. And we can keep the call short, I promise.” I set up the computer in the family room and drag Grandma Tara to the table and sit her down. She keeps
adjusting and fiddling with her sari.
I log in and said hi to Mom. Her brow is creased.
Now that we’re all together, talk about awkward. Well, at first it’s Skype’s fault. We don’t have the best connection. I
try to compensate for the awkwardness by being as perky as a morning talk show host.
They both walk on eggshells that I can hear crunch each time they speak. The string quartet plucks strings gingerly like they’re playing an Asian folk song.
“Mrs. Kumar, it’s so nice to see that you are recovering. I hope having Abby over has not been stressful for you.” Mom is courteous, like she’s talking to some business acquaintance. “Oh, no, no! How could it? Abby has helped me to get better. Having her here is God’s blessing.” Grandma Tara hugs me. “Meredith, maybe one day you will come?” asks
Grandma Tara. “I would like to meet you.”
“Oh! That would be wonderful. I’ve never visited India,” Mom answers.
I jump in and hijack the conversation. “Mom, I visited Dad’s movie set yesterday. He was shooting a song with this actress named Rani.” Grandma Tara half smiles. “Anyway, you’ll never believe this, but Shaan and I were extras in the song.”
Mom gasps. “Excuse me?”
And I prattle on and tell her all about Miss Glen and the Taj Mahal set and the makeup and dancing till my feet were sore.
“Slow down, Abby. Settle down,” Mom laughs. “I can’t follow you.”
Grandma Tara jumps in, “It is so nice to have a young person in the house. Meredith, thank you for letting her come. I will talk to you again soon. I’ll let you and Abby talk.” Then she slowly stands up and shuffles out of the room.
“Okay, so Shaan and I probably won’t make it in the final movie. We’ll likely end up on the cutting room floor, but it was soooo fun.”
“Oh, Abby, this movie stuff is crazy. Have you told Priya or Zoey? Honey, you’re halfway through your stay already. I’m glad you’re not homesick.”
I wish I can tell her that at times I am, but I don’t want her to worry. Like the moment during the motorbike chase or when I felt helpless seeing the slums. Sometimes, when I struggle to communicate with Shiva or when I suddenly want a burger and fries.
But I don’t tell her any of that. There isn’t time.
Dad asks to talk to Mom, and they exchange pleasantries. Then Dad is all business. “Meredith, I have a plan for releasing the info. Abby, don’t leave. You need to hear this
too.”
Do I?
Dad tells her about the photo shoot and interview with Film World and reminds Mom that the media might try to find her.
“You know how much I hate that idea,” Mom says.
“Naveen, I never imagined you’d be a celebrity. This was supposed to be a personal issue.”
“Well, I’m a celebrity, Mere,” Dad snaps. “I can’t change that, and in today’s world celebrities are not entitled to personal lives, and keeping Abby a secret forever is not an option, is it?”
Mom is silent and so am I. We both know Dad is right. “Meredith, you are the mother of my child,” Dad reminds
her, an edge to his voice. “We need to get through this with as much dignity as we can and hope that the media loses interest. Let’s make this as boring as possible.”
“Naveen, you entered Abby’s life yesterday, I have been there forever,” Mom say with just as much edge as Dad.
“And are you suggesting that’s my fault?”
Mom calms down a bit. “No, but you don’t get to come in and make decisions.”
“Meredith, I am only making decisions that you cannot make because you don’t know my life or my circumstances. We have already talked about this.”
Whoa! The tension in the room is human, like a fourth person. Everyone is trying to keep a tight leash on his or her emotions and the control feels nuclear. Like it could erupt and destroy us all. The string quartet screeches.
I jumped in with both feet. Miss Perky to the rescue! “Hey, Mom, I get to buy a new outfit for the photo shoot!”
No one even cracks a smile. I tried.
Then they say I can leave. I shut the door behind me. It stays shut for a while and I can hear their voices. They sound frustrated at first, but I think I hear a laugh or two at the end.
Shiva sees my face after the Skype session and knows I need a distraction.
I spend the afternoon with him learning to make pooris, a type of fried bread. Like if you fried biscuit dough. Yummy! Why haven’t I eaten these at Bombay Palace in Houston? Grandma Tara watches.
Shiva rolls a perfect four-inch diameter circle of whole-wheat dough. He makes it look as simple as pouring a glass of juice. Then he tests the oil to see if it’s hot enough and slides the poori in. Golden brown, it puffs up within seconds. He fries the other side and then serves it to me.
I wolf it before the second one is ready.
Grandma Tara laughs. “Your father ate pooris like you do. I would tell him the story of the poori that ran away to escape being eaten by the wolf.”
“Like the gingerbread man!” I squeal. I explain the gingerbread man story and Grandma Tara and Shiva are enthralled.
Then I insist that I make the next poori. The darn dough does not want to be a circle. It looks like a misshapen blob with
arms and legs sticking out in weird places. Not quite a
poori or a gingerbread man. Shiva laughs till he cries and then gallantly fries up my blob. It tastes good even if it looked like a hexagon with curved sides.
“You try again tomorrow,” he says.
The big interview is a day away. Tomorrow I’m shopping with Rani.
Yippee and gulp for both!
Chapter 20
Bling
Dad gives me a cell phone to use when I’m out and about in Mumbai.
Shopping trip with Rani! I text Priya and Zoey as I wait for her to pick me up.
Get out! texts Priya.
R u having tea with the Queen after? texts Zoey.
“Rani’s car is here,” Shiva says and I give Grandma Tara a kiss and rush out. The driver opens the door for me.
I don’t recognize the stranger who sits in the backseat. Maybe it’s an assistant. I smile politely and she nods. She wears a dark blue headscarf that covers her forehead and big sunglasses. Her outfit looks like someone pitched a tent around her. She keeps looking in my direction. Is she staring at me? I can’t see her eyes.
We drive in weird silence for a while. Where is Rani? Will I meet her at the store?
Then the woman in the tent shakes silently as if trying to muffle a laugh.
Then she snorts. Honk! Just like that. I swear. Honk. I look at the driver but he seems unmoved.
Loud snort again. Too bizarre.
She reaches across the seat and touches my hand. I jump and she doubles over with laughter.
She takes off the sunglasses and continues to snort and laugh and sputter.
“Rani?” I ask. I couldn’t have been more surprised at the deglamorized actress.
“I want to take you to an ice cream place without being recognized,” she explains. “I do this all the time.” She gestures to her outfit.
It broke the ice and in a weird way made her human. She isn’t all royalty and air kisses. I like this Rani.
I take a picture of disguised Rani and me eating the creamiest mango ice cream ever. Rani is right, her disguise works.
Then we get down to business and go to Globatique. Once in the store, she takes off the caftan tent, headscarf, and glasses. She wears jeans and a T-shirt underneath and no makeup, but she’s still beautiful. The salespeople recognize her and can’t do enough to please her.
