The Story Hour

by Thrity Umrigar

  Sudhir was looking at Adit with a peculiar expression. “Why wait for the next party? I’m happy to give you the order for this one.” He waited for a second and then lowered his voice. “But here’s the deal, boss. My guests are tired of the usual Indian restaurant fare—you know, butter chicken, saag paneer, and all that. I want to serve something special.”

  “We will make fresh, special food, sir—”

  “No. You don’t understand. I want something totally different. Like the homemade food your wife brings for us every week.” Sudhir rubbed his chin in an exaggerated way that only Maggie recognized as deliberate. He snapped his fingers as if something had just occurred to him. “In fact, I’d like her to cater the party. And we will pay her, of course. What do you say?”

  Even as she understood what Sudhir was doing, Maggie was surprised. It was so unusual for him to interfere like this. But then she remembered: A few days ago, she had shared with him what Lakshmi had told her about wanting to earn her own money. Sudhir had been fiddling with the stereo, and she had thought he was only half-listening to what she was saying. Obviously, her husband had heard every word—and heard the frustration in her voice as she had recounted Lakshmi’s plight. She felt a surge of love and gratitude toward Sudhir.

  But she was also concerned. No matter how loosey-goosey their arrangement, Lakshmi was still technically her client. It was a violation of every ethical rule to hire her to work for them. Sudhir knew better. Now she would have to be the bad guy and squelch the idea before—

  “My wife no good cook, sir,” Adit was saying. “She not know how to do catering-fatering. But I can—”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Patil. Your wife is a fantastic cook. We have proof of that.” The words were out of her mouth, sharper than she’d intended, and the man was glaring at her with open hostility. What the hell was she saying? And why?

  Sudhir smiled the bland, inoffensive smile that she had come to know so well. “Arre, why are we discussing this? It seems like we ought to ask Lakshmi’s opinion, no, since she’s the person who would have to do all the hard work?” He turned toward Lakshmi. “I have fifteen-twenty guests coming next Saturday. Do you think you can manage such a large order?”

  Lakshmi turned mutely toward her husband, who appeared to be doing some mental calculations. Before either one could speak, Sudhir added, “I don’t want to spend more than five or six hundred dollars on food. Can you manage on that budget?”

  Adit looked at his wife, blinked twice, and Maggie saw Lakshmi relax; for the first time, she looked directly at Sudhir. “I can manage,” she said. Then, with a quick glance at her husband, “But I do all cooking in your kitchen, sir. That way, food remain hot and fresh. I can do serving to guest also.”

  Her husband looked like he was about to protest, but Sudhir said, “Done.” And before any of them could say anything, Sudhir put his arm around Maggie and said, “Okay, honey. We need to move. I’m sure you can call Lakshmi during the week and work out the details.”

  “We talk tomorrow, yes, Maggie? When I comes to sees you?”

  A hundred ethical concerns were once again raising themselves in Maggie’s head. She forced herself to smile. “Okay,” she said. She nodded at Adit. “Nice to see you.”

  “Thank you, madam,” he replied, not a trace of the earlier hostility in his voice.

  She waited until they were out of earshot before turning toward Sudhir. “Hey,” she said in a soft voice. “What was that about? Lakshmi’s my client. This is really blurring the lines, you know.”

  “I know.” Sudhir paused in front of a large box of ginger cookies before deciding against them and wheeling the cart forward. “Look,” he said at last. “You haven’t told me much about Lakshmi’s situation, but you did mention she came to you from the hospital. So . . . I can use my imagination a little bit, okay? And the other day you mentioned the money thing.” He threw a quick glance at Maggie. “I know a thing or two about immigrant women like her, okay? Poor, uneducated, isolated . . .”

  “Lakshmi has an eighth-grade education.”

  “Yah. Probably in some decrepit, government-run school. That’s why she speaks the awful English that she does.”

  “Your point is?”

  “My point is, Maggie, you can do years of therapy with her. And with all due respect, it won’t change one damn thing in her life. Because what Lakshmi needs is not analysis. What she needs is a job. Independence. Money of her own.”

  Maggie looked at her husband with begrudging admiration. There it was, evidence of Sudhir’s scientific, pragmatic mind. Without having spent an hour with Lakshmi, he had sized her up accurately. The funny part was, Maggie had believed that she was helping Lakshmi by listening to her stories about life in her village, her relationship with her parents and sister, even stories about the damn elephant. She had tried to figure out the symbolism of the elephant, what Lakshmi meant when she talked about him, why he loomed so large in her stories. But sometimes, she now chastised herself, an elephant is just an elephant. She imagined taking the case of Lakshmi and her beloved elephant to the next meeting of the American Psychological Association, what a field day her colleagues would have trying to understand the sexual, cultural, linguistic significance of the animal. She suppressed the giggle that formed in her throat.

  “What’re you thinking?”

  She put an arm around Sudhir’s waist. “I’m thinking how lucky I am to be married to you rather than some dewy-eyed humanities professor.”

  “Don’t you ever forget it.” Sudhir grinned.

  She smiled back. And pushed aside the picture of Peter that flashed across her mind.

  17

  WHEN MAGGIE WALK inside our grocery store, I feel like it Diwali, when we all go to see the firecrackers lighted from Menon sahib’s veranda and every house in the village burning at least a small oil lamp. So bright, so happy, everything seem. I knows she coming to pick me up but still I feeling so excite when she walk inside. She remove the sunglasses and push to her head, just like film star, and then smile when she see me.

  “Hey,” she say. “You ready?”

  “Just few more minutes,” I say. “Need to pack few more items.” Out of side of my eye, I see husband, counting and writing down everything I take from store—two packets of gram flour, big bag basmati rice, two large packet of cashew nuts, packet of tapioca. Now he stick pen behind his ear—why he do this? he look just like the fat baniya who sit in Menon sahib’s warehouse—and come to Maggie.

  “Lakshmi pack half of store,” he say to her, pointing to the five cardboard box waiting by the counter. “Enough food for two parties.”

  Maggie look surprise at amount of food. She open her mouth to say something but I move quickly toward back of store where freezer is. I takes out three packets of frozen parathas and puts them in cloth bag before husband can see. All morning he watching me like a lizard, telling that I going to broke him with amount of food I taking. Truly, he is having no shame—Maggie giving me the there-py free of charge all this time, but he not feeling his debt.

  I comes back to where they are. Husband giving her tour of store, as if it is White House. I feels angry to him but also understand. What else poor man having? This store his life. The husband tell me his story: how he come to the New York seventeen year ago. He work in friend’s restaurant daytime and drive taxi at night. Only sleep on Sunday. No go to movie, temple, nothing, just work and work. Live in apartment with four other mens. And slowly, slowly, he save the money. First he build his parents the house in their village. He get his sister marry and pay big dowry. Then he hear about this business in Chesterfield from another friend. The owner is selling because his wife die in upstair apartment—my apartment—and he so sad he wanting to move back to India. So the husband come from the New York, take look, and next day he make the offer. Get whole business cheap, apartment come with furniture. He even keep bed other lady die in. After Rekha tell me story of other lady die in bed, I say no to sleeping in it. For one week,
I sleeps on sofa. Then husband curse me and call me stupid but he buy new bed.

  Maggie see me and nods. Husband still talking but Maggie ready to go. I look at the clock on the wall. I wants to go before Rekha come. “Hello, ji,” I say to the husband. “Can you help carry boxes out to car?”

  He angry with me for stopping his story, but he pick up boxes.

  Maggie’s car have no roof and I so excite. Always I wanting to sit in such car. After we put grocery in truck, I gets in. Husband still giving me instruction—make sure oil not too hot or it burn, dessert should be out of fridge for half hour before serving—as if this his recipes, not mine.

  Maggie get in, thank him, and start car. “What time you be home?” husband call. “Remember, tomorrow morning . . .”

  “Oh, it will be late before we can drop Lakshmi off,” Maggie say. “I will need her to clean up after the party. So please don’t worry.”

  Maggie take charge in such way, husband don’t know what to say. He just stand there shaking head as we drive off.

  In my village, there is railway track. The trains that pass by so crowded that many men passengers riding on the roofs. When I small, I begs Dada to let me ride train roof, but he say it dangerful, every month many accident. But it look so free and happy to me to ride on top of train.

  Maggie’s car give me same free feeling. The breeze make my hair dance and my heart feel the music. I’s so lucky, I think. In last few month, I walk in woods with Maggie, I sits by the river alone, and now I ride in this car. I turns to look at Maggie. Ma used to say: When the God enter into your house, he not enter looking like the God. He enter looking like human being. God enter my life looking like Maggie.

  “Holy cow,” Maggie say, laughing. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look this happy. What’re you grinning about?”

  “Grinning?”

  “Smiling. Like this.” She make face to show me.

  “Ah.” How’s to make Maggie understand? I don’t know why I so happy. “I is happy because . . . for so many reasons.”

  Maggie pat my knee. “Good.” She look serious. “I want you to remember this feeling. How you feel right now. This is what we’re working toward. Do you understand?”

  I nods. But I not understand. How you work toward happy? Happy is by chance, like whether enough rains come for crops one year or not. Like whether you beautiful like Shilpa or ugly like me. Happy is same feeling as running barefoot through the fields. Then one day your ma get sick and you stop running.

  First time I enters Maggie house through kitchen instead of back porch. As we walks in, I hear the voice I hearing all my life. It is Dada’s best singer, Hemant Kumar, singing Dada’s most best song. It say, Tum pukar lo, tumhara intezaar hai, tum pukar lo. Dada use to sing song to Ma all the time. It mean, You call for me. I is waiting for you. It not sound beautiful when I says it in the English. In Hindi, it open hole in your heart. And after Ma die, Dada play this song all the time on tape player he keep near his bed. Every time I hears this song, my body hair get raise. Hemant Kumar voice is soft like butter melt in pan. When he sing, it is like touching small piece of sky, or your mother’s hand cold on your face when you having the fever. It is beautiful love song, but it make you feel sad and empty and slow. Even the husband love this song. When it play on CD, he get look on face that make me cry.

  “Hi,” Sudhir sir say as he come to us to take boxes out of our hand. He put them on kitchen platform. He wearing white kurta-pajama and I feels so happy. Even in this Am’rican house I have India.

  “You like this song?” I ask Sudhir sir and he shake head yes.

  “Very much,” he say.

  “You see movie?”

  “Khamoshi? Yes, I believe so. But many years ago. I don’t really remember it.”

  “Dharmendra sing this song, not Rajesh Khanna,” I says. “Waheeda Rehman in love with him. But he not loving her.”

  “I see.” He smile, like I say something joke. He turn to Maggie and say, “You see? Bollywood songs. The great equalizer.”

  I not understanding what he meaning. Maggie taking out the Ziploc bags of onions from the fridge. “We chopped them last night,” she say. “In the food processor. A little less work for you.”

  I a little ascare to cook in this kitchen. Everything look so new and rich, and what if something to break? But I remembers what Rekha tell me yesterday. “You great cook, Didi,” she say. “You will cook so tasty food, these peoples will forget even their grandma’s name.”

  “You show me where everything is,” I say. “After that, both you go relax. I does everything.”

  “No way,” Sudhir sir say. “I want to learn the recipes. I’m gonna stick around, okay?”

  What I can say? His kitchen, he pay. He the boss. “Okay, sir,” I tell to him.

  Both mister and missus talk at same time. “Lakshmi, if you’re not comfortable having Sudhir help you, just say so . . .” “What’s this ‘sir’ business? Just call me Sudhir . . .”

  They both so loving to me. Even at Menon sahib’s house, I never made so welcome. “Many thanks,” I say. “Good if Sudhir babu stay with me in kitchen. Job will go by quickly.”

  Sudhir rub his hand. “Great. So put me to work. What do you need done first?”

  Before I reply, Maggie say, “I’m going upstairs for a couple of hours, okay? I have an article to finish.” She smile at me. “I picked up some stuff for sandwiches earlier today. I’ll make lunch for us in a couple of hours.”

  Sudhir babu give Maggie small kiss and then turn to me. “Okay, what do you need?”

  I give him bag of garlic. “Please to chop these in little-little piece. I will start to fry onion.”

  In the restaurant, the husband like to cook alone. At home, he not enter our kitchen. It is nice to have the company while cooking. And Sudhir babu so nice. He put on more Hindi songs and often he sing along. Sometime he ask me what film this or that song from, but when he see I need to think, he being quiet. He help me understand the oven buttons and how to use food processor. When kitchen begin to get hot from cooking, he get me big glass of ice water and put slice of lime in it. He taste my gravy with his finger and say it is the best, better than his mother’s food, even. In his own house, in his own kitchen, he treat me like I am mistress and he taking order from me.

  18

  THE PARTY WAS a success. Everyone had a great time, and the last guest didn’t leave until after eleven-thirty. The wine flowed freely, the conversation easily, and Lakshmi’s cooking was a hit. People went back for second and third helpings; even Brent Wolfstein, the patrician, silver-headed chair of Sudhir’s department, cleaned his plate with his fingers, while Lakshmi beamed and urged him to eat more. Lakshmi herself was a revelation—an hour before the first guest arrived, she slipped into a red and gold outfit, and later, she waited on the guests as if she were the hostess of the party. She explained the ingredients of individual dishes, regaled small clusters of guests with stories about her mother’s cooking, advised people on what spices to stock their kitchen with. Maggie marveled at the transformation—there was not a trace of the sullen, depressed woman from a few months ago. She had the feeling that she was witnessing the real Lakshmi: the Lakshmi who had existed in India, before her unfortunate marriage to a man who didn’t care about her, before her exile to a strange and foreign country.

  Now they were driving her back home, and Maggie was worried. Lakshmi had insisted on staying to clean up after the party and it was well past midnight and they had at least a ten-minute drive ahead of them. Maggie had a feeling that Lakshmi’s husband would not be happy about his wife returning home at this late hour, and she dreaded facing his hostile, glowering face. She had enough on her mind—the fact that she was meeting Peter while Sudhir was in town, the fact that she had a conference paper due next week, and . . .

  And. What was nagging at her? This slightly dyspeptic, deflated feeling was more than the normal letdown that she experienced after a festivity. So what was it? What ex
plained this melancholy as she sat in the backseat, listening to Sudhir and Lakshmi talking quietly in the front? She remembered feeling happy when Brent had whispered, “I’m sure Sudhir has told you that I’m urging him to apply for my position. I think he’d be a shoo-in, Maggie. Make sure he applies.” She remembered the almost maternal pride that had surged through her when she’d overheard Nasreen Chopra, whose husband taught in the physics department, ask Lakshmi whether she was available to cater a party for her next month. And her growing delight as two other guests had asked Lakshmi for her phone number.

  In a flash, Maggie remembered: Lakshmi bending at the waist, holding a tray of lamb kebabs before a seated Gina Adams. Gina had popped one in her mouth, her eyes widening with delight. “Gosh, these are incredible,” she’d said to Lakshmi. “We’ve been to India several times, but I’ve never tasted food like this.” A smiling Maggie had walked up behind Lakshmi, and Gina turned toward her. “This woman is a find,” she said. “How on earth did you get this lucky? How did you get her to cook this delicious food for you?”

  Before Maggie could respond, Lakshmi had shrugged and said, “Why not I cook for her? Maggie my best friend.”

  Gina had nodded and smiled uncertainly, as had several of the other women within earshot. Perhaps it was the uncertainty in Gina’s smile, the older woman’s confusion at Lakshmi’s easy blurring of class lines, that made Maggie say, “Well, we’re not really . . . That is, we’re just trying to help her.”

  Lakshmi had half-turned, gazed at her for a moment, and then hurried away into the kitchen. Maggie lingered in the living room, chitchatting with her guests, willing Lakshmi to come back out with fresh hors d’oeuvres. After a few minutes, she excused herself and strolled into the kitchen. Lakshmi was sitting on a stool, sipping a glass of water, and staring out the window. “Hey,” Maggie said gently. “Are you resting? You must be so tired.”