by Sonia Singh
“I’ve seen this movie,” I said by way of greeting.
My mom answered without looking up. “No, you haven’t.”
At least she was talking to me. Her maternal deep freeze was apparently set on thaw.
“Yeah, I have. They’re in Switzerland, right? The girl’s father is a billionaire industrialist who keeps trying to kill the hero because he’s poor.”
“It’s a different movie,” she insisted. “In this one the heroine lives with her uncle—a billionaire industrialist—who keeps trying to kill the hero because he’s from the wrong caste.”
Ram nudged me. “The actress is very beautiful, no?”
My mom finally looked up, and her eyes widened.
Clearly the time was ripe for performing introductions.
“Mom—Ram. Ram—Mom.” It almost sounded like a chant.
Ram folded his hands and inclined his head. “Namaste.”
My mom rose from the couch. “Namaste.”
I’d warned Ram in the car not to bring up the goddess thing and to let me do the talking. I cleared my throat. “Ram needs a place to stay. He was part of a temple exchange program, and his accommodations fell through.”
My mom opened her mouth to respond when she caught sight of my nose ring. “You pierced your nose?”
I tried for chirpy. “Like it? Now I look just like you.”
Switching to doctor mode, she marched over. “Where did you get it done? Is it infected?” She peered into my nostril. “I need a flashlight.”
“Mom, it’s fine.”
Gently she touched the jewel. “This ruby is real.”
“Apparently it was an upscale place.”
Her eyebrows rose in suspicion as she switched back to maternal mode. “Apparently? Where were you last night? The message you left on the machine was garbled.”
I’d called? Even in my drunken haze, some ounce of self-preservation had obviously set in.
“Well?” She was still waiting for an answer. “Where were you last night?”
“I think Maya looks nice,” Ram said.
I mentally blessed him, as my mom, recalling the presence of a guest, stepped back and smiled. “I’m sorry, punditji. We would be honored to have you as our guest.”
Ram bowed his head in thanks.
Her gaze slid back to me, traces of suspicion still lingering. “How exactly did you and Ram meet?”
“Through the friend of a friend’s cousin who’s also a friend of mine. I figured it’d be a good way to get in touch with my Indian heritage. Ram’s going to teach me meditation.”
“Punditji,” she corrected.
“What?”
“He is a holy man. Refer to him as punditji.”
Ram agreed. “Yes, that is more appropriate.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”
My dad entered the room dressed in nothing but his boxers. Yawning and scratching his potbelly, he balked at the sight of us.
“Punditji will be staying here,” my mom informed.
My dad performed the speediest Namaste in history and mumbled, “Very nice…most holiest of men…please enjoy…stay.” The next moment he was gone.
“Where is the loo?” Ram asked.
After showing him the door, I found myself face-to-face with my mom again.
“Maya, there’s something I need to discuss with you.”
Automatically my mind raced through possible escape routes. Then I reminded myself of my vow to grow up and be an adult. So I stopped and waited for her to speak.
“Maya, I’ve been thinking about what I said to you at Dimple’s, and it was a little strict. It’s just…I worry about you…” Her voice trailed off.
I reached out to touch her—my mom and I didn’t do hugs—when I thought what the hell and wrapped my arms around her.
She instantly stiffened, arms straight at her sides. Then slowly, I felt her relax. She didn’t hug me back, but patted my shoulder and gently pulled away.
Okay, so it wasn’t exactly a Hallmark moment, but it was a start.
“You weren’t strict, Mom,” I said. “You were right. I needed a push. I’ve sent out a bunch of applications for general office work and stuff.”
“Office work?” She shot me an amused look. “Do you know how to type?”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course. With two fingers.”
She smiled. “Your father and I are not going to kick you out. Why don’t you look for something you really like to do?”
Hmm. What did I like to do? Shopping. Watching movies. Watching television. I discarded eating, drinking, and sex, because they were pretty universal. Then again, so were movies and TV. Shopping? What about fighting malevolence? Sure, there was some job satisfaction, but…“It might take a while, Mom. I still haven’t discovered the color of my parachute.”
She sighed, but it was a good sigh. I could practically see the tension spill out of her. “As long as you’re moving toward something—taking steps—that’s all I want. If you decide to take some classes, we’ll pay for them,” she paused, “but it’s a loan.”
I laughed. “You’re on.”
“Well then, I’ll get dinner ready for punditji.”
“He’s a vegetarian,” I reminded.
She rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”
Hey!
That was so my look.
Before going to bed, I crept downstairs to double-check that the alarm was activated.
My Malevolent Meter might not be able to detect Sanjay’s presence, but Brinks definitely would.
Everything was in order.
I was tempted to turn on the upstairs motion detectors, but the guest bathroom was across the hall from the bedroom and I didn’t know what sort of relationship Ram had with his bladder.
Satisfied that the house was safe and snug for the night, I let myself relax.
Tomorrow Ram and I were going to have a long talk about my powers.
My mystical Indian half was tempered by my practical, American, can-do half. Sure, enlightenment was one way to break down my mental walls.
A sledgehammer was another.
Chapter 41
MY WORLD had been turned upside down.
Literally.
I was propped up against the wall attempting Baddhahasta Sirsasanai—the mother of all yogic headstands.
Not a good idea on a full stomach.
However, it was Ram’s favorite posture, essential for uncovering the physical, emotional, and mental tensions held in the mind and body, thereby allowing insight to emerge.
Along with my lunch—if I kept it up.
“How much longer do we have to do this?” I complained. “My neck is killing me.”
Ram, on the other hand, looked practically asleep. “A few more minutes,” he murmured.
Coming downstairs that morning, I’d found my mom and Ram bonding over cups of tea. Apparently they shared a passion for Bollywood and were indulging in current celebrity gossip. Glossy film magazines, carried by the local Indian store, were spread out on the table before them. I caught a couple of the titles: Filmfare, Star-dust, CineBlitz.
As I poured Zimbabwean coffee beans into the grinder—I don’t do tea in the morning—their conversation turned to the Bollywood remake of The Wedding Planner.
“It was much better than the remake of My Best Friend’s Wedding,” my mom said.
I shut the lid of the grinder. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m waiting for the Bollywood remake of Schindler’s List.”
Blank looks from both.
Mom left for work soon afterward, and somewhere between breakfast and lunch, Ram convinced me to try meditation.
“Forget this!” I’d had it with headstands.
I just had to figure out how to return my body to its normal upright position.
Finally, I just let my legs sort of slide down the wall until I was horizontal, then I rolled over and sat up. While I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to fluff it up again, Ram exe
cuted a neat flip, with his legs curving over his head, his torso soon following, so that he was on his head one moment and in the crouching position the next.
The pundit was flexible. I’d give him that.
“Can we just do some normal meditating now?” I asked.
“As you wish,” Ram replied. “We will continue outside.”
We sat on the deck facing each other Indian-style. Although as Indians, any way we sat would technically be Indian-style.
For a winter afternoon, the day was clear and nice. A long-sleeved tee and jeans day.
Seven jeans of course.
“Should I call the Goddess Within?”
Ram adjusted the folds of his robe. “That is not necessary, we will focus on addressing your problem.”
“Right—Sanjay.”
“No. Sanjay is merely incidental. There will always be those who seek to end your life. Sanjay is most likely the first of many.” He waved his hand like it was no big deal. “The problem is, you still have not found the courage to trust your talents.”
“Well duh!” I tossed my hair and leaned back on my hands. “I’m sort of fighting evil here, not trying out for American Idol.”
“Evil is not the source of your fear. This is.” He tapped his head. “You are still calling the Goddess Within, though it should be a natural state you are in at all times. When you learn to combine your conscious and unconscious selves, you will be pure divinity.”
“So what am I now, pure freak?”
He was about to answer when I held up my hand silencing him. “Okay, forget it. Moving on—I want to know exactly how I’m supposed to save the world from destruction. A date and time would be nice.”
Ram smiled. “Only you know the answer to that question.”
I wanted to punch him.
Unaware of my desire to do him bodily harm, he continued. “The goddess was born to save the world. I do not know how, when, or where. That is for you to discover.”
I couldn’t believe it. I was totally on my own.
Realizing he was slowly becoming adrift in my emotional undercurrents, Ram slid back a few inches. “What I do know is how I can help you become a fully actualized goddess. Through meditation.”
Personally I preferred medication…
“Fine, let’s get meditating.”
“Close your eyes,” Ram instructed.
I closed my eyes.
If you can’t beat om.
Join om.
Chapter 42
SOME WOMEN will only sleep with a guy after the third date.
I slept with a guy before our first date.
Don’t knock it till you try it.
Tahir was taking me to Tangiers, a hip restaurant in the trendy Los Feliz neighborhood of LA. It was our first official date.
I couldn’t tell what I was more excited about. Seeing Tahir again, going to Tangiers, or actually having plans on a Saturday night. I suppose it was all of the above.
The old Maya was back.
I’d gotten my manicure and pedicure done, then headed to Ziba, a salon across the street from South Coast Plaza. I leaned back into the reclining chair as a woman approached me with a spool of cotton thread. Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes.
Ziba specialized in threading, a beauty treatment/torture device where facial hair is removed with thread instead of wax. The beautician held one end of the thread in her teeth and the other end in her hand. With the available hand, she fashioned the middle of the thread into a loop. The loop trapped unwanted hair, which was then pulled from the skin.
One silent shriek at a time.
Threading had recently become popular in Southern California, even though it had been around for eons in India and the Middle East.
I was glad Indian culture had become trendy again. My mom didn’t have to deal with people wondering if her red bindhi was really blood. And I didn’t have people asking me questions like—Do you eat monkey brains? If I ever ran into Steven Spielberg, I’d let him know in alto terms how The Temple of Doom had led to plenty of negative stereotypes about Indians, not to mention Kali.
Who was I kidding? If I ever did meet him I’d probably blab how E.T. still made me sob.
Unfortunately, there was a downside to all this “trendiness” as well. Threading, which used to cost me five bucks, now cost fifteen. And if I ever wanted to get henna tattooing done—which I didn’t because when it faded it resembled ringworm—I’d have to pay a whopping hundred dollars.
Thanks to celebs like Madonna, Gwen Stefani, and Naomi Campbell.
Still, with each yell-inducing yank of my brow hair, a thrill of happiness went through me. I felt like a normal chick again. Getting ready to go out with a total hottie.
I deserved a night out. Not just because I’d been saving the world (cross my fingers), but because of living with the cumulative annoyance of Mom and Ram.
Even though my mom and I had experienced a sort of breakthrough—I hugged her and she allowed it—that didn’t mean we had stopped getting on each other’s nerves. And now there was Ram.
The two were as thick as turbaned thieves.
Mom and Ram went to the Cerritos temple together on Tuesday night. Went to Little India for lunch on Wednesday to eat South Indian food. On Thursday they went to Disneyland. Ram now had Mickey Mouse ears to complement his robes. On Friday the Dish Network dude came and installed two Indian channels—Zee and Sony. From then on Mom and Ram were glued to the TV watching all the Indian soaps. Since it involved a couch, my dad joined them.
It wasn’t like I was afraid they were having an affair. The problem was they were gossiping about me. Every time I entered a room, they’d stop talking and look at each other knowingly.
I dealt with this in the usual way, by getting out of the house. I had my regular meditation sessions with Ram, and the rest of my time was spent cruising around for criminals.
Oh yeah, and talking to Tahir on the phone.
It was weird not arguing or exchanging insults with him. It was even weirder thinking of us as a couple.
Wait. Were we a couple?
I didn’t want to go that far. I hadn’t even told my mom I was going out with Tahir because I didn’t want to get her hopes up. We were having fun, and that was good enough for me. I didn’t want to examine my feelings too strongly.
I wondered if Nadia was still chasing Tahir.
I wondered if Tahir was seeing other women.
I wondered if he was sleeping with other women.
I wondered if it was normal for a straight man to like shopping as much as I.
Okay, sometimes feelings didn’t care whether you were ready to examine them or not.
The beautician pressed my shoulder. “Please, take a look.”
I opened my eyes and gazed into the hand mirror she held in front of me, trying to ignore the ruby winking above my nostril. “You missed a hair, here.” I pointed to my left brow.
Well, I needed the perfect brows to go with my perfect dress.
Settling back, I visualized my outfit for tonight—Dolce & Gabbana floral slip dress, matching Pashmina shawl, and my brand-new Manolo Blahnik ankle-wrap sandals. The clerk had smiled knowingly as she wrapped up my shoes. “Did you see these on Sex and the City?”
“I only watch the McLaughlin Newshour,” I answered, and grabbed the bag. How dare she try to categorize me as some Carrie Bradshaw copycat! I’d been a fashionista from birth. My mom told me that as a toddler I’d once thrown a tantrum because the socks she put on me didn’t match. One was eggshell, and the other was ecru. She didn’t see the difference until I pointed it all out in belligerent baby speak.
Eyebrows finally arched to perfection, I went home to get ready.
Tahir and I met at his apartment—followed by some heavy breathing and my reapplication of lipstick—and from there he drove to the restaurant.
At the first red light, he let go of the gearshift and reached for my hand.
He held it until the light turned
green.
We left the car with the valet and were heading up to the entrance when Tahir noticed a white Labrador waiting for its owner outside a shop. He walked over, crouched, and began rubbing the dog’s ears, cooing into its face.
Hand holding? Dog petting?
Had Tahir undergone an exorcism recently or what?
A moment later he was back beside me. “You look amazing. Did I tell you that?” Wordlessly I shook my head no. He pulled me to his side. “Well, you do.”
A sick feeling swelled inside me as we entered the restaurant. I hadn’t felt this bad since my weeklong fling with amoebic dysentery on my last trip to India.
In the name of all that was holy and chargeable—
I knew what had happened.
I had fallen in love with Tahir.
Chapter 43
SOME PEOPLE found their peace in ashrams.
I preferred the toilet.
As soon as tactfully possible I excused myself from dinner to escape into the bathroom. Settling down into my porcelain sanctuary, I realized I was withdrawing to the WC on a regular basis.
Things had been going so well.
Why’d I have to ruin it by falling in love with him?
I tore off a sheet of toilet paper and began shredding it. What was wrong with me? The guy pets a dog, and suddenly I was Juliet Capulet. I tried vainly to convince myself that what I was feeling was just lust in warp drive, but even if Tahir were to gain fifty pounds (gulp) or mangle his face in a freak accident (gulp, gulp), I’d still feel the same way about him.
Call it love. Call it hysterical blindness. Whatever.
I didn’t know what was more galling—falling in love with the man my family picked out for me—or falling in love with a man who’d explicitly stated he wanted a woman who respected her family and adhered to Indian values.
Regardless of what Tahir said, I believed I was just someone for him to fool around with until he found the perfect wife and mother for his future children.
Someone grabbed the stall handle and tugged.
“Occupied,” I shouted.
I had enough pressure trying to figure out how to save the world, trying to keep my nails shiny and buffed, trying to meditate, trying to overcome childhood issues, trying to find a career path, and trying to stay alive while some computer programmer tried to kill me….
