Mehendi Tides

by Siobhan Malany

  Kate stood holding the red ball. She knew that her pale complexion and red hair was a strange sight in India, the country that pulsed with the color red. Red shone in the silk of saris, and glittered in golden tassels and trim that outlined headscarves and hung across buses. Red richened foreheads and earlobes in rubies. Mustard red was the color of Indian spices, curried lamb, turmeric powder, and masoor dal. Brides in India were adorned with garlands of red and white flowers, painted in dark mehendi dye, and draped in flaring maroon dupattas.

  The red of Kate’s hair, in contrast, was an anomaly—alien, mutant. At home, her hair color brought smiles and compliments from passersby. But in India, her coloring made all unforgiving eyes on the street turn her way.

  Kate gently rolled the ball toward the place the children had disappeared and continued to the house. In the doorway, she found Rahmsing’s wife sleeping. Stepping over the woman, Kate entered the house and her eyes adjusted to the natural light of the large room. Inside the door stood a large vibrant red etched vase on a pedestal, one of the few items presented as a display in what was a simple but inviting dwelling. The etching in the vase reflected the bit of light that seeped in through the door. To Kate, the house felt like she had always been its natural guest.

  Kate spied Nanima, in a cotton sari as white as the chickweed blossoms, standing in the shadow of a large antique armoire at the end of the dining table. Nanima looked up at the girl and voiced a command, and in the next moment Rahmsing was standing in the kitchen doorway as though he had been waiting all along.

  “Chai whona?” Kate said shyly.

  “I want chai” was the only way she knew to ask for tea, and by making her request into a question, she hoped it sounded more polite.

  Rahmsing nodded and disappeared.

  Nanima brought forth a metal box beaten by years from a small drawer in the armoire next to a stack of old photos. She extended a gesture for Kate to sit at the long oak table. The woman placed her hand on the box’s hinged cover and squinted through her horn-rimmed glasses at Kate, who could barely see the woman’s eyes from beneath the thick rims.

  “What are you doing?” she longed to ask, but Nanima did not understand a word of English.

  Kate watched every meticulous movement as Nanima began an ethnic preparation made from betel nuts. From inside the silver betel nut box, the betel leaves lay lush in foil, still moist with rose water.

  First, Nanima smoothed a lime paste around the leaf. Her tin box was divided into sections. Red round nuts and yellow and green fennel seeds, all separated into sections, were like threads and buttons in a sewing kit. With a miniature spoon, Nanima scooped each type of nut and sprinkled them on the lime paste. She created a pattern of nuts and seeds, a perfectly balanced, harmonious supari mix.

  Next, she added flakes of coconut, cardamom, mint, cloves, and various other dried spices. Last came a spoonful of red thick chutney to suspend the areca nuts and dried powders together.

  Nanima wet the edges of the leaves with a tiny brush and folded it all into a compact triangle. Then, piercing the loose end of the leaf with a clove, she presented the wrapped delicacy to Kate.

  “Paan,” Nanima said in a hoarse voice.

  She passed the paan to Kate, who held it carefully like it was a fragile bundle and waited for Nanima to finish wrapping her own.

  As Nanima took a bite of the paan, Kate noticed the remnants of betel nuts lodged between the older woman’s teeth, stained from years of chewing. Kate bit the tip of the paan. The rose-mint aroma drifted up her nose and exploded as the cloves and cardamom scents diffused over her tongue. She did not care much for the taste of paan, overpowered by the acrimonious sweetness, too culturally distinct for her American tongue. But sharing paan with Nanima was a spiritual event.

  Rahmsing reappeared with two cups of chai and set one before Kate and left the other for Nasreen. The cinnamon in the wondrous liquid warmed her senses, and the pinch of chili powder tickled her throat.

  Nanima brushed a hand across the teenage girl’s shoulder as she headed into the kitchen to plan the daily meals. Rahmsing had disappeared again to attend to the chores. His wife was awake and sweeping the front step with a handful of bristles. The girl and the boy, holding the retrieved red ball, appeared at their mother’s side, but in a single motion their mother waved her handmade broom, an order for the youngsters to play elsewhere.

  Kate’s quest for chai had started the household caste in motion.

  Chapter 8

  Letters

  Chicago 1998

  As soon as Kate entered the front room of her apartment, an aching sickness crept over her in the stale heat of the closed-up space. She sank into the sofa and picked up one of the decorative pillows. Aunty Samina had given her the set of pillowcases embroidered with white-beaded elephants adorned with gold-threaded sashes prancing on a bed of velvet and silver-sequined trefoils as a gift the night she left Karachi and returned to the US. They looked entirely too ornate against the brownish-green hand-me-down sofa.

  Her mind went through the events of the morning and the night before, Nasreen’s confessions, Tariq’s attention, and all the things said and not said.

  The phone rang, startling her.

  “Hello, may I speak with Kate, please?”

  “Tariq?”

  She was surprised by his voice. He called!

  “We didn’t get to talk much at Eid,” he said.

  There was a pause.

  “Have you had breakfast?”

  Kate had to think about the question, and then realized that despite watching Nasreen pull out several items from the refrigerator, she had not eaten.

  “No.”

  “Neither have I. There is a place close to you called Harvest Moon. Sameer recommended it.”

  “It’s one of my favorites,” Kate responded.

  “Will you join me?”

  She was intrigued.

  “My flight to New York is late afternoon. I’d love to meet you before I leave,” he urged.

  Kate looked at the clock on the microwave. The morning was slipping into noon.

  “I’ll meet you there,” she said and hung up.

  Kate showered quickly and chose an outfit, casual and light. She freshened her face with a brush of powder and mascara to hide the shadows of her troubled thoughts about Nasreen.

  A LARGE CROWD hovered in the cool morning under the awning outside Harvest Moon.

  Kate looked around for Tariq but didn’t see him.

  “Kate!” Tariq called to her from the doorway, motioning for her to come inside.

  “I’m sorry, I should have warned you,” she said. “This is a very popular place on Sundays. The wait is at least…”

  “I have a table, here,” he said, placing his hand on the small of her back and leading her to a table for two by the window.

  Tariq was dressed in a dry-cleaned oxford shirt, sharply creased pants, and smelled like fragrant sea salt.

  “Can I help you with your coat?”

  “Thanks,” Kate responded. “But how did you get a table so fast and by the window?”

  “I talked to the waitress. Said I had to catch a flight and was meeting someone special.” He smiled charmingly.

  Kate glanced around the crowded breakfast joint and caught the waitress eyeing her from across the room. The waitress quickly flipped her head around as soon as Kate spied her.

  “How suave,” Kate said, smirking.

  “Is that a compliment?”

  She laughed and didn’t answer him.

  “I am still trying to figure out a few things in America,” he said. “Especially American women.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t try to figure that one out,” Kate said sarcastically.

  “Indian women are less…mysterious,” he commented, as he attempted to push her chair in, but Kate scooted her own chair to the table. “More predictable.”

  “Is that better?”

  Tariq sat across from her, wrinkeld his brow, and loo
ked probingly at her.

  “Should we order?” she asked.

  “We should,” he said, glancing at his watch and sitting back in his chair.

  “Do you have time?” she quipped.

  “Yes. Thanks for meeting me.”

  Kate ordered what she always did: eggs florentine with house potatoes. Tariq ordered plain eggs.

  “Bacon or sausage with that?” the waitress asked.

  “No pork, thanks.”

  “Okay. How would you like your eggs?”

  “Beaten with spice,” Tariq responded.

  “Scrambled, and I’ll bring you some tabasco sauce,” the waitress remarked impatiently as she gathered the menus.

  Tariq frowned.

  “That,” Kate said as the waitress hustled away, “was predictable.”

  He shrugged. “I have a few things to learn apparently.”

  “I am sure living in New York will teach you a few things.”

  “It’s a crazy city,” Tariq laughed. “New York drivers are as aggressive as Indian drivers.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Kate teased. “I’m sure they honk as much though. I recall I almost fell off the top of that van on our way back to Banjara Hills from Mamujan’s farm.”

  “I caught you.”

  “Yes. You did.” Kate smiled.

  “I was hoping to see you,” Tariq said seriously.

  Kate’s smile faded. She nodded.

  “You seem the same as I remember,” he added.

  “Not sure I feel the same. Time has passed,” she responded. “Graduate school is tough. It’s not so much the science that is hard but the life. It’s quiet and dim, the opposite of India.”

  Tariq laughed. “It’s impressive. Anees is the one that told me you were here in Chicago getting your PhD.”

  Thoughts of the morning clouded her mind at the mention of Anees.

  “You never seemed to like my brother. But Anees has always spoken of you like a sister because you are so close to Nasreen.”

  “I was wrong about Anees,” she confessed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Wrong about what? Why are you sorry?”

  Kate shook her head. “It’s complicated.”

  “Hmm. Mysterious,” he said smugly.

  “Anyway. I hope Anees and Rayah are doing well.”

  “Yes, very. It’s a good marriage. I have two amazing nephews who ask me a million questions,” he laughed.

  “Nasreen says your marriage is arranged,” she blurted. “Speaking of marriages.”

  Tariq looked at her, stunned.

  “Nasreen mentioned that?” he sighed.

  “Yeah, she did.”

  “My parents have been wanting me to get married. They are getting impatient. I’m the last of the three sons. My parents want to retire,” he laughed, a hearty carefree laugh. “As soon as I’m finished with my master’s. It was part of the deal.”

  “The deal?” Kate questioned.

  “That I could come to New York for a degree then return to India and get married. My parents have someone in mind.”

  “Have you met her?”

  He shrugged. “Yes. She is from Hyderabad. She is very pretty, smart, and nice.”

  “Is she predictable?”

  “Maybe,” he responded, sounding slightly annoyed. “I look at Sameer and his wife and they are so much in love and very happy together. It makes me think that things will work out.”

  “Leave it to fate.”

  “I leave nothing to fate! You should know that about me.”

  “Okay,” Kate retracted. “Will you stay in India, or will you bring your wife to America?”

  “I know a few people in the telecommunications industry in Hyderabad. We will see. I’m not even married yet.”

  Tariq paused.

  “You’re grinning,” he said, intrigued.

  “I remember you stood atop that hill in Hyderabad overlooking the Hassain Sagar Lake.”

  “Naubat Pahad! My favorite place!”

  “Out of all the places you have traveled to in the world, that hill is your favorite place?” she questioned.

  “I always come home,” he said.

  “Well, when you stood on your favorite hill,” Kate continued, “you said, ‘All of this will change, you will see. There will be business, and we will not have to go to America for jobs.’”

  “You remember that?” Tariq asked, his eyes drawing her in.

  “I remember a lot of things about India.”

  “Do you remember we climbed that boulder…”

  “And you dropped me at the top to grab Nasreen’s hand?”

  “I felt bad about that.”

  “I got over it,” Kate laughed. “It was a beautiful view and worth the climb… and the fall.”

  “It was…beautiful,” he agreed, looking at her in earnest.

  The waitress came by, momentarily interrupting their conversation to deliver their food.

  “Do you remember the tombs?” she asked him, unrolling the silverware from the thick cloth napkin.

  “And how you almost sat on an ancient royal bath and then nearly fainted? Yes, I remember,” he teased.

  She smiled. “You caught me then.”

  “I did,” he said, grinning back. “One time out of two isn’t bad. Oh”—Tariq slapped the breakfast table—“and the van we just mentioned that you almost fell off when we swerved to avoid the oncoming truck. So two out of three times I saved you.” He smiled proudly.

  They gazed at each other for a moment, and then Tariq’s expression grew serious.

  “Are you dating someone?”

  Kate poked at her eggs florentine with her fork.

  “Yes,” she lied. “I’m seeing someone. We met on the master’s swim team. He is a graduate student too. We have a lot in common.”

  “What is his name?” he asked.

  “Neil.”

  Technically she had not told anyone they had broken up, so for the record they were still dating, she rationalized. But she couldn’t meet Tariq’s eyes.

  She sighed then, realizing time was running out.

  “Tariq, why didn’t you ever…”

  “How are we doing here?” the waitress intercepted and abruptly started stacking the plates. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, we are good,” Tariq responded.

  “Here is the check,” she said, slapping the receipt down in the middle of the table. “When you are ready. Our credit machine is down at the moment. Cash only. Unless you want to wait.”

  Tariq looked at his watch.

  “Gosh. I have to get going!” he exclaimed. “I need to return the car and get to O’Hare to catch my flight.”

  He stood up and grabbed his black European-style coat.

  “I’m sorry to cut it short. Time went fast! Here is my cell number,” Tariq said, scribbling his number on a red napkin and handing it to Kate.

  “You have a cell phone,” she said, impressed. “I have an answering machine.”

  “I know. I called it several times this morning hoping you would pick up.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Call me if you come to New York. It’s an amazing city. I’ll show you everything. I have another year in the MBA program.”

  “I’m sure you will be back to Chicago at some point,” Kate said, meaning her statement to be a question, but Tariq didn’t confirm or deny.

  “It was great to see you, Kate. Ten years and now I am rushing,” he laughed nervously as he slid his coat over his broad shoulders, digging in his pocket to throw a wad of cash on the table.

  “Thanks for breakfast,” she said, trying not to sound disappointed that their time was coming to an abrupt end.

  “Oh,” Tariq said. “I have something for you!”

  “For me?”

  He pulled a gift out of his coat pocket.

  It was a hand-carved wooden box tied together with a red satin ribbon.

  “I found it in a village in Cambodia near the L
aos border. It’s a jewelry box to hold your rings and things,” he said, a little embarrassed.

  “I don’t wear rings—finger or toe ones,” she joked.

  “Earrings?”

  “Yes, I wear those. Thank you. It’s very pretty,” she said sincerely and pulled at the ribbon.

  “Open it later. At home,” he urged.

  He led her out the door and onto the sidewalk. A sizable crowd of patrons still waited for tables.

  “Good luck with everything, Kate,” he said then kissed her on each cheek. “I hope to see you again.”

  “Tariq!”

  He turned around and looked at her with anticipation.

  “Enjoy New York,” she called.

  He hesitated. “I will.”

  She watched him hurry around the corner and disappear.

  She looked down at the red napkin with his phone number scrbbled on it and the jewelry box with the ribbon partly untied in her palm, then shoved both into the pocket of her faded blue coat. She jaywalked across the street to her car to drive to the lab. Anything was better than going back to her apartment to be alone with her befuddled thoughts.

  THAT NIGHT, SLEEP hovered but never came. Kate stared at the shadows in her room. The shadows parted and she saw Dr. Khan socializing with Laila and teenage Nasreen over a cup of tea, his charming smile, lingering looks, and overconfident air. How could she have missed so much? Why didn’t Nasreen tell her any of it? She felt angry, betrayed, and at the same time she pictured Nasreen’s truthful, raw stare the moment before she fled the house this morning.

  She thought of Tariq and their meeting at breakfast. He seemed unaffected by the weight of the world and unfazed by the future. What did his gift mean?

  The gift!

  Kate jumped out of bed. Her coat was hanging across her desk chair. She took the jewelry box from the pocket, leaving the napkin with his phone number on it. The ribbon had completely untied and the lid was separated from the base. She rubbed her thumb across the deep carvings in the wood and looked inside the empty box with silk lining.

  What do I have that is valuable to place in such a box? she thought.

  Would the box hold a girl’s desires or a woman’s ambitions for safekeeping? Would the stone encase troubled thoughts to be sorted out another time, or harbor thoughts never to be thought again?