Mehendi Tides

by Siobhan Malany

  When it was time for the rukhsati, Haseena’s family surrounded her, bidding her farewell through smiles and tears. Her garlands were removed, and Kate could see for the first time that evening the beautiful tikka suspended on her forehead and the magnificent two-tiered jhoomar piece pinned in her dark hair.

  The couple, in formless radiance, came down from the stage and moved toward the exit. Anees wrapped his arm underneath Haseena’s dupatta and all but carried her out of the marriage hall. Haseena’s father paced behind them, holding the Qur’an over their heads as a blessing to their future. They paraded slowly in this way—bride, groom, and creed—through the glass doors and into the flower-decorated town car.

  AT MUMANIJAN’S HOUSE, all of the cousins darted to the bedroom door to block it as Rahim escorted his bride toward their matrimonial quarters. Only after he relinquished a wad of rupees to the gleeful younger cousins was he allowed to carry his bride into the room. Kate stood to the side but was eventually pushed into the intimate bedroom.

  Aunty Zehba and Mumanijan helped Haseena remove her jewelry, bracelets, and bridal dupatta. Haseena sat demurely like a swan in the middle of the bed, her petticoat fanned around her. Mumanijan placed a sheer veil over her head so that it fell feathery across her shoulders. The Qur’an was placed at the bedside sanctifying the consummation.

  Rahim broke free from the younger cousins’ grasps, stifling their giggles. Haseena raised her eyes to finally look straight at her new family. Arwah, Nasreen, and Yasmine took turns gently embracing Haseena. Then Kate found herself next to the bed. She was so close to Haseena she could see her porcelain-colored skin and large tear-shaped eyes accentuated with coral rose shading. Her mouth was dainty and almost too small for her long, pointed face. Haseena had a look of quiet resolve. Kate thought she was simply a girl, a classmate, a friend.

  “Okay. Out you go!” Aunty Zehba demanded, pushing the girls out of the nuptial bedroom and slowly shut the door behind her.

  Chapter 21

  Silk Lining

  Chicago 1998

  A PHOTO OF a jackwood-constructed houseboat slipping along a sepia-toned sliver of backwater in Kerala hung above the mantel and was illuminated by a row of diya lamps. Krishna had discovered the original photo stuck between the pages of her mother’s favorite book. She enlarged the picture, framed it, and hung it there as her father had looked on without a word. She had found several other photos of her mother that she reprinted and bound into books.

  It was Diwali, and Krishna wore a lavender satin salwar and light-silver sweater. Her hair was cropped in a straight bob that brushed her jawline. Relatives on her mother’s side had come from South India to stay for the month of November, including her grandmother and her mother’s sister and brother. She had invited Nasreen and Kate but not Raji.

  “For you, Nani,” she said, handing the booklet bound in cloth and tied with a yellow satin ribbon to her grandmother, who received the photo book as a delicate blessing.

  Her aunt sat on a cushion on the floor and her uncle stood. Both held their copies and with utmost care untied the ribbon and began to flip through the photos as if bending a photo meant disrupting a memory of their deceased sibling.

  “Happy Diwali,” she announced.

  “Happy Diwali,” her relatives echoed.

  “Enjoy these memories of her,” Krishna said softly.

  Kate and Nasreen huddled over Krishna’s aunt and uncle to glimpse the photos. Suneel sat quiet in his favorite reading chair. His young grandnieces had climbed onto each arm of the chair. Mani and Sabreena were sitting on the soft elephant blanket on the floor, entertained by a cousin’s daughter who seemed to thoroughly enjoy playing the doting role of mother to two curious eight-month-olds.

  Krishna’s aunt held up a photo of her sister dressed in her nursing uniform surrounded by the medical staff.

  “Saritha called me this day,” Krishna’s aunt reminisced. “It was her first day. She was nervous. So proud of my sister.”

  Her grandmother pointed and smiled to the photo of a teenage Saritha standing with her siblings in the lush mountainous backdrop of Kerala. Houses stacked one on top of each other appeared to grow out of the hillside. The young Saritha held her arms outstretched.

  “Yes, this one is my favorite too, Nani,” Krishna said in a loud voice so her grandmother could hear. “It reminds me of Julie Andrews swirling on top of the Swiss Alps in The Sound of Music.”

  Krishna seemed to be in high spirits or at least trying hard to remember the blissful stories of her mother.

  “Ha. This one is the best!” her uncle bellowed, slapping his knee. “Do you agree?” he said, holding up the photo of Saritha caught in mid-laugh.

  “Oh, yes. Very good indeed,” agreed his wife standing next to him.

  Krishna’s aunt mused over Saritha’s wedding photo.

  “So beautiful,” she said, admiring the photo.

  “Can you see the spinach dahl in her hair?” Suneel said, breaking his silence.

  “What did you say?” Krishna’s uncle asked, bemused.

  “It’s there, the dahl,” Suneel confirmed. “Before our wedding, Saritha was cooking spinach dahl,” he began the story. “I was urging her, ‘Stop cooking. We are getting married!’ But she was still cooking, stirring the spinach dahl. She was very nervous and ran her fingers through her hair. Green slime from the spoon spread all across!” Suneel pretended to groom his hair. “I didn’t know what to do!”

  The room gasped amused listening to Suneel’s wedding tale. Saritha’s sister peered closer to the photo searching for the evidence.

  “I was rubbing and licking my fingers trying to get the dahl out. But I was messing up the little comb in her hair. She hit my hand.” Suneel slapped his own hand acting astonished. “‘Stop,’ she yelled at me. ‘It’s a sign of good luck. Let’s get married now!’”

  Krishna’s aunt and uncle laughed jovially. Her uncle was short and stout. His stomach rolled as he laughed, his white salwar shirt stretched taunt across its roundness. His wife was petite with a narrow jaw. She slapped her hands together and squealed with glee having thoroughly enjoyed the story.

  “Mom never told me that story!” Krishna exulted.

  Suneel grinned, pleased with his tale.

  “She never in her life seemed nervous to me,” Krishna refuted.

  “I am sure she was very, very nervous at her wedding,” Krishna’s aunt said, repositioning herself on the cushion. “Ammi did not approve of this wedding. No.” Her aunt waved her finger back and forth in taboo.

  Nani shook her head.

  “She was so very defiant, bhaanjii. But so very in love. And now, we too love her Suneel. He was very good to her.” Krishna’s aunt eyed her brother-in-law affectionately.

  Nani rocked her head side to side, confirming.

  Suddenly, Krishna bent forward overcome with emotion. She covered her mouth with her hands and gasped sharply, her eyes filling with tears.

  “Oh gosh,” she trembled.

  “Tee-k, tee-k,” her aunt said, shaking her head side to side as her uncle looked to the floor and began shuffling from foot to foot. “We miss her too.”

  “Excuse me,” Krishna said as she walked out of the room.

  Kate and Nasreen jumped up from the cushions and followed Krishna to the bathroom.

  “Hey,” Nasreen said, entering the bathroom. “Are you alright?”

  Krishna reached for a tissue on the vanity and blew her nose loudly. “I promised not to cry today. Not during Diwali.”

  “Don’t worry,” Nasreen consoled.

  Kate closed the bathroom door to make room for the three of them to stand. Aroma from the burning vanilla incense filled the small space.

  “You look beautiful, Krish,” Kate said, attempting to uplift Krishna’s spirits. She stood behind Krishna and could see their reflections in the vanity mirror. “Your necklace matches the salwar perfectly!”

  As soon as Kate mentioned the necklace that Raji had given
Krishna, she recoiled, realizing it might not be best to bring up the gift.

  Krishna studied her reflection in the vanity and placed her hand over the purple heart charm. She shifted her gaze to Kate.

  “Raji wanted to be here. To meet my family.”

  “You don’t have to say anything,” Kate said.

  “Say what?” Nasreen asked suspiciously.

  For a long moment, Krishna looked at herself in the mirror. She took a long breath.

  “I like women.”

  Another long moment of silence filled the cramped space. Kate took a deep breath and released it. Nasreen folded her right arm over her left and turned to Kate anxiously.

  Grimacing, Krishna put her hand over her eyes.

  “Raji is more than a friend. We’ve been seeing each other for a bit.”

  “What can I say, Krish? I have known you for so long.” Nasreen finally uttered.

  “I like her,” Kate stated.

  “Bhaanjii? Are you in there?” Krishna’s aunt rapped intrudingly on the door.

  Krishna gasped and slowly opened the door, her eyes still damp and reddened.

  “So sorry,” her aunt apologized. “The food is almost ready. Do you have a whisk to mix the yogurt? We cannot find one anywhere.”

  “I will show you,” Krishna sighed, abruptly walking out of the bathroom.

  When Kate and Nasreen slowly entered the kitchen, they found Krishna’s aunt whipping yogurt and honey together in a tin cup, having found the whisk. Nani fidgeted over a tray of potato samosas and a woman from the neighborhood, a close friend of Saritha’s and an emigrant herself from South India stood over a large gurgling pot of chicken vindaloo, stirring the contents of the pot with the strength of her entire arm.

  “Just an extra splash of palm vinegar,” the neighbor said, reaching for the bottle. “And a dash of brown sugar,” she added with a final brush of her hands.

  “It smells delicious!” Nasreen exclaimed from the doorway.

  “Oh, yes. Such a tasty dish,” the neighbor said, licking her fingers.

  “You are making me hungry,” announced Krishna. “I do so miss my mother’s home-cooked meals.”

  “We are ready to eat,” Krishna’s aunt said triumphantly as she carried the tray of samosas to the dining room.

  “Kate and I will help serve,” Nasreen insisted as she quickly began the task of carrying plates and serving trays out to the table.

  They enjoyed the festive meal of vindaloo, chickpea and potato curry, salad with spiced yogurt sauce and fried gujia, small sweet balls with chopped almonds.

  Before the evening prayers, Nasreen and Kate turned to leave.

  “We have Mona’s niece’s wedding tomorrow, remember Kate?”

  She smiled. “Yes. I am wearing my sari and the new bangles you bought.”

  “Thanks for being here,” Krishna said. “Sorry for dropping a bombshell. I know there is still a lot to say.”

  “I will call tomorrow, Krish.” Nasreen squeezed Krishna’s arm in comfort.

  Kate put on her navy ski jacket. She dug a hand into her pocket hoping to find a pair of gloves but instead pulled out a crumpled red cocktail napkin. The color drained from her face as it dawned on her that the last time she wore the jacket was after meeting Tariq for breakfast following Eid last March. She had tucked the napkin with Tariq’s number scribbled on it into her pocket.

  “Did you find money in your pocket?” Nasreen said, attempting a light joke. “I love when I find money in my pocket from last season.”

  “No, just trash,” Kate responded, not amused.

  “I will throw it away,” Krishna said, holding out her hand.

  She shoved the pen-inscribed napkin in her sweater pocket and wrapped the sweater around herself, suddenly cold standing in the foyer.

  “Nice sweater. Is it new?” Nasreen asked.

  Krishna shook her head and looked to the floor. “It’s Raji’s sweater.”

  Nasreen sighed.

  “Grab your coat, Krish.”

  “Why? Where are we going?”

  “To Raji’s. She invited us, all. It’s still early. C’mon!”

  THE EXCITEMENT OF Raji’s voice bellowed through the intercom followed by a long, intruding buzz. The door clicked open.

  Nasreen looked apprehensively up and down the dark block on the near south side close to Chinatown.

  “The building is a little rundown but her studio is very nice. I promise you,” Krishna reassured.

  Their footsteps echoed as they climbed the stairwell to Raji’s apartment. A baby’s cries drifted from the floor above. Someone was shouting. A teenager rushed down the stairs, nearly crashing into Krishna, who led the way. She clasped the handrail for support.

  “Come up! Come up!” came a voice from above.

  Raji was leaning over the railing two floors up, waving ecstatically.

  “I am so excited you came!” Raji grabbed Krishna’s hand as soon as she stepped onto the third-floor platform. “Come in. The party is still going.”

  “Wow!” Kate said in awe as she entered the small apartment.

  “Told you her place was nice.”

  “You should be an interior designer,” Kate added.

  From the gritty and musty, dark stairwell, they had stepped inside a subdued but joyful French style studio. The walls were painted a chalky gray accented with black and white still photographs illuminated by a row of hanging pendant lights. In the corner was a daybed covered with a striped linen duvet beside an antique white armoire. A single picture window was dressed with white drapes that puddled onto the floor. The large gilded mirror over the fireplace enlarged the sitting area decorated with a bold blue couch and orange pillows. A vase of pink roses set atop a light blue-gray antique desk next to the door.

  “I feel like I am in a room in a chateau,” Nasreen added. “Well done.”

  “You are so nice,” Raji said, smiling. “It’s such a depressing building and small space, I had to make it a fun place to come home to.”

  Raji’s guests were dancing to a rhumba-rock fusion coming from a CD player on the coffee table that had been moved out of the way.

  Raji introduced a young man with a goatee. “This is my little brother, Nishi. He is visiting me for the weekend from Canada.”

  Nishi waved hello. He was dancing with two men named Ricardo and Rob and an African-American woman named Denise. Silke, a student from Germany, lounged on the blue couch sipping a caipirinha.

  “The others had to take off. Now it is not as crowded,” Raji said cheerfully. “What can I get you? There is plenty of food left over. Everyone chipped in and brought something.”

  “Oh, thanks but we ate at home,” Krishna responded. “My family cooked a ton of food. I’m so full.”

  Raji walked into the tiny kitchen big enough for a stove, refrigerator, sink, and breakfast bar. Across the countertop was a trail of brown sugar leading to a pile of lime rinds in the sink.

  “Silke has made a mess of my kitchen with her caipirinha concoctions! I’m sure she would make you a drink if you like.”

  “Not for me. Thanks,” Nasreen responded.

  “Dessert then? I made traditional American apple pie,” Raji said, beaming proudly. “I wanted to make something besides Indian food.”

  “Got ice cream?” Kate asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Always room for apple pie,” Nasreen chimed in as she slid off her coat and hung it by the door.

  “I’m so excited you all decided to come. Did I already say that?” Raji grinned brightly as she served dessert.

  With homemade pie and ice cream on a platter, Kate admired the prints on the wall.

  “Raji, are these photographs ones that you took?”

  “Yes! I photographed these from my mother’s boutique. She sold a lot of vintage clothes, towel racks, pillows, and stuff. I loved these French country towel racks she had with different slogans on them,” Raji said, pointing to one of her favorites on the wall.
“My mother inspired me. I am hoping my parents will come for a visit one of these days. They are traveling in Delhi right now.”

  “The photos are really impressive,” Kate remarked, her mouth full of warm apple pie.

  “My sister was always taking pictures,” said Nishi, still dancing with the others.

  Denise turned the volume higher on the CD player.

  “I started played with lighting and setting,” Raji said loudly to be heard over the music. “Then submitted a few photos to local competitions, and that’s how it all started! I got a small scholarship to come to Chicago. Oh, speaking of scholarships, Krishna, I picked up an application for you!”

  “I’m not sure I will apply,” Krishna responded.

  “We talked about this,” Raji said, disappointed.

  “Application for what?” Nasreen asked.

  “To submit a series of photos that tell a story. The winners receive a scholarship and the opportunity to showcase their work at a downtown gallery,” Raji explained. “Why would you not apply, Krishna?”

  “Why wouldn’t you apply, Raji?” Kate interjected.

  “It’s only for first-year students to the program, and I won last year.” She beamed.

  “Really? Did you show your work downtown?”

  Raji nodded, confirming.

  “If I knew you, I would have gone for sure,” Kate said apologetically.

  “Do you have the album? Can we look at it?” Nasreen asked.

  “Absolutely!” Raji clapped and stepped toward the armoire. “I keep my photos in a fireproof safe in here. I don’t trust this old building.”