by SGD Singh
He waved a hand dismissively. “You can call her from there.”
Asha nodded and rose on unsteady legs. She moved down the hall to her bedroom as if through the fog of a bad dream.
Courage? Wisdom? Everything seemed suddenly and completely alien.
Wiping her tears, Asha packed, hardly noticing what she put into the small suitcase. She sat on the edge of her bed, shivering and exhausted as a cold hollowness seeped into her mind. She was wholly, and entirely—alone.
She looked around the room that felt no longer hers with blurred eyes. And there was her harp. Loyal. Patient. Its clear, pure sound was waiting to comfort her. Asha blinked. She had almost forgotten it. A pang of guilt sliced through her ragged nerves as she gathered the instrument onto her lap.
Made by her mother's father in Colombia, the unique lap harp was the only thing of her mother's that Asha had, and it was like no other instrument she had ever seen or heard. Under fourteen strings that had inexplicably never needed to be replaced, the harp's entire front was covered with an inlaid peregrine falcon, its spread wings made of exquisitely detailed mother of pearl, onyx, malachite, and lapis. Its eye was a shining tourmaline the exact blue-green color of Asha's mother's and her own. The falcon was surrounded by tiny, equally detailed birds and animals, some of which Asha was pretty sure didn't exist. The harp's smoothly rounded back was covered in inlaid fractals of soft, buttery cherry and sandalwood, while flowers, leaves, and fruit in gold, silver, and copper intertwined along the curving sides and neck, making the harp truly a work of art.
Asha played without fail every night before going to sleep, just as her mother had played for her in Colombia, in what felt like another lifetime.
Asha ran her hand along the instrument's side and placed it into its case, taking a deep breath.
Okay. Enough blubbering.
She lifted the harp onto her back and rolled her bag into the living room, determined to hang onto the tiny shred of hope that BapuJi had changed his mind about exiling her to India.
He sat slumped on the couch while Duardo talked in a low voice, one giant hand engulfing BapuJi's shoulder. Asha watched them from the hallway as BapuJi nodded to whatever Duardo was saying, then, as if they felt her watching them, both men stood, and Duardo returned to the kitchen.
“Good. You're ready,” BapuJi said, crossing to the safe that was hidden behind a painting of vegetables and twisted branches. He opened it and withdrew a thick envelope, which he handed her. “Take this. Cash. Passport. Ticket information.” He turned away, and Asha thought he was trying not to look at her as he called, “Duardo! She's ready. You have your phone? Good. Okay, Duardo will take you to the plane. The redeye flight to Delhi, and then to Chandigarh. I've arranged that someone will pick you up at the airport there and take you home.”
Asha was trying very hard not to cry again. “Home… BapuJi, I…”
He placed his hands on her shoulders, and looked at her, his expression fierce. “Asha. Everything will be fine. You'll love Punjab, okay?” He pulled her into another tight hug, quickly releasing her. “Now get going or you'll miss the flight.”
And without a backward glance, BapuJi disappeared down the hallway, leaving Asha with Duardo.
She silently followed his towering figure out of the suite to the elevator, and down to a waiting taxi, which took them through the pouring rain to the airport.
After helping Asha get her boarding pass and double checking all her papers and ticket information, Duardo opened his wallet at a security official who peered at it, his eyes widening as he snapped from sleepy and bored to respectful and obliging. Asha felt too numb to feel anything more than fleeting curiosity as Duardo walked her through security and all the way to the plane.
At the tiny doorway, he hesitated, and just as she turned to enter the plane Duardo blurted, “We are all very proud of you, Asha. No matter what happens.”
Asha didn't know what he expected her to say. Nothing made sense anymore. She nodded, giving him a half-hearted wave, and entered the plane.
Two minutes after takeoff, exhaustion finally overwhelmed her, and Asha slept.
Chapter 2
After sleeping sitting up for most of the first fourteen hour flight and waking up feeling emotionally drained and filthy for the last four hours, Asha was starting to get a headache as she dragged her bag across Chandigarh's airport. Searching the dense crowd with burning eyes, Asha was relieved to see her name in large calligraphy on a white board. Holding the sign was a boy who looked about her age but towered over everyone. He must have been nearly seven feet tall. He wore a navy warrior-style turban—a dumala, Asha thought they were called, and a black T-shirt that said “Jatts Do It” with a knife instead of the Nike logo. He smiled as if he somehow recognized her. Asha gave him the traditional greeting of Sat Siri Akal, and his smile broadened as he returned the greeting in a deep voice that perfectly matched his size.
“I'm Asha,” she said, not sure if she should reach her hand out or not. She decided on not.
“Nidhan,” he answered, grinning. Taking her bag as if it weighed nothing, he jerked his head toward the door. She followed him through the arrival lobby that couldn't quite mask the acrid smell of body odor and pickled feet.
When the blast of sweltering heat hit her the second the doors slid open, Asha realized why.
“I guess our grandfathers were brothers,” Nidhan said, throwing the sign with her name into a small pile of trash at the edge of the parking lot.
Asha wanted to ask if he'd known his grandfather had a brother before yesterday, but stopped herself.
The temperature outside was almost unbearable. The heat stuck to Asha's lungs like a dusty, diesel sauna, and she began to feel light-headed as well as filthy. Nidhan handed her a bottle of water with another smile. He gave her the impression of someone trying not to laugh, and Asha suspected he was always like that, his joy for life infectious.
Nidhan easily maneuvered the car through the congested traffic, one hand almost constantly honking the horn. Asha blinked at the disorienting sights flashing past her window, her whole body protesting being in another moving vehicle. Nothing was familiar, from the language on the signs, to the traditional clothing worn by most of the people, to the animals and strange vehicles overflowing the road. Even the buildings, ranging from straw huts to intricately carved temples, felt unfamiliar. Asha might as well be on another planet.
Soon they left the congestion of the city for a two-lane highway lined with what Nidhan informed her were eucalyptus trees owned by the government to increase India's dwindling wood supply.
Asha smiled and nodded politely, but it made her head hurt worse. She drank more water and checked her phone again. There was still no message from BapuJi, and she blinked back tears. He hadn't called, and he wasn't answering his phone.
Taking a deep breath, Asha gazed across the fields and watched the sun reflect in bursts off the flooded rice fields beyond the trees. She wondered how a person could feel so completely isolated in one of the most crowded countries on the planet.
Nidhan was trying to make polite conversation. When he asked after her parents' health, Asha realized he knew as little about her as she did about him. After she told him both her parents died almost eight years ago, Nidhan drove for the rest of the hour-and-a-half trip in silence, the smile almost, but not quite, leaving his eyes.
† † †
On the outskirts of the City of Patiala, in the middle of acres of flat rice fields, they arrived at the home of their grandfathers. Trees peeked over the top of a stone and brick wall, their leaves still in the midday heat, as Nidhan pulled the car up to a massive iron gate and blared the horn once.
“Here we are, home sweet home,” he said.
A very dark, very short man hurried to open the gate, smiling in apparent delight.
“The guy grinning like an idiot is Sanjay,” said Nidhan. “He made that ridiculous sign with your name on it. None of us has actually met a real American, and h
e's very excited. I'm hoping you appreciate the opportunity that presents to mess with him.”
Nidhan's laugh was so contagious that Asha found herself smiling as she got out, even as her legs screamed in protest. She greeted Sanjay, who insisted on taking her harp and bag from Nidhan and, after grinning at her again, hurried into the house.
Asha glanced up from the cobblestone driveway and saw a woman standing on a balcony. A gentle breeze blew her shining black hair across heavily kajaled eyes, and canary-yellow silk fluttered gracefully around her elegant figure, scattering magenta bougainvillea. The sun reflected brightly off the sequins of her dupatta, and Asha thought that this was the most beautiful person she'd ever seen.
“Is that your sister?” she asked Nidhan. “Wow. She's… gorgeous!”
Nidhan choked, and had to clear his throat as he led Asha quickly away along the veranda. “That was Kushi,” he said, and Asha was sure he was trying not to laugh. “My eldest brother Bobbie's wife.”
Asha looked back, but Kushi had gone.
Asha followed Nidhan into a bedroom so full of peculiar knick-knacks that it reminded her of an antique shop. An elderly woman sat, propped up on a bed by the window, engrossed in her knitting. Asha noticed a framed photo on the bedside table and realized why Nidhan had looked as if he'd recognized her. The woman in the picture looked exactly like Asha, except her eyes were dark.
Asha turned to the old woman just as she stopped knitting. Looking up at Asha, the woman's eyes widened, the color draining from her face.
Asha mumbled a greeting, and glanced at Nidhan as he rushed to the woman.
“Are you okay, Dādi?” he asked, all humor leaving his face. “Did you take your pills?”
The older woman blinked, straightening. “You…” She stared at Asha for a long moment before shaking her head. Her voice was full of authority. “You must be tired. Nidhan, show her around and have Sanjay and Chotu help settle her in. Are you hungry, my dear?”
Asha admitted she was more tired than hungry. She just wanted a bath after twenty hours of traveling.
Nidhan spoke to his grandmother in rapid Punjabi, but Dādi shooed him out and Asha followed.
“Dādi slipped and broke her hip a few weeks ago, or she'd be up fussing over you herself,” he said.
“Who is that in the picture by her bed?”
“No idea.” He shrugged. “When I asked her, she wouldn't say. After meeting you, though, I think it's pretty obvious. I'm guessing you have your mother's blue eyes?”
Asha nodded. “I'm told they're creepy.”
“Only a little.” Nidhan laughed. “C'mon, I'll show you around.”
Leading her back through the garden, Nidhan beamed with enthusiasm as he told her about the old house, and Asha tried to show interest by asking questions. It was disorienting to find out she had a family she didn't know existed only yesterday. There were three cousins, Nidhan's grandmother, and his father and mother. Asha wondered again what happened between BapuJi and his brother.
The house was actually two twin houses built in what Nidhan explained was the old North Indian style—tiny bricks, carved arches, and numerous balconies surrounded by sandstone latticework railings. They were attached to each other on one end by a large veranda. Kushi's balcony overlooked a manicured formal garden at the front of the property, and the whole house was covered with cascades of magenta bougainvillea. Beyond the garden, alternating palm trees and what Nidhan told her were Ashoka trees stood guard against the high wall that separated them from the rice fields, along the top of which Asha saw embedded shards of broken mirror.
Nidhan showed Asha through BapuJi's house. Though she looked carefully, Asha saw no evidence that her grandfather had once lived there. She followed her cousin through the abandoned rooms, the air eerily still, as if the furniture were occupied by ghosts holding their breath. Nidhan apologized, explaining there hadn't been time to repaint as he led her between mildew-cracked walls and up a final narrow staircase, ending on a large roof.
Asha glanced over the railing at an overgrown courtyard and mango orchard and turned back. At the center of the roof stood a kind of casita—a small, screened-in room with a tiny bathroom.
Something about it seemed less filled with empty decay than the rest of the house.
“Can I have this room?” she asked.
Nidhan spreading his arms wide. “You can have whatever room you want! This whole house is yours. Although Dādi had a room prepared for you closer to everyone else, if you'd rather… ?”
Asha shook her head, studying her shoes.
Nidhan looked around. “The gardener's been keeping plants and stuff up here but we can get rid of them.”
“No, I like plants,” Asha said quickly.
Nidhan smiled at her, his eyes laughing again, and nodded.
† † †
When Asha woke up six hours later, she saw that someone had added potted palms and flowers along the railing. She spent the rest of the day helping Sanjay and Chotu, a skinny man of about thirty who seemed painfully shy every time Asha spoke to him, drag furniture, rugs, and bedding up from the other rooms. They added a couch, some chairs, and a table to create a roof-top sitting area for playing music and reading.
When they were finished, Asha unpacked what little belongings she had and looked around, sighing. She doubted BapuJi meant for her to come to Punjab just to take up interior design.
Finally hungry, Asha went downstairs, crossing the garden toward a door where she had seen Nidhan go moments before. Voices reached her through the screened, along with delicious smells. They spoke Punjabi, and Asha strained to understand what they said, her education of the language limited to what little she had picked up helping BapuJi in the resort's restaurant.
“So, Nidhan, you were wrong, yaar,” Chotu was saying. “The American is nothing like Kushi. She even helped me fixing up her room today!”
“Shh! Here she comes!” hissed Sanjay.
Asha reached the door and felt herself blush as she mumbled in English, “Um, I felt hungry… and…”
Sanjay looked mortified as he jumped up and began fumbling around the kitchen. Nidhan stopped eating and watched, eyes laughing as Sanjay struggled to speak English. “Allow me bringing to you something in dining room, madam.”
“… Can I eat in here with you guys? It's…” Asha looked at Nidhan.
“Of course,” he laughed, pulling up a stool and handing her a plate, which was swiftly snatched away by Chotu who glared at Nidhan. He served Asha with a shy smile while Sanjay rolled dough for fresh roti. Nidhan explained that the rest of the family had finished eating dinner an hour ago.
They ate in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes until Nidhan cleared his throat, leaning forward, “Asha thinks Kushi… is gorgeous!”
Everyone froze in mid-bite. Then Sanjay, Chotu, and Nidhan looked at each other and burst into laughter.
“What?” Asha said. “She is!” That got even louder laughs, and Chotu almost fell off his stool.
“Beauty is only skin deep,” declared Sanjay, and after glancing around for eavesdroppers, added, “Whoever says this was speaking of our Kushi.”
“Yes,” Chotu said, nodding. “Get to know her and then see how gorgeous you think she is.”
“Or don't,” said Nidhan.
“But, she's married to your brother, right?”
Nidhan said, “Knowing Kushi will make you rethink the whole idea of getting married. Ever.”
The other men nodded in solemn agreement, and Sanjay pointed at Nidhan and said something in such rapid, slang-filled Punjabi that Asha couldn't understand. Nidhan blushed, mumbling something that made the other two burst into laughter.
Nidhan pressed Chotu and Sanjay into talking about America, and Asha spent the rest of the meal answering questions he clearly thought were hilarious. Asha felt like the person who tells kids that Santa Claus isn't real as she informed the increasingly disappointed Sanjay and Chotu that there are, in fact, fl
ies in America. And dust. And mosquitoes. She also added that there are rats, cockroaches, the most serial killers per capita, and also, yes, a lot of guns.
“The most convicted serial killers,” Sanjay said. “Because the best police. Like Bones.”
Nidhan gave her a look that clearly said, See? It's hopeless. “America is a paradise. Okay, we all agree.”
Asha told Sanjay she thought his airport sign was beautiful, and Nidhan insisted he couldn't remember where he put it when Sanjay wanted it back.
Even though Asha understood only half of what was being said, their laughter had the effect of temporarily cheering her up, and she almost forgot the strange circumstances that had brought her to India.
Almost.
As Asha practiced her harp that night, she finally began to accept the reality of her situation. She was in India. Alone. BapuJi still hadn't answered his phone. The music drifted along the moonlit roof, her mother's favorite melancholy pieces perfectly suited to the empty, neglected house, and Asha slowly began to feel her sadness at leaving Miami lift. She was being self indulgent and childish. BapuJi loved her, and he would never tell her to do anything that wasn't best for her.
Would he…?
Asha shook her head and continued to play late into the night.
† † †
She didn't notice when Nidhan returned from his Gatka class. Didn't see him stop to listen, stumbling against a mango tree, blinking back sudden tears as the heart-wrenching music filled the garden like a haunting fog.
And she didn't notice the large sparrow hawk perched on the roof, watching her from the shadows.
Chapter 3
After another twelve hours getting over her jet lag, Asha called Lexi in Paris.
“Hold on. You're where?” Lexi shouted, and Asha jerked the phone away from her ear.
“Patiala, Punjab, India,” Asha told her again, filling her in on everything that happened the night she left Miami and since.
Lexi was quiet for a long moment. “Turmeric? And onion and garlic… and that shit worked?”
