Bombay Blues

by Tanuja Desai Hidier

  —You look incredible, Sangita! I continued whispering. I wasn’t sure why, since it was no secret we were here, or that she was, well, entirely blue. —Honestly, you should have won the costume contest.

  —I didn’t enter the contest.

  —Why not?

  —Because this doesn’t feel like a costume.

  I gave her a quizzical look.

  —It feels like I’ve turned myself inside out and I’m wearing my guts on the outside, she explained quietly.

  This had gone deep faster than I’d expected. I fumbled.

  —Oh? Um. Wow. I had no idea you were part of this whole … comic scene.

  —It’s been my little secret. Anyway, I’m not exactly part of a scene. I was just wanting a full-body experience.

  I considered her odd behavior and erratic hours, the fact she hadn’t slept at home last night. Before I could stop myself, I asked, —Sangita. Are you … seeing a superhero?

  Her eyes: the teeniest of upturns.

  —I wish! she sighed. —Tarzan’s pretty cute, isn’t it?

  —I know you’ve been out a lot lately.

  I realized then I didn’t want to ask any questions I wasn’t prepared to answer myself, and fell silent.

  —A full-body experience of color, Dimple. I’ve been going to art school; there was a place for me this term — not next. I’m working on a whole project on superheroines. And I have to thank you in part.

  I was speechless. Me?

  —Yes, you. I’ve been watching you, throwing yourself with such abandon into your work. And I got the sense there’s a whole community out there of people like you, like me, who do that. Like Karsh. Kavita, too.

  —Wow. Thank you, Sangita. I’m honored you feel that way, I finally uttered. —And … so … when are you going to tell Deepak? How serious you are about your art?

  She did the ambigu-nod.

  —In a way, he gets it, she said. —He doesn’t want to work in his father’s business any more than I want to decorate his house. But he simply cannot say no to his parents.

  She absentmindedly tidied up a sugar spill, carefully depositing the swept crystals into her own saucer.

  —This is what I want to do with my life, Dimple, she said. —I’m not in love with Deepak — well, not yet. Though I’m beginning to understand him better. Hopefully, I’ll love someone enough one day, or, ideally, won’t feel the need to choose, but for now, art is my first and only true love.

  Such clarity, such firmness to her tone.

  —Sangita, art clearly loves you back. You have to call off the wedding, tell Maasi and Kaka!

  —I know. And soon. In fact, every day I wake up and think, today’s the day. But as the date gets closer — despite the fact I’ve been dismantling the plans all along — part of me can’t help feeling it’s my duty to go through with it.

  Dismantling. How she’d undone her wedding sari, I saw now, turned it into something new. The frayed ends of that underbed ensemble: It was the edge, the gilded border that had out-of-framed to become the main body of her azure avatar.

  —Your duty is to be happy, Sangita.

  —That’s very modern-age modern-woman thinking, Dimple, she sighed. —Maybe smart, but a little … selfish?

  —But you are a modern woman in the modern age. And maybe women should have started being selfish a lot earlier! I insisted. —Anyway, is it selfish? If you’re unhappy, don’t you just end up making everyone around you miserable, too?

  She had that staring-out-to-sea look on her face.

  —I never planned for it to turn out like this, she confided. —It’s like life swept me up on a wave that grew tidal — and I landed on a shore I’d never intended to walk. Do you know what I mean?

  —I think I do, Sangita. I really think I do.

  —I think you do, too.

  We stared at each other a long moment, a silent understanding passing between us. An understanding that had been there much, much longer than this moment.

  —I guess somewhere inside, I’ve always known I was just going through the motions. It’s just … it felt … with Kavita going away … and, well, other things about her … I just couldn’t add more disappointment and pressure to Mummy and Daddy’s plate. They need one quote good girl in the family. Even though I’m struggling with that role.

  —Tell me about it, I nodded. —Anyway, they have two, Sangita. Two good girls. Maybe what’s required is a redefining of good? No one wants to rock the boat. But sometimes you’ve got to rock it or drown. Good also means doing what’s good for you. I know it’s not always easy balancing that with what’s good for the ones you love … but ultimately what’s bad for you can’t be good for them, you know?

  I leaned in, threw all the justifications I’d mastered over the last days her way; they seemed purer in her context. —Your dharma: It’s got to be to your heart first. What if this is the only chance we’ve got? And what if we have to relive whatever we do here, now, to eternity? You’ve got a gift — you have to be able to use it freely, without guilt or reservations.

  Sangita looked up at me, watery-eyed.

  —Sangita, I urged her, —it’s your life. Your journey. You know what you want, what you love. That’s a blessing, even if it comes with complications. Don’t let it get away.

  She reached across the table and lay her cobalt hand upon my own, which I realized now I simply considered brown.

  —Oh, Dimple. How’d you get so wise?

  —Believe me, I’ve been wrestling with the same issues … just in a different way. Knowing what you want. What you love.

  Who. She laid her second hand on mine then.

  —How’s Karsh? she asked softly.

  —I don’t know, I said, even more softly. —I barely know how I am. But at least that I can work on. ’Cause I just can’t seem to give me the slip. I’m just trying not to fight myself so hard anymore, I guess.

  Her eyes danced a little, kindly.

  —She used to be my archnemesis, too, she nodded.

  —Who?

  —Me.

  And with that, abruptly, she rose. —Chalo, Dimple.

  I jumped up, too, surprised. —Where are we going?

  —Home.

  —Andheri? I asked her, worried now. —You sure? How long does the paint stay on?

  —I’ve been blue a long time, Sangita replied calmly. —A little longer can’t hurt. I’m sick of being my own enemy.

  —Yeah? I said, grabbing my bag and then her arm. —Me, too. So what’s your superpower?

  —You’re about to see it, she said.

  We landed up at Ramzarukha. As we mounted the incline, I could see her deepening her breath, the flush of anxiety beneath the layers of paint. I took her hand.

  —Sangz? I said. —I’ve seen a lot of blues lately. But I’ve never seen a blue so beautiful as you.

  She began to smile, then stopped herself.

  —What? Did I say something wrong?

  —If I move too much, the paint cracks, she explained.

  —Let it.

  A beat. And then she grinned, so wide, uninhibitedly, her true blue skin splintering slightly to reveal rivulets of tawn beneath; blue meeting brown like an aerial shot of the earth. Of her world. I grinned back, big. At the elevator, we both looked at each other. Exhaled. Pushed.

  Up. The only way.

  We stepped through the magical mystery door, no time to even close it.

  Meera Maasi and Dilip Kaka were at the table, settling down to an early dinner. Upon the sound of our entry, their eyes turned towards us, and, as if in slow motion, Kaka rose — the nearly served chapati slipping from Meera Maasi’s fingers to land with a soft thwack on his thali dish.

  I hung back near the doorway. Sangita took a breath — and a giant step in. Everything around her seemed to fade to white, hush with the sheer hue and velocity of her will.

  In the heart of the room she now stood, an avatar of her own creation: awash in azure, bannered in gold, paint crackled
wherever she’d bent — an elbow, a knee, an ankle. Blue flecks like melancholic snow prismed her already dazzling platforms. And twin thin copper rills stuttered elliptically down her cheeks: tear tracks? I hadn’t seen that descent.

  Meera Maasi’s mouth now dropped open completely, in pure astonishment.

  —Sangita! What is this altoo faltoo? Please — go bathe immediately!

  But Sangita held still, held her own.

  —This is my mehendi party. And I’m not going anywhere, Mummy, she replied gently. —Not to Delhi. Not Mehrauli.

  —Beta … my uncle said quietly. He looked more resigned than shocked, though. I moved in closer.

  —Papaji. Mummy. You told me I had to survive once, Sangita said now, visibly gathering strength. —When I was a baby, and born too soon, born blue. And now we must do it all over again.

  A blue-skinned girl. A blue-skinned goddess.

  —I have to live my life. And you have to survive that — and live yours.

  The mere sound of Sangita’s voice — so often so subdued — converged with the stunning visual to bow us down into speechlessness.

  —All these years, I’ve tried to cause you no harm, no worry. Perhaps I always carried the knowledge of how my early birth created such distress, Mummy. And I knew your worries about … other people. I didn’t want to add to them.

  A quilted sound. It was Kavita, fidgeting in the doorway behind me, face straining with her sister’s words, a shadowy figure just beyond her. Sangita looked quickly back towards her parents, took another breath.

  —So I’ve been listening. Always — to you, to Papaji, to what everyone tells me is the right path. But I’ve also been looking … and somewhere along the way, I think we’ve stopped seeing the same thing.

  Behind her, through the window: Gilbert Hill.

  Sangita raised her gilded paintbrush, that golden palette. A faraway look, a near smile.

  —I love art. I love painting. I love color. I can read a person from the slightest shift in the hue of their face, the time of day.

  Amassing courage, she now turned back and gazed directly at Kavita: a soft but unwavering regard. Kavita seemed to unflush, unflinch a touch.

  —And these last weeks, even the last couple of years, I’ve witnessed some of the people I love most doing what they love most. Kavita’s choices — how proud I am of her! And Dimple. So I’ve come to tell you this: I’m going to choose my own palette now. I’ve come to show you: They say a picture paints a thousand words? Well, I was born blue, and I’ve been blue for years. But I’m not going to live that way — not unless I choose the shade myself.

  That shadowy figure still in the hall, Kavita inched forward to stand behind Sangita now, pride pigmenting her face, and an increasing bravery as well — as if she were absorbing the bright blue flame of her sister’s volition. Gently, she squeezed Sangita’s shoulder.

  Sangita did not sway her stance, her gaze.

  —And please make no mistake. I am not marrying Deepak.

  That voice as steadily vivid as a strong stroke on startled canvas.

  I watched my aunt going … slightly green.

  Together they’d make turquoise, I thought. Kavita emerged from her sister’s lengthening navy shadow. She raised her hand — like a surrender, a holdup, a stop-in-the-name-of-love.

  —Um …

  My aunt and uncle turned to her in near unison. Blueprinted, her palm, from where it had rested on Sangita’s shoulder. She gestured that shadowy figure closer. And Sabz, in simple salwar kameez, now set down Kavita’s knapsack, returning her home.

  —Mummy? Papaji? Kavita tentatively began. —This is Sabina.

  It was as good as announcing her own color.

  My aunt turned, training all her pained fury on the bespectacled creature hovering at the threshold.

  —Well, Sabina, she said icily, though I could sense a splintering not far off. —I am sorry to inform you: You came here for a wedding. And now, as you can see, it is off.

  I’d never seen Sabz so still.

  —So, my aunt concluded, —I suppose you can be on your way now.

  And then, taking a breath, Sabz darted into the heart of the room with a force that could knock my aunt to the floor. Was she going to?

  But at the last moment, she halted … and bent down in the gesture of ultimate respect to touch first my aunt’s, then my uncle’s feet.

  As she rose, she met my aunt’s eyes, and, barely louder than a whisper, replied, —I came here for a wedding, ji. Just not that one.

  With a quick nod towards Kavita, she hurtled herself back out into the world again, closing the door thoroughly behind her.

  Kavita and Sangita now gazed openly at each other, holding hands, Kavita exhilarated with nerves. My aunt was staring ceilingward, probably invoking the gods. My uncle’s own regard: downcast, yogic. From the undulation of his chest, I could see he was smoothing out his breathing.

  Before I knew what I was doing, despite my alliance with my sister-cousins, I’d stepped in nearer to my aunt. From the coffeetea table beside us, the glass-paned snapped-shot childhood irises of we three girls gazed up at our older selves, rapt.

  My aunt had followed my eyes there, her own pooling with tears unblinkingly held in place.

  And still, no sound. Even the traffic, construction, muezzin: finger to lips.

  A creaking ruptured the silence. We all swiveled our heads doorward: Whose confession would be next?

  In stepped the burtanwallah. And, like Mehboob’s, for the first time I saw his full face when he lifted it … then froze, staring at the lot of us, immobilized around the pulsating blue beauty in the room.

  Strong jaw, moon scar. He immediately ducked his head, bolted for the kitchen.

  Taps on. Water rush.

  My aunt fled the room.

  They say Krishna, the blue-skinned god, held the universe in his mouth. Sangita, the blue-skinned goddess, had just revealed hers, and Kavita as well, letting their secrets at long last slip from tongue tips.

  My own mouth held a forbidden kiss and, it seemed, endless tales untold. But I remained a goddess with no mouth. Or just a girl.

  Until my own lips parted to see: My uncle, who’d automatically been following my aunt from the room, suddenly halted, turned, returned to his daughters, wrapping both in his arms.

  A picture paints a thousand words. But I didn’t even think to lift my camera.

  This was a blue so ablaze, it would surely burn film.

  My uncle then went to her, his wife, Kaka to Maasi. Passing the room, through their door ajar, I heard:

  —It is those shoes, my aunt was sobbing. —We have been cursed by a hijra.

  —Maybe, my uncle was saying, —we have been blessed.

  I discovered my aunt alone in the kitchen later that night. She cut a lonely figure, ghostlike in a gauzy dressing gown, hair hanging long in a loose braid down her back, intent on the task of making tea.

  She startled at my entry, and turned.

  —Join you? I asked shyly. She nodded, gesturing automatically for me to sit and be served. But I shook my head, took the pan from her hands — she resisting at first, then surrendering with an almost audible sigh — and placed it on the two-plate gas burner.

  As Meera Maasi mortar-and-pestled the cardamom, I grated the knob of ginger; it was a coup she allowed this, but clearly bigger battles had been endured lately. She poured the filtered water into the pot, and I measured out the tea, we two gliding in a silent but comfortable ballet, the only sound our padding feet, the hiss of lemongrass hitting hot water, and the slow-flowing glisten of sugar to pan.

  —I cannot have my only niece working so hard, Maasi said when we were through, signaling for me to sit. She heaped my plate high with namak para — salty squares of fried dough leavened by the oomph of ajwain, oregano. Then she poured the tea, two cups grouped amicably together on the kitchen table, and moved to the cupboard. Inside, those rows of jars to rival Crawford Market’s polished symmetry: l
ime pickle, chili pickle, carrot pickle, radish and hot chili pepper pickle — none labeled, all introduced by Meera Maasi as she opened each and held it just below my nostrils.

  Her crowning glory was the top: a whole row of amber jars aglow with translucent strips of that fleshy drupe suspended in viscous liquid. There was something portentous about the weight and light, and strangely familiar, too.

  —This, she said, —is my specialty. Chundo. Shredded mango pickle.

  I stuck my nose in the proposed jar and inhaled. It was a heady smell, passionate to the point of irritation. It made sense, then, this belief some had around these parts about how ingesting onions was linked to an increase in a riled (when raw) or carnal (cooked) nature. Not that they made me angry, particularly, but the idea that food had an emotional existence in your body, and could feed or deplete your feelings, rang now olfactorily true.

  I dipped my finger into the scoop of chundo now on my plate.

  —Dimple! Maasi cried. —Do not touch your eyes! You’ll be crying for hours.

  When the pickle hit my mouth, I nearly felt like crying anyway. The taste was an explosion of conflict on the tongue: sweet cleaving to sour, so intertwined as to become a third substance — summoning for me a past I’d never known, yet longed for, never lived but clasped close, like a stranger’s baby in my arms.

  —It’s amazing, I told her finally. —You made it yourself?

  She smiled shyly, pleased.

  —It’s so … I went on. —Anything with mango, my mom says it makes her so homesick for India.

  Maasi sighed.

  —Funny, it makes me homesick, too. And I’ve never left India!

  Somehow I could understand that.

  I nodded. —Well, me, too. And I’ve never really lived here.

  I tried to think of an equivalent savor in the US. Candy apples at Halloween, radiant as sunny-day stained glass at Rice’s Fruit Farm? That first summer watermelon, the sweetness at the tip of the triangular slice — the best bite of the lot, so prankishly pink.

  These tastes were intertwined with Gwyn; my childhood palate and palette included every one of her hues.

  But these same flavors and colors were so shiny and simple, in a way, the jellied jollities of a baby nation — they lacked the gravity of the past, seemed to bounce into the present with the gladdity, the insouciant joy of a beach ball.