Or was it because of how an eternity could be over in the blink of an eye?
Well then, I supposed it was best not to blink. Perhaps that’s why I’d sleeplessly kept all apertures open, shrinking and expanding, all these days.
—But when will we all be together here again? my mother whispered now. I wrapped an arm around her, on one side of me, and my aunt on the other. I knew this anxiety was a remnant of a lost but still lingering time. In Dadaji’s last years, he’d murmur a similar pained query upon our exit: Who knows if I will ever see you again?
Those visits had required the comfort of the same-moon philosophy to be able to leave at all.
And then, of course, one of those times, my Dadaji had been right. And I didn’t see him again.
Or at least not a bodily him. He’d been present with me this entire trip, permeated my Bombay life through and through — although, I was only mildly surprised to realize now, no more present than he was with me in my American life as well.
After all, they were the same life, these lives.
My aunt was preparing a cluster of sugar crystals on the plate now.
—To sweeten your journey back home, she explained.
Sangita passed me a secretive smile. Earlier, I’d offered her something in private, to sweeten her own homecoming. Replenish her fruit basket, so to speak.
She’d stared at the Condomania pack in disbelief.
Dimple! she’d whispered, mock indignantly. And then, impishly: I promise they won’t go to waste.
My aunt lit the flame. She thrice swirled the thali plate before me, clockwise, then sprinkled a pinch of sugar upon my tongue, me openmouthed as a baby Zepploo.
As I crunched, I reached over and offered her a pinch as well. Her eyes searched me, confused.
—And to sweeten your journey … for when you come visit us, I translated. She side-to-side smiled, accepting. And then the drrring of the magical mystery door: Arvind had arrived.
Amidst the embraces, the inevitable to-do list:
—Dimple, beta, be sure to stop by the post office and pick up the mail, my father requested politely, averting his sentimental gaze. —The medical journals must be piling up.
—And Architectural Digest. You have the keys, na? my mother jumped in, putting on her best businesslike voice. —Please water the plants. And speak to them as you do so. In mellifluous tones, ya.
I side-to-sided now, grinned, —Ya na.
—Telephone us as soon as you arrive? my uncle asked.
—And even after, my aunt added.
—See you in a heartbeat, Kavita smiled.
—See you in my heart, Sangita affirmed. We three sisters group-hugged.
But it was Akasha, still sleepily pajama’d, who joined now and held me longest of all. When we separated, she was gazing with love, and then surprise, into my eyes, her own pupils nearly iris-wide.
She never told me what she saw.
Arvind took my bags, and as we stepped over the threshold, my aunt suddenly lunged forward, plunging the thali plate at me in a move that made me wonder if she’d ever fenced.
—Wait! she cried. —The bindi!
She dipped a finger in the silver pot now, pressing the vermilion powder between my brows. A few flecks fell into my eyes, freeing a couple captive tears.
—The kumkum our mother, your grandmother, pressed between the brows of your own mother the morning she left for America, Meera Maasi explained with great emotion.
—That’s funny … I said. My mother supposedly had the same bindi powder back in New Jersey.
My mother turned to face her sister, now voicing this fact.
—But I have that tikka powder, she objected, a touch defiantly. —In the temple at home.
My aunt smiled a sly smile.
—I swapped them when you weren’t looking, she revealed now, triumphantly. —All those years ago. With the kumkum Ma used for my wedding. After all, they were matching containers.
My mother’s mouth fell open in indignation.
—How could you?
How quickly we fell back into our old dynamics.
—Ah, Tai. To keep a little bit of you with me when you left, my aunt said, all slyness slipping away. —And to send a little bit of me with you.
The two were now hugging each other as if they were the ones leaving for distant shores. Transference. A good moment to descend with Arvind.
But just before I did, I glanced down at the threshold. Where that little winged thing had greeted us upon our arrival nearly three weeks ago.
I photographed the empty birdcage, little latch door ajar.
Down the only way is up elevator. I touched Arvind’s shoulder, nodded at my camera. He nodded back. But when I clicked, it was he who said:
—Smile!
I tried. As we made our way to the car, through the pre-dawn dark, a lurch of loneliness slammed me from an unsuspected angle. This time, I’d be traveling alone. But, I considered self-consolingly as Arvind loaded up the trunk, wasn’t this the natural state of the human being? I slid into the backseat. Born alone into the world, destined to exit it solo as well — and in between, life a solitary journey during which one had to, on her own, figure out how to navigate the twists and turns, the ups and downs, the meandering course of —
—Dimple! a chorus of voices cried out.
I turned to find my mother and father, and uncle and aunt, rushing up to join us. They’d clearly taken the stairs.
Okay. Maybe my own life was more a family journey.
And I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Maasi reached over, tucked the marigold behind my ear.
It all felt a little like the dramatic see-off after a wedding, the bride’s family bidding her farewell forever. Except with no groom. But I could muck out my own stable, thank you. (And muck up as well, but hay.)
—What altoo faltoo! my mother scoffed, squeezing in next to me. My father got in on my other side. —Not seeing our very own daughter off? We are not like these Western Hestons … nahi, Meeratai?
—No, Tai, my aunt agreed. She smiled, shutting the door behind her sister, my uncle behind my father. —We most certainly are not.
And to the tune of “Happy Birthday to You,” my aunt and uncle turned teenier and teenier in the head-tail-light-lit not-quite-broke-yet day, waving until we’d disappeared down the drive of Ramzarukha.
Chhatrapati Shivaji airport, and my parents’ anxiety grew palpable again.
—Call us when you get there, my mother reminded me.
—Call us even when you don’t get there, my father added.
—What nonsense! my mother snapped at him. —Of course she will get there.
—I meant before she gets there, my father clarified mildly. —From the airport.
—JFK? I asked, nodding.
—And this airport, too? he appealed shyly. —So we know you have been allowed through the border?
—I’ll call, I told them, with a double hug for the runway, the road. —From both sides.
I returned to the car, where Arvind idled by the trunk, not wanting to interfere in a family moment. And before he knew what had hit him, I gave him a hug, too.
Before I left them, I turned back a moment, took them in: Arvind still glowing … and the cherished two huddling a little ways before him, faces vibrant with hope and wist so enmeshed as to be another sentiment altogether.
—And, Mom, Daddy? I added. —I hope you get your wish.
—What wish? my mother asked, puzzled.
—The one you went to tie the thread for? At Fatehpur Sikri?
—Dimple, my father laughed, —we went to untie a thread.
I stared at them, befuddled. My mother nodded.
—To say thank you for being granted the wish we made so many years ago. On our honeymoon, she elaborated.
—Oh? I said, dumbfounded. —You did?
—When we wished, my father smiled gently, —for you.
A circle: so many years ago, a young newlywed
couple following a guide into an inner shrine, that space a tapestry of desire, a magic carpet room. The bride treading carefully in brand-new sari, groom taking care of her, her arm held with pride. Together choosing the saffron thread and interweaving fingers, willing the same wish — sankalp! — no need to voice it.
Forward to two and a half decades later, that much older bride, strolling carefree in Ann Taylor slacks and Banana Republic top, taking the arm of her still senior groom to aid with his one aching knee, and together entering that same space … to choose a symbolic thread to unknot together.
From tying the knot to unknotting the tie. And out into the brilliant sunshine, to be greeted by a medley of seated musicians in the temple courtyard, introduced as celebrities by the — son? grandson? — of the original tour guide of that family business:
—They are having success!
Applause, and then music.
Now, an eye-opening desire to rush towards them and join that huddle. But my mother, clearly feeling the same way, was — like Karsh’s love-struck beats — ushering me away, tears filling her own eyes.
—And now that we found you, she said, tapping her watch, —get lost.
The flight wasn’t full. Three seats, my mother’s, my father’s, my window: all mine today. Across the aisle, another empty seat. Karsh’s?
Nonetheless, I could nearly see them there. I countrounded on my rudraksha. And as we swam dirigibly up, crowning from this wild blue yonder into that still indigo hour — star-flecked above as artificially lit metropolis below, city-sky-sea a perfect flickering circle — I could nevertheless nearly see as well, swerving on the very curvature of the earth below me, in that many-browned-and-blued land:
Roundabout Nandini, that sweet-toothed Indo-Iris, throwing face back, plane spotting. Rising higher, and that panorama of tarp rooftops. Higher still: upon the stark stoic lighthouse of Gilbert Hill, oh, minuscule temple priest, my alter-altar Dadaji, nodding to me from its crest …
And somewhere out there, both far and near, in a sea linked to this shining sea: Lady Liberty, once penny bright now verdigris. A brown-skinned girl gone blue like me. Still carrying that torch.
No, there was no place like home. But that’s because home was surely not a place.
Still. I was getting there.
Sienna, swarthy, saffron, tan. Sorrel, suede. Cinnaman.
Almond, ginger, copper, brick. Rust. Ditch. Match: flick.
Bronze, russet, cumin. Buff. Cream of wheat. Racecourse. Snuff.
Ochre, umber, ecru, down. Seahorse gold. Saddle brown.
Braun; bran; brawn; tawn. Cowhat band. Fan. Fawn.
Sari flab. Coco(a)nut. Dun-drab. Doeskin, husk.
Wicket-goal: chappal sole. Old World monkey:
Old Monk world.
Toda, tab bhi bola; bay. Terracotta. Mahogany.
Khaki, coffee, toffee smack. Backpack. Bottla Jack.
Arjuna’s bow. Holy cow. Mr Chow’s paneer kung pao.
Gilbert Hill: cretaceous crust. Rupee bills. Brindled chestnut.
Subscriber Trunk Dialing phone. Sultana scone. Toblerone.
Horse in Motion. Sunsunk ocean. Bahut construction!
Two-elm devotion.
Hazel, brew. Hanuman. Honey, ghee. Tarzan.
Karsh’s eyes. 995. Mangul sutra. Focaccias rise.
Dust. Grit. Sweat. Spit. Dung. Wet. Armpit.
Yolk broke. Paan stain. Lager-lipped beer brain.
Banyan bark. Dog pelt. Pony lash. Pothole welt.
Teak clock (tick tock). Birkenstock. Missing rock.
Tarka swish; frying fish. Mutton marg’s brac-a-bric.
Shorn porn. Unicorn horn. Monsoon morn. Asian Bride torn.
Bell clap. Brown line train. Stained map. Sugarcane.
Mamallapuram Lighthouse stamp. Cymbal, pedal, Furtados amp.
Mop mope. Antelope. Raw dope. Taupe rope.
Lands End. Moon scar. Lonestar buckle. Twelve-blues bar.
Head-tail-light. Glass-glued kite. Flail: head lice! Trophy wife.
Moonshine swill; rilled dirthill. Jon Bon Jovi’s rapunzels.
Soot; root; boot; glut. Cockroach (underfoot).
High noon dune. Mahim Creek. Topaz moon. Henna streak.
Bike spoke. Well choke. Cowpat; chowpat. Cola-Coke.
(Amul) buttered toast (in chai). Singhdana roast. Drivers’ eyes.
Hay; clay; neigh. Boar. Hood. Gateway. Mangrove wood.
Psyched dick: Horlicks. Girled slick: burning wick.
Bum; rum; spat gum. Sucked thumb. Rotten plum.
Hip flip! Loo; screw. Tobacco chew. Sinew.
No diggity: jaggery-pokery; gur — nalon slur. Manali blur.
Stipple nipple: firecracked. This old man unknicker-knackered my off-whack (knick)knack.
Gurus-gods for abishek. Multilimbed goddess(es) sex.
Sex! Sex! (Sex please?) Vyayamshala flex. (Moldy cheese.)
Tiffin whiff. Skiff; spliff; sneeze …
Cobra flash. Aamras. Brun maska. Sun rash.
Bowed stern. Auburn. Butter churn. Fishergirl gurn.
Worn leather. Inclement whether. Untethered nether.
Yaktail feather.
Gymkhana, pyjama, bandana; dinghy. Ablution. Pollution.
Malkit Singh(ing).
Hoof; woof. Mangalore-tile roof. Manhole fleur: kaput.
Gaonthan route.
Beige lie. Kulfi malai. Parch of sea, peel of sky.
Camel hump. Beedi stump. Bayan, dayan …
Tabla thump:
HORSES!!!!!
dha — dhin — dhin — dha —
dha- dhin- dhin- dha-
dha dhin dhin dha
dha dhin dhin dha/dha dhin dhin dha/na tin tin ta/
ta dhin dhin dha!
Landslide! Nandi hide. Lion pride. Low tide.
Guru, gargle, roti. Goat. Beached boat. Shopping tote.
Brunette; barrette; Bollywood. Guitar fret. Sandalwood.
Earth up-dug. Baccha-labored rug. Chin slug-thug. Lightning bug.
Bamboo; bacchoo; laddoos; Juhu: sand-sketched heart.
Mehendi art.
Shiva’s tears. Khadi wheel. Chutney smears. Kiwi peel.
Chickpea. Buckled knee. Market (flea). Room key.
Stray cat. Cricket bat. Diwali, thali aftermath.
Inexplicablewallahs. Kanavla(Lalas). Garam masala. Japa mala.
(Third unprincipled winceable Patrón Reposado …)
Bungalow. Dungaree. Jodhpur, jungle, panch. Puri.
Shoeshine. Knots of twine. Palms aligned. Gollup of brine.
Coffeetea table; sable; broom. Kamwali; Koli; kam(r)arooned.
Land legs. Sula dregs. Gopi’s dreads. Sacred thread.
Mulch; muck. Soiled frock. Stirrup, syrup. Tata truck.
Mustard pop! Mochi shop. Pavers’ jigsaw interlock.
Sleeping beasts at Bandra station … !
Mud-muddled years of Reclamation … !
Bronze that Catherine would have been
(As was lady-in-waiting, Enlightening).
Sparrow wing. Zeppelin. Brown girl in the rain and ring.
Unrein my hand; unbridaling: l’Inde. Land. Landing.
Sheen of le spleen. The skin we’re in.
And now out on a limb, yet still agrin:
Tone in: A brown girl of bluesings …
Jazzswing; muezzin ring.
The breast-beat of mourners; bawl of newborners.
The once-weres, yet-to-bes
(real as those present, like the light of stars deadened)
Or those near hereupon. An illusion of dawn.
Blueberry beads ripening. Silt-swirl surf tidening.
Blau and Braun twinning. Pydhonie song spinning.
Cornflower; peri-twinkle. Maya; midnight van winkle.
Samudri Ghoda pool glide. Eventide centauride.
Peacock’s cosmic blush. Fiat flyover rush.
Oil drum; soap scum; mendicant’s mappled cow horn …
Blue water lily. Nilgiri hil
ly.
Linking Road toys (unrealized little blue girls and boys).
Supari prophylac-strip. Our own (lacked) hip to hip.
And hip to hop beatbox. Devotee b-vox.
Candyfloss stand. Tinge of hand slips from hand.
Aarti wish blown: This Kingfisher has flown.
Sea legs. Robin’s egg. Agate. Tilted 8 …
A monk’s funk big band. The reel teal of headstand.
Hair ribboned in cyan; a shoulder to sigh on.
Rainbow’s fifth (or third) hue. Dew of déjà vu.
Universe roused with weed. Ring round the rosary.
Phosphorescent fish scale. Dadaji’s heaventh airmail:
“Light Years” within ears (far to near). Shifting gears (far is here).
Vue aérienne of world. Ghetto’s billiard (blue) balls.
Bangles bojangle thrall …
Washed out World Trade wall.
Blue Maniac jolt: Watch us as we molt!
Celestite sky — splits open: third eye.
Bombay sapphire — a bawdy desire.
Wedding sari unravels; the pigment of travel.
Black and blue knees. Rickshaws’ moonlit frieze.
Blue-black Kali; stick-on bindi; longboard graffiti;
Koli-cobalt-boat belly …
Wheelbarrow sheen. Mulshi lake green.
Electric destinations at a queen-appelled station.
An outliar’s (dis)orientation: Harbour Line vacation.
Baby of wax. Drone of a shankha sax.
Man on the tracks. What we can’t get back.
Star Chamber ceiling; more than a feeling.
Unstranger’s gaze-haze; tilts hat of suede.
(No need to persuade. Wanna be waylaid!)
Blue is the fire of desire held at bay.
Pashmina swooze. Three (whee! hee!) ice cubes.
Seaman Avenue heels. A gift, you can’t steal.
Ultra(bucket)marine: glean in fisherman’s mien.
Scrolls of fishnetting. Hept(unease): unforgetting.
Seaface flickers out. Palette: hope. Habit: doubt.
Catherine’s love-me-knottings. Begotten: besotten.
(Can’t touch the bottom!)
The profound flush of faith in what you’re living without.
Indigo nights. Luciole fireflights.
Lapis Lazuli. Unicorn’s azure sight.
A question mark in Parel: an unending why …
Bombay Blues Page 49
