by Leena Clover
“Stop looking at your mother, you idiot. Mix my drink now!”
Thumping his cane, Pappa rolled his eyes. My dad splashed some Scotch in a glass, added ice and plenty of soda and handed it over to Pappa. He made a similar one for himself and turned toward his study.
“Give your work a break for today, Anand!” Motee Ba ordered.
My dad lives and breathes his work and it is tough to get him to relax.
“What's for dinner?”Jeet asked in a bored voice.
“I’m not cooking anything,” I declared.
“And neither am I,” Motee Ba joined in. “Let's just order in some Chinese!”
The Chinese takeout we love comes from a restaurant five miles away, but we have it on speed dial.
“One cashew chicken, One Kung Pao Chicken, Two Sesame Chicken, 2 vegetable Lo Mein, 4 Spring Rolls,” I rattled off.
“Haven't you brought any goodies, Motee Ba?” Jeet took the initiative for once and started rifling through grandma's bags.
The door bell rang to signal the arrival of the food. We dug into our favorites, sampling everybody else's. Traditionally, we are supposed to be vegetarian, but Pappa savored his mutton and his lamb chops and Motee Ba soon joined him and learned to cook his favorites as a young bride. Jeet and I have grown up eating eggs and chicken and meat, and we never gave much thought to it.
Chapter 2
Living in a university town has its rituals. Although I am not a student anymore, the school calendar influences what we do. With the Fall term about to start in a few days, Back to School sales were on everywhere. And they were too good to pass up.
“We going shopping today, right?” Becky wanted to confirm on the phone.
“You have to ask? I will pick you up around 4:15 after I get off work.” I hung up and started getting ready.
Working as a library assistant at the university was maybe not the job I had dreamed of. Especially since my Dad was a hot shot department head and a top brainiac there. But it gave me a paycheck, kept me in the school system and allowed me to be surrounded by books. Plus, the library at Pioneer Poly was the center of action. Everyone turned up there eventually. Term had not started but there was a big rush of newcomers wanting to use the Internet. I was flooded with requests for assistance and I liked helping them out. Many international students from third world countries were encountering broadband Internet for the first time. And they were frantically chatting with their families back home. Kids were lining up to grab the limited workstations, and I had to strictly enforce a 30 minute cap on computer use.
“Hey, you’ll get your own IDs and lab access soon enough,” I pacified them. “What's the rush?”
Student orientation was on and once the students completed their registration, they would get access to different computer labs depending on their major.
“Our family back home wants to make sure we are alright,” one student explained.
I shrugged and pushed a cart load of books to start restocking.
Grabbing a quick sandwich from McDonald's for lunch, I waited for my shift to be over. My beat up old Camry wasn't cooling any better, so I opened the windows and made tracks toward Becky.
I had managed to park near the Student Union today. I pulled out and crossed Pine to inch along 1st Ave. I took a right on Elm and swung a right on the highway. I soon pulled into the diner parking lot.
Becky called out from inside. “Come in for a few. I am just finishing up.”
Sylvie's Cafe and Diner is where the locals go for three meals a day. Becky and I have done summer jobs there as students, and now Becky is cooking in their kitchen.
“Hi Meera! You don't come see us no more?” Sylvie complained as she smothered me in a tight hug.
Sylvie and Jon Davis are very dear to me. Getting on in their 60s, they have been a part of the fabric of our town since as far back as I remembered.
“Well, I’m here now,” I smiled.
“How 'bout some gumbo?” Jon called out from the kitchen. “Honey not feedin' you right, looks like.”
“Oh please, me not eat?”
Jon had already brought out two steaming plates of his spicy gumbo, generously topped with two scoops of rice.
“I can't eat so much!”
Ignoring my protests, he plunked the two plates down at a table and harrumphed. “Eat up girls, eat up!”
Sylvie moved away to welcome some new customers.
“Who're you kidding? You're dying to get into that bowl.”
Becky, tired from her busy shift, had already starting spooning the delicious gumbo.
“OK, Smarty Pants!” I sniffed lightly and inhaled the aroma of all the spices.
Lots of garlic, paprika, celery, onions, peppers, tomatoes and spicy sweet Andouille sausage was all held together with a toasty brown roux. Jumbo gulf shrimp rounded off the gumbo and the generous amount of rice made it a hearty meal.
The Davises are Louisiana Creole and they know their gumbo well. The cafe menu reflects local tastes more, but there is always some gumbo or red beans and rice on the stove back in the kitchen. They savor it themselves, and keep it for special folks who ask for it.
“No one makes gumbo like Jon,” I said between bites of plump shrimp.
Scraping the last bits with a spoon, we got up and waved goodbye to the kindly couple.
“How's your new menu coming?” I asked Becky as we walked down the front steps.
“Hmmm...I have some ideas but maybe not so much inspiration.” Becky was uncertain. “Maybe I should add some curry items to the menu?”
“Do you think folks will forego Chicken Fried Steak for Curry?” I was skeptical.
“They don't know what they don't know, right?” Becky argued. “I need a way to keep all the old favorites and also add variety.”
“Exactly!” I was excited.
Thinking up recipes and experimenting in the kitchen gave me a certain thrill, one I did not get while writing computer programs.
“Why don't you have themes for everyday, and have two variations on the same recipe?” I mused.
“That's worth thinking about. But now let's start thinking about our shopping.” Becky got a peculiar glow in her eyes.
“No more shoes, Becks. We are not going to Payless!”
I knew it was a futile comment.
Our small town does not have much choice when it comes to buying clothes. Penney's is probably the most upscale store in town. Old Navy is a favorite and so is Walmart.
“Where to first?” I wondered out loud and we agreed on Walmart.
If I got a few good pieces in the sales racks, I would be a happy camper. Here in the South, we have warmer weather up to October or November.
“Hey, this peasant top is just $1.99!” I dropped it in my cart and started rattling the hangers rapidly.
I had found some racks of clothes right near the entrance.
“Shorts for 3 bucks!”
“Isn't this pretty?” Becky was holding up a dress that was priced 80% off. “Pair it with some tights and you can still wear it for Thanksgiving.”
We loaded our carts with bargain purchases and then headed to the food aisle.
“I have been working on a cilantro pesto and roasted red pepper sandwich recently,” I confided to Becky.
“Then try it already! Wow!”
Becky's taste buds were pretty liberal having grown up eating in our kitchen.
No trip to Walmart was complete without a tub of ice cream. I grabbed the large five gallon tub of vanilla ice cream for pies and cobblers a la mode. We live in pie country, and Pappa's orchard yields plenty of fresh organic fruit for desserts.
Becky handed over a tub of Butter Pecan.
“It’s August again, Meera,” Becky was hesitant.
“Yeah, and so?” I was belligerent because I knew what was coming.
“How many years has it been?” Becky ignored me and asked anyway.
“16, 17, doesn't matter anymore!” I fibbed and looked awa
y as a blush stole across my neck.
“I think you mustn’t lose hope.” Becky was nothing if not persistent.
“Hey look, a Celine Dion feature.”
I stuffed a magazine from the nearby rack in a desperate attempt to divert her.
Sarla Patel, my mother, is a topic that just won't go away. She disappeared from our lives one summer 15 years ago, never to be heard of again. The town gossips still like to talk about it. The unusual circumstances added to the intrigue, and I felt the familiar pain and sinking feeling in my stomach.
Finally, I got to the cashier and starting dumping my stuff on the checkout belt. We loaded up the car and headed home.
“Let's call Tony and try out my new sandwich recipe,” I cajoled.
Food is my coping mechanism, always.
Chapter 3
Our family follows a slightly different eating pattern. We have snacks in the evening, the typical dinner time for the locals. Then we have dinner at 9. Motee Ba was frying some pakora fritters as we walked into the kitchen. Becky shrieked with delight and hugged her.
“Wash your hands before you get a plate,” Motee Ba cautioned us as always.
Patels are fond of fried food, and these crispy hot fritters vanished as soon as they came out of the fryer. Motee Ba thinly sliced onions and sprinkled them with salt. She sprinkled gram flour over them and seasoned them with turmeric & cayenne pepper. Lightly coated with the flour, the onions were crispy and crunchy when fried.
“Here's some ketchup, Becky,” I took the bottle out of the fridge.
I grabbed the chili sauce for Jeet and the tamarind chutney for Dad.
“Leave some for me, you gluttons!” Tony exclaimed as he walked in and kissed Motee Ba on the cheek.
“Mom made some coconut barfi.” He placed a container of coconut fudge on the table.
“Take a plate in to your Dad,” Motee Ba ordered and Jeet went to Dad's study.
There was silence for the next 15 minutes as everyone got busy devouring the hot pakoras, smothered in their favorite sauces.
“What's for dinner?” Pappa belched and excused himself.
“At least finish eating this first,” Motee Ba glared.
And we all started laughing. You can’t be a part of the Patel family and not talk of food.
“I have Bingo today with Sylvie and the girls,” Motee Ba said. “So you girls have the kitchen.”
She went off to get ready.
“Aren't we going camping this year?” Jeet poked his nose through my bed room door, smirking as Becky and I tried on our new clothes. “Tony's asking.”
“Get in here, you two,” I yelled.
Every year, we rounded off the end of summer with a small camping trip to our neighboring lake. Wasn't much of a camping trip because it was just a 7-8 mile drive from our home.
“No tents this time,” proclaimed Tony. “I am not doing any grunt work.”
“Me neither,” Jeet joined in and a loud argument followed.
“Let's just take sleeping bags,”" Becky offered a compromise. “And if it rains or something, we can just come home.”
That was the best part about the camp grounds. If we needed something or got bored, we just came home.
“So we grilling?” Tony smiled because he knew the answer.
“Yes, Tandoori Chicken as usual! Maybe some potato salad?” I offered.
“How ‘bout trying out that sandwich now?” Becky asked.
When it comes to cooking, I am a spur of the moment person. I washed fresh cilantro from the garden and cut the roots and thick stalks off. I dumped it into the bowl of my food processor. My mother had bought it when she was new to the country, and it had spent more years with us than my mother. Fate! I pushed the thoughts away.
I added four cloves of garlic, and a handful of sunflower seeds. Then I added a chopped fresh jalapeno pepper.
“Can take some more jalapeno,” Tony offered.
Soon, we set up an assembly line and grilled gooey cheesy paninis slathered with pesto and stuffed with roasted peppers. We finalized our camping dates and fought over chores.
“Mmmm, smells good,” Motee Ba sniffed as she came out in a cloud of perfume. “There's some fresh apricot crumble in the fridge. You can heat it up for dessert.”
“What's the Fall lineup looking like?” Tony asked Pappa as we trooped into the family room, our plates loaded with the grilled sandwiches. Becky juggled a big bowl of potato chips and Jeet held a tray with soda cans.
“More Law & Order, I hope,” Pappa grinned. “I can't get enough of that Jerry Orbach.”
“There's something about a single mom and her teen daughter coming up on WB,” Becky said eagerly.
“Chick stuff!” the guys snorted.
I was doing my body lotion ritual after seeing Tony and Becky off. Jeet had just come into my room.
“What’s up?” I asked.
In his jammies, with his hair mussed, he reminded me of the shy boy he had been growing up. I knew what was coming.
“How can I miss someone I never met?”
I crushed him in a hug and it was as if nothing had changed. I remembered how lost we had been as young kids, and how hard it had been to deal with an absent mother.
“Well, she did carry you in her womb for nine months, as Motee Ba would say. So there has to be some connection.”
We pondered over how we could grieve even after all these years.
“Hey, what fruits do you want for your kabobs?” I tried to cheer Jeet up.
Thankfully, he took the cue.
Chapter 4
Mid August arrived pretty soon and I was engrossed in work. The beginning of term is always a busy time at the library. I explained the same things to new students over and over. Check out policies, library layout, indexing, rules of the audio-video room, it was all an endless loop. There was a mass movement to land a campus job. This was particularly important for the international students because they were not allowed to work off campus.
Graduate Assistantships and Teaching Assistantships are given out by each department and these are coveted. Not only do they provide a job that requires your brain, they also mean a huge chunk off the tuition fees. Jobs at the library are next on the coveted jobs list. Here also, the takers are in the hundreds, and the jobs very few.
“I’m a university gold medalist. I am sure I can do this job well.” One tall guy in glasses cajoled.
“OK! Thanks for your application.”
I tried to explain that I had no power over the hiring, but every applicant continued to wheedle a bit.
“I have never boiled water for tea. I simply cannot work in the cafeteria.” One snotty kid with a greasy cowlick protested. “Maybe we can come to an agreement?”
I sighed and shooed him away.
“We have a staff of 5 at home. There is a maid just to clear tables and pick up plates. Shelving books is actually beneath my dignity.” Another diva was telling her companion as she walked up with her bio printed on scented blue paper.
“You and a 1000 others, sister,” I muttered.
There is a big culture gap between countries like India and the US when it comes to doing odd jobs. Thankfully, I had been raised differently. Most guys in South Asian countries are raised to expect a woman to cook, clean and pick up after them. So they graduate from mothers and sisters to wives, never having to do a load of laundry.
Pappa and Motee Ba believe in dignity of labor and have made sure we did all kinds of chores around the house. Jeet has been roped in to do kitchen chores since he was a child, and he has to do yard work, weed the flower beds and so on. But I have cousins back in India who have never lifted a finger in their life to do anything. Pampered and cosseted, their world would come crashing just at the concept of doing a menial job.
“Do you have a resume and printed application?”
My patience was wearing thin, and I was a bit curt with the next girl in line. She seemed frightened. I looked up again and tried not
to stare. Dark and reed like, her face was pockmarked with acne. Her glasses were thick as a retro Coke bottle. Wavy black hair was slicked down, probably with coconut oil and a thick plait went as far down as her waist. Self consciously, she peered over her shoulders and surreptitiously looked around. A long calf length tunic in harsh psychedelic colors was offset by shocking pink pants. A stole in the same color was thrown over a shoulder. Shiny gold earrings dangled from her ears.
