Fascinating Authors

Anjali

Anjali hated the showers in India—they were so drippy, just a drizzle coming out of the shower head with no pressure. She preferred having two buckets of hot water which she could cool to her liking and pour over herself with a large brass cup. Now, while Anjali soaped herself in the bathroom, she felt twinges of guilt. Should she stay home and entertain her mother-in-law? No, dammit. She hadn’t been out for so long. But, she could go out tomorrow with Kishore; she really should stay home with Shanti who had come over in the torrential rain. She dried herself, slipped on a caftan, and went to the bedroom to say she wasn’t going to the club after all, but Shanti had already left. Anjali was relieved—and virtuous because she had been willing to stay home. She felt light-headed—she could dress up and go out! How long it had been.

Her mother, Subadra, had descended on them when Kisan was born and stayed a whole month; Anjali had almost gone mad. She did not respect her mother, nor did she expect to get worthwhile maternal advice from her. The woman was tentative, trembling, and foolish. Anjali’s attitude toward her mother was perfectly understood by her peers when she lived in Boston. Now that she was in India, however, everyone, old and young, expected her to respect and revere Subadra. Since she could do neither, she’d kept her feelings to herself.

Kishore had serenely accepted Subadra’s presence in their flat. He kept assuring Anjali that this was the way it was done, that she should take advantage of it and rest. What he did not understand was she was fearful that Kisan would be dropped on his head every time Subadra lifted or carried him. Well, she had finally left last night—to everyone’s relief.

Anjali stood in front of a mirror, removed her caftan and appraised her body. Still a roundness in the tummy…well, she would aerobicise that off in a few weeks. She wriggled into her slimming black Guess jeans. Uh-oh. She couldn’t button them at the waist. She lay on the bed, sucked in her stomach and pulled on the zipper. She was working up a sweat, and the zipper wasn’t moving. The jeans were not worth it. She threw them carelessly on the bed and reached for a forgiving salwar kameez, with the drawstring pants and the loose flowing top. She flipped through several, finally settling on an ethnic white print on a celadon background. It would keep her cool in this heat and humidity.

She put her guilt about Shanti aside and entered Kisan’s room to give the nanny instructions on caring for the baby. She looked at him sleeping peacefully; she caressed his tousled head, surprised by her feeling—she didn’t want to leave him. She, Anjali, the Boston sophisticate, the party lover, was feeling qualms about leaving her baby with a nanny. Who would believe it? Giving the infant one last look, she told herself she would be back in two or three hours—tops.

The driver had driven slowly on the Mumbai roads and turned into the entrance of the Willingdon Club. The long driveway was smooth and lined with perfectly manicured beds of red zinnias and saffron marigolds. At the entrance, he got out and held an umbrella over Anjali even though they were in a car port. She smiled at the red turbaned Sikh doorman who smartly opened the front door. In the foyer were several talking, laughing club members, shaking out their umbrellas and signing in for lunch.

Anjali loved the Willingdon for its exclusivity and beauty. The entrance alone bespoke wealth white marble floors inlaid with crimson squares. The stairway with the glistening Burma rosewood banister split in two at the second floor dining room and gently curved into the foyer. A sparkling crystal chandelier hung in the entry hall where the members signed in. Anjali chose not to go up to the dining room but went onto the verandah which looked out on the lush green lawn and garden. Here she was sure to find some friends having a drink.

She had deliberately arrived at the club early. She wanted to be seen, admired. She was tall, for an Indian woman, and quite striking. She wore her dark brown hair shoulder length, soft around her oval face, and the celadon kameez emphasized her kajal-lined hazel eyes. Everyone could see that she had almost regained her pre-baby figure.

“Anjali, is that you? My God, you look fab!” Sure enough, rising from a table, her new friends were rushing to surround her, as glad to see her as she was to see them. Secretly pleased, she waved away their compliments: “No, no. I still have so much more to lose. I can barely fit into my clothes. Thank God for the salwar kameez; you can be as plump as you want under it.” She hoped they would notice how slim she already was.

Anjali had grown up intermittently in New Delhi. Her dad was in the diplomatic corps, and when he got a posting in Washington D.C., he took his family with him. Anjali, 15 at the time, went to high school in D.C. and then on to Boston College. These women at the club she’d known for only the short six months that she and Kishore had lived in Mumbai. And she had no compunction about judging them. These girls comprised “the idle rich.” She could see them playing bridge or gin rummy at the club in a few years, the card room becoming the highlight of their lives. Conversation with them was light, shallow and effortless.

“How is it being a mother? Have you found a good nanny?” They were eager to know about her baby and how she was adjusting.

“Oh, Kisan is an angel. You all must come and see him soon. He sleeps most of the time, and thank God he doesn’t have that colic some of you scared me about.”

“So now you can go out? Listen, do you want to go with us next Wednesday? Sheeraz is having a private showing of her new designer clothes. It’s going to be marvelous. I hear that she has gossamer like chiffon kurtis embroidered with the tiniest beads. She only has the best colors and styles.”

“Anjali, if you buy a salwar kameez from her, you’d have something new to wear to the D’Souzas’ big bash next week. You are coming, no?”

Soon, Anjali was buoyed by their infectious spirits. After being cooped up in the house for so long, she was living again. Clothes! Parties! Shopping!

When the white uniformed waiter came for her drink order, she automatically said, “Gin and lime–oops. I forgot. Make that a plain lime and soda, no ice. I shouldn’t drink.” Looking around at her new friends, the smiling faces that included her in all they did and would do, she suddenly blurted out, “Guess who came by today? Unannounced and uninvited. Right in the middle of my aerobics routine.” They all looked blank. “My mother-in-law. She wanted to teach me how to give Kisan an oil bath, if you please. Now what’s so special about an oil bath for a four-week old?”

There were some sympathetic murmurs. “If you live in India, that’s what happens. In-laws, cousins, cousins of cousins, they all feel they can drop in any time. And everyone expects you to give up your plans to entertain them.”

“My mother-in-law was a godsend when Mirai was born, I tell you. I came back from my parents’ home—there my mother had done everything; here I was helpless with the new baby. Thank God my mother-in-law came every day. I tell you it would have been hell without her. I could just hand over the baby when she was crying and go take a nap. I don’t know what I’d have done.”

“Sometimes they like to interfere too much. They have to tell you how to do everything, how to look after the baby, what to eat, how to dress, how to cook for their precious sons. But, really, they are the ones with experience—we should listen to them. But, Anjali, your mother-in-law seems so modern—you are so lucky, no? But tell me, what did you do?”

“Well, I told her that I had plans with Kishore for lunch.”

Eyes widened at her response. Suddenly, their voices were hushed.

“You sent your mother-in-law away? Your own mother-in-law? I wouldn’t have the courage.” And they lowered their eyes and shook their heads.

“I told her I’d phone her and she could come and teach me the stupid oil bath routine another time. What’s the big deal?”

Sonali, the most outspoken of the group, looked at Anjali with reproach. “So Anjali, have you been away for so long that you don’t even understand some basic rituals, eh? All over India, even the poorest women, spend time with their babies to massage them with oil. It removes the flaky dead skin that so many babies have; more than that it makes a baby feel soothed and loved. In the west they would probably include this ritual under their idea of bonding.” She paused, then with a sly smile, “Hell, I say, in America, don’t people pay a hundred dollars or more for a massage? Here, I pay a woman a hundred rupees—that’s two dollars—to give me ayurvedic oil massages twice a week. Ayurveda has been around for centuries, and ayurvedic oils have healing qualities, not just scents and aromas, like in your spas. Maybe the west is just catching up with us, no?” Sonali was pudgy and plain, but what she lacked in looks she made up for in brains. Anjali, to her own surprise, found herself respecting Sonali’s opinions and ideas over all others. If she would ever make a true friend, it would probably be Sonali.

Now, Anjali sat speechless; she never expected such a reaction. Nor had she ever heard about oil baths and ayurvedic massages. Something to check out. The practice of yoga was omnipresent in America, but ayurvedic massages? No, in Boston, it had been aromatherapy everywhere. Why had no one told her about these massages before? She could use a soothing massage two or three times a week. Maybe even Kishore would like one.

“Well, I’ll phone her soon and apologize and ask her to come over and teach me about oil baths. I wonder if she has an ayur—what do you call it? Sonali, could you  give me your person’s name? I could certainly use someone like that—and for just one hundred rupees. That’s bloody cheap, isn’t it?”

“Ooh, looks like a handsome man is looking for you.”

Anjali looked towards the door. Even after three years of marriage, her first unbidden thought when she saw Kishore was “Mmm! I’d like to get you in bed, gorgeous.”

Kishore was tall and slender, dark-haired. His crooked smile gave him a quizzical look. His eyes were so light brown, they appeared tawny, sitting against his olive skin. Now those eyes were riveted on Anjali alone as he walked toward her while saying casual hellos to all the other ladies.

“Ready for lunch, Anju?” His voice had a hypnotic timbre.

“See you all later. Call me about the Sheeraz showing and Sonali, I want to get your ayur—whatever person’s number. Bye.”

All eyes followed the handsome couple as they floated upstairs to the dining room. Anjali had not felt so—well, beautiful and admired—in months. Kishore was delighted to see his wife looking cheerful. Talking to her friends had been good for her. After they ordered their lunch, Kishore asked, “So, what were you and the girls gabbing about?”

“Oh, nothing special—you know, shopping, parties, the usual.”

“Well, I’m glad you are having a good time with them. They’re good company for you, no?”

“Sure, they’re fun. I’ll get to know them better once I start going out more.” Kishore was eager that Anjali make her own friends so that she would feel more comfortable in her new surroundings.

As lunch progressed, Anjali thought she had not enjoyed herself so much in ages. She had the total attention of Kishore, the admiring glances of every man in the dining room and the envious looks of most women. All too soon, she felt her breasts get heavy and swollen and knew she had to return home. She glanced at her watch—3:30 already—it would take at least an hour to reach home. Getting into the car in the rain which seemed to be pelting sideways got her thoroughly soaked. The drive home was a death crawl.

She could hear Kisan’s hungry screams as she entered the flat. The sound of his voice caused her milk to spurt and soak through the nursing pads and through her kameez. She ran into his room, tearing off her clothes and unhooking her sopping bra as she went. Settled with him in the rocker, she gazed at her son whose cries had quieted to whimpers. Then a satisfied snuffling sound told her that he was drinking. He had such strong suction—and it felt so wonderful. She looked at his fist lying against her breast, gently stroked the fingers and marveled at the dimples that were beginning at the knuckles. He was tiny and perfect. Placing him against her shoulder to burp him, she sniffed the new baby smell of his head. Intoxicating! She never thought she could love another creature as much as she loved this little one.

After his feed, Kisan went to sleep, and she had nothing to do. Already the euphoria of the lunch was wearing off. She tried to read, she listened to music, she lay down for a nap—nothing worked. The only constant was the unending splash and roar of the rain. The weather exacerbated the noise: the cars honked incessantly, people yelled more loudly—everything was magnified.

She could hear her neighbor Gita shrieking at her servants about some small infraction. Dogs in the adjoining flats barked and whined—they were bored too. Anjali wandered listlessly around the flat, wondering what on earth she was doing here. She had no friends and nothing to do. In Boston, she could go to the mall, the library, a movie…here every outing was a major undertaking. She finally screamed out loud, not caring that the servants were the ubiquitous ears in the flat, “When will this fucking rain stop? God! I hate it.” She wanted nothing more at that moment than to return to Boston. She wished she’d never agreed to come and live in this frightful city, but Kishore had made it sound so wonderful. Why had she ever listened to him?

It was almost seven when Kishore called on his cell phone to tell her he was on his way home. He walked in half an hour later, shaking droplets of rain from his hair. He left his dripping umbrella outside, and once in the flat, sensed a palpable distress. What could have happened? He checked the baby’s room—all was well. Anjali seemed fine too, if a bit subdued. Her cheerful lunch mood had faded.

When they were getting ready for bed, he stood close behind her, pressing his body to hers, cupping her breasts. “What’s wrong, Anju darling?” he murmured.

“I don’t know. I felt fine all afternoon, now I feel so cooped up and…and it’s so damn humid.”

“Cooped up? You have a car and driver to take you anywhere you wish, anytime you wish. That nanny is here to look after Kisan…”

“It’s this fucking rain. When is it ever going to stop? It’s driving me crazy.”

“Come on, sweetheart—it’s no worse than a Boston winter.”

“Oh, yeah? At least in Boston the roads work and cars can function. But you’re right. I’m being a brat. But Kish, I have no friends here…”

“What about the girls I saw you with at the club?”

“They’re all so shallow. They talk in such superficialities. If you sent them an idea by registered post, they wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“Come on. I went to school with most of them—and they’re all smart. Any one of them could have won a scholarship like I did. Do you know that Sonali scored the same as me on the SAT? She is very clever. But she and all the others have just chosen to stay home to raise a family. You know, the famous feminist choice—career or family. These girls have made theirs—and in a few years, once their children are grown, they may choose careers and be successful.”

She nuzzled into his neck, leaning back sensually. Then she whispered, “Kish, darling, I feel so tense, so depressed sometimes. Do you think you could get me some pot? I’m sure you could get it from Dev. Please?”

He stopped his languorous swaying and stiffened. He whipped her around to face him, his eyes cold as two amber pebbles.

“Are you crazy? You may as well put an I.V. drip into Kisan’s little arm and blow the marijuana directly into it. What’s wrong with you, Anju? Tense and depressed? Your American friends would envy you—a large flat in an upscale area, a cook, a maid, a nanny, a driver and a car. What more could you possibly want?” He angrily huffed off and lay down in the bed. No love making tonight.