The Hindi-Bindi Club Read Online Free PDF Page A

guilty silences, everyone laughs.
    My mother asks what book they’re reading next. From what I can tell, the book-selection process involves as much discussion as the actual book.
    “Please. Not her again,” one auntie says. “Too crazy.” She proposes an alternate, an international bestseller, but another auntie waves her hand in protest.
    “No, no. She isn’t an expatriate. And she’s more of a political activist than a novelist.”
    “She’s brilliant, that’s what she is,” says Uma Auntie, who teaches South Asian literature. “I don’t always agree with her, but what a mind. What a mind….”
    “My mind is tired,” says Saroj Auntie. “Why don’t we read something fun for a change?” She suggests another author. “Her prose is like music. Lyrical. Lush. Evocative.”
    My mother winces. “Too Mills and Boon. Not realistic.”
    “
I
find M and B realistic,” says Uma Auntie with a grin.
    My mother springs from her chair like a jack-in-the-box. “Can I get anyone anything? More
chappati
?”
    “Sit, sit. We can serve ourselves,” the aunties protest, but she ignores them and retreats to the kitchen.
    “I’ll help.” Since I’m out of
chappati,
I abandon my last few bites of green beans and go after my mother.
    She stands with her head bent, her left hand gripping the counter. Tucked into the corner alcove in front of her resides the foot-high wooden
mandir
—shrine. Or as Patrick Uncle calls it, “the Hindu hut.” Photos of my deceased paternal grandparents and white-bearded saint Sai Baba flank the
mandir
. Inside sit rose-petal-laden sterling idols: Ganpati, also known as Ganesh, god of beginnings and remover of obstacles; Krishna, god of love; Lakshmi, goddess of wealth and beauty; and Saraswati, goddess of wisdom. (Hindus believe in only one supreme God but acknowledge different names, forms, interpretations, paths to the divine.)
    “Mom? What’s wrong?”
    Startled, she straightens and whirls to face me. “Nothing. Nothing. Just a little tired.”
    “Hawa gayli?”
I ask and earn a smile of pride and pleasure that I remember this expression that means running out of steam.
    She nods.
“Ho.”
    “Understandably. You’ve outdone yourself. What can I do?”
    “Eat. Please eat more. You’re too skinny.”
    “I am not.” I lift the hem of my sweater and show her my stomach. “See? I’m
fit
.”
    “A fit little sparrow.” She pokes my belly with her index finger. “Take half a
chappati,
so you can finish your
bhaji
.”
    Our eyes meet, and emotion tightens my throat. How is it my mother can know me so well at times, yet other times not know me at all? She breaks away first, turning to the faucet to wash her hands. The din of aunties fades into the background like a hush falling over an audience. The world shrinks to encapsulate just the two of us. My mother and me, together on the same stage for the first time in five years. Together, yet each of us alone in our separate spotlights. Even the air seems to hold its breath, quivering in anticipation.
    “
You
need to eat more,” I say, my voice thick. “I didn’t see any chicken curry on
your
plate.”
    “I’m a vegetarian.”
    “Since when?”
    “Since…” She purses her lips, as if trying to recall. “Sometime last spring.”
    I frown. “You never mentioned it.”
    “Didn’t I?” She lifts a shoulder in a delicate shrug. “I meant to.” She tears a paper towel off the roll and dries her hands. “It’s hard to say everything over the phone, isn’t it?” At her weary smile, my heart constricts. I note her increased wrinkles, darker circles around her eyes, looser skin. She’s shorter now, the slightest hunch in her posture.
    I’m not the only one who’s aging.
    I swallow. Once. Twice. “Are you taking your vitamins? Getting enough protein? Calcium? Magnesium?”
    “Yes, Kiran. I’m a professional doctor’s wife.”
    Is that humor or irony? I can’t read her expression, and the inability makes me sad. I