The Hindi-Bindi Club Read Online Free PDF Page B

Indian-American
khitchadi
—smorgasbord. The aunties speak in rapid-fire English peppered with a liberal dose of Hindi, which I don’t understand aside from a smattering of nouns here and there but sometimes decipher from context, tone, and body language.
    My mom told me that when she first arrived in the States in her early twenties, her command of English, already strong from her convent school education, improved dramatically, but among the many things she missed about India was Hindi. “It’s such a sweet language,” she said, “with so many expressions that can’t adequately translate to English.”
    In our Indian friends circle, most American-born types like myself are bilingual, but our second language differs according to Indian subculture—Indian states are like European countries, each with its own language and culture. (Imagine if New York, Mississippi, North Dakota, and California
really
had their own languages and didn’t just
sound
that way!) Educated city-folk speak, at minimum, three languages: the two official national languages of English and Hindi, plus the regional language of their ancestral state, their
mother tongue
.
    The mother tongue is the most common second language in Indian-American homes. In our home, you’ll hear Marathi. In Saroj Auntie’s, Punjabi. In Uma Auntie’s, Bengali, which she and Rani speak, while Patrick Uncle’s repertoire is on par with a dog’s. “Let’s go.” “Sit.” “Enough.” “Stop.” “Very nice.”
    When Indians of differing subcultures get together, they often flit in and out of English and Hindi with equal ease. To those of us who don’t understand Hindi, they shut us out of what sounds to our ears like a secret, special language. Thus our nickname for our mothers, the Hindi-Bindi Club: They spoke in Hindi and sometimes wore
bindis
.
    In my ninth-grade world history class, we spent half an hour on India. I learned about poor people in villages, something new for me. I also learned the “dot on the forehead” was a “third eye.” This was also new to me—before the days of Third Eye Blind—and it conjured images of the cantina in
Star Wars
. (A little trivia:
Yoda
is the ancient Sanskrit word for warrior;
jedi
is the modern Hindi word. Yoda = ancient warrior; Jedi = modern warrior.)
    I went home and consulted the expert in residence. “Mom? Tell me again, what’s the significance of the
bindi
? I thought traditionally it meant a Hindu woman was married, and nowadays it can be pure fashion, like putting on jewelry or makeup. Plus, in religious
pujas,
it’s like a blessing. Did I miss something? What’s the deal with this third eye?”
    “Everything you said is correct,” my mother said. “The third eye is also correct. It symbolizes the capacity of human consciousness to see beyond the obvious, to perceive beyond what is visible and tangible, to tap the inner source within each of us that is the spring of divine energy and power. That is the metaphysical meaning.”
    “Oh. But it can also be
just
a fashion statement, right? With no deep meaning? Cuz my teacher didn’t mention that part, or the married bit.”
    “Yes, Kiran.”
    My mother wears a
bindi
tonight, a peel-and-stick-on type in the shape of a dainty emerald teardrop that matches her cashmere sweater set.
Bindis,
along with
saris,
were also on her Miss List when she first came to America. That is, she missed wearing them without people whispering and rubber-necking. “In India,” she said, “when men stare at women, it’s rude and annoying, but a common, unfortunate part of the culture. Here, where staring is
not
part of the culture, and people are expected to show better manners, I feel singled out like some circus attraction.”
    Times are different now. Forty years later, the sight of an Indian woman in a city is not so rare. Still, my mother cherishes these get-togethers with the aunties who understand her in a way her American-born friends—and children—never