Aerogrammes (15 page)

The girls look back and forth between Minal Auntie and Aarti, as if to decode the silent conspiracies of blood relations. But Minal Auntie can’t very well explain to them that there is no footwork involved in the Meerabai role, no strict rhythm to obey, and that she will never hear the end of it from Lata if she doesn’t give Aarti a brief, easy moment in the limelight. “Really?” Aarti says, without much gratitude, hugging her knees to her chest.

“What about the rest of us?” asks Nidhi Kulkarni. “Where do we stand?”

“In a semicircle around the actors. Posing as Krishna.”
Making a reed flute of her hands, Minal Auntie sweeps the room with a meaningful gaze. “You are all Lord Krishna.”

They stare at her dully.

Nidhi rests her chin in her hand and Reshma picks at her fingernails, but the protest goes no further. Most likely it will carry on once they stuff their feet into their sneakers and shuffle away without tying their laces.

Today, for one day only, Foodfest has put a coupon in the Sunday circular for a sale on plantains—two pounds for the price of one. In the bottom left corner of the coupon, in tiny letters, are the words “Only applicable at the Downers Grove Foodfest.” Additionally crippling to Minal Auntie is the fact that South Indians know at least five ways to consume a plantain: raw, fried, curried, breaded, and steamed.

And so her secret life at Foodfest has come to end.

Mrs. Namboodiri, Mrs. Markose, and Dr. Varghese are among the many Indian acquaintances who inch past Minal Auntie’s cash register that day. They give her, along with their plantains, looks of surprise masked in cheery greeting.

“My cousin,” Minal Auntie keeps saying. “He owns this place.”

They pretend to believe her. Dr. Varghese pats the back of her hand. Each pitying smile is a blow to her heart.

Though she keeps her head down and focuses on the conveyor belt, Minal Auntie cannot ignore the tinkling babble of bracelets that can only belong to Twinkle Sharma.

At first, Twinkle places item after item on the belt without seeming to notice her cashier. They are barely acquaintances but mutually compliant with certain rules of competition, which demand that they speak warmly to each other, like old, intimate friends.

“Good price on the plantains,” Minal Auntie says.

Twinkle stands there, staring, her fingers still wrapped around the handle of a milk jug. “What’s this …?” The question trails off as Twinkle glances down at Minal Auntie’s name tag.

“I am here part-time.”

Twinkle hesitates. “Okay, great!” She places the milk jug on the belt with care. “And how is your school?”

“Great.” Minal Auntie takes the milk and slides the bar code over the red light, sliding it again and again until it beeps. “We will miss Tikku.”

“Yes, she came to see me. Tikku has excellent form.” In earnest, Twinkle adds, “You taught her well, Minal.”

“I had her from when she was small.”

“I know. She’s always saying, ‘But, Twinkle, that’s not the way Minal Auntie does it!’ ”

“You let them call you Twinkle?”

Twinkle shrugs. “I just want them to feel comfortable with me. So they won’t be intimidated when we share the stage.”

“Share what stage?”

“Ah!” Twinkle smacks her forehead. “Stupid me. It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“You are the teacher. How can you be in the dance?”

“It’s okay, Minal.”

“But there must be a rule against a teacher being in the dance—”

“I didn’t have a choice. One of my girls dropped out, and we needed an even number, so …” Twinkle waves away all concern. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

Taking a bag in each hand, Twinkle remarks on how wonderful it is, running into each other. She clicks away in silver slingbacks, her heels pumiced smooth, her soles soft and uncallused, her toenails pale pink. Those are not the feet of a dancer, Minal Auntie decides, a thought that brings little comfort.
She fingers a wedge of lemon she keeps in a plastic cup by her register, to mask the scent of money on her skin.

That afternoon, Minal Auntie installs Aarti in the master bedroom, where she can do her homework in privacy. Minal Auntie opens the curtains so the light falls thick and warm over her walnut desk. Just as Aarti settles into the chair, Minal Auntie notices the yellow sticky note on the corner of the desk (
Stay positive
, in her own handwriting) and crumples it into her pocket.

Aarti offers to work in the basement, but Minal Auntie says she will be busy choreographing the last portion of the dance. “About that,” Aarti says, wiping her arm back and forth across the desk. “I’m nervous about being Meerabai. I don’t think I’m up to it.”

“If you practice, you can get good at the facial expressions.”

“Nowhere near as good as you.” Minal Auntie hovers in the doorway, suddenly reluctant to leave. “My mom told me what you were like when you were young. She said, ‘When Minal Auntie danced, even the clock stopped to watch.’ ”

Minal Auntie stands still, absorbing those words. They seem to apply to another person altogether, not the woman who drove home from Foodfest earlier today, benumbed by heat and shame. If only, in her youth, she had known how to stand and receive a compliment, rather than ducking below it with self-effacing humility, as if her future would hold an infinite supply of praise. She chants this one in her head—
even the clock stopped to watch
—and it awakens in her a mild euphoria.

But the feeling dissolves when she descends the basement stairs and stands before the paneled mirrors. Here is her reflection:
a flat nose, raisin-colored lips, eyebrows that have never seen a tweezer, and, of course, her skin. She turns her back on the mirrors.

Minal Auntie slides a cassette tape into the stereo. The tape has been re-recorded so many times that the first few sounds are the chaotic remnants of earlier songs. Abruptly the
bhajan
begins. Minal Auntie closes her eyes and taps her foot as Subbulakshmi’s voice cascades across the opening notes, coursing through the cold air of the basement.

Instead of laying down steps for the ending, Minal Auntie dances through the drama portion. Whatever she did to impress Aarti, she can do better. She can inhabit the ecstasy of Meerabai at her sitar, the innocence with which she presses her hand to her heart when presented with the poison and asks,
For me?
She can be the king, can sense the hurt behind his anger when he sees his wife praying to her divine husband above. She can even give life to the servants, in whose pitying eyes Meerabai can read her own death.

Over and over, Minal Auntie rewinds the tape and practices with the single-minded purpose that served her well in her youth. Her guru noticed and invited her to perform on a two-week tour through Rajasthan and Delhi. She returned to hear from her cousin that the neighbor boy Velu had gotten engaged. “I always thought he liked you,” her cousin said, and Minal Auntie blushed, several sensations blooming within her—surprise, pride, and, obscurely, hope. Thinking of Velu, from time to time she finds herself ambused by the same emotions, but try as she might, she can barely remember his face.

Minal Auntie decides to play all four roles—the king, Meerabai, and both servants—for the upcoming competition.

“You?” Pinky blurts, crestfallen.

Minal Auntie pins her with a look of quiet authority. “Yes. Me.”

The rest of the class seem a bit puzzled at first, but they carry on without complaint. Aarti is the only one beaming with relief.

Minal Auntie teaches the rest of the dance and has them practice at full tilt. When someone makes a mistake, she strikes the block, wags her stick at the offender, and starts the whole dance over again. She allows only a few minutes of rest between each run-through. Every girl slides to the floor except for Pinky, who sits in a butterfly stretch and brings her forehead down to her feet.

Halfway through practice, Minal Auntie allows a two-minute break. The girls trudge upstairs and drink cupfuls of water from the tap. Through the vent, she can hear their high, girlish chatter, mostly nonsense, until they arrive at the topic of Twinkle Auntie: “Did you see her at the Unnikrishnan party?” “The one with the halter blouse?” “She gets her saris from Benzer World.” Minal Auntie listens for the word “Foodfest,” and thankfully it never comes.

Minal Auntie called to quit the day before. She kept her excuses vague, suspecting that Bill would beg her to stay. To her surprise, he wished her well and asked her to return the smock. It was only after she hung up that her relief made way for dismay. He had taken the news very smoothly, so smoothly that he might have been hoping for it all these months while she worked her register, oblivious to her own expendability. She lingered by the phone, wondering if she’d made a mistake.

After dance class, Minal Auntie washes the crowd of dirty cups the girls left behind in the sink. “Who raised these children?”
she asks aloud, though the only other person in the kitchen is Aarti, sitting at the table and hiding behind a book.

“I washed my cup,” she says, but Minal Auntie only grunts in response.

The house used to belong to her brother, and seeing all these dirty glasses revives the old resentments that came of living with his family. He was the one who filled out her greencard application, and so in exchange, she was expected to wash up after the whole family—all those empty mugs and bowls ringed with grime. She taught dance from their basement, careful of her sister-in-law’s rules: no students upstairs, all shoes outside, and private lessons for her son in Carnatic singing—or cackling in Sagar’s case, which only made him a moving target after his school’s talent show. A year later, Minal Auntie’s brother announced that the family would be moving to Michigan. He expected her to go with them. Instead, Minal Auntie chose to rent the house until she could take over the mortgage. What a pleasure it was in those first few days after his departure, to sit in his favorite armchair and absorb the quiet hum of a house she could now call her own.

As Minal Auntie dries her hands on a towel, the doorbell rings. It is Lata, flushed and cheery, with her hands in the pockets of a sweatshirt. “
Chachy
, could I bother you for a glass of water?”

“What bother?” Minal Auntie waves her into the kitchen, offering other beverages and snacks. Lata declines them all, but Minal Auntie puts a plate of Nilla Wafers in front of her anyway. Rummaging around for clean glasses, Minal Auntie hears Aarti muttering with urgency about the amount of homework she has. “Then go sit in the car,” Lata says sharply. Aarti storms away in a huff.

Lata takes the glass of water from Minal Auntie and swishes
the ice around. “So, six classes left until India Day,
chachy
. Are you nervous?”

“Oh, what is there to be nervous.”

“I hear they’re bringing in a politician.”

“That’s nothing new.” Last year, the India Day Festival was introduced by a small but peppy state congressman who commended the Indian community for its many contributions in fields as diverse as literature (Tagore), mathematics (the number zero), and language (words like
pajamas
and
nabob
), then left after the first act. “I’ve performed for all sorts of politician-type people.”

“But have you ever been on Asianet?” For the first time ever, Lata says, Asianet will be taping the competition and broadcasting the highlights worldwide. “If you guys win, it’ll be amazing exposure for the school. Who knows, maybe student enrollment will go up.”

“On TV?” Her stomach drops at the thought of what a television camera will mean. How it will take her picture and beam it into homes all over the world. Into Velu’s home, possibly the very same one in which he grew up. What if the camera zooms in? What will it see? And who else will see her?

Lata takes a small sip of her water and says she better take off before Aarti starts honking. “But you barely drank your water,” Minal Auntie says. “Take a biscuit at least.” Lata makes her way down the hall, claiming that she binged on granola this morning.

At the door, Lata pulls a small, folded paper from her pocket and gives it to Minal Auntie. She opens it, bewildered. It is a check made out to Minal Raman, in the amount of three hundred dollars.

“It’s no big deal, really,” Lata says. “I should be paying you a lot more, what with all the hours she spends over here.”

“Podi pennae!”
Minal Auntie scolds her, half-mockingly. “I can’t take money from my sister’s daughter.”

“Please, Auntie.” Lata looks pained. She glances at her sneakers with none of her usual breeziness. It is then that Minal Auntie understands: Lata has heard all about Foodfest. This accounts for her sudden desire to pay, her new interest in student enrollment. “Really. You have no idea how much I’d have to pay for a nanny service. Plus there’s the money you spend on gas—”

“Take it back.” Minal Auntie speaks with the low control of an elder, Lata’s elder. “I don’t want your money.”

Minal Auntie holds out the check between two fingers. Lata takes it and folds it twice, her head bowed like a scolded child. Minal Auntie remembers chasing Lata when she was just a baby toddling around her mother’s legs, wearing a sun hat and sandals and nothing else. “I’m sorry if I …,” Lata says, then shakes her head and flashes a weak smile. “See you next week.”

Arms crossed, Minal Auntie watches the car pull away but does not wave. She returns to the kitchen and sits at the table, trying to reactivate the elation that came of Aarti’s words—
even the clock stopped to watch
. They taunt her now. The clock on the wall ticks on without pause, its noise interrupted by the occasional rattle of the icebox.

With a week until the show, Minal Auntie goes to an Indian beauty salon on Devon Avenue. She sits in the waiting area with a magazine in front of her face, sure that Twinkle Sharma will walk in at any moment and give her that same false smile of surprise and compassion.
You? Here?

And why not? Over the magazine, Minal Auntie watches
a stylist furl a long hank of hair around a brush, twisting her wrist at the end to sculpt a soft curve. The client stares vacantly at her reflection, spellbound by what she sees.