Serving Crazy With Curry (8 page)

There was a good reason why she took so long to open her eyes, Devi thought as she looked out of her mother's car at the blank zipping lines of the freeway beneath. Vasu still held her hand, sitting beside her in the leather seat. Her father was completely silent in the passenger's seat in the front, while Saroj, as always, chirped on about the neighbors and gossip.

I just tried to kill myself,
Devi wanted to scream,
and I don't care who did what in their garden. Let them sunbathe completely nude and have a swastika tattooed on their butt, how would it make a zit of a difference to me?

“I have hot-hot
samosas,”
Saroj said as she stopped at a red light. “And I made your favorite
pudhina
chutney.”

Chutney? Did her mother really think that she was interested in chutney at this point in her life? And of all the things to cook when your suicidal daughter comes home—the same old mint chutney? Nothing new, nothing different? Nothing to say,
The world has changed. The food in our house definitely has. You can live now?

It was difficult, however, to take too much offense in the face of such blatant goodness. Saroj was on her best behavior and even though the veneer slipped sometimes, she was trying to make Devi feel welcome.

Her father welcomed her back as well, and he assured her that he was taking care of all the practicalities. He told her, when Saroj wasn't around, that he knew about the unpaid bills and that he was taking care of them. He was pulling her out of her lease on the town house and was in the process of putting most of her things away in storage. She could stay with her parents for as long as she wanted and when she was ready, they'd all go and look for a nice place for her.

It was just like her father had always promised.

When they were little, Saroj never read bedtime stories to Devi or Shobha, Avi did. When Shobha and Devi used to share a bedroom, Avi would tuck them both in bed and pull out two books to read, one for Shobha and one for Devi. Shobha's favorite used to be
Mi Baba and the Forty Thieves,
while Devi insisted on listening to
Oh, the Places You'll Go!
again and again.

“Daddy, you really think I'll be left in a lurch someday?” Devi would ask the same question each time because she loved to say
lurch.
And each time Avi would say that if she got caught in a lurch, all she had to do was say the magic words.

“What are the magic words?” Devi would ask with a giggle because she already knew what they were.

“Daddy, come get me,” Avi would say and give her a big kiss on the cheek. And Daddy will come and get you.”

“Really? Even if you're in a meeting?” She'd ask this question differently each time.

“Even if I'm in a meeting with the president,” Avi would say, hugging her to him tightly. “That's what daddies are for, to rescue their little girls.”

But this time Devi didn't call out to her father, didn't want anyone
to see her hanging, left in a lurch. She didn't need help, she just needed to die.

She resented what the situation looked like, as if she ran home to Daddy and his money when she was in trouble. But the resentment was wrapped in a layer of apathy, just as almost everything else was. Her problems seemed to be enveloped in a haze and she couldn't get past the mist to touch them, feel them, and mend them.

Also, to stop her father from taking charge of her life, she would have to speak and she wasn't ready yet. Her voice seemed to be stored in a box and her emotions latched the box shut. She was alive, despite her wishes, but she didn't have to join the human race right away. She could wait.

Since she could remember, Devi had found solace in silence. When they accused her of stealing in the fourth grade, she maintained silence rather than defend herself. What would the point be? And if she protested too much, they'd blame her for lying on top of stealing. But she hadn't been stealing, just borrowing.

And she didn't hit Lilly without provocation. Lilly started it by calling her a thief and a “brown-skinned refugee.” Name-calling added to the fact that Lilly was as pretty as Barbie and just as popular—it had been a simple decision. Now, Devi hadn't intended for Lilly's nose to break, that turned out to be a special bonus.

It took a week for her to speak again and even then, she never explained why. She didn't think anyone was interested. What her parents wanted was for such an incident not to be repeated and Devi ensured that. Beyond that she didn't feel she owed them any explanations.

After that Devi went into silence mode for a few days now and again, whenever she got upset or whenever she didn't want to say anything to anyone. It hadn't happened in seven years. Well, let's face it, it hadn't happened since she left her mother's house.

Devi glanced surreptitiously at the white bandages peeking out from under her full-sleeved black pullover. She should've worn white, she thought as nausea built up inside her, then the bandages wouldn't stick out quite as much. She glanced toward Vasu, who was looking at the bandages as well, tightened lines of pain etched on her
face. Vasu averted her gaze when she noticed Devi was looking at her and looked blindly out of the window at the cars racing past them.

Devi knew her grandmother was shattered. There was sorrow in her eyes, more sorrow even than there had been when Shekhar Uncle died. That's what they called G'ma's boyfriend. He had been in Vasu's life since Devi had known her. Even though Shobha always kicked up a fuss when they came for a visit and shared a bedroom, Devi never thought it strange.

“They're madly in love,” Devi said once when Shobha announced that it was immoral to allow such an illicit affair to be perpetrated in their home.

“He has a wife in India, Devi. How do you think she feels?”

Devi sighed. “She doesn't want a divorce. This is the only solution they have. What? They should live unhappy lives without each other because society in India is screwed up?”

Shobha glared at Devi. “I'm sure G'ma's disreputable ways appeal to you. I find this behavior disgusting.”

Vasu was never fazed. Devi couldn't remember one time when she'd seen Vasu this hurt. It must hurt, she realized, to find that the granddaughter you were most close to had secrets. Tears welled in her eyes and streamed down her cheeks.

She wiped them with the back of her hands, feeling the thick bandage against her face. The futility of it all, the tears, her life, came screaming back and the tears dried up.

Damn Mama, Devi thought angrily. She would've been dead by now. Gone. Happily moved on. Instead she was sitting here, having to deal with Vasu's pain, Daddy's pain, and even her mother's confused love. She looked forward to seeing Shobha, something she didn't often do. Shobha was a straight shooter. Even if Shobha was feeling any trauma caused by the attempted suicide, Devi could trust her sister to tell it like it was. Her caustic remarks would be better than this silent remonstration, whispered accusations, show of support, and question-mark faces.

Mama had yelled once, but Vasu and Daddy probably silenced her and that was why she was chirping on about hot-hot
samosas.
As if Devi gave a damn!

“We've put you in your old room,” Avi told her as he led her inside the house of her childhood by her hand, like she was a patient ridden with a life-threatening disease, or an old woman who needed physical support. She despised the tone of her father's touch, even as she took comfort in it.

“G'ma and Mama arranged all your things inside, just the way it used to be before you left.” He spoke slowly, leaned over, and kissed her on her forehead.

He was talking to her as if she were mentally retarded, unable to comprehend what he was saying if he spoke faster, at his usual pace. She didn't wanted to be here but the only way out of the hospital was through her parents’ home. You attempt suicide once and all your adult privileges are taken away. She didn't even have her purse with her, she had no money, no credit cards, no driver's license, nothing.

“Your purse and mail are inside the drawer,” Avi said, pointing with his prosthetic arm to the old solid-oak antique desk.

Saroj hoarded antiques and knickknacks. She put them everywhere, to the extent that after Devi left home her desk became the landing ground for various bronze birds that Saroj bought at some estate sale.

“We can remove, move, change, do anything you want,” Avi said carefully, unsure probably because she hadn't set foot inside the room but stood at the threshold. “But… we were advised to keep your credit cards and driver's license with us. This doesn't mean we don't trust you, just as a precaution.”

Devi didn't want to think about what that meant. She wasn't sure but maybe at the back of her mind she wondered if she could run away again. Without a driver's license and her plastic, though, it would be impossible. She wasn't a little girl anymore who thought that the world embraced runaways and gave them lucrative jobs as models for milk and juice products.

“We want you to stay with us, until you feel better,” Avi said and Devi, to her horror, caught the glint of tears in his eyes. He hugged her close, his prosthetic arm and his real arm enfolding her, holding her tight.

“Everything's going to be all right, okay?” Avi said and Devi nodded, wanting to comfort him as he was comforting her. But it was
futile because even though he didn't know it, she knew that nothing was going to be okay, ever again.

Devi sat down on the bed shakily after Avi left. Saroj had put a white sheet with lavender-colored flowers on the bed. It was all so feminine, so girl-like that tears came to Devi and she didn't know why. She'd been so innocent when this room used to be hers.

Saroj had filled the antique bookshelf Devi emptied when she left home. There were old books, R. K. Narayan, Anita Desai, Khushwant Singh, Kamala Markandaya (which Saroj probably never read), and new ones with fresh, crisp paper. One of the four shelves was filled with cookbooks. From fusion cuisine to authentic south Indian recipes, the books looked untouched, and they would be. These were probably given by well-meaning friends who thought the cookbooks perfect gifts for always-cooking Saroj. But Saroj didn't believe in cookbooks. “What do they know?” she'd say. She knew how much and what from experience. That was the only way to make good food, experience and trial and error.

Devi knew her mother's life revolved around cooking. Always chopping, dicing, and/or planning. It was such an uncomplicated life, it made Devi envious. Maybe Saroj had gotten it right: marry well and cook and take care of family. It all seemed so easy compared to what she'd wanted to do: start her own company, be as successful as Daddy (no, more successful), get Shobha's respect, find a good man to love and marry, have a houseful of children, and still have the stellar career. When she would talk about her plans to friends they would say that if she wanted a career she would have to put the family on hold. That was how it was done.

Now as she stood gazing at the colored spines of the cookbooks on her old bookshelf, she realized that she had neither a career, nor a family. So where the hell did that leave her?

The spine of the book was blank, made with cloth, and it attracted Devi's attention. It was a long book and when she pulled it out she saw that it was covered with batik cloth. The art was in yellow and orange and red, with splashes of green and blue. It was bright, lively, like the colors of Holi blending on the cover of the book.

It was a notebook, empty mostly, except for the second page. It had the feel of an old book; the paper wasn't sharp and firm to the
touch, it was soft, aged. There was a smell to it, that of turmeric and cloves, as if the book belonged in a kitchen.

When she read the only entry, she found out that the book had been meant for the kitchen. It was one of Saroj's old notebooks, from the days when she probably used cookbooks. When she didn't believe she knew it all but needed to learn.

On the second page of the book, in Saroj's neat handwriting, was the first and only recipe. Devi recognized it immediately as Saroj's “famous” goat curry. Saroj ordered goat special from the butcher and made the curry, but she'd never revealed that the recipe belonged to some woman called Girija and that Saroj had acquired the recipe in 1970 in Jorhat.

Jorhat, April 15, l970

GIRIJA'S GOAT SABZI

Get good goat and clean it well. Chop out some of the thick fat but let the rest stay, it doesn't hurt and the fat content will give the
sabzi
more taste. Cut some onions and fry in oil. Add onions to oil only of er the oil starts sizzling. Once the onions become a little brown, quickly add chopped green chili, garlic, and ginger. Make sure you remove all the stringy parts of the ginger; they don't harm, but still, why have that to get stuck in between the teeth. Fry nicely on medium heat for a while. Don't hurry otherwise the
sabzi
won't turn out right.