Serving Crazy With Curry (10 page)

Vasu dropped her hands and sighed. “You cannot hide forever. Just because you won't talk about it, doesn't mean it didn't happen.”

Devi nodded then. She knew, the memory of the “incident” would be with her forever, but for now it could stay some other place. She wasn't ready to think about it.

“I wouldn't have been able to handle it, Devi, if I had to stand over a dead grandchild,” Vasu told her bluntly. “I simply wouldn't.”

Devi put a hand on Vasu's cheek and smiled. She wanted to tell her that they couldn't choose what they would and wouldn't face in life.

“Life is precious,” Vasu said, “and your life is golden. I want you to think about living, about going on, about moving on. I want you to tell me why you wanted to die and then I want you to tell me how you are not going to let this despair take over you again.”

Devi shook her head and dragged her hands over her face. Her bandages peeked out from under her sleeves.

Why couldn't they just leave her alone to lick her wounds?

Not wanting to continue the conversation, Devi gave Vasu a tight nod and left the park to go back to her parents’ house.

There were so many questions! Everyone had questions, a thousand
questions. Everywhere Devi looked she felt that there were questions. Why? Why? Why? She didn't know why all she knew was that her life didn't resemble the life she envisioned, not even remotely. She was twenty-seven years old, she was relying financially on her father, she'd moved back in with her parents, and now it looked like she had inherited the suicide gene from her crazy grandfather.

Devi sat down on one of Saroj's cushioned metal chairs in the patio. She didn't want to go in and deal with everyone, especially Saroj. G'ma, she could handle, G'ma, she had no trouble with, but Saroj, ah, that was a different story.

Even now, the memory, part real, part surmised, of her mother seeing her in the bloody bathtub gave her the shivers. It was supposed to be the perfect plan, but it was foiled. Now what?

How long was she going to take to recover? Did she want to recover? What did it mean to recover? Was she supposed to be happy that she was alive? Or was she supposed to try again?

She saw her mother's face peek out of the window once and then again.

“Devi, I am going to make your favorite tomato
pappu
and fried potato
sabzi,”
Saroj said, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

She hadn't planned to, but Devi found herself walking into the kitchen yet again and rummaging through the fridge to find something else, something she hadn't eaten before. Damn her mother, always cooking the same old food. First she saves her life, and then she cooks boring food. Unexplained anger bubbled through Devi as she let her hands fly over spices and vegetables while Saroj watched, in wide-eyed horror, as her fridge and spice cabinet went from neat and tidy to something completely the opposite.

It really started with that dinner, though the chutney would be considered the first original recipe. Soon enough Saroj found herself completely kicked out of her kitchen as Devi cooked outrageous meals every day. When she was angry, the food was spicy, when she seemed happy, there was dessert, and when she looked bored, the food tasted bland.

DEVI'S RECIPE
THE ANTI-SAROJ CHUTNEY
Day i after coming home from the hospital

The classic chutneys are coriander, mint, and chili. Everyone makes those chutneys, and oh yes, let's not forget the tamarind chutney that every Indian restaurant will serve in watery portions. But I don't want to make or eat classic chutneys.

I was lucky Mama had dried apricot in that pantry of hers. My God, but she has stuff in there. She even has a small bottle of red caviar. Mama would never eat caviar (“Rawfish eggs? Why would anyone want to eat that?”), but it's there nevertheless along with the now indispensable bottle of chipotle chili peppers.

Soaking the apricots in water seemed a good way to make them mushy but soaking them in sugar water seemed like an even better idea. It would make the chutney sweet. Surveying the fridge, my eye caught the ginger. Mama buys big chunks of ginger. Lots of garlic and ginger in her food. Maybe not garlic in the chutney, but definitely ginger. Lots of ginger for a sharp tangy taste.

What else? I saw the mint. Mama's prized little herb pot. Tearing away the mint, ah, now that was a special treat. Anything else? Of course, the chipotle chili peppers to give the chutney a smoky flavor.

Take the apricot, ginger, garlic, peppers, and salt (I added the apricot syrup in small quantities as well, depending upon how liquid I wanted the chutney to be, not too liquid) and blend it to a pulp.

The chutney is best savored when licked from a plate!

The One-Armed Man

Avi lost his right arm in the 1965 Indo-Pak battle. When Saroj found him, and she told this story to anyone who'd listen, he was living in a pigsty. He was on sick leave and had been for the past month. He spent his days in his room at the officers’ mess, drinking and smoking all day and eating very little. No one was allowed inside the room, and when Saroj barged her way in, she was appalled.

First, there was the stench. The room smelled of stale beer, whiskey, rum, and wet cigarette ash. Clothes were everywhere, some dirty, some not so dirty. There was not a spot in the room where one could sit without encountering dirt of some nature. The previous night's untouched dinner plate and the morning's breakfast plate lay by the grimy feet of a man who looked as if he were living on the street. A piece of toast dangled in the man's limp left hand and a cigarette hung in his mouth.

Saroj had never met Avi before, never had any reason to. He was older than she and he was in the Infantry Corps, while Vasu was a gynecologist in the Army Medical Corps. There was no reason for Vasu's path and therefore Saroj's to cross Avi's.

Avi's mother lived in Sikkim with her retired army officer husband. When Avi refused to go to his parent's home after he was released
from the hospital and didn't reply to their letters or return their calls, his mother called Saroj's friend Rashmi, who lived in Dehradun, and asked her if she knew anyone who lived in Udham-pur and could check up on her son.

Vasu was posted to Udhampur then, fifty kilometers above Jammu and a couple of hundred kilometers below Srinagar. The war had sent many of the wounded to the Udhampur Military Hospital, and since Avi had been posted to Udhampur before he'd lost his arm, he was back, taking some time off, struggling to accept that he was one of the few in his battalion to survive and that life had been bestowed upon him at a price.

When Rashmi called Saroj, it seemed like a mission of mercy, to check up on a wounded soldier, a war hero who'd lost his arm in battle. She was barely nineteen and fell headlong in love with the disreputable Captain Avinash Veturi. It didn't happen at first sight, but it didn't take too long for Cupid to strike the fatal blow.

“How the hell did you get in?” were Avi's first words to Saroj.

“The door was open,” she replied. “My God, it stinks in here.”

“Then get the fuck out,” Avi said, throwing the piece of toast on the floor, spitting out the now dead cigarette, and picking up a bottle of army grade XXX rum. He took a long swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. And at that moment Saroj romantically thought he looked like Devdas, the bitter and melancholy legendary lover pining after his lost love, his Paro.

“Get the fuck out,” he repeated and she all but left. Who wanted to deal with an ornery wounded type, even if he was wounded saving her country? Then she caught sight of his stump and something in her heart slipped. How hard it must be for an independent and proud man to come back with less than he had gone into battle with.

“Thank you,” Saroj said softly.

Avi looked at her then, for the first time. “What?”

“Thank you,” Saroj said again. “You went out there and fought for our country, so thank you.”

“What the fuck do you know about anything?” Avi said, but his voice was not so bitter.

“I know that you need a bath,” Saroj said, tapping her temple
with a forefinger. “And a shave … after that… oh, we will need lots of time to talk about what else I know.”

Saroj expected that he would get up and take a bath and shave and become Mr. Perfect, but instead he told her to “get the fuck out and never come back again.”

Saroj did get out but promptly went back the next day and the next. After a week she took a tape of Ustad Amjad Ali Khan and played it to him. She brought along a copy of
Malgudi Days
and read it out loud to him.

He took a bath, but didn't shave, didn't give up alcohol.

One day Saroj made some
pulao
with her famous potato
raita
for him and he had three servings. They started building a tenuous friendship.

Besides Avi, Saroj also got close to Avi's mother, whom she called every other day to give a report on how her son was doing. Mrs. Veturi was delighted that someone was taking care of her son and later on, when Avi told his parents he was marrying Saroj, Mrs. Veturi had been overjoyed and believed that it was because of her that Avi had ended up with such a wonderful wife.

“Your mother said you should quit smoking,” Saroj told him one day.

“You are not my wife and my mother can go hang herself,” Avi responded, but two weeks after Saroj had asked him to quit, he did. He went cold turkey and to his own amazement didn't turn into a monster as he went into nicotine withdrawal.

“You shouldn't drink until after eight in the evening,” Saroj announced after he quit smoking.

“And why should I wait that long? I am on leave.”

“Because I need you to take me here and there. It's a beautiful summer,” Saroj replied.

Avi had been defenseless. She was the sweetest woman he ever met. She smiled when he barked at her, she coaxed him and cajoled him. She was his miracle. He lost his arm, but he found her, and somehow the trade seemed even to him, then.

The first time he kissed her, it had been innocent, a thank-you, and that was when it struck him that he wanted to marry Saroj. But
she was so young, just nineteen. He couldn't expect her to spend her life with a twenty-nine-year-old one-armed man.

They were at a
tambola
party the Saturday they decided to marry. Avi was nursing a scotch while she was drinking a glass of water. After several weeks of rumination, Avi had decided that it was time to tell Saroj it was over. This could hardly go on. People were already talking and Saroj's reputation was going down the gutter each time she was seen with him. He was ruining her chances of finding a suitable husband, as everyone was assuming they both were an item, which they were definitely not.

The arrival of his posting orders to Jorhat from Udhampur seemed to be a sign from a higher power. He was going to move; this was the best time to end their undefined relationship.

“They posted me out,” he told Saroj calmly, “Jorhat. I leave next week.”

“Jorhat? In Assam? Oh, all those mosquitoes,” Saroj said and then sighed deeply. “Well, I guess we'll have to get married right away. I was thinking of doing it in Hyderabad, that's where we're from, but now there's no time. We could get married at the army temple. We can have a reception right here, at the mess. What do you think?”

Avi was stunned. He downed his entire scotch and then looked at her suspiciously. “Maybe I've been drinking too much, but did you say you want to get married to me?”

Saroj tittered nervously. “Yes, dummy. I've been waiting and waiting and now you're talking about leaving. I can't just come with you. As open-minded as she is, Mummy will kill me if I go to Jorhat without a
mangalsutra.”

“Saro, I only have one arm,” Avi said, holding up his stump. “This is it. I can't ask you to tie yourself down to a cripple.”

“No, Avi, you're not a cripple. If, say, I didn't have an arm, would you love me less?”

He had never told her he loved her or made any kind of promise, but she had assumed and her innocence drew him in some more. She was naive, unaware of the trust she gave and generated.

“No, I wouldn't,” Avi said. “I'll talk to your mother… ah …”

“She's right there, talking to Major Jaggi. You could talk to her now,” Saroj coaxed and the last of his reserves melted.

Vasu raised her eyebrows all the way to her hairline. “You're almost ten years older than her,” she told Avi as they sat in some privacy in the army mess's garden.

“I know, I know all that. But Major Rao, she is my miracle, and I don't want to let her go,” Avi said sincerely.

“This is your decision, yours and hers. I don't believe in interfering in Saroj's life. But she is very young, used to too much, and when things get hard, I don't know, I just don't know,” Vasu cautioned.

“Things are already hard,” he said, looking at his lost arm. “She pulled me out. I am hopelessly in love. I don't want to go to Jorhat or anywhere else without her.”

Vasu smiled and put her hand on his. “Then by all means, take her. But make sure she finishes her degree. She has one more year to go, I am sure she can transfer to a college in Jorhat.”

“Thanks, Major Rao.”

“Call me Vasu, we are family now.”

And so Sarojini Rao became Sarojini Veturi. She never finished her bachelor's in sciences and ignored her mother's advice that she get a job and stand on her own feet. Saroj wanted to be a wife and mother, she didn't want a career, and Avi said that he didn't care if Saroj worked or not. And in those days it hadn't been an issue. In those days, it was Vasu who was the strange one, working for a living instead of being ensconced in a house taking care of her husband and children.

But now, when Saroj saw her family going off to work, having lives of their own, businesses they were part of, a world beyond the confines of their homes, she felt stifled within the boundaries she'd set for herself. A career would have allowed her access to the outside world, would have given her something else beyond the barren existence of unwanted wife and unneeded mother.

But twenty-twenty hindsight is always so clear. Then, she had been in a great hurry to get married and have children. She didn't want the sorry excuse of her mother's life; in love with a man who was married to another woman, working for a living in a man's
world, and not even having the comfort of a close relationship with her only child.

That wasn't going to happen to her, Saroj vowed to herself when she got pregnant, just a few months after she married Avi. They were both ecstatic about her pregnancy and when they had a girl, they were overjoyed. Saroj was positive that this new person in her life would be her friend, they would be as close as mothers and daughters could be.

Avi wanted to name their first daughter Shobhana, after his favorite grandmother, who'd passed away when he was a teenager. And in her happiness, Saroj didn't object. She happily ignored the various other names she wanted for her daughter, modern names, with class, but because it mattered to Avi, she embraced the name Shobhana. She shortened it to a more contemporary-sounding Shobha immediately.

Those were the happiest days of Saroj's life, and in all the years that followed, Saroj found she couldn't surpass the joy she'd felt then.

Avi was posted to Jorhat and Saroj relentlessly complained about the mosquito-infested backwater stuck in the easternmost part of India, but later on, after moving to the United States, she would've happily lived in a swamp in Jorhat for the rest of her life.

The army accommodations in Jorhat were meager, but sufficient for Saroj's small family. Across the street from the army houses was a tea plantation. Saroj and Avi would take little Shobha for a walk in her pink pram bought by Vasu under Saroj's eagle eye.

“Pink? How much of a stereotype is that?” Vasu had asked when they stood in a baby store in Jorhat city. There were five prams to choose from—blue, green, checkered black and red, white with pale yellow flowers, and pink. Saroj picked the pink one with pink lace.

“My
baby,” she said patting her large belly. And I want
that.”

“What if it's a boy?” Vasu cautioned.

“It'll be a girl,” Saroj said with confidence. There was no doubt in her mind. It would be a girl. Avi wanted a girl.

“Just like you,” he would say, stroking her belly.

Oh, it had been such a honeymoon, and even now Saroj was convinced that if they had stayed in India instead of moving to America, they would still be happy.

After Shobha was born, Avi became restless. He got a letter from an old and close friend. Vikram had attended Avi and Saroj's wedding and Saroj had liked him. He was so much fun, easygoing, still single, flirting with everyone, including Vasu. But after that letter, Saroj started to resent Vikram.

“He mentioned something when he came for the wedding,” Avi said when Saroj told him that this was all very sudden.

“So he came all the way from San Francisco to ask you to … what? Leave the army and join his company?” Saroj was speechless. This was the life she wanted. She was an army officer's wife. She was still in the same circles she had grown up in, she had a baby, and her mother was posted in Baroda, at the other end of the country. It was perfect!