Authors: Indira Ganesan
They would probably read
Treasure Island
and make maps in the next school year, Asha had told him, as her class had done. She had burned the edges of the map as their teachers instructed, even as her mother stood watch over her like a hawk. He thought he might read the book ahead of time, but then there were all the Famous Fives, plus
Swiss Family Robinson
, and the comic books. His father had remarked that he was swimming in reading matter, but Oscar didn’t think so. He always worried he’d run out. Even to the doctor’s office, he took two books, not one; as he explained to his mother, there was always the chance he’d like to begin the other before finishing the first.
Now he scanned the horizon. His father was looking at the schedule while his mother hovered nearby. It wasn’t that it was scary in the terminal; just that it was very busy. There were people rushing about, but there were also people who slept soundly on bits of blanket or suitcase, some passengers, some homeless. One man cleaned his teeth absently with a stick. Oscar had spent some time staring at him until the man looked at him directly; embarrassed, Oscar had looked away. His mother gripped his shoulder. There! The ferry was coming in.
45
W
e jostled our way down the ramp, hand luggage in hand. Rasi gripped my wrist and I held on to Sanjay’s shirt. We were like three little monkeys, I thought, inseparable, and now we were back on Pi. We had come specifically to see Aunt Meterling. We had meant to see Meterling years ago, but the years kept going by, despite our wishes. From America, Pi seemed distant and obscure, difficult to reach, as we fell into our American lives with a passion. We had returned once, but Aunt Meterling had been away in Kerala with her friend the poet, at an ashram, and only Simon and Oscar were at Grandmother’s house. It was during a Christmas break, and high school called us back before we had seen a glimpse of our favorite aunt.
Now we were undergraduates, me in my sophomore year, Rasi, having skipped a grade, already a senior, and Sanjay a freshman. Our parents decided to let us go by ourselves this summer, thinking to join us later, or put off their trip until December. They thought it would be good for us, without them as interpreters and diplomats, as we navigated our way through family branches. “It is your country, after all, and you should get to know it, even as it changes,” said Aunt Pa. I suppose she meant as
we
changed.
We had left the mainland in sunlight, but midway across, a thick fog descended, so that we could see only ten feet in front of us. I had hoped we could watch the approach of the island from the deck, but we stayed inside until the fog lifted. When
it did, other passengers began to crowd on the deck, and we joined them. There in the distance, in the otherworldly beauty of late afternoon sun, in a clarity made pronounced because of the previous fog, was the island, green and lush. The balmy air blew against our faces in small breezes as the ferry made its way to the harbor, amid a murmur of voices that seemed continuous, rising in pitch and sometimes distinct. The waves sloshed against the boat, and I could see, behind a wire fence, the faces in the distance, waiting to receive the passengers
Getting visas at the Indian embassy back in New York, I thought we’d never make it, as a crowd surged and yelled at the slow officials. I made the mistake of glancing censoriously at someone pushing firmly to get ahead in line, saying, “No need to push!”—what gave me the right?—only to be yelled at by the man, who demanded, Could I tell him why his visa request had been denied for months and months? Could I, he asked, tell him why the embassy ignored him and treated him with disdain?, his voice pitching higher and higher as I froze, until Sanjay had the sense to pull me away. Now we
had
made it, our group of travelers—there, the mother with her baby, who kept up a monotone wail; the man dressed in khaki and expensive sunglasses, who looked like a journalist, but was more likely a banker; the trio of young women who were unbelievably lovely, blessed with similar long, honey-colored hair, ready to spend junior year abroad studying nonviolence—and we shared small smiles. What tales could we tell if we had lived in Chaucer’s time? Now we waited while getting our passports checked and luggage inspected. This was always the nervous part of travel, when worry didn’t just extend to us but to the luggage—had the Hershey’s Kisses melted? Had the sneakers we brought for Oscar made it past luggage pirates? Already, we had been traveling for twenty-five hours. Finishing at last,
we stepped toward the exit, past the security line, and I heard my name called out. Aunt Meterling!
We raced toward her and fell into her arms.
We rushed to speak at once.
Aunt Meterling, whom we hadn’t seen in nine years, tall as ever, with gray now in her hair and full of smiles. She was only thirty-seven, but our family did always gray early. Aunt Meterling, who seemed full of the vital juice that seemed to belong to her alone.
“Is this Oscar?” Rasi exclaimed.
Oscar blushed as we hugged him.
“He’s so big now!” I said. From five to nine years, a leap. He looked like Sanjay had looked as a little boy, all those years ago.
“And now you have turned into beauties,” said our aunt.
Sanjay made a bow.
Uncle Simon joined us, bringing Aunt Meterling a bottle of water. More hugs, more exclamations. Our limbs relaxed. We had come home to our family.
The island smelled sweet, as it always did at twilight. We walked as the sun dipped and threw orange-pink clouds across the sky. I could never paint it, nor did I want to, but the sunset looked like a painting, more Turner than Maxfield Parrish. Billboards depicting new film stars in new movies vied with the colors, as did advertisements for laundry soap and vanishing cream. Men lounged on string stools in open shops displaying rows of plastic beads and glass bangles pushed onto newspaper rolls; it never changed, the glitter, the glitz of the market. A toy store caught Oscar’s attention because a yipping metal monkey performed acrobatic tumbles, or maybe he was eyeing the wooden tops that could spin and flip over, still spinning. Vendors held open their palms, displaying small wonders, promising hours
of entertainment. I gave Aunt Meterling another squeeze. It was glorious to be back with her, with us all.
When Aunt Meterling first left with Simon and Oscar for London, we felt like our favorite toy had been taken away. I remember we moped around until we were scolded. Uncle Darshan, hoping to distract us, brought home three puppies, one for each of us. It was startling how quickly we adjusted after that. Poor Scrap slinked away to Grandmother while our attention was caught by these yipping dogs. They were cocker spaniels, and won our hearts. Uncle Darshan got them from a fellow teacher who had retired to breed them. Grandmother called them One, Two, Three, but we named them Amitabh, Hemamalani, and Dimple. Aunt Pa said that when they’d had dogs in the past, they were given English names, so they could say “Come here, Tommie,” or “Sit and stop barking, Reggie.”
When we emigrated for America, all of us within the space of three years, we had to leave the animals behind. Nalani and Ajay promised to look after them, but they wound up in the big house. Grandmother, though she would not admit it, had taken a shine to Scrap, who was given dal and watery cream on the veranda, though one of the servant maid’s children had to feed her nonveg food outside; mice supplemented Scrap’s diet, and probably made her coat silky. The dogs, though, were given meat only once a week, also outside; the rest of the time, they were pampered vegetarians.
We didn’t want to move to America; at least, I didn’t. While I missed my parents, and knew it would be
very exciting
there, I wanted to remain with Grandmother. Who would take care of her? I worried. I knew she would miss us terribly, although she just scolded us if we told her that—before hugging us. My parents
were firm, and a little embarrassed by my protests, and off I went on a Pan Am jet, to be joined by Rasi and Sanjay and my aunt and two uncles two years later. I don’t remember the early years of getting adjusted to my new family life, but I remember school. I was leery of my new classes, finding American students loud, strange, and indecipherable at times. They kept thinking my accent was British, my clothes old-fashioned. The studies were dull as well, and it seemed there was more study hall than classes. Years later, people would still insist they heard a trace of England in my voice, or, sounding very surprised, tell me I had no discernible accent. When they said,
But I never think of you as island
, I knew they meant to flatter, bury my difference in a neutral pan-acceptance. My family was not without its own prejudices; “they” or “them” meant “American,” and “American” meant something we weren’t. “Not ‘they,’ ‘us,’ ” I’d chant, to my mother’s bewilderment. She kept Pi like a well-guarded shrine in our heart, built around us a seemingly impenetrable house of South Asian culture.
Rasi was the first to shake off island culture, listening to more rock and roll than Hindi film songs, getting a secret tattoo, and sneaking a boyfriend. Was this all there was, I wondered—music, tattoos, and boyfriends? I would be different, I told myself, immersing myself in Bharata Natyam. Unfortunately, I still wasn’t very good at dance, and eventually gave it up.
Rasi already knew in high school she wanted to be a lawyer, but all I liked was art class. Sanjay was destined for something sensible, because as he himself admitted, even if he’d wanted to be a writer or an artist, as a boy, he couldn’t; it would be beyond the scope of our family’s imagination. Back in high school, he’d looked to science and math. As for me, I declared art history as a major my sophomore year in college, knowing my parents
indulged me only because in their eyes, I would eventually get married, and if I wasn’t going to become a professional in the sciences or the law, I could major in anything I wanted.
I thought I would be like my aunt Meterling. I would make radical choices, and live my life with honesty, not for the sake of society. By this time, I had thrown off my allegiance to Pi, and had given up my green card to become an American citizen. I did not necessarily want the citizenship, but it made sense. I lived in New Jersey, not in Madhupur. When the chance came, though, to visit Pi for the summer with Rasi and Sanjay, I leapt.
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F
reshly roasted, freshly ground, served in stainless-steel tumblers, coffee on Pi put all contenders to shame. Shanti-Mami was still cooking for Grandmother, and it was she who served us, with tears in her eyes. She also opened tins full of savories and sweets—Mysore pak and thatai. My grandmother’s face seemed softer and more lined, her hands betraying tremors. We sat in the front room, which now had a bigger television set, the seven of us, on the floor, in chairs and on the charpoy, all talking at once, gesturing and laughing. It was a wonder Oscar didn’t just clap his hands over his ears. Instead, he played with the hot rods Sanjay had brought him, while the dogs nosed him affectionately.
Meterling sat with Simon’s arm around her. She was trying not to cry, I could tell. When you see someone after a long time, you wonder where the time had gone. What had really
prevented you from keeping in touch, visiting? It is a terrible feeling, because the reasons are so selfish and petty. We hadn’t tried hard enough, and at some point, we forgot. I had held on to her hand on seeing the old house, and exiting the car, barreled into Grandmother, who held us close. Grandmother did cry, and said it was a cold, but then said, well, why should she not cry; it was an occasion that called for emotion. She smelled as I remembered, only felt frailer.
Sanjay stretched out on a mat on the floor, Scrap happily curled next to him, telling Aunt Meterling of his plans to study yoga. This was news to all of us.
He told us he wanted to put school off for a year, and studying yoga the way he wanted required a full immersion in the subject. He would go to a shala in India, wake at four every morning, practice until nightfall, with breaks for meals and rest, and classes for chant, Sanskrit, and philosophy. It sounded like the ideal life for a South Asian, a prospect that should have made everyone proud—a real brahmachari role. Instead, everyone had objections.
“But why can’t you just do yoga on your own?” asked our aunt.
“That sounds extreme, Sanju. Are you sure these yogis are reputable?”
“Are these places clean?”
“Mostly there are Westerners in these places, I hear.”
I hadn’t heard Sanjay called “Sanju” in ages. Grandmother reminded him of the guru with seven Rolls-Royces.
Patiently, Sanjay explained that yoga was not cultish, that it didn’t involve Rolls-Royces and rampant sex. He was only going to India, he said, to study with someone in Mysore, which is hardly a foreign country, but that prompted another discussion entirely. I marveled at his patience. It was as if he had grown up
in the space of the year. A well-aimed paper ball tossed at my head interrupted my musings. Well, nearly grown up.
After the second cup, before jet lag hit me like a strong wave, I toured the house. It was a ritual I did in New Jersey, and I did it here. My mother used to joke that it was my way of making sure everything was in its place. I went room by room, laying my hand on the mahogany bureaus and almirahs, tracing the dust on the wooden-framed mirrors. I looked out the windows, to see the views of coconut and mango trees, and beyond, the neighbor’s walls and windows. I went up to the roof to stand by the clothes dried to stiffness on the line, noticing that the badminton racket that had been unstrung still lay the same way in the corner, near a broken umbrella. Plastic chairs were casually arranged to view the stars, breathe the night air. How could my grandmother climb the stairs to get up here? But it was her eyes that were going, not her legs. That is, she could still climb, resting heavily on each step, a smile like a sunrise on her face if anyone was there to greet her.
Nalani and Ajay joined us the third day. In the intervening years, Nalani had become a doctor, and she and Ajay had decided to remain in the city. After dinner, standing shyly before us, Nalani told us she was expecting. Ajay and she had tried for a baby many times before, miscarriage following miscarriage, and conception occurred when they were long past hoping.