Serving Crazy with Curry Page 2

  “Am I sure?” she asked herself and waited for a resonating answer in her mind.

  She stood in front of the floor-length mirror, loosened her robe, and let it fall. Naked, she saw the small bulge of her tummy, a cause for dieting, her slight breasts, a constant cause of embarrassment, her curly, dark pubic hair that grew at a rapid rate, another cause of embarrassment.

  “This is me,” she said out aloud and removed the elastic band that held her shoulder-length hair in place. “I'm ready,” she told herself with a small smile.

  Compared to all that had slipped away like a chimera through her fingers, losing her life didn't seem too monumental. She sucked back the tears that were ready to fall on her cheeks. She wasn't going to cry. This was the right thing, the only thing, and she wasn't going to let any doubt enter her through those tears.

  She dropped lavender bath beads inside the tub with some self-amusement. How would it matter how the bathwater smelled when soon, it would smell and look like blood? The thought and the realization that blood would be everywhere allowed nausea to creep in. She battled against it, just as she had the tears.

  She lay down in the tub and took a deep breath before dipping her head in. The water soothed her, relaxed her, and she floated for a while, her mind empty of thought, her hearty empty of emotions. She held her breath for as long as she could under the water and then, when oxygen became vital, she pulled herself out.

  Slowly, she rested against the bottom of the tub and raised both her hands up. They were wet and slick. She picked up the knife from the edge of the bathtub.

  She ran her left thumb over the blade and felt the instant tearing of skin, gushing of blood. Carelessly, she washed the blood away in the lavender water.

  She lifted her right hand and looked at the wrist carefully. This was the last time she would see it like this, unmarked. This was the last time for everything.

  With the precision she'd always been known for, Devi took the knife in her left hand and slowly made a deep vertical cut on her right wrist, tearing open the vein that would lead her to death.

  •••

  Two things happened after the Devi “incident,” as everyone in the Veturi household started calling it:

  Devi completely stopped talking.

  Devi started cooking.

  Two things she did with such intensity and consistency that it drove her already shaken family up the wall.

  Deeper Than the Deepest Sorrow

  “She didn't want to talk to me?” Saroj asked Avi, annoyed and hurt that Devi hadn't spoken with her when she called.

  “She wanted Vasu and then when I didn't know if she was awake, she said she had to go,” Avi said, casually sipping his coffee. He drank it American-style, black with no sugar, made in that horrible, noisy coffee machine. Saroj always made coffee the old-fashioned, south Indian way, with decoction, milk, and sugar. How easily he had let it all slip away. He was still Indian, but he behaved as if he were American. Black coffee, with no sugar—ha!

  “I am going to New India Bazaar … Raina said they have new mangoes,” Saroj said, already plotting in her mind how she would visit Devi after shopping and confront her regarding the morning's phone call.

  “Fine,” Avi said, continuing to drink his coffee, not even looking up from the Sunday Chronicle.

  “Do you want anything from there?” Saroj asked petulantly. He didn't want to be disturbed and because he didn't she wanted to disturb him.

  “No,” he replied tersely.

  “I am making spinach pappu for dinner, is that okay?” Saroj asked. He didn't care what she cooked and had stopped making requests … oh, so many years ago.

  “Sure.”

  “What about lunch?”

  “Okay.”

  “Avi,” Saroj cried out, and he finally looked up at her. “What about lunch?”

  “We'll manage something. You can go,” Avi said patiently.

  “Mummy.” Saroj called out for her mother, and when there was no response, she yelled again.

  “Damn it, Saroj, can't you just walk up to her room and talk to her? Do you have to scream the house down?” Avi asked, annoyed.

  “What?” Vasu called back, coming out from the guest room into the dining area where Avi was trying to enjoy his morning coffee and paper.

  “I am going to New India Bazaar …”

  “Then go, Saroj, why do you have to make a production out of it?” Vasu said condescendingly. “Just go and have a good time.”

  “I don't go shopping to have a good time. It is something I have to do because no one else in this house does it,” Saroj snapped, feeling very close to tears. All she wanted was to be appreciated and they … they just… “What will you do about lunch? I am thinking about stopping for dosa at Dasaprakash. Do you want me to bring some back for you?”

  “I'll make some upma for us. Don't worry, we won't starve,” Vasu said, sitting across from Avi and pouring herself a cup of the American coffee.

  Black, no sugar, Saroj noticed with a sneer. Her mother was a chameleon, Saroj thought angrily. She could change to blend into any surrounding. Vasu didn't live in America but fit in better than Saroj, who'd been there for almost three decades.

  “Fine,” Saroj said, flipping the dupatta of her salwar-kameez over her right shoulder.

  Both Avi and Vasu said a farewell but didn't look up to see Saroj leave.

  Who did they think they were? Saroj thought angrily as she slid the Mercedes out of the garage. She did all the work at home, took care of them, cleaned their clothes, cooked food for them, and they just took her for granted. One of these days she was going to leave and then they would find out how hard it was without her. She'd been thinking about leaving her family without warning for as long as she could remember, and each time she resolved to leave she realized that she had nowhere to go. Her friends could always go to their parents’ home, or a sibling's home. Saroj didn't have any siblings, and she would rather be unappreciated by her husband than live with Vasu.

  Saroj brought the car to a halt in the parking lot of the new, New India Bazaar on El Camino Real right next to the Bank of the West. Not too many people knew about the new bazaar and that meant shorter lines, at least until everyone did find out about it. The old New India Bazaar resembled a vegetable market from India; it was messy, full of people, and smelledlike a combination of not-so-fresh vegetables, rice, wheat, and fried samosas.

  Raina Kashyap, Saroj's neighbor, was right about the mangoes. They were ripe, beautiful, a sight to behold. Saroj took in the scent of a mango and sighed. Yes, they were from India, probably straight from Andhra Pradesh, straight from the homeland. It was at times like this that the pain of not living in India pierced through her sharply. It was coming here, to this white pit, that changed things between Avi and her. If they'd stayed in India, if only he'd wanted to stay, they would've been happy.

  With bitterness bubbling through her she picked up nine mangoes, three for herself, three for Shobha, and three for Devi. Saroj was born in October, the month of the Libra, and that forced her to spread everything equally among herself and her children. Even when she went to India and bought saris and jewelry, she would buy three of everything, to make everyone happy. It confused and hurt her that neither Shobha nor Devi seemed to care about the saris or the jewelry she so carefully picked out.

  Saroj's first stop was Shobha's house in Palo Alto. The traffic was moderate on 280 and Saroj could drive at seventy miles an hour all the way as she listened to the songs from her latest favorite Hindi movie, Devdas. Driving was one thing she thought was better in the United States than in India. Unlike many women of her generation in India, Saroj had learned to drive as a teenager on Indian roads. Vasu had insisted that Saroj be independent and ensured that her daughter learned how to drive a scooter and a car.

  But now when they visited India, Saroj left the driving to Vasu or a taxi driver. The roads were poorly constructed and badly repaired. Traffic laws were nonexistent. Here, it was eas
y to drive. There was no livestock on the roads and people signaled when they changed lanes.

  She didn't bother to call before she went to visit her daughters. She was always afraid that they'd make an excuse and not want her to come. To avoid dealing with that rejection, she just dropped by; if they weren't at home, she would be disappointed but not hurt.

  “Saroj?” Girish said, his surprise evident as he stood at the threshold, responding to his mother-in-law ringing the doorbell. He'd probably just woken up. His jeans were hastily pulled on, his T-shirt crumpled, and his hair looked like it had been resting on a pillow just a little while ago. “Come on in.”

  “I thought I would come by, see Shobha and you,” Saroj said, already looking past him to see if her daughter was at home.

  “She's working this weekend,” Girish said apologetically, barely suppressing a yawn. “Come in.”

  Saroj reluctantly went inside, her hands full of mangoes. If Shobha wasn't there, she wouldn't stay long. They both knew that.

  “I got some mangoes. They were fresh in New India Bazaar,” Saroj said, looking around suspiciously. The house always seemed to be in disarray, totally unacceptable to Saroj. But at least it was clean, thanks to the maid service that came in every week.

  “You are at home?” Saroj asked uncomfortably. Girish usually worked on weekends, or that was the excuse Shobha made for him whenever Saroj invited them for Saturday-night dinner. “Shobha said you were very busy these days,” Saroj said accusingly.

  Girish shrugged with a smile. “I'm really sorry I couldn't make it to dinner last Saturday. Shobha told me that it was my loss as the food was excellent.”

  “You should come the next time,” Saroj said and then handed him three mangoes. “Tell Shobha to call.”

  “Are you sure you don't want to stay for a cup of coffee?” Girish asked politely as he balanced the mangoes Saroj thrust at him.

  “No, I am going to go see Devi,” Saroj said, her back already to him as she started walking toward the door.

  “How is she doing?” Girish asked.

  “Good,” Saroj said and then turned to face him, suspicion sparked inside her. “Why?”

  “Well, I heard her company closed down and…” Girish stopped midsentence as if he realized that he shouldn't have said what he just did.

  “What?” Saroj screeched.

  “I'm sure I misheard. If she hasn't said anything to you …”

  “That's why she called today! Early in the morning she called,” Saroj said, blinking back tears. She was already overwrought after the scene with Avi and Vasu and now after finding about Devi she was ready to fall apart.

  “I'm sure she's all right,” Girish said uncomfortably. “Nothing to worry about, right? It isn't like this hasn't happened to her before. She's a strong girl.”

  “I have to go,” Saroj snapped and walked out of the house. Concern and anger mingled, making her step on the accelerator of her car harder as she drove to Devi's town house in Redwood City.

  Saroj had never really liked Girish. He was … not Indian enough, too much of an angrez, too British, too American, too much of a foreigner. He came from a very good family. Everyone knew the Sarmas and knew that they were a very well-respected and well-off Bay Area family. Srikant Sarma, Girish's father, had been a diplomat, traveling in all the right circles.

  They were the right kind of people to associate with (even though Saroj thought they were a little too snobbish and oversophisticated). The problem was Girish. He was not the type to sit down for a cup of chai and chat. He didn't hang around Saroj's house with Shobha and tease his mother-in-law.

  Saroj hoped for the traditional setup. A son-in-law who would be like a son to her, a man who would be her friend, stand up for her against her daughters, and tease Avi that if he didn't treat Saroj bettersomeone would steal her from under him. She wanted a new friend; instead she got Girish. He rarely looked up to see her, and Saroj wasn't sure if he would be able to recognize her in a crowd. He was always donning those silly reading glasses of his and stuffing his nose inside a book. Even when they came for dinner or lunch, Shobha would chat, well, angrily display her opinions regarding everything, especially Devi's unproductive life, while Girish would talk to Avi, Vasu, and Devi but ignore Saroj.

  When Saroj complained to Avi, he looked at her with a blank expression on his face. “Of course, he talks. What do you mean he doesn't?”

  Saroj would try to explain and when she was unsuccessful, she would scream that Avi was insensitive to her needs.

  Now, in all fairness, Saroj couldn't openly complain about Girish, as she had helped arrange Shobha's marriage to him. Avi had been furious that Shobha wanted an arranged marriage, but Saroj was delighted. The match just fell into their laps and the marriage was held with great pomp and show at the Livermore Temple, followed by a lavish dinner at the San Jose Reception Center.

  The “boy” seemed perfect, so young, and a professor at Stanford, and then there was the prestige of marrying into such a good family. It was understandable that Saroj was swayed. How was she to know that Girish would be a stick in the mud, as British as his Oxford PhD accent?

  Saroj parked her car in the driveway in front of Devi's closed garage. She was ready to confront Devi about the morning's phone call and about her being laid off, yet again. Why couldn't the girl find a decent job and stick to it? What was this start-up mania she couldn't shrug off?

  Saroj knew that Devi wanted to be like her father and start a successful company, stay with it until retirement. Why couldn't the girl marry well like Saroj had and take care of her family instead?

  Whenever Saroj used her set of keys to enter Devi's house, she snooped. She didn't look at it as a good or bad thing, but as concern. She was making sure her daughter was not doing drugs or associating with the wrong type (you have to be careful when you have an unmarried girl on your hands). And each time she snooped, she expected to find an unsuitable man lying naked in Devi's bedroom, or used condoms strewn around her bed, or worse, a naked woman in Devi's bedroom. Saroj had all sorts of ideas about Devi's lifestyle.

  “These young Internet people,” she would tell her neighbor, Saira Bhargav. “Always one thing after the other. This is her third start-up, God only knows if this one will make any money.”

  She knocked on the front door, loud and clear, and even tried the doorbell once for good measure. When there was no response, she got her key out from the small zipped pocket of her purse where she always kept a brass idol of Lord Krishna (with the crazy Californian drivers, you need otherworldly protection), her house keys, Shobha's house keys, and Devi's house keys. She never used Shobha's house keys without her knowledge, only when Shobha and Girish were on vacation and their plants needed to be watered, which was almost never. There really was nothing to see in Shobha's house. After all, she was a married woman.

  Saroj went through Devi's living room into the dining room. She placed the plastic bag with the six mangoes inside the fridge. She would take three back with her when she left. No point in letting her mangoes get beaten by the heat inside her car. She didn't have to make any room, as the entire side-by-side refrigerator was empty except for a bottle of Smirnoff vodka in the freezer.

  The girl lived on air and water. No food in her fridge, ever. Why couldn't she learn to cook like all good Indian girls?

  All her life Saroj wanted to teach her daughters how to cook. They didn't even show a passing interest. Devi would watch and ask questions but never offered to cut vegetables, help out, or cook a meal. She did offer plenty of suggestions. Always wanted to put something that didn't fit in the food Saroj was preparing.

  Why can't we add parsley in the dal? Devi would ask. Because Indians don't use parsley, only coriander, Saroj would say.

  Why can't we make a duck curry or rabbit curry instead of a chicken curry? Do we always have to have the same kind of chicken curry? Devi would want to know. Because Indians don't eat duck or rabbit or deer or any of those other repulsive meat
s, Saroj would respond.

  It was a constant battle whenever Devi would sit at the counter in the kitchen to watch Saroj cook. Saroj felt that sometimes Devi did it just to annoy her. Devi would tell her about all the restaurants she went to and how the food there was so much better than Saroj's. And the food was better because it was a mixture of cuisines. Plain Indian food was apparently boring. Saroj put Devi's queer sense of cuisine down to the burgeoning insanity that struck unmarried women her age.

  Shobha didn't even bother to pretend to show any interest in cooking, despite being married. She believed cooking was for simpering housewives, not for smart, intelligent career women. She said that to Saroj ten years ago and Saroj had yet to forgive her for that remark.

  Saroj hitched the leather strap of her purse onto her shoulder and looked around Devi's living room area for a moment before deciding to go upstairs. Just to check if Devi was maybe home and sleeping. She tiptoed up the wooden stairs and then peeked inside the guest bedroom first. Empty, except for the full-sized bed covered immaculately in a bright-yellow-and-dark-blue bedspread set. The entire room was in yellow and blue. Devi was good at that, adding those little coordinated touches casually, as if it were an accident that the lamp shade on the dark-wood bedside table was blue with a yellow lining, or the curtains in the room were yellow with thin blue stripes on them.

  In this Saroj preferred Devi to Shobha, who didn't care what was in her house. Shobha's buying habits were random, and no thought went into what would look good with what. Shobha didn't decorate her home; she just threw things around in some vague order that made sense to no one, including, Saroj was sure, Shobha.

  Devi was more like Saroj in this one aspect, always dressing the house beautifully, though Saroj would never openly admit it to anyone except herself and even then only quietly, in the closed walls of her mind. She didn't want to encourage Devi into spending money when she didn't have much. How could she? Devi ended up joining one failed start-up after the other. It was abysmal the way the girl always failed at everything she did.