BLIND

He was one of the few people unafraid to make eye contact—so she knew immediately that he was blind.

“Fuglebakken,” the voice of the train lady announced just then, over the loud speaker. She was probably selected for the way she could roll her tongue around the “Fugle…”, and then spit out the “…bakken” in a hurry, as if she had a train to catch. Lata had this thought everyday as she made the trip from home to work. This thought came right before the thought that she had this thought every day.

Lata was standing squeezed into the small corridor between two compartments. And as usual, she was wearing the wrong kind of clothes. It was as if the Danish weatherman always played a private game with her: “Got you! Since you’ve forgotten your jacket today, the weather is going to be a moderate minus three degrees.” Or, “Travelling far? Let me help you by organizing a downpour. And hey, there is even a rainbow at the end.” Lata did not have any of these thoughts consciously, of course. She just felt the injustice in the same relentless way she felt the rain on her jacket-less days. Her clothes were an ode to her misery.

She stood suffocating in the small space—her black jacket too bulky for Danish summer, and too itchy. The shiny plasticity near the wrists had disintegrated into little sharp strips of cheapness and were now poking at her skin, a constant reminder that she gets nothing right. A few strands of grey hair had escaped the frayed rubber band clutching her mostly black, mostly curly hair, and now stood almost vertical—revolutionaries fighting a losing battle and waving their grey banner proudly, seconds before the rebellion was squashed and their bodies laid flat on a dark ground as grim reminders of Consequence. Lata put her hood up and squashed the rebellion.

It was peak hour in Copenhagen—meaning seven thirty on a weekday morning. But peak hour never lasted an hour here. The crowds would clear out within a few stops, and she would be free to spend the rest of the journey looking out of the window or devising strategies for how to get out of the train without lifting her head up and making eye contact with the people around her. There was a sensor above each compartment door that didn’t work too well—the doors sometimes opened only if she lifted her arms above her and waved them around directly beneath the dunce sensor’s nose, so to speak. This always made her “walk-out-with-bent-head” plan more difficult as she would have to simply guess when to do the whole arm-lifting exercise, and then do it, head still bent, even simple social skills ready for decapitation.

“Let’s just put it this way—the arm-lifting and the head-bowing don’t exactly go together,” Lata told the voice in her head.

“Can you just look down now?”

“Okay.”

So, Lata looked down and saw a black Labrador. One of those dogs to guide blind people.

“Oh right, I had forgotten about the blind man.”

“How is he even standing in this small place rocking with people and your emotions?”

“Ha ha, funny.”

The dog was not afraid to make eye contact. Like his (or her) owner. And unlike Lata. Now, Lata had a new problem. If she looked down, she had to make eye contact with the dog with soulful eyes. If she looked straight ahead or sideways– the whole world stared back. She decided to look at the blind man. He wouldn’t notice.

“Smaaaaaart girl.”

“Thank you. But please don’t do your humorous accent now.”

It was disconcerting to look at his sunglasses. What did his eyes look like? Just then he said something to her in Danish. Or perhaps to everyone in general. But Lata stood closest to him. Lata didn’t understand Danish. The voice in her head didn’t understand either.

She shaped her mouth into an “O” and looked questioningly at him, before realizing he couldn’t see her expression. She could feel the stares of the people standing around her, burning holes into her. Holes of judgement. Stupid. What a nitwit. Couldn’t she give him an answer – some answer? Is everyone this stupid in her country?

“Take a deep breath and form the words – I am sorry, I don’t speak Danish.”

“Right. I am sorry, I don’t…”

“Say it aloud, idiot!”

“I am —”

Somebody moved just then to give the blind man a much-coveted spot in the crowded corridor. A spot where one could lean one’s backside against the cushioned yet hard panel covered in dark blue fabric with yellow swirls of nobody-cares floating around the blue. All this next to a dustbin from which hangs a paper bag flaked with yesterday’s croissant. Still, one could lean one’s backside.

“Well, a backside such as yours needs something bigger to lean on!”

“My backside is not as big as your mouth.”

The man said, “Tak!” as his backside took the spot.

Lata stepped over the dog’s tail as the dog readjusted itself. Two people waved at the sensor, stepped out of the compartment and joined the corridor clan.

“Take it! Two seats are free now! One for you and one for me!”

“You didn’t get a ticket, so no seat either!”

“Malicious @#$%&!”

“I love how you beep out stuff even when it’s just me listening to your crap!”

“Take the $%@# seat, will you!”

Lata waved her arms erratically at the sensor and almost hit the blind man. The dog’s eyes looked at her—only borderline soulful now. Like a soul who has been to heaven and back, and realizes it's nothing to get all soulful about. A forty-something lady next to her gave her a cold look, enough to turn the varicose veins in her legs a darker shade of blue.

Lata went inside the compartment and was about to take a seat next to the door when she stopped. Here was a chance to redeem herself—to prove to all these people that she was a nice person, a person worthy of appreciation.

She called out to the blind man in English, “Would you like a seat?”

Miraculously, he understood the question was directed at him. His backside perked up enthusiastically, and he moved towards her voice, exclaiming, “Yes, thank you! I have a long way to travel.”

“I have a looong way to travel! Travel-shavel! Who cares? How dare you give the seat to him?”

“It won’t kill you to be nice for a change.”

“I am sorry, is there a problem?” he hesitated, unsure where to go next.

“No no, please sit …”

His face beamed. Lata knew the eyes behind his sunglasses were kind. She just knew it. And now she felt waves of shyness overwhelm her. She was drowning. People were staring at her and watching her drown.

“No lifeguard to save me from myself...”

“Drama queen… that’s always been your problem.”

“Shut up! Okay, deep breath! They know I am a good person. Now, they know…”

“They know you’re a show-off… trying to show everyone how you’re better than everybody else. Giving your seat… and mine… when everybody else is sitting!”

“Left, or right?” the man asked, pausing in the aisle.

“Left.”

“It’s right, stupid! The empty seats are on your left, but his right!”

But the man seemed to know anyway. Guided by his dog, he turned right—his right— and sat down near the window. The dog plonked itself down next to him, occupying the floor space of a second passenger.

Lata felt her ears burn with embarrassment—she couldn’t even guide the man to his seat. Everybody had noticed her failure. “Embrace the embarrassment”, she felt the words of her spiritual guru clang around in her head. She usually listened to self-help tapes as she walked with her head down. She was determined to follow the advice today.

“And don’t you dare follow me!”

As she moved to speak to the blind man, her feet brushed against the dog.

“Beautiful dog. Are you traveling far?”

“Thank you. Yes, till the last stop,” the man answered gently.

“I am getting off after two stops. That’s where I work.”

“So, where do you work?” the man asked kindly.

“I work at a pharmacy.”

“Worked. Worked. Before you started loading up on all the pills. Why don’t you tell him that?”

“I am actually an engineer… from another country, you see.”

“He can’t see, stupid!”

“I don’t know the language. I was doing fine for some time. Looking for jobs. Even got one. Trying to make friends.”

The man nodded in appreciation.

“I made a friend. A good friend. In fact, almost my boyfriend, you know?”

The man seemed to know. Encouraged, she continued. “A Dane—with the bluest eyes but the darkest lashes. We even made love... just once, but. A few more times, who knows, maybe I could have called him my boyfriend. But we didn’t. So, I couldn’t!”

“Couldn’t stand you after that one time, could he? A man of good taste, obviously.”

“Shut up. I remember we sat together afterwards on the bed. The bed still rocking, just like this train. His eyelashes thick and dark and silky in the lamplight. Black and flowing, like curtains blocking out the light. I wanted to draw the curtains, and let some light in. I could feel the darkness, you see. Like a physical thing, constricting me. Just coiling around—waves beneath my skull, pounding against my head. If I could just feel the light, the air! So, I opened the curtains.”

The man stared.

“Do you understand why I opened his curtains?” Lata drooled anxiously for approval.

The man stared.

“Afterwards, we sat. His eyes were so red. Blood, you might say. I say anger. Have you seen anger flow through white sheets? Of course not, you can’t see. But why are you staring then?”

“When a blind person stares, is it still called staring?”

“Quiet! I am talking to him.”

“Oooh, I am not your favoured one anymore?”

The man smiled with amusement, “Not staring, just resting my eyes.”

“Right, sitting around not seeing the #¤%& that happens in this world can be exhausting!”

“Stop talking, get out of the train!”

The man stared at her and said, “And then…?”

“And then, something happened, or perhaps... nothing happened. The darkness settled in me—along with the winter. I felt it drill into my brain, and flow beneath my five hundred and seventy fifth hair on the left side of my scalp.”

“I couldn’t %¤&#/# sleep at nights with all that insane counting!”

“Shut up, and let me talk! So… I lost my job. Now, I work at the pharmacy. I work till five in the evening…”

“You do? News to me!”

“… then I go home and have soup. But the darkness is always there.”

The man smiled reassuringly, “Don’t worry. It’s summer now. The darkness is gone.”

“But the darkness is always there.”

“You know what is always there? Your nagging voice!”

The dog whimpered.

“But the darkness is always there.”

A high-pitched female voice interrupted Lata in Danish. Lata made her “O” expression. The voice switched to English.

“Madam, I’ve been asking you to leave. You’re the only one on the train now. This is the last stop.”

“What?”

“And don’t forget your dog. Here, let me help you—your sunglasses are slipping off.”

“Sunglasses? But why? When the darkness is always there?”

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← A safe journey

A safe journey

Patti, my grandmother, always had two dragons safeguarding her. One rescued her from every problem life threw at her while the other was the ‘reserve’, the dragon-in-waiting, the 12th man called in to save the day when Patti’s favourite had been unexpectedly knocked out, or worse still, could not be found.

The dragons bore a surprising likeness to their owner. Their thin brass bodies seemed born to withstand the kaleidoscopic set of demands made on them, slight but efficient. And the spring in their mechanism seemed to coil itself around a problem—flexible enough to fix it.

Patti stood tall at a mere five feet two inches—her self-confidence and adamant commitment to be “part of the solution, not the problem” made her tower above the rest of the family, at least in my 6-year-old eyes. And I suppose, I continued seeing her through childhood-tinted glasses even after I grew up.

Motherless at seven, married at fourteen, three kids at nineteen, widowed at thirty-five, a grandmother at thirty-seven, she lived her life dominoes-style—from one crash to another. Yet she stood stolid and dependable through it all, and through my own turbulent, often self-absorbed journey from toddler-hood to adulthood.

Always wrapped elegantly in crisply-starched, simple cotton sarees that complimented her graying and soon-to-be white hair, Patti seemed old even when she was young. This gave her the unexpected advantage of appearing young even when she was older. Dangling on the gold chain she never took off, was her first line of defense - Dragon Number One. Crouched and gleaming, half-hidden in the folds of her saree pallu, perched Dragon Number Two. These two safety pins were as much a part of Patti’s landscape as were her crow’s feet, her wrinkles, and the birthmark on the inside of her right wrist.

Once when I teased her about her “dragons”, she quipped that I should learn from the Mexicans – they understood the value of safety pins; they placed a safety pin as close as possible to a pregnant woman’s belly to protect her unborn child from diseases and loss.

Another of Patti’s favorite retorts to safety pin taunts was how she saved the day, and as she never failed to add, Meera aunty’s maanam, her honor, with her Dragon Number One.

Meera aunty was getting married, and like so many of these ‘modern’ girls who never wear a saree until their wedding day, Meera aunty had no clue how to wear one. She made the typical rookie mistake of draping her sari without a safety pin or brooch to hold the pallu—the folds that drape over her shoulder. And there she was, sitting dutifully on the stage, performing the wedding rituals with the groom and clutching the leaf that the priest assured her was the tenuous link to marital bliss, when she looked up and caught the priest glaring at her while the photographer in front of her went berserk, clicking photos of her as if she were Princess Diana.

“Loved and hated in the same moment, just like a celebrity,” Patti chuckled.

A puzzled Meera aunty happened to look down and saw that her pallu had slipped down, her ample cleavage was revealed to one and all, including an ugly birthmark and uglier sweat patches on her silk blouse.  The collapse of her family reputation was imminent.

Now, for the turning point—Patti’s nail-polish-free and callus-heavy feet, liberated from wedding footwear, made their swift entrance on to the mantap or stage, much like a Bollywood hero’s leather-clad, nemesis-like feet heralding his entrance in a movie.

She swooped down, casually tamed the rogue pallu into the binds of her safety pin, and saved Meera aunty from the ignominy of everyone knowing that she even had a cleavage. The photographer, of course, was threatened with eternal exile by Meera aunty’s dad, and gave up all rights to the infamous photographs and, I suspect, even gave up photography.

Patti told stories in the only way stories should be told—with a complete belief that her stories were the most entertaining, the most profound, the most something. Naturally, the audience was entertained, was stirred, was somethinged.

I carry my own snapshots of Patti in my mind: Patti with her safety pin, fixing a white handkerchief, folded in a perfect triangle, on my green school uniform. This strange attire was my armour, if you like, for facing the daunting days of primary school with more elegance, more poise. Perhaps, in my mind, the equilateral triangle of the handkerchief equalled equilibrium.

There’s one of me lying on Patti’s lap, and as her safety pin dangles from her gold chain and over my face, I listen to her voice, raspy after her chronic thyroid problem, singing some of my favourite Tamil songs—songs too old-fashioned for anyone to like anymore, and songs I perhaps like only because I heard them first from her. In fact, Patti had her own ritual for rainy evenings – her incomparable spicy bajjis, served hot, and long-forgotten stories served cold. Unforgettable Illayaraja soundtracks would play in the background; each track would become a remixed version where the crunch of crisp bajjis would accompany the orchestra of violins and flutes. The Bajji Remix, we would guffaw. And it was Patti who was the DJ—grooving in her nine yards of hipness, and adding a metallic thump to the song as she swayed to the beat with both her loyal dragons unfailingly joining her.

Another fond memory is that of Patti tracking down the missing string of my salwar kameez, and then, stringing it back into the loop by hooking her safety pin to the front of the string – the brass dragon guiding the string until it emerges safely on the other side of the loop, allowing me to triumphantly flaunt the splendor of my salwar kameez at a friend’s engagement party that evening.

There are other Patti stories—some that were narrated by Patti, some by others in the family. There are other memories—some authentically and undeniably mine, some layered by my imagination from a photograph or snatches of conversation or blurry bits of other memories. And over the years, it was as if I hooked them all up to the end of a safety pin and allowed them to be pulled into my very core as one common thread of nostalgia. The safety pin somehow came to symbolize Patti and all that she stood for in a way that nothing else could. She was an absolute truth, a need, a habit, a small fact of existence, a big effect on my existence—both my anchor and my safe journey.

Patti was so proud when I got a scholarship to study in America. Her joy was pure and untainted, untouched by my insecurities, my lack of faith in myself, my constant conflict between the different things I wanted. She said I should study twice as hard, enjoy myself twice as much, see the world twice as intently—one extra time for her sake.

She refused to come to the airport to see me off. She didn’t want the flight to be delayed due to a flood, she said—a vapid joke about her tendency to burst into tears, cracked to tide over a difficult moment. And so, I went alone into the world.

A dramatic confession at this point would probably sound perfect. About how I could not do without her, how I realized that true contentment lay in the arms of my family. And perhaps even about how I came back home for good. But this would not be true.

America kept me happy. I enjoyed my life, my independence, my chance to create new experiences. Perhaps I could soar because Patti taught me to remain grounded.

Sometimes, I would imagine the clink of her safety pin when I spoke to her over the phone or felt her memory inside my head. And I would smile, and I would move on with my day because my happy place throbbed peacefully within me.

Now, it’s been two months since that phone call. Patti died suddenly. It was a freak infection resulting from infected metal pricking her—only one in a thousand apparently succumb to this bacterium so fast and so completely. My mother said Patti had accidentally pricked herself quite badly with a safety pin two days before it all happened.  I don’t know if that is the reason. All I know is—Patti will soar no more though her dragons still exist.

After the manicure

The colors silenced each other like a dysfunctional family at the dinner table. The dark blue shouted over the blue, the green shushed the dark blue, the gold lorded it over the green like a fairy matriarch and monopolized the water bowl that sat on the chipped, sunburn-red counter in Rita’s Nail Bar! We got nails… nailed down!

Bindiya watched another drop of gold nail polish hit the surface of the water. The water rippled with four perfect circles of color—the colors of the peacock, each circle larger than the one before it.

That’s funny, she thought. Here I am controlling the gold, but I’ve always felt like the blue, ultimately overpowered by the gold—her gold-adorned, sweet-tempered, iron-willed, jasmine-haired mother. The flowers had hung from her mother’s hair in the same way she had hung on to her mother’s words all her life—desperately.

Dearest Benjamin,

I am sorry I am writing so soon… I know you’re busy. I can just imagine you now… walking to your office, your coffee in one hand and laptop bag in the other; wearing a smart, black coat, and invading the streets with the morning throng. See, even I know all these things! You remember I have always liked watching Hollywood movies! Most of them seem to have at least one scene where a lot of people are dressed in suits and ties (or tight skirts or skinny jeans), and they are rushing on the pavement of some busy city or the other. The amazing thing is that, even in all that hurry, they manage to clutch big cups of coffee. You said your office was on one of the top floors? Does Los Angeles have as many skyscrapers as New York or Chicago?

I don’t know why… I feel like writing to you at least once a week though I have nothing new to say, no exciting event to talk about. Yet when I had so much going on, I didn’t talk enough, did I? After your dad died, I feel very alone. Just me and the beach. Endless life, endless water…

“Is this the water marbling method you were talking about?” Mrs. Smith asked in an excited, high-pitched voice, giving the nail bar its first soprano.

She pointed at the bowl. Her nails were beautifully cut and gleaming, fresh from a manicure given by Bindiya. But the wrinkles and the roughness of her palms gave her story away.

This was not a woman used to manicures. This was not a woman who had even consciously realized she had nails, except perhaps when she chewed on them in frustration—when the monthly bills seemed to pile up higher and higher as her three kids grew faster and faster. This was a woman who had run the race of life for a very long time; praying, working, barely eating, feeding, barely sleeping, and praying again. And now God had rewarded her with the treat of a lifetime—a gift package at Rita’s Nail Bar—gifted by her prosperous Stock Broker son living all the way on the other side of the country, in New York. She had already made a mental note to light an extra candle in church this Sunday, as a big thank you. Perhaps one more candle to remind God to make her son want to come home for Christmas?

Bindiya nodded, “Yes, madam, this is water marbling. The best technique for genuine nail art! Just as it says on our website? Can you see… the design on the water already has the colors of the peacock?”

It did. Dark blue. Blue. Green. Gold. Bright red. Red? What the—? The drop of red spilled onto the gold and spread outwards, a Loch Ness monster that feeds on fairy matriarchs. Mrs. Smith watched anxiously as Bindiya looked at her index finger leaking blood. She must have scraped her finger against the rough edge of the table without realizing it. Damn it, Bindiya thought furiously, this is exactly why I should not have read any of the letters on a workday. I feel unhinged.

“So sorry, madam. Don’t worry, I will make the peacock shed its colors again.” Bindiya looked up, forcing herself to sound playful as she smiled uncertainly at Mrs. Smith. Mrs. Smith! Almost like a placeholder name. Did she have a son called John Doe? Bindiya felt the laughter bubble up and tickle her on the inside of her right nostril, making her nose twitch suddenly. This made her look vaguely unpleasant when she smiled, somehow a little off—as if the smile had been an afterthought after she got over the shock of her twitching.

Bindiya started shedding drops of the dark blue, blue, green and gold again into a fresh bowl of water. Then she picked up a toothpick to execute what she called “Kill the Peacock” technique. She started drawing clean lines through the peacock colors on the water.

Benji, a lizard comes to our house now. I know, I know… you’re obviously thinking what’s the big deal—Chennai, and, in fact, the whole of India is full of lizards. But this lizard is special, Benji. It comes every day and takes food from me. I leave a bit of rice—cooked and mashed—near the verandah wall. It will come down from the wall around dusk, and eat it without fail (perhaps as a starter before a main course of flies). And it eats so fast, Benji— ‘labak, labak’, as you used to say when you were a child listening to your dad’s monster stories.

Benji, when the lizard took food from me? It reminded me of how much you love animals. Remember, when Butterball got wet in the rain, Robert would make “horns” out of the wet fur? But you would get all angry and fight with him, and say you are ashamed to have a brother like him. And then, you would dry Butterball’s fur with so much patience, and gather up the soft fur in a cute bow? Lilac bow with silver sparkles. Benjamin, …

“Who is Benjamin?”

“Sorry, what?” Bindiya, busy tracing the lines through the peacock, looked up startled.

Mrs. Smith’s felt flustered; she had not meant to be intrusive. “You said the name out loud, all of a sudden, so I was wondering who he is. I’m sorry—it’s none of my business!”

Mrs. Smith still remembered her daughter’s face, a few days after the little girl had turned eight and realized that when daddy said he took the flies away on the “plane ride” (flyswatter) to the “beach” (death), he meant a different kind of beach. The permanent kind. Mrs. Smith had never seen such a look since then. Until now—on the face of the Indian woman doing her nails.

“Benjamin is…” Bindiya seemed to have a peacock stuck in her throat, “…my brother.”

“Benji… Benji… where are you?” I was shrieking and running through that crowded mall in Egmore, you remember? When we were out buying some new clothes for you… for your tenth birthday, I think? My world stopped and sped up at the same time then, Benji. Every kidnapping story I had ever heard about, raced through my mind; every gory newspaper headline was tattooed on my brain.

 And you – naughty boy – were hiding in the girl’s section. Even more than my relief at seeing you, and my anger that you put me through this, I felt another, far stronger emotion. Pride, Benji. Because you just stood there… like a tall prince among those frilly skirts. And I was so happy and proud, knowing in my heart that no one can ever have a son so beautiful.

And when I caught you by the ear (I hear you cannot do that in America? What nonsense!), mad with worry, you looked so guilty, and said, “Mom, I was just hiding here!” I remember debating—the mom in me fighting the disciplinarian in me—whether I should still get you that fashionable pair of jeans and the denim shirt that all the boys in Chennai seemed to be wearing those days. After all, that would be like rewarding your behavior. But my darling Benji, you know how I only want the best for you. So, we walked out with all that and a pair of flashy sneakers as a bonus. And Benji, maybe I imagined it, but you didn’t seem very happy. Disappointed, even. I am sorry I pulled your ears. I never said it then. I say it now.

“Ouch!”

“I am so sorry, madam! Didn’t realize I was holding your hand so tight.” Bindiya ran her fingers gently over Mrs. Smith’s hands – the callused palms and the smooth nails.

“Do you know, Madam, that your hands remind me of the landscape of India? Each part is so different. See here—the callus bumps at the top of your palm, right here, are like the great Himalayas, going uuupp and dooowwn, uppp and dowwn. And if you fold your fingers like this, you can see the half-moon whites of your French manicure rising up above the Himalayas…”

“What a fascinating comparison! Hmm… what do you call this bit, then?”

“That’s lower down, flat and very dry. That has to be Rajasthan—a desert. The Land of Parched Earth and Palaces. And this vein, right here, near your wrist—the way it winds away so thin—reminds me of the southernmost tip of the Indian peninsula. It’s like the Pamban Bridge that connects the town of Rameswaram on Pamban Island to mainland India.

Mrs. Smith drew in her breath sharply, amazed that her hand held such wonders. “You are so poetic, Bin…diya.”

“Thank you, Madam. Now, let’s start with your right hand, shall we?  It’s time to look as beautiful as the peacock. I will dip each of your fingers gently into the water bowl, just like this, in just the right spot. The peacock design will now transfer onto your nails.”

I have been working on one of those embroidery do-it-yourself kits, Benjamin. A beautiful peacock design. Not the ideal hobby, I know, for a sixty-five-year-old woman with failing eyesight. But I always fancied myself a creative person. I guess the so-called “practical”, “teacher types” like me always do. Plus, I chose it mainly for the design. It’s a lovely peacock dancing in the rain. And I know how much you love peacocks. I have already done one which has Robert’s favorite animal—tiger, remember? Robert said he can’t wait to see it. He will see it during Christmas, of course.

You will love this peacock, Benji! I can still picture you looking transfixed whenever you saw a peacock during our safari trips to the jungles, or even when you saw documentaries about peacocks. No wonder, you were crazy about Lord Krishna’s birthday, even though we are not Hindus. You got to dress up in peacock feathers like Lord Krishna, and dance in the school cultural programmes. You said none of it really mattered—religion or looks or all the different labels we attach to yourselves. What mattered was a beauty of spirit and freedom of expression. Do you still say funny things like that? I never quite knew what you meant by these things, and yet I always felt as if I should.

Guess what? I came across that poem you wrote in sixth grade about peacocks. I remember, in those days, you insisted that real poetry would always rhyme. It still sounds so wonderful—even all these years later. Just wrote down a few lines for you to enjoy:

WHAT DOES THE PEACOCK SAY?

I like to dress up in colors and shine,

because true beauty is mine.

I will get frail and wail,

if I am not decked up, head to tail.

Mrs. Smith fanned her fingers out like a peacock’s tail, rhapsodizing about the nail art. “I feel so exotic now. I certainly cannot open any Christmas cookie boxes with these nails! Cannot risk chipping off an inch of this design.  Thank you, Bin..diya.”

“You are most welcome. Glad you liked it! This is my favorite design as well.”

“By the way, been meaning to ask you – what does your name mean? It sounds so beautiful.”

Bindiya hated questions like that, even when asked with the best of intentions. The assumption that the meaning of a word—any word—or the essence of a person—any person—could be offered as clever, convenient capsules of information.  Hmm… where should I start? Well, “bindiya” is a dot that Indian women wear between their eyebrows – traditionally red, but worn in all colors and sizes now. Study the dot, and you can weave stories about the woman wearing it – in true Sherlock Holmes style. Red dot – probably married. Very big red dot – definitely married, possibly aunty types. Super big dot, red or black or even some other color– married or unmarried, but an activist of some type, protesting something or the other. No dot between eyebrows, but only slightly discolored skin that speaks of years of bindi-wearing in the past, as well as sad eyes that seem to predict years of loneliness in the future – Indian widow. Small, glittering, fashionable dot – cool, young Indian woman, portraying the proud fusion of cool Indian stuff and cool Western stuff (or) cool Indian attending somebody’s Big Fattest Indian wedding (or) cool American popstar, preferably surrounded by images of elephants or Indian street kids or both (or) Dot Dot Dot…

“Thank you, Madam. ‘Bindiya’ refers to the red dot that Indian women wear between their eyebrows. A symbol of Indian womanhood.”

“How adorable! Well, bye now. And Merry Christmas!”

When Samuel uncle came to our place for Christmas, remember how excited you were, Benji? Christmas in Chennai is not so fun, no? Not too many Christmas trees for us to see. And it’s so hot – you said you always felt ridiculous singing about Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer in a place with a winter temperature of thirty degrees. You said Rudolph might just as well be a dragon as a reindeer – a fantasy creature.

And Samuel uncle’s visit was special because he came from America – the land of snow and White Christmas and Christmas markets. I finally took some of those Christmas decorations out of the loft, by the way—the ones he bought for us from the Christmas markets in Germany while vacationing there? He always loved traveling—just like you, Benji.

Wish you could see my smile now! I just remembered Samuel uncle’s face when he woke up after falling asleep on our couch, and you had painted his face with my makeup. I gave you such a shouting then—yelled at you for always fiddling with my stuff. I am sorry, Benji. Now, I have no one to yell at. Perhaps what’s worse—I have no one not to yell at.”

Be careful what you wish for, Mom. You might get your chance to yell again.

Benji, I can almost picture you now, walking up the road, tall and strong and lean. And entering our house, and singing out, “Merry Christmas!” You will come and hug me: tight, tighter, tightest. My beautiful son. And we will sit around, chatting in front of the tree. Robert will crack his usual jokes, and your nose will start twitching with suppressed smiles, until you give in and laugh—nose still twitching. I miss that smile, Benji. It’s so unique. It’s better than beautiful. It’s you.

Black, gleaming hair bounced on two perfectly shaped buttocks. Serpentine creatures jumping on a bouncy castle. A sight both beautiful and ridiculous. That’s how she felt in her body, about her body, as she started walking away from Rita’s Nail Bar.

As she passed the Las Vegas-esque sign of the place, flashing consumerism, some long-forgotten history lesson from school bullied its way into her mind. In ancient Egypt, nail color indicated one’s status: black for noblemen, and green for the common man. What should the nail color be for the uncommon man? The man who chose to become a woman? He-man Blue and Cinderella Pink? Ugly-duckling mixed with shades of Swan? Rainbow Radiance laced with Grim Gray? 

Bindiya studied the long, perfectly-kept nails on her long, very strong looking fingers. Black hair was threatening to sprout between her many rings. I need to wax, Bindiya thought listlessly, as she entered her tacky one-bedroom apartment. I also need to pack, the flight to India (to Mom) leaves in six hours.  Panic… thoughts racing…

Hi, Mom. I’m Bindiya, your daughter.

Hi, Mom. I’m Bindiya, your daughter. Didn’t you always say you wanted a daughter?

Hi, Mom. I’m Bindiya, your daughter. I tried to tell you so many times that I want to be your daughter, not your son. Is it too late to tell you now?

Hi, Mom. I’m Bindiya, your daughter. And I do not get my monthly period. Won’t I be the envy of every woman?

Hi, Mom. I’m Bindiya, your daughter. I have heard a mother’s love is unconditional. Is yours?

Hi, Mom. I’m Bindiya. Benjamin died when he went to America and decided to become a woman.

Hi, Mom. I’m Bindiya, your daughter. You always told me it’s rude to read somebody else’s letters. I’ve read all your letters to Benjamin. And I’ve answered a few of them—pretending to be Benjamin. Tell me, have I been rude? Have I committed a crime? But why do I feel you are the rude one, you are the one who committed a crime—for never recognizing, or refusing to recognize, who I am?

Hi, Mom. I’m Benjamin, your son.

Hi, Mom. I’m Benjamin, your son. I have been so lonely all my life. I want to talk to you, and tell you all sorts of things… like how your heels broke mysteriously.  I broke them when catwalking in my bathroom.

Hi, Mom. I’m Benjamin, your son. Remember those stories of Indian mythology you used to tell me? That I loved so much? Where gods change forms? Is it okay if mortals change forms too?

Hi, Mom. I am your child. Is that not enough?

Hi, Mom. You always liked my wordplay. Want to hear some wordplay now? I came to America to get a manicure. Literally. To be cured of the disease of being a man. Man-i-cure.Get it? GET IT?

Bindiya caught a glimpse of herself in the small mirror on her secondhand dressing table. Shoulders shaking. Tears and mascara racing each other down her face. She looked and felt, somehow, fake. An over-the-top, mediocre, aging heroine who couldn’t stop acting and shamming her way through life. A sobering thought.

Bindiya removed her make up. Took off her pantyhose. Unhooked her dangling earrings. Dislodged her false lashes. And removed her wig. She hesitated slightly but before she could change her mind, shoved the wig into her suitcase.

It was Benjamin who walked to the closet and got dressed. He had made a promise to himself that he would tell his mother about Bindiya. And he had promised his mother that he would finally come home for Christmas after four long years. It was time to keep the promises.

So what if Benjamin was no longer a man? Benjamin was a man of his word.

The Crossing

I feel a lump in my throat

that rolls its way into my head.

It's true, a rolling stone gathers no moss;

it gathers steam instead—

crushing optimism, beauty, compassion,

or rather, their memory.

If I could work up the strength to lift it, this lump,

If I could find the words to summon up a Spell of Motivation

to lift it, this lump,

and if I peer underneath,

what will I find?

Dreams, drawing their last breath, squelched black and blue

Silver linings fading into an indifferent white, or perhaps, of no particular hue

Curiosity oozing into a vagueness I cannot put a finger on—

like the colour mediumspringgreen

Gravity befalls all things—even lumps

It settles down, deep into my brain; if only it had been in my fickle heart

The signal turns a relentless green

I must move carrying my burden

I must not stop to peer beneath again

I must not find out what is the color of regret.