had been broken before. The boys whined, the fathers relented and paid off Mr. Gadgil, and the game resumed, but without me.
PERHAPS AS A WAY to distract me from my obsession with my pimples, or to solve the problem herself, my mother enrolled in the local community college and studied cosmetology. Three months later she was a certified aesthetician, and I was a willing guinea pig on whom she could practice. She waxed my legs, threaded my eyebrows, removed blackheads, gave me facials, and formulated face packs. At age thirteen, thanks to my mother’s interest in practicing her craft, I was being indulged with “Days of Beauty” that remain far superior to any that I have experienced since.
Six months after she graduated, with typical confidence, Mom opened a beauty parlor in the room upstairs. As usual, my dad offered his quiet support in many ways: one afternoon he went upstairs and cleaned out the dusty old books, odd items of furniture, and the random coconuts that had been stored in the room. Together my parents ordered some equipment: a massage table, several mirrors, chairs, a facial steamer, a hair dryer, and a medicine cabinet for storing bottles of lotion. Old Chu painted another signboard and this time he spelled it correctly. Within months, Mom had closed down one business and opened another. We named her beauty parlor Kadambari, a Sanskrit word that meant “sweet-smelling.” Not that her parlor smelled sweet, but we just liked the sound of it. Kadambari Beauty Parlor officially opened for business on my fourteenth birthday. It was, in a sense, my mother’s birthday present to me.
All our friends came to Mom’s beauty parlor, first out of curiosity and then attracted by her compelling personality and comforting hands that massaged each customer’s skin till it bloomed. I would go up on weekends and listen to the women talk, laugh, and exchange confidences as women do when they are together, about secret trysts, broken promises, and dreams of eternal youth.
Mom had been a beautician long before she became certified as one. She loved makeup and jewelry and gave tips to everyone in her acquaintance about lipstick colors and costume jewelry. From my point of view, however, the best part of Mom’s expertise was her popularity on the bridal circuit.
Every time someone in our community got married, the bride’s parents would come and beseech Mom to do the “bridal makeup.” After a few self-deprecating noises that failed to mask her pleasure, Mom would agree.
Once, a local politician’s daughter was getting married, a lavish affair that got reported in the society pages for months on end. The size of the hall, the guest list, which included every bigwig in town, the diamond jewelry, the flowers, the caterers—all were fodder for gossip. The bride’s mother was an acquaintance of my mom’s and insisted that Mom do the makeup.
On the afternoon of the wedding reception, a gleaming limousine arrived. Mom and I set off grandly, armed with makeup cases, yards of flowers, boxes of costume jewelry, and reams of ribbons, hairpins, and accessories. The bride’s parents received us as if we were dignitaries, anxiously asking if we had everything we needed and pressing tea, coffee, and snacks on us, all of which my mom waved away before I could say a word of assent. Instead, she sailed in like a general and took charge completely, sending various lackeys scurrying in search of the freshest flowers, silk threads, and sandals of a particular shade.
The bride’s parents led us deferentially into an air-conditioned room, where the bride was ensconced. After some pleasantries, my mother seated the bride in front of a mirror and surveyed her as if she were a blank canvas. The whole entourage watched with bated breath. “Hmm,” Mom said thoughtfully. “I think violet, don’t you?”
Everyone nodded. A few deliberations later, my mom shooed the entire crowd out of the room and began her operation. Together, we
PERHAPS AS A WAY to distract me from my obsession with my pimples, or to solve the problem herself, my mother enrolled in the local community college and studied cosmetology. Three months later she was a certified aesthetician, and I was a willing guinea pig on whom she could practice. She waxed my legs, threaded my eyebrows, removed blackheads, gave me facials, and formulated face packs. At age thirteen, thanks to my mother’s interest in practicing her craft, I was being indulged with “Days of Beauty” that remain far superior to any that I have experienced since.
Six months after she graduated, with typical confidence, Mom opened a beauty parlor in the room upstairs. As usual, my dad offered his quiet support in many ways: one afternoon he went upstairs and cleaned out the dusty old books, odd items of furniture, and the random coconuts that had been stored in the room. Together my parents ordered some equipment: a massage table, several mirrors, chairs, a facial steamer, a hair dryer, and a medicine cabinet for storing bottles of lotion. Old Chu painted another signboard and this time he spelled it correctly. Within months, Mom had closed down one business and opened another. We named her beauty parlor Kadambari, a Sanskrit word that meant “sweet-smelling.” Not that her parlor smelled sweet, but we just liked the sound of it. Kadambari Beauty Parlor officially opened for business on my fourteenth birthday. It was, in a sense, my mother’s birthday present to me.
All our friends came to Mom’s beauty parlor, first out of curiosity and then attracted by her compelling personality and comforting hands that massaged each customer’s skin till it bloomed. I would go up on weekends and listen to the women talk, laugh, and exchange confidences as women do when they are together, about secret trysts, broken promises, and dreams of eternal youth.
Mom had been a beautician long before she became certified as one. She loved makeup and jewelry and gave tips to everyone in her acquaintance about lipstick colors and costume jewelry. From my point of view, however, the best part of Mom’s expertise was her popularity on the bridal circuit.
Every time someone in our community got married, the bride’s parents would come and beseech Mom to do the “bridal makeup.” After a few self-deprecating noises that failed to mask her pleasure, Mom would agree.
Once, a local politician’s daughter was getting married, a lavish affair that got reported in the society pages for months on end. The size of the hall, the guest list, which included every bigwig in town, the diamond jewelry, the flowers, the caterers—all were fodder for gossip. The bride’s mother was an acquaintance of my mom’s and insisted that Mom do the makeup.
On the afternoon of the wedding reception, a gleaming limousine arrived. Mom and I set off grandly, armed with makeup cases, yards of flowers, boxes of costume jewelry, and reams of ribbons, hairpins, and accessories. The bride’s parents received us as if we were dignitaries, anxiously asking if we had everything we needed and pressing tea, coffee, and snacks on us, all of which my mom waved away before I could say a word of assent. Instead, she sailed in like a general and took charge completely, sending various lackeys scurrying in search of the freshest flowers, silk threads, and sandals of a particular shade.
The bride’s parents led us deferentially into an air-conditioned room, where the bride was ensconced. After some pleasantries, my mother seated the bride in front of a mirror and surveyed her as if she were a blank canvas. The whole entourage watched with bated breath. “Hmm,” Mom said thoughtfully. “I think violet, don’t you?”
Everyone nodded. A few deliberations later, my mom shooed the entire crowd out of the room and began her operation. Together, we
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