The Hindi-Bindi Club by Monica Pradhan

their foreheads. Sprinkling rice and fresh flowers around them. Burning incense. Lighting a
diwa
—a small,
ghee
-fueled lamp. Offering
prasad—
sweets, nuts, fruit, or sweet milk—in a silver bowl to be blessed. Taking
prasad
as sacrament. Bringing my palms together in
namaskar
. Praying.
    As a girl, I looked forward to my mother’s
pujas,
not for any spiritual reasons, but because of my sweet tooth. If my two older brothers and I behaved,
Ai
let us have the leftover
prasad
. I always behaved; my brothers didn’t. They forgot to remove their
chappals
before entering the
puja
room, or tipped over the figurines (claiming to lay them down for a nap), or dunked them upside-down underwater instead of using the silver
pali
to give them a bath. All of which meant: more
prasad
for me.
    I also enjoyed gathering the offerings from our beautiful
baag
.
Bel
leaves for Lord Shiva. Twenty-one stems of
durva
for Shree Ganesh.
Tulsi
leaves for Lord Krishna. A red rose for Shree Lakshmi. And for all, whatever fragrant flowers were in season: marigolds, mums, tuberoses, jasmine, or white lilies.
    If I close my eyes, I can still smell the perfume of
Ai
’s
puja
room, the heavenly mix of flowers, sandalwood paste, and incense. When performing
aarti, Ai
would chant a hymn while one of us circled the
diwa
clockwise before the gods to show respect and ask blessings, and another rang a small, handheld bell. We jockeyed for these positions, these privileges, the way Vivek and Kiran did over who rode in the passenger seat of the car. Then we did our
namaskars
and prayed.
    I used to pray for
shakti
and
buddhi
—strength and wisdom—and that my parents would choose a good husband for me. Now, I pray for
shakti, buddhi,
and good health—for my loved ones and myself.
    After my
puja,
I put the kettle on the stove and take out a cup and saucer. The good china. Purchased piece by painstaking piece back in the Boston Days—a dollar here, two dollars there, whatever I saved from my frugal management of the grocery money Yash gave me each week. When, at last, we had a formal dining room, a china cabinet, and those twelve precious place settings, I displayed each piece like artifacts in a museum:
Do Not Touch
. Yes, I was one of those women who hoards away my finery, taking it out only on Very Special Occasions. Not until this year did I realize
every day
is a Very Special Occasion.
    Now that I know, I pour decaffeinated Darjeeling green tea into my Lenox teapot each morning. Inhaling the aroma of fresh ginger I add to the brew, I take my matching cup and saucer into the dining room, sit at the head of the table, and let the peace and quiet wash over me.
    I savor this time, when the world is still, when I can hear every little sound—the hum of the refrigerator, the ticking of the wall clock, the settling of the house, the furnace igniting—but not the same way I did when three of the upstairs bedrooms were occupied, when my alone-time was scarce. I’m still deeply grateful for each morning God gifts me, but these days, I would gladly trade the stillness to hear the voices of my loved ones.
    Last night on the phone, Yash asked, “Did you tell her?”
    “Not yet.” I paced the kitchen. “She’s just come home. After so long…What’s another day?”
    He wanted to argue—I know he did—but it was late, and he was tired. I’m not surprised when the phone rings this morning. Anticipating our conversation, I tell Yash I’m coming over.
    “What about Kiran?” he asks.
    “Sleeping. I wrote a note.”
    At his apartment, he opens the door for me in his pajamas. When he kisses my cheek, I smell toothpaste and Listerine, the original medicinal kind. Brand loyal, he’d still use each and every product we grew up with, if he could.
    Even without me, Yash keeps his bachelor pad meticulously neat. His shoes line the wall inside the coat closet. Not a spoon in the sink. If he isn’t in it, the bed is always made. Crisp, starched shirts in plastic