The Hindi-Bindi Club by Monica Pradhan Page A

bags on wire hangers. Dirty clothes in the hamper. Toilet seat down.
    An independent husband. Independent children. American ideals, not Indian.
Not mine.
    “Good morning,” I chirp, breezing past him.
    “Good morning.” He stretches his arms over his bald head, eyeing the small cooler I’m carrying. His bare feet poke from the light blue pajama bottoms he’s paired with a white, short-sleeved V-neck undershirt. Toenails trimmed.
    “Breakfast,” I answer his unasked question.
    He helps me out of my coat. “Meena. You shouldn’t have. The coffee shop around the corner—”
    “Delivers. I know. But I woke up in a baking mood.” I head for the kitchen, glancing over my shoulder. “
Sattvic
food.”
    He chuckles. “Of course.” He’s the one who encouraged me toward ayurveda and yoga—complementary ancient Indian diet and lifestyle disciplines that detoxify and balance the body, mind, and spirit. I stand here today because of God’s will, first and foremost, but also in large part because of this man before me, once a mere stranger whose astrological chart indicated my best match for a life partner.
    How many times did I question the stars? Never in India. But in America, when I saw the attention men lavished on wives and girlfriends…I’m ashamed to say, too many to count. But no longer. Because now I know. I received a definitive answer this year.
    In the kitchen, I make Yash’s tea the way he likes, piping hot with lots of milk and sugar, and mix a blender of mango
lassi
—yogurt smoothie. The mangoes we get here aren’t as fragrant or flavorful as those in India, especially luscious Alphonso mangoes that conjure such fond memories for me, but luckily, we have Alphonso canned pulp.
    Yash and I sit together at the table. When he sips his
lassi,
he breaks into a wide grin. “Ahhh. Delicious.
Much
better than the coffee shop.”
    “Try a muffin.”
    He breaks off the muffin top, pops a piece into his mouth. “Ummmm. Tasty.”
    The way we were brought up, food was the main vehicle for displaying and withholding affection. In my parents’ home, if
Ai
was upset with
Baba,
she refused to cook his favorite dishes. If
Baba
was upset with
Ai,
he refused to eat, or ate out, usually at a relative’s home. Sandeep Chawla told me the first time Yash had one of Saroj’s lunch
tiffins
back in the Boston Days, Yash remarked about her
aloo ghobi
—a spiced potatoes and cauliflower dish:
Very good, but I prefer my wife’s.
That was the moment I knew I loved my husband. It took considerably longer for me to know,
really know,
that my husband loved me.
    Yash and I reach for the wooden napkin holder at the same time. He retreats, and I hand him a napkin.
    “Thank you,” he says.
    “You’re welcome.”
    How automatic we are with these expressions—
please, thank you, you’re welcome
. How liberally we use them. How much we’ve grown to
like
them. The very expressions we poked fun at in the Boston Days, dismissed as gratuitous!
    Over the rim of Yash’s
lassi
glass, our gazes meet and hold.
    “You know why I came over,” I say. “I want you to make an effort with Kiran. I want our daughter in our lives. I want to see her more than once in five years. If that means meeting her more than halfway…”
    Yash grunts and takes another bite of his muffin. “These American kids. They expect everything served to them on gold platters. They feel entitled. But where’s
our
entitlement as parents?” He jabs a thumb at his chest. I brace for a tirade; he delivers as expected. “After all we do for our kids, all the sacrifices we make, what do we get in return? We indulge them, and they feel subjugated. They grow up and distance themselves from us. Having adult children in our lives is a privilege, not a right. What rights
do
parents have in this country? None. A better life, we thought we gave our kids by raising them here. Better in material things, yes. But
not
in respect.
Not
in family values.” He thumps his palm