formality, the teacher proposes, “Let me walk you to the gate.”
“Thanks,” she nods, a little deflated by the sudden farewell.
By the time they reach the road, Monica has summoned enough courage. “I’d like to accept your tutoring offer. But I need to repay you somehow.”
She grins faintly. “Recompense is not necessary. Besides, I think we’ll find the experience mutually edifying. We might even have another laugh or two.”
Monica waves, wondering when Sudha Badami will answer the question about why she left Bombay. “Another laugh will be good.” She smiles and continues smiling well past the gate and the long retaining wall.
Halfway home, she realizes she’s forgotten to be on guard against the monkeys.
NINE
May, 2001, Moorty
She strolls briskly to keep up with Sudha, who’s especially fleet when wearing a salwar kameez rather than a sari. Shopping trips with her friend always begin far down the mountain, at the sabzi mandi , where Monica gets to practice Hindi. Aloo, gobi, bindi (okra was inedible until she tasted Sudha’s bindi ), lahsan (lots of garlic, the international secret), matar, palak (so many ways to cook spinach), tamatar (now that had to be bowdlerized English) and an array of fruits: Khubani, aam, tarbuz .
When shopping on warm spring mornings like today, Monica misses her little kitchen in Uptown. Grateful as she is for Cook’s attention and talents, she sometimes craves a grand salad. Of course that would lead to grand diarrhea. After two years here, Tina still doesn’t eat salads.
Monica has her favorite stalls in the sabzi mandi . The man who sells nonfat dahi and dudh always greets her with a grin. Milk and yogurt are among the few things she takes back to her flat since Cook prepares the meals. On Saturday nights now, she and Sudha cook together after the Hindi lesson.
Today her bag is heavy with vegetables, because it’s her turn to be teacher. Imagine, Sudha wanting to learn how to make pasta primavera. Tina and Monica lived on pasta during med school. Such a simple dish, especially with Moorty’s abundance of spring veggies. She’s pleased to repay Sudha’s culinary instruction in kind, if not in gourmet nuance.
They climb the hill to the next level of shops in the Lower Bazaar. It’s great to have a whole day off each week now that she’s acclimated to Moorty Hospital. Even when she’s doing chores in town, every exchange is a small adventure. At the general store, Sudha buys paper towels, cooking utensils, the odd bit of crockery. Crockery. Comestibles. She loves these Victorian-sounding words. There are fewer shoppers on this level of town. More men.
Every week, the general store holds new surprises. In mid-April, she was excited to find her favorite American cereal, albeit outrageously priced. Now, it’s a welcome indulgence with her skimmed dudh . Today she buys plum nectar and a bag of cashews. Kaju , she says under her breath.
The merchant regards her cautiously. His eyes brighten as Sudha addresses him.
Monica knows enough Hindi to eavesdrop.
“Of course, Ma’am, we’ll be able to carry your groceries up the mountain with the broom and cereal and such. No, no charge. How long has Ma’am been shopping here? How long educating our children? We are flattered by your custom.”
“Sri Chawla, you are too kind.”
The parking lot at Lunds in Uptown was filled with winter filthy cars. Customers trudged warily on the Minnesota ice, leading the way as young men and women in green uniforms pushed shopping carts toward capacious trunks of Subarus and Volvos and Hondas. How much more anonymous that life seems now. How long ago and far away.
Before striking farther uphill to the Mall, they graze stalls of Lower Bazaar for pens, paper, bars of soap. Not too much because after the Mall, where Monica will buy newspapers and a candy bar in a fancy shop, they’ll have a steep climb to their
“Thanks,” she nods, a little deflated by the sudden farewell.
By the time they reach the road, Monica has summoned enough courage. “I’d like to accept your tutoring offer. But I need to repay you somehow.”
She grins faintly. “Recompense is not necessary. Besides, I think we’ll find the experience mutually edifying. We might even have another laugh or two.”
Monica waves, wondering when Sudha Badami will answer the question about why she left Bombay. “Another laugh will be good.” She smiles and continues smiling well past the gate and the long retaining wall.
Halfway home, she realizes she’s forgotten to be on guard against the monkeys.
NINE
May, 2001, Moorty
She strolls briskly to keep up with Sudha, who’s especially fleet when wearing a salwar kameez rather than a sari. Shopping trips with her friend always begin far down the mountain, at the sabzi mandi , where Monica gets to practice Hindi. Aloo, gobi, bindi (okra was inedible until she tasted Sudha’s bindi ), lahsan (lots of garlic, the international secret), matar, palak (so many ways to cook spinach), tamatar (now that had to be bowdlerized English) and an array of fruits: Khubani, aam, tarbuz .
When shopping on warm spring mornings like today, Monica misses her little kitchen in Uptown. Grateful as she is for Cook’s attention and talents, she sometimes craves a grand salad. Of course that would lead to grand diarrhea. After two years here, Tina still doesn’t eat salads.
Monica has her favorite stalls in the sabzi mandi . The man who sells nonfat dahi and dudh always greets her with a grin. Milk and yogurt are among the few things she takes back to her flat since Cook prepares the meals. On Saturday nights now, she and Sudha cook together after the Hindi lesson.
Today her bag is heavy with vegetables, because it’s her turn to be teacher. Imagine, Sudha wanting to learn how to make pasta primavera. Tina and Monica lived on pasta during med school. Such a simple dish, especially with Moorty’s abundance of spring veggies. She’s pleased to repay Sudha’s culinary instruction in kind, if not in gourmet nuance.
They climb the hill to the next level of shops in the Lower Bazaar. It’s great to have a whole day off each week now that she’s acclimated to Moorty Hospital. Even when she’s doing chores in town, every exchange is a small adventure. At the general store, Sudha buys paper towels, cooking utensils, the odd bit of crockery. Crockery. Comestibles. She loves these Victorian-sounding words. There are fewer shoppers on this level of town. More men.
Every week, the general store holds new surprises. In mid-April, she was excited to find her favorite American cereal, albeit outrageously priced. Now, it’s a welcome indulgence with her skimmed dudh . Today she buys plum nectar and a bag of cashews. Kaju , she says under her breath.
The merchant regards her cautiously. His eyes brighten as Sudha addresses him.
Monica knows enough Hindi to eavesdrop.
“Of course, Ma’am, we’ll be able to carry your groceries up the mountain with the broom and cereal and such. No, no charge. How long has Ma’am been shopping here? How long educating our children? We are flattered by your custom.”
“Sri Chawla, you are too kind.”
The parking lot at Lunds in Uptown was filled with winter filthy cars. Customers trudged warily on the Minnesota ice, leading the way as young men and women in green uniforms pushed shopping carts toward capacious trunks of Subarus and Volvos and Hondas. How much more anonymous that life seems now. How long ago and far away.
Before striking farther uphill to the Mall, they graze stalls of Lower Bazaar for pens, paper, bars of soap. Not too much because after the Mall, where Monica will buy newspapers and a candy bar in a fancy shop, they’ll have a steep climb to their
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