Nahal Fiction - aaduna in exile spring 2021 issue, Vol. 10 No. 1
Meet the Author
 |
| Anita Nahal, Ph.D., CDP |
Anita Nahal, Ph.D., CDP is a professor, poet, flash
fictionist, and children’s writer. She teaches at the University of the District of Columbia, Washington DC. Anita
has two books of poetry, one of flash fictions, four for children, two edited
poetry anthologies, and one edited nursery rhymes anthology. Her third book of
poetry, What’s wrong with us
Kali women? is set for
release in August 2021 by Kelsay Books. Two books of her works are prescribed
in a course on multiculturalism at the University of Utrecht, the Netherlands.
Originally from New Delhi, India, Anita is the daughter of novelist Chaman
Nahal and educationist Sudarshan Nahal. She lives in the US with her son
Vikrant, daughter-in-law Sumona and golden doodle, Cashew.
For more: https://anitanahal.wixsite.com/anitanahal
Chapter 1 and 4 excerpts from
Anita Nahal’s
Finally, She
Showered
A novel in onegin stanza and prose
{Circa 2017
and back and forth, and back and forth}
I
All
morning it had been raining, except for the hour or so when the wedding procession danced towards
the entrance of the hotel. Priya’s son, Avijeet was getting married. It had
been fifteen years since she had decided to leave India with her young son to
create a peaceful life for themselves.
She could feel her heart knocking as she placed her right hand on her
chest trying to calm it, with the left adjusting her sari pallu making
sure her midriff was not visible. Standing at the tall glass windows on the
second floor of the hotel just before the procession began, Priya heaved a long
sigh-- relief and apprehension amalgamated like an uncomfortable mixture of tea
and coffee in the same cup. Pursing her lips, hugging herself she swayed side
to side like a swing in a gentle wind. It was still drizzling, lightly…very
auspicious omen…the rain that is… at least that’s what India’s old wives’
tales echoed no matter if everyone got drenched with the bride’s make up
running and the groom’s turban dripping!
Folks were running around everywhere
trying to complete last-minute stuff and her texts were endless.
“Do all the men from our side have
their turbans tied?”
“Has the second pundit for the wedding
ceremony arrived? Did he get some tea and cookies?”
“Did you order an Uber for the pundit
who came this morning for Avijeet’s turban ceremony?”
“Did you pay the make-up women?”
“Mom, where are you? The photographers
want all family members outside. Come quickly.” The last text from her
blessing, brought her out of here revere, and she turned and hastened out
picking the pleats of her sari. Her gold pencil heels sparkled through
glass reflections. This Cinderella may not have found her prince charming yet,
but her son could be a shinning one for someone.
Two Indians now Americans, who
originally belonged to two Indian states, Punjab and Bengal were to be married
that day. Well, also included was a bit of the state of Haryana from where
Avijeet’s father was. Priya and her son were Punjabis, and she was reluctant to
give the father much credit.
Avijeet, tall--six feet--broad
shoulders, sensitive eyes, with a full warm smile was a deeply caring young
man, who moved to the US with his mother when he was barely fourteen wanted to
have all the bells and whistles of a traditional Indian wedding in the US,
including sitting on a horse. America did not disappoint. The horse was a huge,
light grey one decorated with ethnic Indian cloth embroidered with mango leaf
motifs in gold and other colorful threads. Apparently, there were some farms in
NJ, where they lived, that especially trained their horses to tackle an Indian
wedding. The horse shook his head often, seeming to enjoy the sound of tiny
brass bells sewn into a padded cloth that was tied around his head. H wase not
wearing blinders. As the procession neared the makeshift gate of flowers and
twinkling lights, Avijeet got off the horse and danced in joy and abandon. The
horse owner followed, also swinging to the energetic bhangra moves.
Dressed in traditional Indian attire of kurta and churidar, and a
turban adorning his head, the horseman a White guy, was giving wide
smiles. Folks were surprised and amused. But he was not shy and fitted right
in.
The hotel
a bit outside the main town of Princeton, NJ where the wedding took place sat
on sprawling acres of lush green trees with a circular road leading to the
front. In the middle of the bend was a rotunda with benches and lights, and
myriad vibrant summer flowers were in full bloom, especially of orange and
yellow hues. The dhol players, three
of them, were thumping on the drums in traditional wedding dhol beats and a sea of humans mostly wearing yellow, orange, and
red colors were dancing in gay abandon like merry waves.
All men on their side, whether dressed
in Indian or western clothes, wore turbans of kesari color and bandini
print which Priya had especially ordered from Rajasthan in India. And women
were in saris, salwar-kameez or dresses. Avijeet’s groomsmen were diverse…Indian,
Indian American, White American, African American, and East Asian American. All
wore matching kurtas and churidars in cream color and zari
work, and their turbans were of a bright magenta shade, matching the saris of
the bridesmaids.
Most of the wedding clothes were
bought in America, where major urban cities catered to the growing demand of
Indian weddings. Showrooms with exact replicas of the wedding mandap exist in quite a decent number in New Jersey. Also,
decorators, musicians, DJ’s, crowd hypes, of course restaurants, all prevailed
to provide the full gamut of services for Indian weddings. Inside the huge
hotel ballroom, it was sometimes easy to think they were not in the US. It
saddened her that her parents were not there.
After it was all over, and Priya was back in her hotel room, satisfied
though exhausted, she wanted to stand beneath the shower and cry…let it all
out. “I’m not going to feel guilty this time for wasting water mama…” she said
out loud while smiling and beginning to take off her clothes.
She’s tired, Priya’s tired
Needs to take a shower
And stand neath the torrent
Of water
That falls from above
No need to shove
Your energy
Or electricity
Its already been done for you
Set up for everyone
But how grateful is everyone
Not to have bathing blues
Most sway and move around like zombies
Carrying their stagnated lives as in
unwired movies.
Priya
was barely nine when her
parents first moved to live in Princeton, New Jersey where her father received
the prestigious Clearbright grant in Environmental Studies. They traveled a lot
within the nation, and one of those visits had been to the picturesque
Washington, DC during the Cherry Blossom festival. That is when she set it deep
in her heart that if she ever came back to the US, she would live in, or near
DC. Fate would surely plan such a reality, for her…who knew…
The shimmering monuments
In the night lights so strategically placed
Welcomed everyone regardless of “isms”
The city was open hearted
And cheery
With tender flowers nodding their velvety berry
Colors in the wind,
With delicate almost paper-thin leaves intricately twined
Priya loved DC and also, kind of, Princeton
Discovered new ideas and thoughts
And there she made many new friends
And much to the chagrin of her sweet mom who in a
baritone
Whispered, “Oh, no, not so soon”
When she got her first period at eleven.
She also gained tons of height
Cycling all the time after homework was done
And running around among endless fields in sight
She had this friend from Japan
And the two became inseparable
In school she was reasonably popular
Many admired her very long, heavy hair
And really long, thick eye lashes. Everywhere
She went, she became a mini celebrity
That girl with a tiny waist and huge hips from India
Who loved music, dance, French and algebra
Had her first crushes while comprehending the changes in
her body
Discovered infatuation and masturbation
Along with watching the back of her dresses during
menstruation.
India seemed an exotic land with funny accents
A country that most only knew
As one of snake charmers, kings & elephants
Folks asked really weird questions. “In India is the sky
also blue?”
“Do you have flowers there?”
“Do you live in houses there?”
She was tempted, wickedly
to say, no to all. And especially
When asked, “Where did you learn to speak English like
that?”
She wanted to reply what her father had taught her to say
“I learned English… and you …well you picked it up.” “Say
what?” The kids couldn’t stop giggling. That
And other things became the many reasons
Impacting Priya in life’s coming seasons.
Princeton, in New Jersey
Where they lived in childhood
Had very little diversity
Though pretty with trees of redwood
But Priya was insightful
Saw all, and asked questions mouthful
Her parents knew just one family
African American, in Trenton, a city forgotten and lonely
They lived with a young boy of theirs
On whom she had her very first crush
With flurries in the heart’s blush
He was older than her by a few years
Childhood flirtations are enjoyable
And are at best indefinable.
She found it very funny
That some boys and girls
While chewing gum they said was yummy
Hid in classroom cupboards
During lunch breaks
Or sports breaks
To kiss and make out
Once she was going about
Her work in the classroom during lunch
And two of her classmates came and told her to watch
The door as they quickly went inside the cupboard to
smooch
She just nodded her head with blank eyes, eating her
lunch
Many times, she did not know how to react to American
making outs
Of school youngsters.
Her parents only allowed her to watch
Family friendly shows and movies
They’d quickly the channel switch
When came on some adult scenes
But you know how it is
The young have a way of learning tit bits
By reading books like Mills and Boon
Or watching on TV the manner of spoon
Or so it seemed to them
And Priya came to believe that only
American men could kiss well. Only
They could show romance…others just slopped around like a
thrum
Added on Bollywood’s immature approach to romance
That built her beliefs of loving is many a times just
chance.
Anyways, that was also the time
She began to learn about African Americans
And Native Americans and other minorities, and the divide
paradigm
That brought forth unknown realities, and stark
comparisons
She went on later to study in her Bachelors
Masters
And Ph.D. focusing on American Studies
And post-doc studies
On African American women’s history.
“We are women of color in two different continents--
and while there are many differences
based upon our specific history
there are many similarities as well due to shared
experiences.”
She would later on enunciate in her lectures and classes.
In Princeton, her father worked two jobs
As the grant money wasn’t enough
And in cold snowy nights
her mom drove to the train station to pick him up. It was
rough.
But Priya also had some great memories
Of her middle school days and crossing unique territories
When the school declared she had music aptitude, and had
her trained
And prepared.
“Select an instrument and we shall teach you.”
She chose the piano. “No, please, chose one you can take
home.”
So, it came to be that she learned the violin. Soon she
shone
And was recruited to the school orchestra. Through
And through, Priya came to love America
While also taking in its negatives…she got that it wasn’t
totally angelica.
She and her mom
Took many walks
When dad was at work and got to know the town
Woolworth was on Nassau St and many other shops
Including Sears and Singers, just driving distance away
Some things between her parents gave it away
That all was not agreeable between them
And from which did stem
Small and big fights
The big ones were over mom’s relatives
Whom dad thought had no rights
Over their married daughter. Kind of odd about rights
As Priya thought her dad was a progressive man
But on some things, he was a very traditional one.
“Why are we going to the post office right now, mummy?
Around lunch time? You think it will be open?”
“Yes, yes, it will be….” “But mummy I am hungry!”
“Yes, sure beta, soon after we’ll go…the university café
will be open.”
Her mom had this PO Box
At the local post office. And Priya learned about the
paradox
In their lives… dad loved her but not her family
So, she had in the local post office this facility
Where she could receive her family’s mail
And she’d read the letters and there itself respond
For Priya this became their secret bond.
Both made sure they left no trail
Till one day her mom’s dad passed away
And their secret in tears was given away.
“Hurry, hurry,” said her mom that day, walking very fast
Reaching the post office fifteen minutes before two
There was a letter waiting for her mom. “At last…”
She seemed panicky, and the cold air outside into their
eyes straight blew
“Oh…no
no….no…”
Mom almost collapsed
Catching hold of Priya’s hand she ran home. Time lapsed
Was killing. She went and shouted at her dad, “You forced
us to come to the US-
and now my father is dead. I shall never
see him again.” Saying which her tears were
Unstoppable. And my dad just held us
In his arms and cried too. “I would not have
Asked you to come, had I known…never…would not have…”
“But how did you learn about this?”
He looked at her. “Hiding
From you, I had this PO box…”
She went on, not stopping
That day from any fears
Nor a dripping nose and tears
Watching her prevented dad
From saying anything more but he seemed sad
That she’d hid the truth.
Oddly, not once blaming himself for forcing her to do so
See, in anger, self-reflection doesn’t offer a winning
bow
Neither does it soothe
The sense of a lie
Even if it was a self-encouraging lie.
Their family planned to go back to India soon
As death and nostalgia pulled them
So, they returned that June
Though Priya didn’t want to go. Wanted them
To stay in her America which she loved. But they went
back to a new house
In New Delhi they’d bought to start a new phase
But at times tales are difficult to mend like broken
glass
And crying decreased her mom’s eye vision. New eye glass
She got fitted upon return to New Delhi
Priya too found herself changed, quite emancipated
At 12, on issues of liberalism when they returned
And her mom got immersed in her work at the nursery
And dad in environmental issues. Priya missed her American
life
And a bit of a misfit she felt in her returned native
life.
Local boys would poke fun
When she rode a bicycle
In a skirt, leaving her frozen in action
And her accent, a bit American, was not very likable
They laughed at her, leading her to form opinion
About rules about men and women
Little did she know
That decades later in the US flow
She would seek answers
To immigration, hers and others
To single women, hers and others
To domestic violence, hers and others
Questioning began young, as parents
Treated her as they would boys, not girls.
“Oh! God, please give this family a boy--
they already have a girl.”
Priya’s father’s father would pray
Besides many nicknames, Deep-Sea Pearl
That Priya’s father had lovingly
Named her would watch them all quietly
One to the other. Mom would beseech “Please, stop saying
that…please stop praying
as if something is wrong
with having a girl or one child--
we are grateful that we are blessed
with such a lovely daughter. Please stop making it seem
its wrong
for us to think our daughter is like a boy--
anyways, a girl is better than a boy.”
Priya’s dad would pull on his dad’s hand
To prevent him from repeating gendered statements
And so Priya grew up with an erratic band
Of words playing around her. Which statements
Were correct?
Were straight?
She spent much of her time pondering on this
Grew up very strong and independent. Remiss
Was from her thinking any kind of discriminatory
Feelings as her parents had set clear that all are the
same
Different religions, faces or places, but same
Transparent and participatory
Was the manner in which she was brought up. Parents
Took her to temples, gurudwaras, mosques and churches.
All these she took with them
When Avijeet and she
Left for America in 2002. Rule of thumb
For them became to remember that she and he
Had to fend for themselves
And five things
She repeated to him. Goals
Money, health, be aware of surroundings
And take care of each other
These five became their mantras
Churning on their forefingers like chakras
As immigrants don’t get second chances. Mother
And son leaned on each other
And carried forward each other.
Pride swelled up in Priya as she
looked at her son’s note. Bowing her head, she knelt to pray…she did that
often. Holding her hands up high in the air, joined in prayer, she begged… she
does that often too… this time to give her son and his wife a blessed married
life. When Eloise had told her about envisioning in California, she had chirped
in, nodding her head vigorously. “You know, Eloise, I totally agree. Folks keep
saying we shouldn’t ask God for what we want because God knows. But hey, God is
busy…and we must ask God, must beg of God…who else? I mean, I don’t know who
the God is… man, woman, androgynous, another species, a light… I don’t know. I
just believe in something bigger than us. And if we don’t ask, and if we don’t
constantly throw out into the universe what we want…how will we get it?”
Persistent light peered in from the partially drawn curtains spread upon her.
And the table lamp near the bedside was also shimmering and smiling, “Wedding
done, Priya. Your son now married. How do you feel?”
“How do I feel? Elated! But kind of
sad… the planning had taken many months, and there was this sheer exhilaration
jumbled with trepidation, admixed with overwhelming exhaustion…but it was kind
of like I was floating in time silly-puttied with emotions…You know what I
mean? And it’s all over now. I suppose that’s good…I mean it’s the best! Just,
I’m so tired…”
The bed was quiet and neatly spread
with open arms inviting…and she wanted to sink into the covers. But before
sleeping, she wanted to shower and have a drink. A drink? Priya was saying, a
drink, instead of a glass of champagne or wine… that was a change. How some
words, some folks, especially women, are unable to say, and then start saying
with an ease as they grew older, or when circumstances changed. Like, drink, or
sex. Or, how about some words that in one’s native language sound cheap which
educated folks, especially educated women would never be caught
saying…definitely not in public. For example, the Hindi word for drink is sharab… Priya would just not say, “Let’s
have some sharab! Home country
cultural socializations and hesitations follow us regardless of a new country,
now home. Anyways, her adrenaline was
running high from the merriment and contradictory happenings of the last two
days, and she needed to settle her jumping heartbeats with some exercise,
meditation, a shower, and a drink…
The AC setting was on 67, and she
reduced it to 65, wanting the room to be extra cool before she slipped into a
warm comforter. Yup, I tell ya, we humans, we are never satisfied, are we? In
winters we crank up the heat and do not wish to wear sweaters in the room, and
in summers we crank the thermostat down, making it over cool so that we can
feel snug under a heavy winter comforter! Fickle?
Opening the fridge, she looked for the
bottle of champagne that one of her friends had left there to be chilled. “What
can I do for you, ma’am…any help that you need, any help…just let me
know…” Shreya, actually a former student from Priya’s
teaching days in India, who now lived nearby, was like a sister and friend to
Priya. She, her husband, and young son were there, all the days leading to the
wedding, helping in every way they could. “You are not to worry…at all…” said
her husband, Sameer.
“Thanks so much, my dear…there are
just so many things that we still have to buy…little odds and ends…don’t know
when we’ll find the time to do everything.”
“Tell us what is left to be done…and
we’ll do it,” said Sameer again.
“Oh…wow…I mean, like we still haven’t
bought the air mattresses for the guests, and some chairs to rent for the day
of the henna ceremony. Also, not sure what the pundit will sit on during that
ceremony…I suppose a pidi or maybe we
need two pidis because Avijeet also
needs to sit on a pidi….”
“We’ll get all those…not to worry.”
Sameer and Shreya said together hugging her.
Family and close friends from India
and elsewhere started arriving two weeks before the wedding. And everyone’s
sleeping, food, and sightseeing arrangements had to be planned. Two days prior
to the wedding, everyone was moved to the hotel of the wedding venue, where
rooms had been booked for them.
On the day of the Sangeet ceremony, a day before the actual wedding, Shreya came to
her again, “What more can I do for you ma’am…any help that you need, any
help…just let me know…” Priya was tired but terribly excited. She had just sat
down after dancing for at least an hour without a break … and taking hundreds
of photographs too!
“Ma’am, your lehenga is so beautiful…kind of magical!”
“Thanks! Do you see the hints of pink and green in the
hem?”
“Yes…it gives a wispy feeling.”
“Yes, so true...you know, I had bought
another one but last Tuesday, one of the visiting relatives dropped tea on it.”
“What…was it intentional?” Shreya did
not trust the relatives from her ex-husband’s family who’d suddenly showed up
after all those years.
“No, no…I don’t think so. Well, in any
case, I had to get this one at the last minute…and I think it worked out pretty
well, actually… don’t you think?” she pulled up her shoulders in glee, as if
she’d achieved something special.
“Yes, it did, ma’am…very pretty! And,
all those matching earrings and necklace, and bangles…where did you get those
at the last minute?”
“Same place…it’s a one stop shop for
Indian weddings!”
“Nice, ma’am, very nice…”
“I want the photographer to take a few
images of me twirling in this lehenga…but he’ll think I’m silly or something…”
“Why silly…not at all…it’s your son’s
wedding…you enjoy yourself, ma’am! I’ll go and call him…”
The numerous layers in the lehenga
gave it a buoyancy which showed well in the pictures which Priya later shared
on Instagram and Facebook with the hashtags, dervish, dancing, whirling, joy.
“Okay…I think I need to go and greet
the guests. Gosh, my feet are pinching!”
Just for a few minutes she took off her gold stilettoes and sat down on
one of the ornate sofas in the ballroom. She
hardly ever wore open sandals, even in summers, even with Indian clothes, as
stilettoes or pumps gave a certain stylishness when walking…tick, tick, tick,
tick… making the body feel smarter, she used to say.
“Tired, ma’am…?”
“A bit…but that’s not going to stop
me! Hey, listen…if it’s okay, I’ll take you up on your earlier offer…do you
think you can get a bottle of my favorite almond champagne from Trader Joe’s
and put it in the fridge in my room?
I’ll have it later tonight, or tomorrow after the end of the
ceremonies.” The actual ceremonies ran for two days…the first day there was the
Sangeet evening with family and close
friends, and the next day was the actual wedding followed by a reception that
(night, concluding two days of merriment. Two days were really not too many as
in older times in most weddings in India the celebrations ran into several
days! “Done, ma’am!” Shreya gave one of her brilliant, dimpled smiles.
Snapshots of Priya’s life
Some etched bare
Out of joy and strife
Some drawn rare
Like a woman on fire
Alicia Keys, “…Walking on fire…”
A woman searching peace
Trying to get the keys
To where we came from…
To whence we’re going…
A life-long of doing
Mixing and then some
Priya thought of the hours-emotions gone into many miles
And twirling her hair, with a tear just waiting to fall,
she let out smiles.
Preparing to sleep, Priya let her lehenga fall
And stretching her back
She let down her arms in yogic stall
She wanted to hit the sack
But rest of her clothes were still on
Flowing was her choli in chiffon
And jewelry tugged at her skin
As did the big black bobby pin
Holding her bun up
Along with hundreds of smaller
Pins in metallic color
And then, having a peanut buttercup
She pondered over the day
With some thoughts trained, some stray.
She checked her breasts
Pressing them all over
For any signs
Of a lump or bump over
Near the center or at the edges
She noticed the hundreds
Of dark spots, increasing
Under her breasts and all over her body. Releasing
A sigh, it’s just many beauty spots
She thought or why would
Her mammogram be clear? Should
She seek another opinion? Spots
Could indicate something?
Or nothing…
In the looping of her thoughts
Her eyes went all over her body
Noticing other marks, spots, and knots
Some like stale toddy
Like on her arm the10-year-old sun tattoo
Noticing loss in the orange hue
She rubbed it, trying to get the color throttle going
Like a lawn mower moving
Needed to be renewed? Re-filled?
It seemed time had dulled it
Heat was not like earlier lit
Also, maybe time for more tattoos on her body to be
spilled?
Sometimes she felt she’d been a hippie in lives before
Or a gypsy distributing hopes, fulfilling the folklore.
Glossary, listed alphabetically
Bandini: Tie-dye textile
Choli: Blouse worn with sari or lehenga
Churidar: A tight pair of pants with gatherings of
the fabric at the end. It’s paired with a Kurta(tunic)
Dhol: A big drum used mainly in Punjabi folk dances or at weddings almost
all over India
Kesari: An orange color, like that of saffron
Kurta: Tunic, paired with a churidar or Salwar
Lehenga: A flowing gown worn with a choli and
dupatta(stole)
Pallu: The end part of one side of a sari
Pidi: As employed in the novella, it means a low stool. Can also have other
meanings
Salwar-Kameez: A loose pair of pants paired with a kameez
(tunic)
Sangeet: Music
Sharab: Alcohol
Zari: Gold or silver
thread work on South Asian garm
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