Where Earth Meets Water. Pia Padukone

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      But there is a sense of decorum in India, regardless of the historical ramifications of one dusty volume of intimate positions that sex shops like to pass off as exotic and sensual. Karom understands that the things that they take for granted back home in New York can never be accepted in this land so easily. The idea of boyfriends and girlfriends and dating, of sleeping in the same bed, even of traveling together, are all acts that had he grown up here, he himself might have frowned upon.

      On their first night in Ammama’s flat, Karom had reverently touched her feet as he knew she would appreciate and asked, “Where will I be sleeping?” and then “Where will Gita be sleeping?” before placing their backpacks in the appropriate rooms: Gita sharing her grandmother’s double bed, Karom on the wooden pallet in the sitting room. He wondered if Gita asked her grandmother if she could sleep in the bed away from the door or away from the window, whichever it was that she was most worried about. Most women had a side of the bed, the right or left, but for Gita it was the side that she felt least vulnerable in. If they stayed in a hotel room, it was the side farthest away from the door; if they were on the ground floor in a room with garden access, it was where Gita felt intruders would be least likely to enter.

      “It’s because if someone were to break in, I wouldn’t be the first thing they’d see,” she’d explained to Karom.

      “But I would,” he’d snorted. “And I’d be the one they mauled or kidnapped or beat up. That’s okay with you?”

      “No...you would protect me,” Gita had said. “My big strong man.”

      He’d shaken his head. It was a stupid argument, but still he couldn’t help feeling slighted by her selfishness. He wondered if Gita was okay with her grandmother falling victim to hypothetical marauders in her second-floor flat in the suburban residential colony in East Delhi.

      * * *

      When they return to the flat later, after a long afternoon of shopping, Karom steps hesitantly through the door. But Ammama isn’t focused on him; she tells Gita that she has something to show her. While Gita slips behind the curtain that serves as the door to Ammama’s room, Karom busies himself with taking his purchases out of the bags and laying them out on the sofa: Calvin Klein shirts, a Kenneth Cole suit, all gathered at severely discounted prices. He holds up a shirt and breathes it in. It is so reassuring how much the fabric smells like India, like the mustiness of cardamom and mustard and mothballs all in one. He hears jingles and snaps and coos and sighs before Ammama slides the curtain open and beckons shyly at him. Karom follows her into the bedroom.

      The bedroom is dimly lit: Ammama has drawn the curtains against prying eyes and sunlight is poking in at the corners of the windows. Gita is sitting on the bed with what appears to be a heap of gold in front of her. She sorts through it, trying on a large chandelier earring with curlicues and licks of rubies in her right ear while an enormous jade hoop perches perkily in her left nostril.

      “Wow,” Karom breathes. “What is all this?”

      “My trousseau,” Ammama says, pushing aside some of the tissues that had protectively padded the jewelry. “I want Gita to choose something. Help her decide.”

      Karom sits gingerly on the edge of the bed. He picks up a string of pearls and lets them slide through his fingers. Gita is wrapping a thick yellow-gold necklace with braided chains around her neck.

      “Close this?” She turns around and Karom snaps the clasp at the nape of her neck. “What do you think?”

      “It’s beautiful,” he says. “It’s all so delicately elaborate.”

      “You have first pick and then your sisters can choose when they come next,” Ammama says, taking a step toward the door. “Take your time. I’ll make tea.”

      “Her family must have spent years collecting all this. Imagine how long it took to put it together,” Karom whispers.

      “Here, I need help with this headpiece.” Gita aligns an emerald stone that glistens like a giant waterdrop in the center of her forehead, glancing in the mirror to make sure that the chain falls neatly into the parting of her hair. “What do you think?”

      “It seems so sad to break up the set that symbolizes the start of her new life as a bride. But I guess she’s passing on the legacy.”

      “Trust me, she doesn’t want the memories. They’re not happy ones. Besides, I’m here, Karom. She wants me to have something. What do you think of these?” Solid gold bangles cuff her wrists, glinting in the dim light.

      “They’re nice. I’m going to...” Karom nods toward the doorway and slides off the bed. In the kitchen, Ammama is pouring tea into the Bodum pot Karom has brought her. Her hand shakes a bit as the last drop fills the strainer. “I hope you like the teapot. Gita told me how much you like your tea. ‘Once in the a.m., once in the p.m. and once before R.E.M.’ Right?” Gita had also told him that Ammama would trot it out while they were there and then rewrap it in its original box and place it in the back of a cupboard until visitors came.

      “It’s beautiful. You shouldn’t have wasted so much money,” Ammama says. Karom places the pot on a tray along with the small ceramic box of sugar and a matching pitcher of milk. Gita appears at the doorway, wearing a heavy yellow-gold necklace. It droops down nearly to her midriff, rubies and emeralds twinkling brazenly. The inner strands are unpolished grayish oblong seeds rather than the now seemingly artificial perfect globes of pearls Karom has seen the ladies wear with Chanel suits on the Upper East Side. Gita doesn’t look very comfortable, but she sticks her chest out and says, “I want this one.”

      “I wore that on my wedding day,” Ammama says, smiling. “Beautiful choice. If you’re sure, I’ll take the rest back to the safe-deposit box at the bank.”

      They sit in the living room, the overhead ceiling fan making wide, useless circles as the tea cools. Karom nibbles absently on a stale biscuit.

      “You’ve left your visits until the last minute,” Ammama says. Gita looks down shiftily and traces a pattern on the stone floor with her toe. “I only hope it’s convenient for your great-aunts and uncles that you come tonight.”

      “You’ll come with us, right, Ammama?” Gita asks shyly. “It’ll be fun.” Gita has obligations, she’s told Karom. To see family members who remember her better than she knows them, but these visits make them so happy and they make Ammama happy, too.

      “I’ll make an early dinner and we can call a rick to take us. I missed my nap today,” Ammama says, her eyes twinkling. “I hope I won’t be too cranky.”

      * * *

      The evening is crisper than the previous days have been. Karom borrows a pale blue sweater from the empty closet that once belonged to Gita’s grandfather. He puts his arms through the sweater sleeves and his nose to the fabric.

      “Why do clothes in India always smell like this?” he asks. “It’s so reassuring, such a comforting scent.”

      “Probably because all the dhobis use the same detergent,” Gita says sarcastically. “And let the clothing dry in the air to pick up the subtle undertones of coconut trees and cow dung.”

      Ammama sits by the door in the sitting room. Karom doesn’t understand the name for this room; no such place exists in Western-style homes. It is a room for receiving, for watching, for preparing, but never simply for sitting. It is the СКАЧАТЬ