Thirty-One
“You’ve changed,” says Nasreen, finishing off the last of the pistachio- and saffron-flavored cookies they brought with our
masala chai. We are sitting on a large cane sofa on the terrace outside the hotel, surrounded by the beautiful and the wealthy,
most of whom sit with huge shopping bags at their feet.
“Of course I’ve changed,” I laugh. “I’m twenty-nine. You haven’t seen me since I was a child.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean . . . this.” She waves a hand at me in general. “The designer duds, the self-assuredness. I always
thought of you as one of life’s great innocents. I loved that you were never bratty.” She wrinkles her nose and peers at me.
“You seem . . . confident. Please don’t tell me you’ve become spoiled.”
“When you say confident, do you mean overconfident?” I’m astonished that anyone would find me confident, but there is something
in the way she says it that has me reading between the lines.
“You might say that. I couldn’t possibly comment.”
“Is that what you meant?” I persist.
“Maybe. Are you?”
“God, no!” I am vehement. “This—” I point to my dress and extend my legs to show the flat sandals, tiny pyramids of steel marching in lines across the thin leather bands “—isn’t even mine!
My roommate is a clotheshorse. She basically tossed her whole closet into my suitcase.
If it were left to me, I would have come here with three pairs of jeans and some T-shirts. ”
Nasreen narrows her eyes. “You are still the same, then?”
“Yes! If I seem overconfident, well. I don’t know what to say to that. I’ve definitely had to become more confident since
heading up ipryy. I couldn’t sit there scared of my own shadow. But I don’t think anyone could call me overconfident.”
Nasreen sits back, her shoulders visibly sinking with relief. “Okay. Good. That makes me feel better. Tell me about your mother.
I haven’t heard from her for years. We send each other cards on our birthdays, although now it’s emails. I miss the cards.
She used to make me the most beautiful cards.”
I remember my mother’s cards. She may be a writer, but her creativity has always expressed itself in a myriad of ways. When
she was . . . in a good place, she produced essays, novellas, delicate watercolor paintings. She would sit at the kitchen
table making dozens and dozens of brightly colored cards for her friends. They would pile up, spilling onto the floor without
her noticing, so absorbed was she in producing her abstract patterns with “love,” and “peace,” and “friendship” in beautiful
calligraphy dancing down the cards.
I tell Nasreen that my mother is doing well, that she is dating someone, and is taking a new medication that seems to be working.
I tell her that my mother has tried many medications over the years, but never stayed on them, hating how flat she felt, how she described her world going from multicolored to gray.
She hated the periods of depression, she said, but the periods when she felt alive, the periods we have never called “mania” to her face, are so magical, they make life worth living.
The drugs removed the magic, she said, and she never wanted to live without the magic.
Whatever they prescribed: Haldol, Depakote, Lithium, none of them lasted long. She felt like a zombie, she said, and she hated
the weight she gained. But now she is on something new, and it’s working. She is as normal as I have ever seen her: normal
weight, normal mood. She seems—and it is shocking to realize this because it has been such a rarity in my life—she seems happy.
I tell Nasreen about my father next, and how, despite his health scare, he is out of the woods.
“Only your father,” she laughs. “Anyone else who gets diagnosed with terminal cancer dies. Only your father, the miracle maker,
does an experimental treatment that actually works. He’s going to go on forever, your father.”
I start to laugh. “Let’s hope so,” I say, and I know she’s right.
We end up going out for dinner, climbing into Nasreen’s dirty old car that is brought round by one of the valet parkers, who
seems horrified at having to drive such a rickety old thing. She went back to India when her mother was dying, fell madly
in love with her childhood sweetheart again, and decided to stay after her mother died. The childhood sweetheart ended up
being something of a narcissist, but by the time she realized and ended things, healing a heart cracked by disappointment,
India had stolen her heart, and she once again made it her home.
Nasreen drives like a maniac through the crowded lanes of Colaba, almost clipping dozens of tourists who are making their way down the streets, noticing nothing.
We pass hawkers pushing handcarts, piles of coriander, chilies, and mangoes spilling over the sides; stalls overflowing with bangles and embroidered kurtas.
Outside the Gateway of India, clusters of balloon sellers jostle for space with chaiwalas balancing kettles, the air thick with the smell of roasting corn and frying samosas.
She points out a snake charmer playing for coins, and a man with a monkey on his shoulder posing for photographs.
Every inch of the sidewalk is covered with piles of bags, bright saris, cheap jewelry, roasted nuts in paper cones. Nasreen
gestures toward a narrow lane.
“That’s the entrance to Colaba Causeway,” she says. “You should never go alone. You’ll be overcharged. Fleeced! I’ll take
you tomorrow and get you the right price on whatever you want. Never accept the first price they give you.”
I see a clutch purse on a stand. It’s made of woven straw, a half-moon shape and has glittery embroidered peacock feathers
on the front. Lucy would adore it.
“Can we pull over? I just want to grab something.”
“It will still be there tomorrow,” Nasreen continues, careening down the street. “There are a million more like it.”
We head to the Sea Lounge at the Taj Mahal Palace, making our way up the wide staircase to the colonial-style tearoom with
its enormous arched windows overlooking the harbor. Nasreen is clearly a regular, greeted warmly with hugs. Candles flicker
on each table, and we order nothing. Champagne is brought, followed by a vast selection of tiny silver bowls filled with different
chaats: sev puri, dahi batata puri, bhel. I eat until I am stuffed, but more food emerges, slow-cooked mutton rogan josh with
fragrant saffron rice, enough to feed a family of eight.
“What’s your day like tomorrow?” asks Nasreen. “Can we do the Causeway? You have to see the Chhatrapati Shivaji museum and
the Dr. Bhau Daji Lad Museum. They are stunning. Or perhaps the gardens at Bananga Tank for some peace and quiet? For dinner,
Trishna is a must. Or, I can take you to a friend’s home for a proper Parsi feast.”
“All of which sounds wonderful,” I say. “But I’m actually traveling into Maharashtra tomorrow to visit one of ipryy’s factories.”
“Maharashtra?” Nasreen perks up. “Do you know whereabouts?”
I check my phone. “It’s near Nashik?”
Nasreen jigs her leg excitedly. “That’s where my charity is based! We could go together and I’ll give you a tour.”
I am mortified that I have asked Nasreen nothing about herself. I’ve spent most of the afternoon and evening with her, and
rather than ask what she is up to, I have answered her questions and talked about my life.
“Oh God.” I am hot red with mortification. “Nasreen. I can’t believe I know nothing about you. What charity? Tell me about
what you’re doing?”
She lays a hand on my arm. “Don’t you feel bad for a second, Babycakes. I needed to catch up on your life first. Mine isn’t
much to write home about. When my mother was dying, I became close to one of her nurses, who was from a tiny village outside
Nashik. She is a wonderful woman, and was one of the lucky ones to escape her humble beginnings. I decided to start a nonprofit
with her, about seven years ago, to help those rural women and children in the villages there. They’re very isolated. There’s
nothing nearby, no transportation to get children to school. They often start, but the girls are then kept home to help out
with household chores. We’re a tiny nonprofit, there are only five of us, but we have opened two crafts centers to teach local
women traditional Warli art and embroidery, which they then sell to boutiques and hotels in Mumbai.”
I shake my head, my mouth falling open.
“What?” Nasreen looks confused, as I tell her about Preeti Desai, and how we are planning a foundation to do something similar,
but with a focus on education, a view to starting schools to educate the girls.
“Why just Mumbai?” says Nasreen, clapping her hands with excitement at how aligned we are. “Why not the whole of India? The whole country needs schools, particularly in the rural areas. Why not spread all over the world to countries where women aren’t given the same opportunities.”
“Why not, indeed!” I clasp Nasreen’s hands, unable to believe the synchronicity of us both being so passionate about the same
thing. “I love that idea!”
“If we leave early, we can visit the crafts center in the morning, and I’ll organize lunch for us, then we can go to your
factory. What do you think? Tomorrow night, if you’re not too tired, we’ll go to Trishna for butter pepper crab with some
of my friends. How does that sound?”
“It sounds dreamy,” I say, for it does.
I sleep well that night. I leave the doors open in my room, tucked under luxurious sheets, warmed by my day with Nasreen,
by the fact that despite not having seen her for years, the love between us feels as strong and as authentic as ever; and
I am warmed by the possibilities of all the good things we can do together.
I pull the blankets up, the air now unexpectedly chilly, and fall into a dreamless sleep. I don’t even check my phone. I forget
to call Jerome and fill him in on my day, I forget to even think about Jerome. I feel myself drifting off, and the last thing
I think, lying alone in this bed, is how happy I feel.