Nimita's Place Page 3
Weddings are where other weddings are arranged. “I’m not going,” I said in our hotel room, while Dad went off to Roshna-Badi-Bua’s room to see if he could borrow a tie from her husband. Fine for the men, all they had to do was swap coats. We women could not do that. Everybody would know.
We had planned our wardrobes carefully. Four glitzy evening outfits for four functions. We had chosen less fancy but still stylish clothes like slacks and tailored Western tops or kurtis with mirror-work designs or Parsi embroidery for the breakfasts and lunches. Jeans not allowed. Matching earrings. Good shoes.
This extra brunch meant we were all one outfit short. We couldn’t just swap saris, like I suggested. “First of all, the blouses won’t fit, beta,” Dadi told me before telling Mummy to call Roshna-Badi-Bua for a consultation. “We’ll all go to Lajpat Nagar, quickly, first thing after breakfast tomorrow. The boutiques are all there. And maybe some of the tailors can fix something up quickly.”
“I’m not going… I have a stomach ache,” I said. Mummy just looked at me while dialling Roshna-Badi-Bua’s room and Dadi clucked. “Beta, don’t be so stubborn. We’ve come all this way, let’s enjoy. What’s the harm?”
What was the harm? Nothing, except another 15,000 rupees down the drain for a secret shopping expedition.
The Indian army’s crack R&AW agents or the US Navy SEALs could not have executed a mission more efficiently. We ate and were out of the hotel by 10am, in Lajpat Nagar by 10.30am, were done trying and selecting by noon and back in the hotel just in time to bathe and primp before the brunch.
Despite the cost, I liked my new Lahoria-style fitted kurta split down the middle to show off the contrasting parallel pants. Dadi paid the asking price of 3,500 rupees without a murmur. Say “Lahore” or “Pakistani embroidery” and she will immediately fall in love with the outfit without even seeing it, but this time I approved of her choice as well.
Kitty-Aunty came up and said: “Haan, that mehendi colour really suits your fair skin, gori-chitti.” This is the top compliment for a Punjabi girl, and means fair.
“These Pakistani styles are the best, na?” she said. “I suppose you can’t get them in Mumbai, so good you went and bought something today. Do more shopping while in Delhi.”
It is bad manners to talk back to an elder. I was about to show bad manners when Mithu-Chachi came up and said: “Kitty-Aunty, so nice to see you!” Like Kitty-Aunty hadn’t attended every single function and tried every single sweet thing on offer while making a sour face about the lack of variety.
“Nimmy-beta, you look so nice,” Mithu-Chachi said. “You must take me to that boutique in Mumbai. Amazing, you know, Aunty, they’re getting all the fashions a month before Delhi! I should have done Pinky’s shopping there like Mummy was suggesting, but no time, no time. Haan, Nimmy-beta, come, there’s someone I want you to meet.”
At that moment, I would have promised to be Mithu-Chachi’s slave. So I smiled and made polite conversation even when she took me to where Dadi was talking to a couple I did not know. Next to them, a tall, fair guy stood holding a plate of biryani.
“This is Gautam, beta, he’s just finished double master’s in Singapore, IT and MBA Finance. Now he is working with Kotak Mahindra Bank. Gautam-beta, our Nimita has done her MSc in microbiology, you know, from University of Pune. And these are his parents, very close connections of ours.”
I smiled even as my stomach curled around the rotis I had been eating.
“So you did microbiology, beta?” Gautam’s mother asked me.
“Molecular biology actually, Aunty,” I said politely.
Microbiology is the study of bacteria and small organisms. Molecular biology takes apart the building blocks of life, engineers DNA, figures out the universal code that makes a plant a plant, an animal an animal and possibly how to transform one into another.
But what did anyone care? In the matrimonial market, my degree was like the gold foil on a chocolate coin. The real gold medal was an MBA, especially an MBA in Finance, which guarantees high-paying jobs in banks.
Gautam Bhatia was a double-gold-medallist, MBA Finance and MSc (IT). He was as good as Pinky’s older brother Rocky, who has a single MBA from Stanford. Pinky has an MBA too, from the National University of Singapore.
Romy-Bhaiya has a PhD in physics. Dad did his PhD in sociology and would have taught in Bombay University but the mills in Mumbai began to close down. Dada had to sell his textile business and Dad had to earn real money.
Luckily Roshna-Badi-Bua suggested Dad meet Mummy, who was designing leather bags and wanted to supply to all the big boutiques. Mummy had the craftsmen but no connections to enter the market. Dad had market connections, but no product to supply.
Their business partnership soon became a marriage partnership—“an arranged love marriage” is what they call it—but their bedroom still has fat sociology textbooks that Dad reads at night for fun.
Dad’s elder sister, my Urmila-Bua, also did a PhD, in Mathematics, and taught in Delhi University after marriage. We don’t talk much about Urmila-Bua, who died before I was born.
After the brunch, Dadi asked what I thought of that Gautam Bhatia, nice boy, very tall and fair, earning well.
“I’m not interested in marriage, Dadi,” I said. “I told you that time only, after my accident, that I was not going to marry. I want to concentrate on my career.”
Mummy stopped ironing her sari for the night. “So how are you concentrating on your career? Care to share your grand plans for the future?”
Mummy is really disappointed that I refused to do my PhD after MSc. She even went down to Pune University to talk to my supervisor, Dr Savarkar. I had a sick feeling until she came home, tossed up her hands and said: “Madam can do what she likes. Dr Savarkar also doesn’t know why you’re throwing your life away.”
Mummy has this way of speaking that sends me running towards Dadi.
“I have plans for my future,” I told Mummy in Delhi.
She snorted.
“Is the iron free?” Dadi said quickly.
I had lied. I didn’t have plans. Teaching brats to pass tenth-standard Biology was not what I was trained for. But I also could not even think of going back to Dr Savarkar’s lab in Pune University, even if she said I could rejoin any time.
I was qualified to join the Environment Authority in Mumbai but it wasn’t hiring.
I was overqualified to draw blood and run urine samples at a private hospital, though the pay would be slightly better than giving tuition. What else was there?
All I knew was, the “what else” would not be marriage. Marriage was not a good investment for my family or me.
“You need to think about your future,” Mummy said, as I began ironing my blouse for the evening. A blouse which she had paid for, which I could not afford. “When will you settle down?”
What does “settle down” mean? In India, “settle down” means “find a job” and “get married”. Indians are not adults until they “settle down”. Perhaps I should get a job somewhere outside Mumbai. It would take some of this pressure off.
Abroad? Romy-Bhaiya loves the US but I don’t know. The US can get cold and since I broke my wrist, the slightest dip in temperature sends shooting pains up the bone.
At the wedding, Mummy and I ate with Gautam Bhatia and his mother, while Dad did uncle-of-the-bride things elsewhere.
“Congratulations,” said Mrs Bhatia. “Pinky is a very nice girl and very qualified too. She studied in Singapore also, na? Our Gautam, he did a one-and-a-half-year exchange there for his MBA and MSc (IT).”
“Oh,” Mummy said, deliberately not commenting on Gautam’s education. For that, I gave her a secret one-armed hug.
“Singapore is a great place actually, lots of scope,” he said. “I have a friend who did microbiology, just like you, Nimita. If you convert his salary, he earns almost as much as I do in the bank. As much as my junior does, anyway.”
I did not ask Gautam how much he earned. I d
id ask him where this friend of his was working.
“Oh, he’s a researcher at some place. Some hospital. There’s lots of money in microbiology nowadays, overseas. Kotak Mahindra invested in some of that,” he said.
Singapore. Well, why not?
As soon as I got home, I did some research, took three deep pranayama breaths and called Dr Savarkar.
“Ma’am, I was wondering if you know anybody in Singapore,” I said, after the hi-hello-how-are-you part of the conversation was done with.
“Singapore? I know lots of people,” she said. “Why?”
“Ma’am, is it a good place to work?”
Silence. “You want to work in Singapore?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, knowing how rude it was. I had a place in her lab, the minute I requested it. But she knew and I knew why I wouldn’t take it. We would never be able to talk about it, but we both knew why I wasn’t asking for it.
“Let me make some calls,” Dr Savarkar said.
“Ma’am, thank you, ma’am,” I said. “Ma’am, I’m really sorry—”
“Just promise me you’ll start thinking about your PhD,” she said and cut the connection.
So that was how I heard of Singapore General Hospital and Dr K. Alagasamy. “He’s an animal cell researcher,” Dr Savarkar warned. “It’s a whole different ball game. You’ll start from the bottom.”
“Ma’am, that’s okay,” I said. It was perfect. Animal cells, not plants, an entirely new type of tissue to work with. Familiar techniques would have to be relearned. There would be a whole different set of literature to read up on. “But ma’am, will he be okay with me?”
“I told him you were worth his time,” said Dr Savarkar. “Start thinking about your PhD.”
But I was thinking about something entirely different.
I was thinking about how much I could earn in Singapore and whether it might be possible to settle down there. Buy a flat and live in peace by myself.
In another country, I could “settle down” without having to marry anyone. I could concentrate on my career. I would be far enough away that my family would not constantly be sending me potential husbands.
The day I left for CSI Airport, Dadi cried a little as she fed me sugar and curds. “You know, I always wanted to study abroad,” she said.
“I know,” I said. “Edinburgh.”
Mummy tapped the back of my head in warning. Dad had left the room long ago, pretending to get the car but actually to hide his crying face.
I was feeling emotional myself. Dadi wasn’t helping.
“My little princess. How will you take care of yourself all alone in a foreign country?”
“She’s twenty-six years old,” Mummy said.
“Already twenty-six,” said Dadi. “How time flies. You know, I was not even that old when I left my home, sixty years ago. During Partition.”
“This is different,” Mummy said.
Help me do this, I prayed to the pictures of Shiva and Parvati and Rama and Sita and especially to our little statue of Ganesha. With his elephant head and human body, Ganesha is the perfect god to watch over those who engineer DNA. Help me settle down and make a place of my own, I requested of them all, especially Ganesha.
Itty-Bua came to the airport to see me off. “Haan, but beta, what shall I tell that Gautam Bhatia’s family?” she asked for the tenth time. Her husband is Mithu-Chachi’s cousin so it was up to her to report back.
Mummy took charge. “What is there to tell? It is a good match but the girl has such a good chance to work in Singapore, na?”
So that was that, three-and-a-half years ago. Things had been good. Until now.
3.
Twenty people came to the first open house today. That’s twenty people wanting to make their home in a flat where the ceiling paint is peeling, the bathroom is mouldy and the location is, as advertised, near an MRT train station, which turns out to be Khatib.
No mall, no nothing, only open fields and down-market shops. It is worse to live near Khatib than in Bukit Batok.
But the flat is so cheap. Only $600,000 for an 850-square-foot condo. I could afford it with a bank loan, but just as I walk through the door, I see a couple hand over a cheque and letter of intent to buy the flat.
They fold their arms and look at me and all the others who come in, in the next few minutes. The agent has to show us all out, close the door and put a sign on it, saying: “Viewing closed”.
Next is a newer condo, near the Yew Tee MRT station and beside an air-conditioned shopping mall. A fight has already started in the first flat on view, on the 12th floor.
As I walk in, two buyers flap cheques beneath the agent’s nose. One shouts, “800K!” and the other, “How can? I offer 780K, you call the owner already! How can?”
“Sorry lah. She made higher offer, I got duty to my seller,” the agent says. She doesn’t sound sorry at all.
I walk out immediately and catch the lift going down with seven other people who all have the same idea—of quickly reaching the second viewing.
Window-shopping used to be fun. What’s happening?
At the next flat, I use my phone to check out the vaastu configuration. It is sensible to check the flow of energy through a home before deciding to buy it.
I wave my phone to calibrate the compass and bang it into somebody else doing the same.
“Sorry. Oh! Hi!”
Bala looks almost the same as he does in Dr Alagasamy’s lab. Instead of a white lab coat, he is wearing a brown sports coat. His round face creases before remembering to smile. “What are you doing here?”
“Same thing you are.” I nod at his phone. Samsung S5, latest model. “What does your app say?”
Bala claps the phone to his side. “Very bad, very bad. South facing. Terrible luck.”
My phone beeps and the compass app shows a perfect north. Not as fantastic as east but not bad at all.
“Bala?” A tiny woman slides her very thin arm into his short, fat one. Bala takes in so much air he looks like a stuffed bear.
“This is Nimita Sachdev. My colleague from Dr Alagasamy’s lab. The new girl from India.”
New girl? I’ve been in that lab for more than three years!
“Nice to meet you.” She smiles. “I’m Letchemi.”
“Very nice to meet you.” I shake her hand. “I’m sorry I missed your wedding.”
“Oh!” She nods. “You were the one who had to go back to India because your grandmother—I’m so sorry. How is she now?”
The words are stuck in my throat. It is hard for me to talk about Dadi and the stroke that took away the woman who brought me up. A stroke which happened three months into my new life in Singapore, just when she and Dad and Mummy were planning a visit. All the air-ticket money—and more—went to hospital bills.
“I should apologise,” I tell Letchemi. “You were newly married and your husband had to do all my work in the lab.”
Naatak-baazi, play-acting like Dadi taught me. Social interaction is all naatak-baazi. Say the polite thing even when you know it was Santha, the office manager, who froze my samples and bacterial cultures. Bala took his marriage leave and honeymoon leave and let Siddiqui, our Pakistani colleague, pick up the slack on the Transferase-C project.
Siddiqui may be from a country that sends only terrorists to Mumbai, but before I left for India, he gave me a packet of ash from a holy place in his hometown. I had told him that Dadi was also from Lahore.
I put that ash on Dadi’s lips, on her loose, silent face and after an eternity she moved—so, so slowly—to lick it off. It was the first sign of movement since the stroke.
I smile at Letchemi until my face hurts. If I don’t, I will cry. “I thought you had applied for an HDB near your parents?”
Housing is so hard to find in Singapore that even its citizens can’t just buy any government-subsidised flat directly from the Housing Board. They need to apply for permission to buy. Sometimes they may not get it.
Bala says: “Well, you know, we thought why wait for the ballot? Hundreds of people applying, you know, now that all the foreigners,” his moustache quivers, “are taking citizenship and trying to buy HDB too.”
“So many foreigners,” Letchemi says. “Who wants to live near them? All those Chinese with no idea how to behave. From China, you know.”
“And Indians also,” says Bala, puffing up like a balloon. “So we thought why not upgrade with our first flat? We can both afford it. Letchemi teaches in Serangoon Junior College. She has two bachelor’s degrees, you know.”
Letchemi clucks. “One bachelor’s in Science, one bachelor’s in education. Very normal.”
Bala’s moustache dances with his smile. “Bachelor’s from NUS, you know. National University of Singapore. Top ten university in the world, second in Asia. And she also studied at the National Institute of Education.”
Yes, and you have your PhD from Cornell in the US and I am only MSc, that too from a little town in India. I know, I know. You remind me of it all the time.
“What about you?” Bala asks.
“What about me?” Is he seriously asking if I can afford this place?
“You are settling down? You are here with someone?” He looks around.
My arm grows cold. “No. Just me.”
The agent comes up to us, beaming. “Ah, you’re friends. You know each other! All from India!”
Bala’s smile becomes a snarl. His moustache tips go rigid and he is steaming so much I can see the oil begin to drip from his hair. “I’m Singaporean.”
“Oh, sorry, sorry. So how? Colleagues, ah, can compete or not? Who give me best price?”
Bala and I look at each other. Letchemi pulls at his arm.
“I think we’d like to think about it,” she says.