The Taste of Ginger(74)
Spotting Carrie coming out of the Ahmedabad airport was easy—she was the only white person amid the sea of brown. Even with her red hair pulled into a ponytail, she was impossible to miss. It was probably the first time in her life she had experienced being a minority. She emerged from the terminal with a look of utter confusion and raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun.
Men were approaching her, offering to carry her bags or serve as her driver. She kept saying, “No, thank you,” not realizing she’d need to be much more assertive if she was going to make it through her India trip. Her pale skin made her an easy mark. Children ran up to her and stopped inches away as if an invisible shield had risen. They shyly looked at her. Those more daring reached out to touch her skin and then giggled as they ran back to hide behind their mothers, covering themselves with dupattas as if that made them invisible.
I stood on the hood of Virag Mama’s Fiat and waved wildly until she saw me. Relief registered on her face, and she wheeled her suitcase in my direction. I jumped off the car and gave my best friend a fierce hug while the people around stared openly at us and tried to decipher the context in which this white woman was in Ahmedabad.
“It is so good to see you! I can’t believe you’re here!”
“You and me both,” Carrie said as she released me and glanced around her unfamiliar surroundings. “People here are really not into personal space, are they? I’ve had so many strangers touch me between the customs line and here.”
“They’re touching you because they’ve never seen a white person in the flesh before. Be glad you aren’t a blonde. People would be begging for a strand of your hair.”
Virag Mama had been standing a respectable distance away so we could greet each other privately. I introduced the two. He looked mildly startled when Carrie extended her hand to shake his. She looked at me, her eyes asking if she had done something wrong. I shrugged, not knowing if she had. It was custom for me, as an Indian, to touch an elder’s feet upon meeting them, but I had no idea how Carrie, as a foreigner, was supposed to behave.
Our driver and Virag Mama took Carrie’s suitcase and hoisted it onto the roof with a low grunt. Then the driver tied it down with yellow string. Carrie’s small leather satchel went onto the passenger seat.
“Guess people here are also not into trunk space,” Carrie said, gesturing toward the dozens of others who were undergoing the same exercise of tying luggage to the tops of their cars.
I grinned. “There are over one point three billion people in this country. Space is scarce.” I held the door open for her to slide into the back seat with me.
Carrie felt the seat around her. “No seat belts?”
I shook my head and laughed. Carrie’s expression during the drive was priceless. She gripped the edge of the seat as we swerved around animals and lorries. She flinched with every blast of a horn, and there were many. Her renegade driving style on the 405 was tame in comparison to this. After a few days, she would tune out that sound like everyone else did. As nervous as she seemed about her surroundings, I knew she’d ultimately be glad to have seen India, and I could not have been more delighted to have her sitting next to me.
Her relief was evident as we pulled into the driveway of Lakshmi. The bungalow was calm and inviting, providing a respite from the commotion she had seen on the streets between the airport and home.
Upon our entrance, a pair of guest champals waited by the door. Indira Mami must have left them out for Carrie. She slipped into the house shoes, familiar with the routine of removing her shoes before entering my apartment in Los Angeles.
I tried to rush through introductions with the other family members, but Indira Mami insisted that Carrie have something to eat or drink before sleeping.
“The food on those flights is so terrible. You must be quite hungry,” Indira Mami said, bringing out a plate of khari biscuits and a hot pot of chai. Before setting them down, she looked at the traditional Indian snacks and hesitated. “We also have bread and butter if you prefer some toast. Or juice? Would you like orange juice?” Carrie was the first white person to ever set foot in Lakshmi, and Indira Mami seemed unsure of how to act around her.
I sat next to Carrie. “This is fine, Indira Mami. She’ll like this.”
Indira Mami and Mom joined us at the large dining table. Both poured some tea from the teacup into the saucer to cool it more quickly. Then they slurped from the saucer. Carrie looked relieved to see me drinking directly from the teacup and followed suit.
By the time we got upstairs, the servants had pulled another cot into the room I was sleeping in, and the two beds filled the space. I had to crawl over Carrie’s bed to get to mine, but that small room was as close to privacy as we were going to get in this country. Carrie sank onto the bed. If the hard density of the mattress jolted her, she didn’t show it. She stretched her long, pale legs and closed her eyes. I sat across from her.
Without opening her eyes, Carrie said, “Jared asked why you quit.”
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth. That I didn’t know.” She rolled onto her side to face me and opened her eyes. “You going to tell me what this midlife crisis is all about?”
I remained silent. Not sure what to say.
“Does it stem from the fact that Alex moved on?”
I felt as if a heavy rock had been placed on my chest. On some level I knew I had thrown myself into life in India to distract from my broken personal life, but that was not the only reason. My time in India had forced me to face emotions that I had buried very deep inside me for a long time. How could I explain to Carrie what it felt like to be an Indian person at a white law firm? To be an Indian person anywhere in America?