Anita Nahal—An Extract From A My Untitled Novel
1.
It was a warm August afternoon ten years before, in 2008, that Priya and four of her colleagues from Pavers University reached U Street in Washington DC to find a good and clean tattoo artist for her. Gentrification had changed much of the U street corridor. While modern, crisp apartment and office buildings dotted the street line, very few small stores, and family cafés remained nestled between rising elitist and aloof concretes. The poor in the area, largely African American, were stripped of their spaces and homes perhaps with very little compensation, and pushed off to far away dismal suburbs, much farther away from prestigious suburbs. It was not exactly known where, but folks talked about it a lot in a sad, disgruntled, and sometimes angry manner that most didn’t know how to change.
Walking down the first part of U street, on the opposite side of the road to the iconic Ben’s Chill Bowl, Priya’s colleagues were looking at all the tattoo shops they were passing by, sizing them up.
“We’ve got to find a tattoo studio that is neat and tidy with instruments all sanitized,” said Perry, his expression one of grave concern. I hope she doesn’t get an infection, he thought. She’s so keen on getting a tattoo…very surprising for a woman from India…and at an older age. “What’s your son going to say when he sees your tattoo? Or your parents when you go back to visit them?” he inquired a bit hesitatingly.
“Oh…my son already knows…and he doesn’t mind. And my parents… well sadly mom has passed, but I think she would have loved the tattoo, and my dad is not going to mind…I think he’ll be okay…he’s pretty cool about most things. Except that he never let me go out with boys and never let boys come home!”
“So, you never went out with boys…no dates… how did you marry out of love then?” he asked.
“Nope, no dates…” added Priya evading the rest of the question.
This group of special friends often questioned her about arranged marriages in India even though she insisted it wasn’t the norm, especially in urban areas.
“Right…so how did you meet Avijeet’s father then…you told us that you had a love marriage,” Perry persisted.
“It’s a simple story…met Satinder at a friend’s…that’s all…”
11.
“Why are you getting the tattoo done under your armpit? No one can see it,” quipped in Tenisha.
“Oh…because I always wanted one…but no one can see it…one that’s professionally acceptable…only someone special may see…” Priya responded with a twinkle in her eye.
“Oh…my…now we’ve heard it all!” rolled his eyes and chuckled, Francis.
Gracilyn, the eldest of the group, just smiled, patting Priya on her back as she sat in the Tattoo artist’s chair. It took no more than about forty-five minutes to engrave the tattoo. And afterwards, Priya took them out for dinner. They had insisted they tag along for support. She was glad they did! Perry, her best platonic friend, was most attentive all evening. Platonic friends are hard to come by as most want something out of a friendship. But not Perry. Maintained his distance. He’d already asked her out on a date once before, but she’d said, no. He had done his PhD from Pavers, and even though she hadn’t been his professor, and he was almost her age, it was tough for her to see him in a different light.
“Ok, you don’t wish to date me but what about if we don’t find someone in ten years, we get together?’
“You mean…we can be each other’s back up?”
“Ya… no harm in it… that’s if you are agreeable.” After some thought, she had said, yes. Sadly, Perry passed away from pancreatic cancer in 2013.
And so, a tattoo
Came along and rested on her inner armpit
It was mostly black spokes with an orange hue
Right in the middle of the base pit.
“What would you like done?”
The tattoo artist spoke and spun
Around the sterilized instruments
Like a wizard with his hugely tattooed hands
“A sun…you know the one our planet
revolves around.
And gives us heat & warmth… and so duty bound.
Every single day making us feel positive…soul’s enhancement …
That’s what I am too…
always trying to make it shine in the blue…”
Hardly impressed, “Okay…that’s very nice.
Do you have a design in mind?”
She showed him the precise
One she wanted. Nervous she was. Skin there was thinned
And though growing a bit flabby
she was still lean and a bit muscly
“Is it the right
decision? What if it’s a terrible sight?
And what about the pain?”
Initially it stung like an angry bee but quick to go
As drilling made it kind of numb. “You know
ma’am, the orange colour came out a bit dim.
So, if you’d like that portion redone…just give me a call,
and I’ll retouch it for free. It’s not a big area…pretty small…”
So, she went back for the retouch
Of the orange in the middle
And that time it pained crazy…gosh it was too much, the retouch!
Thankfully she didn’t let out any piddle!
Though she winced and slowly screamed\
And laughed, and shook her head, and sighed
The tattoo became like any wounded spot…
Wet, moist, then dry and peeling off like a scab. Got
Her home remedies and took care of it applying coconut oil
An old Indian granny cure, it worked swell!
And after all was done, it gleamed beautiful
Like the usual sun leaving behind no messy residual
She couldn’t wear any sleeved shirts for some time
Had to let the wound breathe and set over time.
And after tattoo and dinner, her quartet of dear friends
Took her to a discotheque, modern word-club
She said she loved dancing, never been to real clubs
It was near the 7th street waterfront…this club
Set in three floors
With many windows and doors
No claustrophobia
Just she felt some social phobia
When it came to dance and showing her strut
But when her favourite songs played,
She was kinda pulled into another world
She was mesmerized… lifted,
Gliding, swaying, free and spirited.
Dancing is something
Priya adored
In India too when growing up, something
Or the other dance related she participated
At the school
And right in the middle of the pool
She was placed in group folk dances
wearing colourful dresses and make up. The chances
Of turning dance into her main profession
Did strike her many times
But her parents scuttled those dreams
It was to be studies, a regular job only… “Dance is no regular profession!”
They thundered. But her body had a natural rhythm
And she kept up with dance practice, making it her main exercise regime.
Many years later in the US
She took to line dancing.
Not the country but R&B and Hip -Hop kind. No fuss
It was just the right kind of dancing
Required no partner
And on the dance floor
Folks stood in straight lined
Formations doing set steps and aligned
Or make sure they all did the same stuff
Or would surely clash and fall down. What plight!
Wouldn’t be a pretty sight
Once the steps were memorized it wasn’t that tough
Ballet, Bharatanatyam, Kathak, folk dancing
To line dancing and clubbing.
III.
Priya… what’s that on your inner left arm? Is that an injury? Hai, baba…what happened?” Her dad asked her on their next trip back to New Delhi after the sun sat quietly and confidently under her left arm.
“Oh, no papa…it’s a tattoo…you know how I love tattoos…so I finally got one done.”
“Wow…let me put on my glasses and look at it closely…” he hurriedly searched for his specs.
There were many glasses placed all around the house as Priya’s dad would often keep them somewhere and forget. “They are on your head…” her father’s brother shouted from the kitchen.
“How do you know they are on my head? You are in the kitchen!”
“I saw them there when I was just in that room!”
“Okay, okay, don’t try to be smart, now…I knew they were there all along! He and his brother had a love-hate relationship.
“Now let me see, Priya… aare, what is this? A flower?”
“No, no papa, it’s a sun…the one our planet revolves around.”
“Very funny, as if I didn’t know…” Her uncle walked over too and peered at the tattoo. Said nothing. Avijeet, was observing this attention-grabbing scene from the corner of his eyes while watching TV.
“Very nice, Priya, I like it very much,” finally said her dad. “You’ve always been so chic! Your mom would have loved your tattoo… she was different too…like you… always thinking of interesting things to do…Hey, Avijeet, will you also get a tattoo like your mom?”
“No, no…mama likes tattoos, I don’t” And, secretly, Priya thought, that’s wonderful!
It’s funny
The circle of child-parent-child
What we do, often we don’t want that to be like pin-money
Trail to follow our child
Hypocrisy is human
Erring is human
I’m no different
And I accept it too…not indifferent
To my frailties
My blunders
And my wonders
At my own emotional and body fragilities
“Priya, put down your poetry diary for just
these few days with me. Tell your thoughts to go take a hike if they must!”
“Yes, papa…just something you said ticked off the catalogues…
and I began to search by name or number
my brain corridors…”
“You mean like the card catalogues in libraries…Ah…I remember!”
“Papa, those are now outdated.
We rummage through the net where it’s all located.
Not always the nicest place to be,
indeed, can be quite a cruel, intrusive place sometimes to be.”
“I wish I knew how to write an email.
They say I don’t need postage now.
I just have to press a button!” and he raised his eyebrow
Snorting, he concluded, “He, he, he…not like the days of the snail mail!”
“I shall teach you papa, and then you can send an email to me…”
“Even if I learn it, you’d better keep sending handwritten letters to me…”
Funny, but her dad was saying exactly what her mom used to, even though Priya still lived in India when she passed. Her mom adored receiving hand-written letters from Priya…from across the town! When her mom was no more, Priya found one of her purses in her cupboard in which she discovered some of her hand-written diaries, photos, some delicately embroidered hankies, some small pencils and thin strips of cloth of about 5-6-inch in length, and a bunch of letters. The diaries contained recipes, phone numbers, addresses, some thoughts, some notes, and quotes. Mummy loved her small diaries which she kept everywhere…in her purses, on her dressing table, and even under her pillow. Priya did the same …just in case she thought of a poem, in the middle of the night, she could jot it down. Though now, Priya also sent herself texts or wrote in the notes app.
One of the letters in the bunch was from her grandfather to her mom in which he had written almost the same thing, that not to forget to send letters! The purse she found the letters and diaries in was one Priya had gifted to her. Her mom did not really like its olive-green colour, and Priya felt very sorry that she hadn’t brought a better colour. In the pictures in the purse, however, her mom was carrying the same bag. That made her very happy. She clutched on to the purse and took a deep breath of the inside of the bag. She could still get a trace of her mom’s favourite fragrance, Nina Ricci’s L’Air du Temps, mangled with musty, vintage odour. She tried to feel her mom’s own body fragrance.
“Mummy, why do you put a bit of the perfume behind your ears and near the wrists?” Priya was barely eight or nine…
“Because those are the pulse spots, thus the warm spots on our body, and if we rub a bit there, the warmth keeps the fragrance on the skin longer.”
“What do you mean by pulse spots?”
“Where we can feel our heart’s pulse…”
“Oh…okay…
“And one can also spray some perfume on the freshly washed scalp or hair or after wetting dried hair…one can get a whiff of the fragrance for days! Or spray a few drops on hankies…this way our purse will also smell nice!”
Priya’s mom had very straight hair which she was ever trying to curl. Those days good curlers had not yet been developed. So, her innovative mom would take small pencils, and small pieces of cloth cut into thin strips and partitioning her hair, she would roll small sections of the hair on the pencils, and then secure the hair with the pieces of cloth. If her hair was dry when she did this, she’d spray a bit of water, and then complete the process with a mist or two of her perfume. And that’s how she slept a couple of times a week. In the morning she had perfectly formed spiral curls with a distinct scent of L’air du Temps!
“But how do you sleep with all those pencils, mummy?” Priya asked while making a circle of the pencils; all joined from the tips.
“I don’t curl my hair right till my scalp. See… I curl from about two inches lower than my neck, and in the night, I just lift them and place them on the side of my head.”
“Hmm…hahahaha… I look like you now mummy,” said Priya laying her head on one side of the pillow.
“Naughty girl…” Her mother ran after her as Priya sprinted off.
