Mirror made of rain, p.1
Mirror Made of Rain, page 1
AN UNNAMED PRESS BOOK
Copyright © 2022 Naheed Phiroze Patel
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. Permissions inquiries may be directed to info@unnamedpress.com. Published in North America by the Unnamed Press.
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Unnamed Press, and the colophon, are registered trademarks of Unnamed Media LLC.
ISBN: 978-1-951213-60-2
eISBN: 978-1-951213-61-9
Library of Congress Control Number available upon request.
“Mirror” from Playlist for the Apocalypse, W. W. Norton, New York, NY.
© 2021 by Rita Dove. Reprinted by permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are wholly fictional or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Designed and Typeset by Jaya Nicely
Cover Photograph by Robert Keane
Manufactured in the United States of America by McNaughton & Gunn.
Distributed by Publishers Group West
First Edition
MIRROR
a novel MADE
OF RAIN
NAHEED
PHIROZE
PATEL
The Unnamed Press
Los Angeles, CA
To the memory of my father, Phiroze, who’d find a kind word for any person that needed one
Mirror,
Mirror,
take this
this take
from
from
me:
me:
my blasted gaze,
gaze blasted, my
sunken
sunken
astonishment. Resolve
resolve, astonishment.
memory & rebuild; shame’ll
Shame’ll rebuild & memory
dissolve
dissolve
under powder pressed into
into pressed powder under
my skin
skin, my
—Rita Dove
PART ONE
For March it was unseasonably hot. Summer in Kamalpur began in late April, and by May, the earth was an anvil for the sun. Birds fell out of trees; stray dogs sheltered under parked cars. Scooterists and rickshaw-wallahs tied damp cloths over their heads to protect themselves from the Nau Tapa, the nine days of fevered winds.
That night, Sheila Sehgal had pedestal fans placed around her garden, where their lazily moving blades provided a paltry breeze. Rice lights were strewn over the trees; a champa’s leaves were painted gold and silver. The glass gazebo at the end of the lawn had its air conditioners on, the dust covers removed from its sofas. Women in georgette saris and men in bush shirts jostled for a place to sit. Light refracted from the gazebo’s thick glass walls, and appeared to make their limbs move a fraction slower, as if in an aquarium.
In the weeks leading up to Sheila’s Holi eve do—more select than her Diwali open house and more opulent than her New Year’s Eve party—her guest list was the favorite topic of conversation in the drawing rooms, verandas, and dining rooms of Kamalpur’s wealthy families. Knowing who was not invited was as important, to some, as knowing who was. An invitation from Sheila was a stamp of approval; a snub meant that you’d been banished, for that year, to the humdrum backwaters of what passed for fashionable society in town. It was important to find out who was off Sheila’s list. This time, the Seths were out: Sheila had caught her husband with Mr. Seth’s jiggly wife. The philandering wasn’t really the problem—it was that they hadn’t been discreet about it. The same went for the Tutejas, who’d neglected a few too many times to call and wish Sheila well on her birthday. The Agarwals were definitely in; they’d recently purchased three new cocaine-white Audis and their son was going to marry a carpet-empire heiress. Jeh, my father, joked that if Sheila and her friends were shipwrecked on a desert island, they’d go all Lord of the Flies but still maintain a pecking order. Jeh and I arrived at the Sehgals’ garden neither too early nor too late, dressed in our finest: he in a white kurta, me in a blue sari. Heavy chandelier earrings stretched out my earlobes. Perfumed sweat pooled between my breasts. While I fought with my ill-fitting sari blouse, Jeh nodded and smiled at acquaintances. Some returned his smile, others did not.
“Remember,” Jeh murmured, “we are telling everyone that your mother is home sick.”
“Why do we have to lie,” I said, adjusting the sari’s pallu across my chest.
“We have to,” Jeh said. “Just stay out of trouble tonight, okay, Noomi? Please. For my sake.”
“Okay,” I said. “Oh, here comes Aunty Rhea.”
My father’s cousin lolloped over like a drunk rabbit. Rhea Puri, with a teardrop mole above her cheekbone, was as glamorous as an old-fashioned movie star and, in many ways, as tragic. Rhea and my mother had shared an airy flat overlooking the Arabian Sea when they were art students in Bombay. Thinking of Jeh, her favorite cousin with a sorry track record in love, Rhea brought Asha home to Kamalpur one summer. Jeh and Asha spent most of July 1978 having disheveled, confused sex in my grandfather’s silver-and-blue Fiat on the wooded banks of Rani Lake. I don’t think my grandparents ever forgave Rhea for introducing Jeh to Asha. They didn’t even attend Rhea’s sudden wedding, a year later, to her unwholesomely rich boyfriend, whose family owned resorts in Goa and Alibaug. The boyfriend, now husband, a politician-goonda, was both wealthy and controlling; Rhea needed his permission for everything. She had to run her outfits by him every day. She couldn’t have a job. She was allowed to drink alcohol only in his presence. Once, he’d caught Rhea smoking pot she bought off a waiter at the Gymkhana Club. He locked her in their bedroom for days. Rhea was forbidden from going anywhere by herself. A chauffeur/bodyguard brought her, most afternoons, to our house, where she and my mother drank chai, smoked, and bitched up a storm about living in Kamalpur. Jeh said that their friendship was fed off nothing more than a mutual love for self-destruction.
Rhea’s high heel dug a divot out from the lawn. She stumbled toward us and stopped from going splat because I pulled her up by the arm. The drink in her hand fell to the ground; its ice cubes gleamed like crystals in the dark grass. Rhea looked from me to Jeh to the glass and back at us again. Dismay Etch A Sketch–ed itself across her forehead.
“Oh, fuck. I had to work so hard to sneak that drink!” Rhea said, looking like a child with a broken toy. “Jeh, please. Get me another one? My husband won’t notice you in this huge crowd.”
“That’s not a good idea,” I said, cutting off my father, who’d rather have a tooth pulled than say no to anyone, let alone his glamorous cousin. “We don’t want to get you into trouble.”
Rhea’s hands grabbed the points of her elbows. I couldn’t help but stare at her diamond solitaire ring, the size of an almond. She loved to tell the story of that ring, how her husband had slipped it on while she was asleep: “He wanted it to be a surprise.” Later, we’d found out it was for surprising her with an STD—he made frequent “business trips” to Thailand.
“Where’s Asha?” Rhea asked, scanning the crowd, eyes hooded with boredom.
“Asha couldn’t make it tonight. She’s… not well,” Jeh said. He picked up the fallen glass and handed it to a passing waiter. “We’re telling everyone that she’s ill with… with food poisoning.”
“Oh no, poor thing,” Rhea said, with sympathy in her voice. “I hope she feels better.”
“She needs to sleep it off,” I said with a shrug.
At least that was the hope—that Asha was sleeping off the vodka she’d drank earlier that evening and hadn’t dug right back into her stash under the bathroom sink. Two hours earlier, I’d barged into Jeh’s bedroom as he was putting on his kurta. His hands bloomed out of its sleeves; his head popped out from its pearl-buttoned collar.
“Mom’s hammered. We can’t take her with us,” I said.
“What are you talking about?” Jeh asked, sliding his feet into his shoes.
“See for yourself,” I said, throwing the door open.
We went out into the hall to find Asha standing beside the dining table, her hands clamped on to a high-backed chair. She looked concussed, as if the alcohol had struck her head like a mallet. A stain, like a shadow, staggered over the folds of her sari, a gara that had been passed down in the Wadia family for three generations. It was a wedding present from my grandparents. I was supposed to inherit it one day.
“Why are you two staring at me like that? We’re late. Let’s… let’s go,” Asha said. A wilted rose drooped over her ear, pinned where she had made an attempt to sweep her hair back on one side.
Jeh and I didn’t move. Asha said, louder this time, “Chalo! I’m ready!” She wheeled her eyes from my face to Jeh’s, then lifted the corner of her sari to wipe away kohl smudges. A few shaky steps toward the front door, and her foot twisted in her heels. She cried out. Jeh grabbed her. Gently, he helped her back to the dining chair.
Asha doubled over, rubbing her ankle. I watched her from a corner, rage filling me like a balloon. The rose fell to the floor. Black kajal tears made tiger-streaks on her face.
“I’m not going to stay home, I’m fine,” she said. “I’m fine, I’m coming with you.”
“You’re not leaving this house,” I said. “If you take one step toward that door, you’ll regret it.” I pulled my cell phone out from my purse. “I’ll make sure of that .”
“You can’t threaten me, Noomi,” Asha said, chinny and belligerent. “For that I would have to care.”
I decided to try another tactic. “What’s the point of fighting? Stay home and do whatever you want. No one will stop you. Let Dad and me attend this boring party.” I waved the cell phone in the air. “But if I call Lily Mama or Zal Papa, they’ll bring up rehab again. You don’t want anyone to see you when you’re like this. Trust me, Mom.”
Usually, Asha thrived on the toxic energy of an ugly fight. It powered her like a Duracell bunny. But at the thought of my grandparents, who lived on the ground floor of our two-story bungalow, barging in, asking all sorts of uncomfortable questions, she shuffled off back into her bedroom. I waited a few minutes, then went inside to check if she’d gone to bed. Jeh lingered at the doorway. Asha lay curled like a question mark in her blouse and petticoat. Her sari, my future sari, lay in a heap on the floor. Black tears dribbled onto the pillow.
“You hate me so much,” she said as I pulled the bedclothes over her.
“Ma, no one hates you more than you hate yourself,” I said. “Go to sleep. We’ll show our faces at the party and come back within the hour. It’ll be lame and boring. You sleep.”
I sat with Asha until she blubbered into silence. Then, closing the door behind me softly, I left with Jeh.
In the late ‘90s, Sheila’s husband, Pali Sehgal, used to be a small-time government tout. For a bribe, there were rumors that he could get you a contract for cement or small machinery or something like that. The details were, and are, fuzzy. Back then, Pali, Sheila, and their son, Siddharth, used to ride triples on a Bajaj scooter. Hard to imagine now, when you saw the fleet of SUVs parked in their driveway or attended their parties, where the alcohol was imported, the DJ and the caterers flown in from Delhi. There was a rumor that Pali owned factories that produced the most low-grade, adulterated, your-building-will- collapse-in-a-year cement. And rumors that he owed gangsters money. Every year, people predicted Pali’s downfall, but the Sehgals’ parties only got more lavish, their cars fancier, and their holidays abroad longer.
In Kamalpur, rich people made their money in one of two ways: by mixing one thing in another (sand in concrete, stones in rice, water in milk, kerosene in petrol) or by changing one thing into another (black money into white, agricultural land into commercial, employees’ pensions into destination weddings), while the authorities mostly looked the other way. An income tax raid was, in fact, considered a status symbol: if the Income Tax Department people weren’t snooping around your business, you weren’t making a lot of black money, which meant you were paying your taxes, which meant that you were, as they say, a chutiya. A putz.
In contrast to the Sehgals, my family, the Wadias, were the ultimate putzes. Not only did we pay taxes, but we also never cheated octroi, never hid assets from the company balance sheet, never ate into employees’ salaries or bribed government officials. As a consequence, while everyone else’s star was on the rise, ours was in slow but steady decline. Our bungalow and its sprawling garden were temple elephants: grand to display but grueling to maintain.
It was universally anticipated that, this year, Sheila Sehgal’s parties would be even more extravagant. Sid, her only son, was getting married that December. The Holi eve soirée was to casually (yet ostentatiously) introduce Sheila’s new daughter-in-law-to-be in an outfit that cost as much as a midsized car. At the start of the party, Sid and Anushka had been led by their over-smiling families to a sofa under an arch of flowers and sat side by side like a pair of dolls. Sid held up Anushka’s hand, and with a sharky grin, he slipped a diamond on to her finger. The crowd broke out into oohs and aahs. Someone did a loud two-fingered whistle. I turned my head toward the sound. I saw Ammu, my best friend from middle school. We hadn’t spoken in ten years. A peculiar thing about Kamalpur was that the wealthy families all had their roots tangled up like banyan trees; it took some skill to figure out where one household ended and the other began. Ammu was Sid’s cousin on his mom’s side. Sid was one of the most popular rich boys in Kamalpur. Everyone knew Sid Sehgal. He went to expensive boarding schools and then college in America. His parents bought him a Mercedes at seventeen. If Sid thought you were pretty, the other boys did as well.
When I saw Sheila Sehgal walking over to us, I grabbed Jeh’s hand and then, thinking that I must look stupid, let it go.
“Jeh, so glad you’re here,” Sheila said, tilting her head to one side like a cockatoo. “I wasn’t sure you’d be able to make it—sorry that the invite was so last minute.” Sheila had on a sari the color of old ivory, trimmed with soft white feathers that shivered gracefully with every movement. Around her neck were six strands of uncut diamonds. Her smoky eyes flitted from Jeh to me. “And, Noomi, long time no see.” A pause. A little frown. “Where’s Asha?”
Jeh shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His lips gathered in a small, nervous moue.
“Asha’s not feeling well. She’s at home. She sends her best.” He smiled wanly.
Sheila Sehgal’s eyebrows shot up into her luxurious hair. She raked and fluffed her layers with talon-like red nails. “Oh! I’m sad to hear that. I was looking forward to seeing her,” she said, sounding not at all sad. “Achcha, you must get yourself a drink. The bartenders are from Russia, or Ukraine, or someplace like that.” She waved a hand toward the bar. “I don’t know where my Sidoo finds these people, to be honest. But they make the most amazing cocktails.”
After Sheila sent Jeh off to the bar with a smile, she turned her attention to me. “Noomi, where have you been hiding? Haven’t seen you at any of the usual parties. Of course”—Sheila gestured at the crowd—”I’ve been so busy organizing Sid and Anushka’s engagement.”
“I’ve been around, Aunty. Not going out much these days,” I said, not wanting to tell her that I hadn’t been asked to any of the usual parties. “You look very pretty.”
“Bespoke Raaj Lulla,” Sheila said, preening. “A gift from Anushka’s parents. I hate his off-the-rack stuff, but this I adore. Did you know they’ve got him to do the flowers?”
“The… flowers?” I said stupidly. “Raaj Lulla does flowers?”
“Not for everyone,” Sheila said with a wink. “Anushka’s parents have a very close relationship with Raaj. He’s done all her outfits.” She scanned my sari. “That’s a pretty color. Turn around so that I can see the whole thing.”
I turned. My sari was blue chamois silk with a silver sequin border. I’d worn a shimmery blouse and high heels to match. My blouse chafed painfully at the armholes. I’d gotten it stitched weeks ago but forgot to try it on to see if it fit. And then it was too late to get it altered. The hooks fought to stay buttoned across my chest; the front had gaps that I’d covered with my sari’s pallu, praying it would stay in place for the rest of the night.
“Ah, lovely. I admire how you wear just anything, no need for designer brands,” Sheila said.
“Thank you.” I smiled, pulling at my pallu. One could detest Sheila yet crave her approval like a dog panting after treats.
“Darling, you’re twenty-three! I’ll tell you the same thing I tell Anushka: at your age, you should look your best. All. The. Time,” Sheila said. “Anushka works out for one two hours in the gym every day. I said to her, ‘After marriage, please take my son along with you!’” She cackled, amused at her own joke.
“That’s nice,” I said.
“Go congratulate them,” Sheila said, shooing me away. “They’re around here somewhere,” she added, searching the growing crowd on the lawn. “Oh, the chief minister and his wife just walked in. Excuse me, I have to go say hello.”
The only reason we’d been invited to the Sehgals’ was because Sheila always respected the old Kamalpur hierarchies. My grandmother Lily Mama came from old, aristocratic money. A ferocious beauty in her day, she still had enough power in her gaze to raise you up or send you tumbling. When I was four years old, a nursery teacher used to pinch the inside of my thighs if I didn’t “sit like a lady.” Lily Mama discovered the bruises one afternoon while I was playing with a doll in her lap, shouting at it to sit like a lady. The next morning, she marched into the school office, wearing battle pearls, purse under her arm, to roar at the principal. The teacher was fired. After Jeh, I loved her the most.
