“Yes, ma’am.” The waiter said as he rushed over and stared into his small notebook. “What would you like?” It was too early in the morning for anyone else to be dining at the small Pakistani eatery, but it had still taken over fifteen minutes for the waiter to appear. It seemed the pace did not ever change whether two patrons, or twenty.1
“Um, one halwa puri, but with chapatti instead.” said Jane. “And a lassi.”2
“Mango lassi,” the waiter nearly told her.3
“No,” she said, crinkling her nose a bit. “Plain.”4
“Oh, the mangoes are so fresh. You will love.” he said, shifting his head from side to side with a look of seriousness on his face. If it had been an Italian joint and waiter, he would have most definitely kissed the tips of his fingers.5
“Plain,” she said, reiterating herself in a way that could only be interpreted as rudeness. The waiter collected the menu and hurried away.6
She remembered him from before. This was the same waiter that had served her family many times. They used to eat there on weekends, but that seemed like a long time ago. No one seemed to remember her face and she didn’t want anyone to recall anyway. Now she was treated as just another American that had decided to broaden her cultural horizons by switching from Indian food to Pakistani for a change, allotting her more attention than she was previously accustomed. Before, when she was a wife of one of their own, they would speak less to her, ushering all conversation through him, but now she would order and they would say, “Oh, that is very spicy for you!” They had no idea that she knew exactly which spices should be used where and could cook all the dishes, even the ones with flour in them. 7
Her husband had been a picky eater and was quick to lash with the tongue when it wasn’t done just right. After living in the Middle East and spending long vacations in Pakistan, she learned to cook the dishes beyond the ones utilizing the common formula: fried onions, spices, meat, vegetable, yogurt, or some variation in that sequence. She didn’t completely get the essence of Eastern cooking until forced to cook off the floor with her dupatta draped around her, like she saw the women in his family do many times. They could have easily stood and cooked as they had all the equipment, but felt more comfortable with the fire between their loosely-clothed legs perched on a small stool made for children. The chapatti took her years to master, but chavel was surprisingly the most difficult.8
“See this rice, how it breaks away at the touch, no sticking.” Her husband once said while mashing a few grains between his forefinger and thumb. “You need to learn to make it like this!” It was early in the marriage when they were eating dinner outside with some of his casual friends. Up until that point, they were conversing only in their native tongue, taking a break from their follies only to admonish her with some rudimentary cooking lesson.9
“I don’t get,” she said. “What’s wrong with a little stickiness. Chinese rice is sticky. Koreans… Japanese… they love it.”10
Her husband gave her a look they could only be interpreted as “Shut the fuck up, you stupid bitch.” She didn’t know what he would do if she didn’t, but imagined him suffocating her in sleep with a bag of Basmati saffron.11
The waiter set the order on the table in front of her. The food was good, as expected, but as she sucked in the lassi through the straw, it tasted sour and without a trace of sugar. I should have ordered the mangoes, bloody mangoes, she thought, the most indecent of all fruits. There’s no good way to eat one. When you cut the thing, it leaks all over the place and if you bite right into it, the fibers get stuck in your teeth like dental floss. She remembered her husband scolding her so harshly for the way she cut one that she decided she was better off putting the mangoes down for good.12
She used to pluck them right from the tree and eat them like a maniac, the pulp running all over her face and down her shirt. But that was a lifetime ago, it seemed, and far away, in Bolivia. The mango trees blossomed early that year, her host mom said. There was a fenced in garden behind the house that she used to sneak into. It had everything a tropical paradise was supposed to offer. Guava, lychee, passion fruit, and, of course, hidden cannabis, not far from the coca trees. It was hard for the authorities to bust such places because they gave away fresh produce to the poor. Every Wednesday, they would line up and get a box full of carrots, cebolla, perejil, or whatever else was in season. Everything came in stalks and bundles, even the coca leaves that once contained life, were processed to look like inorganic stalks. The long cylindrical tubes were then stacked vertically in buckets ready for shipping. She would often lightly chew on one of the leaves as all the locals did and be amazed at how such an innocent-looking plant, a natural anesthetic, could form into the narcotic that was smuggled into the neighboring countries harboring a massive appetite.13
Six months into her stay, she got to see that process in action. There was a pub, almost like a biker bar in the states, where everyone knew each other. She met Ravi there a few times and she fell for him almost immediately. He always seemed to have a flock of people following him, but he didn’t seem arrogant about it. He laughed gregariously and his walk was more like a bounce, but his clothes were always black like he should have been depressed. His straight hair ran just below his chin and he tossed it around like a girl. Still his masculinity was oozing everywhere. His skin, a silkier shade of brown than anyone else, a little taller, more fit. He told her about Brazil, the beaches, the people as they drank caipirinha, sangria, or if there were many friends, shared a litter of national beer served on ice, like champagne. She said ‘no’ when he asked her to accompany him on his trip on short notice, but changed her mind when she saw him mount his bike, a Japanese one, jet black, but not too flashy. The next night, they rode away during sunset with visions of Che Guevara’s last ride in her head.14
They drove for days, driving through the better half of the night. Ravi knew places all along the way and stopped frequently, but the roads were bad, winding and full of cars not giving way. Her back and inner thighs hurt and she cringed at every pothole. She knew the purpose of the trip was to transport drugs, but she had underestimated how much. There was cocaine hidden all over amid the bike, their personal belongings, and beneath the produce they displayed on top. When she asked how they would get it through the checkpoints, she was told not to worry.15
“Paraguay has free borders.” he said. “And, if you get stopped, you just pay them to go away.” He said with a wry smile.16
The next night they started late and traveled through without stops, with extra of everything they needed. It was the Gran Chaco desert. She had heard stories about there not being a proper border at all, but someone had failed to mention that there were no paved roads either. The sky was brighter than she had ever seen before, the stars engulfing it completely. Daylight finally came and the trees became taller and taller and the roads wider. Suddenly, out of nowhere, there was pavement again, brand new smooth as a baby’s butt pavement. They whizzed past the few lumber trucks that were laboring noisily towards civilization. Soon the trees began to dwindle again and homes appeared in their place. 17
They took rest, and at the height of the next day, arrived at the Brazilian border, which was a bridge that sat over the River Parana. It was congested and there was no room to maneuver in between cars. More people seemed to be crossing by foot than by any other means. They all carried big boxes strapped to their backs or tethering uneasily on top their heads. The patrol seemed to only be pulling people over subjectively, and they drew a sigh of relief when they realized that the car in front of them was picked for a random search. They were allowed to pass freely, but crawled along with the pedestrians for the length of the bridge. 18
“The hard part is over.” Ravi exclaimed, happily, after they had crossed. “Now, we will enjoy.” The rest of the trip was much more relaxed and peaceful. The poverty that she was now used to seeing diminished a bit and there were instead beautiful homes sneaking out from the top of glass- encrusted concrete walls. The road began to feel more like a proper highway as it meandered through gentle rolling hills and meadows. Everything seemed sunny and cheery like the beach was just around the corner. When they finally did arrive, she jumped right in and embraced it like a long lost friend. The sand was course and so rubbery that it squeaked. The waves washed over the terrain and tiny holes appeared in the sand that made it froth. The beach was breathing, it seemed, one step closer to being its own life form. 19
She looked back and saw Ravi sitting and smoking a fag. He looked out of place, like a black dot on the landscape. They had never really bonded like she had hoped they would. He was always quiet when not around a large group. When she approached him, he seemed to look past her in longing of something or someone else. She rejected his invitation to continue with him to Buenos Aires, although the city beamed like a beacon akin to San Francisco during the hippy era.20
They sat and shared their last silent moments together chewing off large pieces of sugarcane from the stalk like it was steak from a T-bone. The campesino offered a coconut and the chance to cut it with his aid. He skillfully showed them how, by making small incisions round and round, an opening could be made at the top without disturbing the sweet water inside. Jane declined as she already knew she was unfit to maneuver the long sword-like instrument.21
There were always machetes laying around outside in the garden in back of her house. She once tried to use it on a mango. She wanted to know what made that small rattling noise when you shook it. It sounded more like an avocado, but a mango’s seed is not loose inside. She nearly hacked it to death, bits and pieces of it flying everywhere. Still, she could not penetrate the seed, the pod casing, that seemed solid. She gave up and was content to allow it to remain a mystery. You can eat my meat, but there is something inside that can never be yours, the mango implied and she respected it.22
The waiter appeared out of nowhere. “Haven’t I seen you here before?” he said hesitantly as he piled the dirty dishes noisily. 23
Jane thought about lying to avoid the painful questions that would soon follow, but she responded otherwise. “Yes.” She said courtly, only looking him in the eye briefly to give a tight-lipped smile. She was suddenly glad she had grabbed the copy of the “Indian Times” on the way in so she could shield herself.24
He turned to go away, but kept on looking at her quizzically while letting out something close to a whimper, uncertain how or if to continue.25
There were no easy answers when it came to Jane’s past and she felt stuck somewhere between it and the unknown future that would forge ahead regardless. The memories of South America, the glamour she had tried back then to embrace had not distilled with time, in fact, she mostly detested it because of the pain it had seemingly caused her husband. 26
Now her, oftentimes, overbearing husband was gone and with it the strictness and responsibilities she had scoffed. She could go out every night of the week if she wanted and never cook. She could wear shorts and hang out at the beach. She had given him a hard time, like a child disrespecting a parent, but she needed him to guide her, to tell her what to think, to punish her for being so cheap and careless in her past. No one else seemed to care how self-destructive she had become, reeking of booze, sex, and drugs. She had learned to despise her former self and start a new one, in his liking, but years later, here she was, doubting if she had really changed. 27
She remembered the fight about the mango. It seemed as silly an argument as ever, but the event did happen in the middle of the day during the month of Ramadan. Maybe she deserved to be belittled for things she did not fully understand or appreciate. She had already once allowed herself to become the mango she always desired to taste, although the seed, the soul, the thing that rattled inside that you could never really touch, had rotted away inside its core and was left to degrade in compost. 28
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