Chai and Naps

“Did you get the flour from downstairs?” Ba hollers at Dada from the kitchen as if he were on the other side of the house and not sitting in the adjoining dining room.

“Yes, it’s on the counter,” he responds, tiredly but also amused. There was always something for him to do.

“This is wheat flour. Manhar, my god, I told you to get the chickpea flour.” She huffs, disgruntled at the memory lapses that come with his age. At least she doesn’t have to climb up and down the stairs to get these things, what with her knee problem and all.

“It’s okay, Madhuri. I will go and get the chickpea flour.” Dada doesn’t say this with as much exasperation as one would expect from a person who’s been asked to go back down (and up) a flight of stairs. He has a strength I will never know, even if he’s seventy-five years old, with diabetes, arthritis in his hands, and a heart problem.

“My god,” Ba laughs to me from the kitchen, always astounded by the ways he messes up.

Mom and I sit on the living room couch with our backs to the TV—which shows a CNN story that has looped five times today, already—because Ba and Dada’s banter is plenty of entertainment for anyone. Dada rises from his spot at the head of the table, where he was having his afternoon chai and snacking on peanut butter and khakra—a paper-thin Indian cracker—and he makes his way back downstairs to find the chickpea flour. He does this out of love, I know. It’s what I admire most about him—his endless reservoir of love.

Ba pokes her head out of the kitchen with an amused look on her face. “Always messing up, that Papa. I say get the chickpea flour, he gets the wheat. Sometimes I want the almond milk and he gets the soy. One time, he even came home with the orange juice that has sugar, even though he cannot drink that one. I tell you, that Papa.” She shakes her head and flares her nostrils slightly, but is still smiling.

Mom and I just sit there and laugh with her, but not really to be mean. At home, we make fun of both of them all the time. It’s priceless to see them make fun of each other. You can’t imagine one without the other because they always have something to say about each other.

I can hear Dada returning, climbing the stairs with heavy feet. It’s funny, if you spend enough time in an aged house, you begin to recognize people by the way they creak the floorboards.

Dada emerges at the top of the staircase with a different bag of flour in his hands. He presents it to Ba. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” she takes it from him in slightly haughty way, which is just her way of being satisfied with him when he has done something correctly. It’s not as if he does everything wrong, he just gets yelled at for all the small things that he does do wrong. He’s only human, he can’t help it. But Ba can’t help it, either. It’s all she really has to complain about, besides her knee. She brings the latter upon herself, because she’s always in the kitchen for too long, just like she is now. Today, she wanted to make thikki puri—a puffy Indian bread—for when my younger brother and cousins come back from the beach. However, she’d already made us a big lunch, cleaned up the big lunch, and between all that, the only time she sat down was to eat. She’s sure to complain about her knee once the puri is made and she settles on the couch to watch her Indian soap opera. Beneath all that complaining, I have to believe there’s some gratitude…but it doesn’t often show. Some things are only missed when they’re gone.

After Ba has finished making the dough, Mom gets up and goes into the kitchen to see if she can help her. “Mom,” she says, “Go sit down, I can roll the puri dough.”

“No, no, that’s okay, I can do it,” Ba insists. She is strong enough to keep working, but has a hard time delegating even when she knows she’s tired. (I fear that’s a generational heirloom). Mom helps her anyway. In Mom’s absence, I go to the table and join Dada, while half-looking at my Organic Chemistry textbook. I’m doing some studying over the summer so that fall semester doesn’t hit me too hard. (Or, you could say, I want to make it appear that way).

Dada glances over, showing interest. He is a physics teacher—even though he is retired, they always call him back as a substitute—so he always shows interest in whatever science I’m studying. “What kind of topics are you reading?” he asks me.

I am only in the introductory chapters right now—nomenclature and drawing structures. “Just the basics,” I tell him. I’m not fully grasping it yet, so there’s not much conversation I could have about naming alkanes. “There are a lot of rules to memorize—all the different types of organic compounds.” I keep it simple. I usually do that anyway, because there’s a language barrier, and it’s only made worse when talking about organic chemistry.

He nods. “I did some chemistry when I was in the college. A friend of mine taught chemistry and he tried to get me into the program, but it was not for me. I stuck with the physics.”

“That’s good,” I say. “You’re a great teacher. I owe my AP Physics exam score to you.”

“Well, you are a good student,” he counters; he rarely brags about himself.

I let that comment die, because I don’t brag either. “Thanks,” is all I say. I’ll admit, compliments mean a lot coming from him, even if he gives them freely. He gave me this privileged life in America, so the least I can do in return for that sacrifice is to succeed in school. Also, he used to call me “angel” when I was a little kid, so maybe I’m trying to live up to that, too.

As I try to focus and make sense of the ten different strings of hydrocarbons illustrated in my textbook, I’m immediately distracted by the new round of banter arising from the kitchen between Mom and Ba, who are still rolling the puri dough into little circles. There is a wall separating the dining room from the kitchen, with only a doorway to connect the two rooms, but although I can’t see them, I have a pretty clear picture of their dynamic.

“I can’t believe you’re letting her do that!” Mom exclaims, always with a little more accusation than I would like to hear give her mother. “You should just tell her that ‘I want to make the food for this event’. Why can’t you do that?”

“I tried,” Ba sounds like she tried everything under the sun and is now convinced nothing will work. She’s often quite negative. Her voice sounds broken. My theory is that she watches too many soap operas.

“Mom, you always do this,” Mom says. In my mind, I could see her putting a hand to her forehead in frustration. “You give up too soon. All you have to do is ask her again.”

Ba almost sounded like she was pouting. “I can’t. She’s always in charge of these things. I cannot change her. She won’t listen.”

Mom scoffed; she was done trying. I imagined she’d turned away and was shaking her head as if dealing with a crazy person. “Okay. Fine. Just eat her oily food then, if you won’t talk to her.”

“I know,” Ba said, terribly sad-like.

“Madhuri,” Dada intervenes. “Just give her a call and tell her that you want to make the appetizers this time. It will be okay.” Of all the phrases my grandfather is in the habit of repeating, that is my favorite.

“Okay,” Ba still sounds sad. It was an easy solution, but elusive to the two ladies without Dada’s calm thought process. Mom explodes, Ba feels defeated, and Dada rises everyone up again.

This whole time, however, I’m holding back a fit of giggles. These three, they’re too much. I glance at Dada and give a knowing smile, as I can see he’s also tickled. He lets out a little laugh: “He-he”. His smile reaches all the way to his eyes, forming little wrinkles.

Eventually, he’s finished with his chai. He gets up from the table and announces, “It is time for my nap.”

“God,” comes Ba’s voice from the kitchen, followed by a short little incredulous laugh. She is overly exasperated, even though this his daily routine.

Chai, then nap.

He settles on his usual couch—feet resting over the end, head on a pillow, hands folded on his belly—gives a great sigh of immense satisfaction, and then closes his eyes.

That day, like many others, he woke up one hour later to bring order to another round of near-chaos.

I just wish he’d wake up from the nap he’s taking today.

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