You Bring the Distant Near: Part 1: Strangers

Their mother stands alone by the deep end, sari-clad under the red monsoon umbrella she carries as portable shade from the West African sun.

Their words melt into the sound of water lapping against children—the steamy Accra air softening even the crisp cadences of their accents.

Her mother is squatting at the edge of the pool, one arm outstretched toward the water. The hem of her sari is wet.

Under the trees, the downpour is making the coconut fronds applaud.

Sonia's sobs slowly dwindle into silence.

Tara ("Starry" to me) is Indian with black hair. Twiggy is white and blond. Yet the resemblance between them is uncanny.

But Baba describes his ancestral jute farm with bright eyes: coconut and mango trees, perfect for a small boy to climb; a sparkling pond full of tasty fish; lush fields, green after the monsoon.

John gives up, watching my sister wistfully. Poor fellow. Join the queue.

John gives up, watching my sister wistfully. Poor fellow. Join the queue.

And there, outside the opening and closing doors, is Baba.
Arms outstretched.
Tall, robust, cheerful.

"But take your time, Ranee. The girls have clothes from London. And maybe they can wear the salwar kameez outfits my mother sent."

Our parents didn't speak to each other, but Ma served tea, sang that Tagore song, and—according to Baba's version—fireworks exploded and a thousand sitars burst into music.

Starry flicks a look of contempt over her shoulder.

Suddenly, a fire truck pulls up right beside the playground, siren shrieking. Our three hecklers jump up and race over to where it's parking.

"Well, mostly people of European descent. I'm not sure how it will help you navigate life in Flushing, that's for sure."

We pass the throng of drenched and happy children still playing in the hydrant's spray.

Television Tara, naïve with a hint of a tough core, is a better possibility than Television Erica.

The new incarnation of me has to be perfect.

"I said I'd try," Baba says curtly.

She's applied lipstick and eye pencil, twisted a dozen golden bangles on each wrist, strung two necklaces around her throat, and selected a pair of dangly earrings.

She dabs away imaginary crumbs from Sunny's grimace and then turns to appraise me.

"It seems like yesterday that I was seventeen. I was already considering suitors by then."

Her blouse billows behind her like a sail and curls escape her braid to dance on her shoulders.

The faces around us are mostly brown, with a few white ones sprinkled here and there like salt. Afros abound, music's playing through the intercom, and a river of students swirls around us.

Ma smiles complacently as the principal hands me a book.

I open the book. "When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow. When it healed, and Jem's fears of never being able to play football were assuaged, he was seldom self-conscious..."

Oh, how I love fierce, feisty, feminist Jo!

Then the woman turns to me. Instinctively, I step out of reach of her hard fingers. Tara looked down during the scrutiny, but I meet Big Harm's gaze with narrowed eyes.

It's the term of endearment that makes me obey, not the elbow.

Starry looks at our father glowering at the head of the table.

I'm still seething with anger and sadness from dinner.

Now both the notebook and my quilt seem foul, dingy, and ruined, damaged beyond repair.

ERC, they call it, and their main goal is to get the Equal Rights Amendment ratified and added to the Constitution.

"I'm not even sure I want to get married. It's such a patriarchal institution. This is exactly why I'm never going back to India!"

Ma starts a tirade, but Sunny doesn't back down.

It's a good thing he referees along with me, diverting one or the other, telling a joke, teasing Sunny in just the right way.

I look to him now for help as they continue to skirmish, but he's ignoring them.

"We're not in Bengal anymore. There's no caste system in America. The Declaration of Independence made it clear: 'All men are created equal.' And we'll be changing 'men' to 'people' soon."

That triggers Sunny to fury. "If it weren't for closed-minded people who keep perpetuating racial stereotypes—!"

The real estate agent informed us that our new house is a simple Cape Cod. And it still looks like one on the outside, but the inside glitters with mirrored batiks, silk pillows, ornate copper vases full of roses, incense sticks, and altars to Durga, Lakshmi, Kali, and Saraswati, our mother's favorite goddesses.

I wonder if I can muster up the energy to acquire another persona.

A friendly registrar greets us in the office and looks over Sunny's transcript.

A slender, tall woman with a wispy gray ponytail emerges from backstage.

Once in London, and then two more times when Jenny and I snuck out of school in Flushing to catch a matinee.

For now, you'll understudy for Catherine in the lead role of Maria. But if you're the kind to learn quickly, we'll see what happens as we get closer to the actual performance dates.