Shanthi Sekaran - The Samosa Rebellion

When I woke up this morning and looked out my window, the first thing I saw was a minuscule airplane, way up in the clouds. I wondered what it would feel like to soar that high, to slice through the sky like an eagle. Like a butterfly. Where would I go if I could spread my wings, hop on an air current, and cross a whole country? A whole ocean?

Its Sunday afternoon now, and Im standing in the international arrivals terminal of the Mariposa airport. Dads on one side of me, Ammas on the other. Its Paati were waiting formy grandmother, Ammas mom. She lives in India. Except now, I guess she lives with us.

The whole world is here. Thats what it feels like. People swarm around the terminal, frowning up at computer screens. From a bright hallway, passengers stream out, their carts piled high with suitcases. Theyve all arrived from other countries. They look a little dazed, like they just woke up. Some find their families right away and rush over to them. Some burst into laughter. One bursts into tears.

Amma holds my hand in both of hers, rubbing it like a good luck charm, her eyes glued to the hallway. She chews at her cheek, the way she does when shes nervous. She made me wear my kurta, which is basically just a long shirt with a little round collar. We bought it on our last trip to India and now its too small and the sleeves dig into my armpits. Dads wearing a suit and tie and hes sweating. It isnt even hot. We stand straight and still and we wait. We wait and wait and wait.

I try to remember what Paati was like. Its been three years since I last saw her. I remember her house with its wide veranda. I remember her wild white hair, her voice like a crows, the way shed grab my arm and hold tight to it whenever we walked down the road together.

We havent been back to India since then. The shop keeps my parents so busy I hardly see them on weekdays. I think thats why Paatis comingto keep an eye on me when my parents cant.

Amma shrieks. She drops my hand and points to the bright hallway.

Shes here, Dad says. Your paatis here. He pulls at his collar and clears his throat.

I see nothing but a mountain of luggage, six feet high, rolling toward us. And then a hand shoots up and waves. The luggage stops. From behind it steps an old lady: blue sari, gigantic glasses, hair like a circus. Paati.

Go. Amma pushes me forward. Go help her.

When I get to Paati, were the same height. She grabs my arm. Who is this? she asks. This strange man? She peers into my face and slaps me lightly on the cheek. Hmph. Take these suitcases. Then she walks past me with a little jink in her step, off-kilter and uneven, like her legs are in an argument.

I watch her walk to Amma. Amma crouches down to touch Paatis feet, which is what people in India do to show respect. Paati catches her by the shoulders and pulls her back up, cups Ammas face in her hands, and for half a second Amma looks like a little girl. Then Paati pulls her into a hug. When they pull away from each other, Ammas face is flushed and wet, but shes smiling. Dad steps forward and bends down to touch Paatis feet. Paati lets him. I wonder if I should have touched her feet, too. We dont do that sort of thing in Mariposa.

On the car ride home, Paati falls asleep, her mouth hanging wide open, a jagged tooth poking out from under her lip. Her cheeks hang loose around her mouth, like samosa dough before it gets rolled out. Her eyelids are two lines lost in a sea of wrinkles. What would it be like, I wonder, to fly across the world to a new life?

Finally, we turn onto Mingus Avenue, my street. It runs right through the middle of Oceanview, which sits plunk in the middle of Pacific City, which is the biggest cityreally the only cityin the country of Mariposa. Paati stirs. Her eyes open, and she looks at me, astonished, like she forgot shed gotten on a plane and traveled across the world. I wave at her. The corner of her mouth curls into a half smile.

In Oceanview, every house is two stories tall and made of brick. Each ones crammed right up against the next, and the streets are so narrow that people string laundry lines from house to house. Our clothes hang over the street like parade flags. Drive down Mingus Avenue and you might see my dads underwear flapping in the wind.

Paati stares past me, out the window, at the old brick buildings, the one crooked stop sign, the storefronts with awnings and painted windows. I wonder what she finds so interesting. A couple of men in hard hatsIve never seen them beforestand with clipboards, surveying the street. Aside from them, its the same old Mingus Avenue.

Paati, though, she sees it all with new eyes, like a little kid. And like a little kid, she twists this way and that, trying to get a better look. Butterflies! she gasps. From the rear window trails a welcome parade of orange butterflies. This is Paatis world now, whether she wants it or not. This is Mariposa. I wonder what she thinks of it. I wonder what happens next.

Snap.

No.

Snap. Snap.

Uh-uh.

SNAP.

Quit it! I swat at the air and miss. I crack one eye open, and there she is, the old owl, her gigantic glasses level with my face, her black eyes magnified behind them: Paati. Again, she snaps her fingers in my ear.

Wakey wakey, Lazybones! Rise and shine, my boy!

I groan and dig my face into my pillow. Its 5:45 a.m. I know this without looking. I know the sun outside my window will be as sleepy as I am, the sky barely light, the sorriest excuse for morning, and Paatis favorite time of day.

Want a one-word description of what its like to share a bedroom with your grandmother? Weird. Superweird. Weirdest.

Now, just like every morning, she spreads two yoga mats on the floor between our beds. I sit up, rub the sleep from my eyes. I thought old people were supposed to be tired.

Giddy-up, Sleepy-chops, she says, patting the mat next to hers. Time is passing. Time would pass much better if I could close my eyes and go back to sleep. But I tried that yesterday, and she splashed water on my face. So I roll off my mattress and land on the floor. I lie still, eyes closed, until she says, Muki, begin, please. Warrior pose.

Corpse pose, I answer. My favorite. She gets up, goes to the bathroom, and I hear the tap running. She comes back ready to throw water on me, but now Im up, eyes open, legs lunging, arms shooting straight from my shoulders, solid as a warrior.

As the morning meanders through my bones, Paati calls out the poses and springs right into them. Her usual wobble is gone, her limbs speedy and precise. Boat pose! Childs pose! Cobra pose! I follow clumsily. Straight legs, somberi! Are you a cobra or a kitty cat? Somberi means lazy, and Id be offended if it wasnt such a fun word to say.

I have to admit, when my parents told me that Paati was coming to stay with us, to live with us, my first thought was no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. And have I changed my mind since then? No.