Sattik’s house, where we would spend the rest of the holiday. When I finally checked it, I saw several text messages. All from one source: my mother, who had proven a quick learner.
Well, sort of. The first string of text messages went like this:
Hi
Hi Shsmbo
Thanks
Hi shambo
Hi shambo
Hi shambo thank you
[blurry picture of the living room floor]
She had some work to do to expand her texting repertoire—and learn to wait for answers!—but, then again, self-expression was never her strong suit.
That gift was inherited by her younger brother, Atish.
For many years during my childhood, Bishakha, Shyamal, Sattik, and I would climb into our car and make the almost ten-hour drive from New Jersey to Toronto to visit him. Greeting us as we exited the car like stiff, bedraggled nomads was the ever-smiling Atish, his wife, Sima, and their son, Sagnik, who is a couple of years younger than me.
The visits were the highlight of my year. They lasted about a week and usually took place during summer break or at Christmastime. Atish and Sima lived in a small apartment in the downtown area of the city, and I can still smell the carpeted lobby of their building: a damp leather combined with the chemical scent of a car air-freshener. Atish, whom we call “Munna Mama,” is a portly, jovial man with a mustache and an enthusiasm that bristles with every sentence he utters. He never said, “Hey Shambo.” It was, “HEY SHAMBO!” He always bought toys to spoil Sattik and me, everything from computer games to Pokémon cards.
Sima—or, as we call her, “Mami”—doted on us. I never felt nervous around her, as I did around other adults, including other members of my family. She was calm and steady, and her cooking was top-notch. Her best dish was a butter chicken we would beg her to whip up, even if she had just made it the night before.
Atish and Sima loved us, and we loved them. Even the socially awkward Shyamal looked forward to going north of the border. Whatever turmoil was going on at home seemed to dissipate during our Toronto visits, flushed out by a cold Canada chill and the warmth of Atish and Sima. Simply put, being around them wasn’t stressful, and that wasn’t something to take for granted when it came to our family. The most comfortable memories were of sitting around inside, a crucial element of Indian family gatherings. Brown family reunions usually aren’t destination events. We don’t go camping. There aren’t fifty of us renting a cabin in the Poconos. We head to whomever has the closest living room.
My family preferred to squeeze in on Atish and Sima’s couch, gabbing endlessly about anything and everything while sipping chai, rather than going out and experiencing the city. Sometimes my family would ask (er, command) me to sing a classical Indian song while playing the harmonium in the living room. Those were the moments where everybody fell silent, as I ran my fingers up and down a keyboardlike instrument about the size of small treasure chest. Bishakha and Sima would close their eyes and bob their heads back and forth as I sang.
When we did leave the apartment, we would do quintessential brown things. We’d go to Indian clothing stores, where saris adorned the windows, and Indian restaurants (when we didn’t have an Indian dinner at home). In the evening, we’d go to the homes of other Indian family and friends, where we’d wear Indian clothing and eat more Indian food. At this point, I still felt my brownness. I liked the food. I didn’t mind singing the songs. I enjoyed the living room soirees. I took pride in being able to speak Bengali fluently. It felt like a core part of who I was.
There were other stops too, and these were less of the brown-specific variety. Atish loved department stores and wholesalers. Whenever he could, he used to take us to a chain called Zellers, where he’d revel in scouring for the best deals and finding treats to buy for us. His fascination with Zellers had something to do with being an immigrant, I think. Bishakha and Atish didn’t grow up around Costco, Target, Sam’s Club, or Zellers. It was the kind of store where Atish could walk in and say, “Look at all this stuff. There’s so much of it!” For someone who grew up like Atish, department stores represented the kind of largesse he had in mind when he first came to Canada.
My uncle had a