Indira

BY DOUG SOVERN

S H E W A S C L U T C H I N G the amber folds of her sari so it wouldnt drag on the

floor, but not enough so you could see her feet, or even tell if she had any, so that she
seemed to float into the reception at the School of International Affairs on air, an
elegant swirl she must have practiced across years of being the rare woman in a universe
of leaders in pants.
She dished off the heavy pages of her thick speech to some underling and clasped the
greedy hands of the faculty and students, thanking them for inviting her, and yes, it was
an honor, and its always a pleasure to be in New York, and you are too kind, and yes,
that was a passage from the Bhagavad Gita, and oh, Mr. Ambassador, this must be your
charming wife!
And yes, she would like some warm water just with lemon please, and isnt it lovely
that some of the professors have brought their children, and yes, theres just enough
time for some snacks and some chat, and our word for snacks is chaat, so it will be chaat
and chat!
It couldnt have been the first time shed used that line but she made it sound brandnew, and everyone roared at her enchanting wit and then turned their attention to the
rows of dishes on the steam table, where the salivating children were prowling and
padding like ravenous tigers in Bandipur while Dean Ginsberg was failing utterly to hide
his horror at what was in the first tureen.
She couldnt eat them, of course, because they were sacrednot the Swedish
meatballs themselves, but the cows from which they came. But if she was offended she
didnt show it as she glided over and started serving them herself, stabbing each one
with a toothpick spindle and handing it off to a passing prof, to a grad student, to a tenyear-old boy, wide-eyed and hungry.
She used to bring samosas to her father in Delhi, she said with a laugh as she played
hors doeuvres waitress, a station far below her castebut why not, what a lark!her
thin lips curled into a grin not quite the color of the Burgundy the grown-ups were
drinking, engaging the dean in a spirited debate over why they are called Swedish
meatballs anyway, certainly it couldnt be the sauce, smells more like a goulash really,
perhaps they should call them Hungarian meatballs, and do they really eat these in
Stockholm? She confessed shed had sparrows-head meatballs in Tehran with the Shah,
and bakso ayam made with chicken during a luncheon with Suharto once, and there was

nothing like a fresh paneer kofta from this one place in Calcutta, but shed have to take it
on faith that these balls of Sweden were as delicious as all the Americans seemed to
think, since her faith left her to fill up on the fondue and carrot sticks and skewers of
tandoori chicken.
And the one gray swath through her otherwise jet-black hair was like a wave just
beginning to crash across her head, perhaps carrying power and wisdom, and think how
strong and smart shed be by the time it reached her ears, but it also made her look like a
skunk and the children wished they could touch it and ask why she didnt use Lady
Clairol and Dippity-do.
And no, she said to the young boy, her father had never really worn a Nehru jacket, he
wore a long coat with a mandarin collar and he had no idea the world would name it
after him, he really didnt follow fashion, and no, hed never met the Beatles, but listen,
do you want to know a secret? She hadand more than once. And not just John and
Paul and George and Ringo but Yoko and Linda and Mia Farrow and Dear Prudence and
of course she knows the Maharishi and, no, she was pretty sure the bluesman Taj Mahal
was not really from her country.
And she became serious as she talked about the Great Soul and yes, she knew him as a
little girl, younger even than the ten-year-old boy with the fresh haircut and his first
necktie and his tiny plate piled high with meatballs and chicken, and even ten chafing
dishes full of Gandhis favorite boiled beetroot and plantains would not have tempted
him during one of his long fasts, and no, shed never had to not eat for days because of
politics, luckily for her, India was already free by then, and then the lilac smile was back,
and would anyone like another?
Your English is so good, was all the boy could muster between bites, and that brought
a motherly laugh and a pinch of his downy cheek, and did the boy know how many
English words actually came from India? And the dean beamed as his awed son got a
linguistics lesson from a prime minister: Have you ever worn abandanna? Been inside
a bungalow? Put on a pair of dungarees?she asked, and the cowed boy could only nod
silently as he continued to chew and swallow, digesting all this mystical Sanskrit
knowledge along with his Swedish meatballs. And then Indira knelt down and spoke to
him as if they were all alone: if you look around this room, she said in a loud whisper, it
is full of pundits,and probably not one of them knows that word comes from my
country, but now you do, so you are even more expert than they. And when you go home
and wash your hair, you will use shampoo,she said, and now, and for years to come, the
boy would not be able to shower without thinking of Indira, and those amethyst lips,
and the taste of meatballs.

And then a rumpled and furrowed man with no plate in his hands and hair like a justblown milkweed barged through the crush of sycophants and engaged Indira in fierce
debate over what sounded like Where-is-it-stan and How-odd-a-bod, and Upper Desh
and Lower Desh and maybe even Fifty-Yard Desh, and it seemed to be an important
conversation about her support for the Arabs and why she believed religious fanaticism
must be opposed whether its in Karachi or Tel Aviv, but what the boy beside her really
wanted to know was why the administration was derelict in refilling the meatball tray.
But then as the skunk lady turned stern and began to scold the milkweed man, the
hungry boy could not help but interrupt, turning to her and asking innocently, loudly,
But they want to kill the Jews, so how can they be your friends?
And after the gasps of his father and his fathers colleagues and his fathers boss,
Indira filled the hush, asking the boy his name. Isaac Ginsberg, he answered. Well, Isaac
Ginsberg, she insisted, things are not always as simple as they seem. But let me try to
explain, she said, her smile gone. Every people should be free. Just as India had to fight
for independence from the British, so are the Arabs of Palestine demanding theirs, and
they should have it too. I would give every drop of my blood for my country, not because
I am Hindu but because I am Indian. The Jew is no better than the Muslim when he
oppresses in the name of his God.
But its not about God, the boy said simply. Isnt it just about staying alive?
You are too young to understand, the prime minister snapped. These matters are
complex. Perhaps your father will explain. But instead Dean Ginsberg, forcing a grin
toothier than the peaks of the Himalayas, was apologizing: Hes just a boy, Your
Excellency, I dont think hes even had social studies yet. Please, the children have taken
far too much of your time, Id very much like you to meet Professor Hassan, and he was
pushing her across the room, glowering back at his son in a scowl of disappointment.
And then after his father deposited Indira in the ideologically sympathetic embrace of
the esteemed Professor Hassan, the boy noticed a woman he hadnt seen before, a slight
and haunting grad student with porcelain skin as creamy as the milkweed mans hair.
She caught the eyes of the dean and lost a token battle with her lips to keep them from
smiling. His father hoped no one saw his return smile, or his furtive glance around the
crowded room to make sure no one saw it, but everyone was focused on the once-againenchanting Indira, with her amber folds and magnetic laugh and exotic wisdom,
everyone, that is, except the boy.
And when Professor Hassan and the dean were done rehabilitating Mrs. Gandhis
image in the room, they ushered her back toward the food, and now the boy saw that she
really didnt glide at all, it was more like a clumsy stumble, and he saw too her shoes as

they scuffled on the hem of her wrap, trampling it into the dingy gray of the worn
linoleum floor.
And now the one gray swath through her otherwise jet-black hair seemed more like a
landing strip for Soviet MiGs come to help her beat back the Pakistanis, or maybe it was
a map of the road to Punjab, so she could point the way to the Golden Temple when it
came time to slaughter the Sikhs, and on closer inspection, it bent and curved and
widened like the mighty Ganges itself, with the ashes of her enemies curling in dark little
tufts on the banks of her widows peak.
I havent much more time, Indira was saying. She was off to meet with Nixon. A sly
one, that, she let slip, and Tricky Dick thought the same of her: a witch, a clever fox,
always a move or three ahead, playing him for a sucker while she swatted shuttlecocks
with his long, long list of enemies.
And then it was on to dessert, none for her, thank you, Bapu always told us we must
never eat sweets, but perhaps a bit of Darjeeling, and then she fixed her gaze on the boy
again, as if she were the doting mother not just of all India but of a ceaselessly hungry
ten-year-old too, and she said good-bye: You must come see us in Delhi, it is such a
lovely place. Yes, of course, said the dean, that would be wonderful, wouldnt it, son,
though they all knew that it would never happen. And the boy pundit, meeting the gaze
of those shark-dead eyes, felt what perhaps no one else could, not the porcelain girl, not
the milkweed man, not venerable Professor Hassancertainly not his father, the dean
that one day she would give every drop of her blood, hallowing the ground an even
deeper red than the scarlet bits of tandoori chicken left on his plate.