Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood by Varsha Bajaj

for Abby.” He skips back to the kitchen. I can make Shiva happy by asking him to cook for me? That’s easy!
    I sit with Grandma Tara. She strokes my hand as she watches her Hindi soap opera. I have no clue what the actors are saying. But the soap operas have the same melodramatic sound track in India as back home. How many violinists do they employ?
    Seeing Grandma Tara’s wrinkled hand with its thin skin holding mine, I realize that now I have two grandmothers. She looks so frail. I’m glad I’m meeting her.
    I look around at the room, which is so different from
    the living room in my house. Speckled tile covers the floor. The decorator didn’t make this room a showcase like the living room. It feels homier. The sofas are squarer and not as padded or as big as the ones at home. There’s a dresser against the far wall covered with a crocheted runner. A set of little elephants stands on it. A garlanded picture of an older man, the same man from the picture in my room, hangs on the wall. Is he Dad’s father and my grandfather? Did he hide the letter Mom wrote to Dad?
    When I tell Grandma Tara that Mom and I made an album for her and Dad, she wants to see it immediately. She summons Shiva. He in turn calls two giggling women, Mina and Bina. More help? Priya’s mother explained that middle class families in India have help and it provides employment. Mina and Bina are Shiva’s sous chefs and general go-to girls. They appear to be twins. Priya and I dressed as Thing One and Thing Two from The Cat in the Hat one Halloween years ago. Mina and Bina with their rhyming names and shy
    smiles remind me of Priya and me.
    I have quite the audience. Grandma Tara and I sit on the couch and Mina, Bina, and Shiva stand behind us.
    “Mina and Bina think you’re very pretty,” Grandma Tara says, searching for the right words and gesturing at me. They ooh and aah over my baby pictures and I blush.
    At lunch, the house feels like a party. Dad and his
    team emerge from his office and join us. Between Dad’s people, Grandma Tara, Shiva, and the two women, we are a lot of people. I look around the table and beam. I realize I don’t have to wonder about my dad and his life anymore. Here it is, sitting around the table in his swank dining room.
    I’m an American with my accent. In a room full of people who speak Hinglish, I feel like an outsider, even though I know half of me is Indian.
    Mom would say, give yourself time to adjust to your new reality, Abby.
    I run to my room to get my camera. I ask Dad to take a picture of me with Shiva, who stands ramrod straight and is totally embarrassed. I post the picture of me flanked by Mina and Bina in their saris. Then I post another close up of their earlobes. They wear little earrings all the way up the cartilage.
    Shiva insists that he take the group picture of me with Dad, Grandma, and all Dad’s peeps.
    I take pictures of everything, even the matar paneer.
    I post the photo and add a caption: The best in the world.
    It melts in your mouth.
    I’m having a ball and accidentally say Dad when I’m talking to him. Dad catches it and gives me a look, reminding me that my parents still have to figure out how to break this
    news. I shake off stressful images of my very private mom’s world being invaded.
    After lunch, Dad takes me for a drive. It’s the first time I’m stepping out in broad daylight in India. Again, the crowd is outside the walls.
    “Naveen Kumar,” they shout as we drive out. Dad stops and signs a few autographs.
    The ocean waves seem calmer in the afternoon. People were walking along the seawall, some in traditional clothes, others in running shorts.
    We leave the sea and drive along a winding uphill road to what appears to be a market area. Vendors sell fruits and vegetables along the streets. Part of the street is blocked for construction. An array of shops sits alongside one another. A doctor’s office is next to a shop selling snacks. Next door is a shop with a man