The colors silenced each other like a dysfunctional family at the dinner table. The dark blue shouted over the blue, the green shushed the dark blue, the gold lorded it over the green like a fairy matriarch and monopolized the water bowl that sat on the chipped, sunburn-red counter in Rita’s Nail Bar! We got nails… nailed down!

Bindiya watched another drop of gold nail polish hit the surface of the water. The water rippled with four perfect circles of color—the colors of the peacock, each circle larger than the one before it.

That’s funny, she thought. Here I am controlling the gold, but I’ve always felt like the blue, ultimately overpowered by the gold—her gold-adorned, sweet-tempered, iron-willed, jasmine-haired mother. The flowers had hung from her mother’s hair in the same way she had hung on to her mother’s words all her life—desperately.

Dearest Benjamin,

I am sorry I am writing so soon… I know you’re busy. I can just imagine you now… walking to your office, your coffee in one hand and laptop bag in the other; wearing a smart, black coat, and invading the streets with the morning throng. See, even I know all these things! You remember I have always liked watching Hollywood movies! Most of them seem to have at least one scene where a lot of people are dressed in suits and ties (or tight skirts or skinny jeans), and they are rushing on the pavement of some busy city or the other. The amazing thing is that, even in all that hurry, they manage to clutch big cups of coffee. You said your office was on one of the top floors? Does Los Angeles have as many skyscrapers as New York or Chicago?

I don’t know why… I feel like writing to you at least once a week though I have nothing new to say, no exciting event to talk about. Yet when I had so much going on, I didn’t talk enough, did I? After your dad died, I feel very alone. Just me and the beach. Endless life, endless water…

“Is this the water marbling method you were talking about?” Mrs. Smith asked in an excited, high-pitched voice, giving the nail bar its first soprano.

She pointed at the bowl. Her nails were beautifully cut and gleaming, fresh from a manicure given by Bindiya. But the wrinkles and the roughness of her palms gave her story away.

This was not a woman used to manicures. This was not a woman who had even consciously realized she had nails, except perhaps when she chewed on them in frustration—when the monthly bills seemed to pile up higher and higher as her three kids grew faster and faster. This was a woman who had run the race of life for a very long time; praying, working, barely eating, feeding, barely sleeping, and praying again. And now God had rewarded her with the treat of a lifetime—a gift package at Rita’s Nail Bar—gifted by her prosperous Stock Broker son living all the way on the other side of the country, in New York. She had already made a mental note to light an extra candle in church this Sunday, as a big thank you. Perhaps one more candle to remind God to make her son want to come home for Christmas?

Bindiya nodded, “Yes, madam, this is water marbling. The best technique for genuine nail art! Just as it says on our website? Can you see… the design on the water already has the colors of the peacock?”

It did. Dark blue. Blue. Green. Gold. Bright red. Red? What the—? The drop of red spilled onto the gold and spread outwards, a Loch Ness monster that feeds on fairy matriarchs. Mrs. Smith watched anxiously as Bindiya looked at her index finger leaking blood. She must have scraped her finger against the rough edge of the table without realizing it. Damn it, Bindiya thought furiously, this is exactly why I should not have read any of the letters on a workday. I feel unhinged.

“So sorry, madam. Don’t worry, I will make the peacock shed its colors again.” Bindiya looked up, forcing herself to sound playful as she smiled uncertainly at Mrs. Smith. Mrs. Smith! Almost like a placeholder name. Did she have a son called John Doe? Bindiya felt the laughter bubble up and tickle her on the inside of her right nostril, making her nose twitch suddenly. This made her look vaguely unpleasant when she smiled, somehow a little off—as if the smile had been an afterthought after she got over the shock of her twitching.

Bindiya started shedding drops of the dark blue, blue, green and gold again into a fresh bowl of water. Then she picked up a toothpick to execute what she called “Kill the Peacock” technique. She started drawing clean lines through the peacock colors on the water.

Benji, a lizard comes to our house now. I know, I know… you’re obviously thinking what’s the big deal—Chennai, and, in fact, the whole of India is full of lizards. But this lizard is special, Benji. It comes every day and takes food from me. I leave a bit of rice—cooked and mashed—near the verandah wall. It will come down from the wall around dusk, and eat it without fail (perhaps as a starter before a main course of flies). And it eats so fast, Benji— ‘labak, labak’, as you used to say when you were a child listening to your dad’s monster stories.

Benji, when the lizard took food from me? It reminded me of how much you love animals. Remember, when Butterball got wet in the rain, Robert would make “horns” out of the wet fur? But you would get all angry and fight with him, and say you are ashamed to have a brother like him. And then, you would dry Butterball’s fur with so much patience, and gather up the soft fur in a cute bow? Lilac bow with silver sparkles. Benjamin, …

“Who is Benjamin?”

“Sorry, what?” Bindiya, busy tracing the lines through the peacock, looked up startled.

Mrs. Smith’s felt flustered; she had not meant to be intrusive. “You said the name out loud, all of a sudden, so I was wondering who he is. I’m sorry—it’s none of my business!”

Mrs. Smith still remembered her daughter’s face, a few days after the little girl had turned eight and realized that when daddy said he took the flies away on the “plane ride” (flyswatter) to the “beach” (death), he meant a different kind of beach. The permanent kind. Mrs. Smith had never seen such a look since then. Until now—on the face of the Indian woman doing her nails.

“Benjamin is…” Bindiya seemed to have a peacock stuck in her throat, “…my brother.”

“Benji… Benji… where are you?” I was shrieking and running through that crowded mall in Egmore, you remember? When we were out buying some new clothes for you… for your tenth birthday, I think? My world stopped and sped up at the same time then, Benji. Every kidnapping story I had ever heard about, raced through my mind; every gory newspaper headline was tattooed on my brain.

 And you – naughty boy – were hiding in the girl’s section. Even more than my relief at seeing you, and my anger that you put me through this, I felt another, far stronger emotion. Pride, Benji. Because you just stood there… like a tall prince among those frilly skirts. And I was so happy and proud, knowing in my heart that no one can ever have a son so beautiful.

And when I caught you by the ear (I hear you cannot do that in America? What nonsense!), mad with worry, you looked so guilty, and said, “Mom, I was just hiding here!” I remember debating—the mom in me fighting the disciplinarian in me—whether I should still get you that fashionable pair of jeans and the denim shirt that all the boys in Chennai seemed to be wearing those days. After all, that would be like rewarding your behavior. But my darling Benji, you know how I only want the best for you. So, we walked out with all that and a pair of flashy sneakers as a bonus. And Benji, maybe I imagined it, but you didn’t seem very happy. Disappointed, even. I am sorry I pulled your ears. I never said it then. I say it now.

“Ouch!”

“I am so sorry, madam! Didn’t realize I was holding your hand so tight.” Bindiya ran her fingers gently over Mrs. Smith’s hands – the callused palms and the smooth nails.

“Do you know, Madam, that your hands remind me of the landscape of India? Each part is so different. See here—the callus bumps at the top of your palm, right here, are like the great Himalayas, going uuupp and dooowwn, uppp and dowwn. And if you fold your fingers like this, you can see the half-moon whites of your French manicure rising up above the Himalayas…”

“What a fascinating comparison! Hmm… what do you call this bit, then?”

“That’s lower down, flat and very dry. That has to be Rajasthan—a desert. The Land of Parched Earth and Palaces. And this vein, right here, near your wrist—the way it winds away so thin—reminds me of the southernmost tip of the Indian peninsula. It’s like the Pamban Bridge that connects the town of Rameswaram on Pamban Island to mainland India.

Mrs. Smith drew in her breath sharply, amazed that her hand held such wonders. “You are so poetic, Bin…diya.”

“Thank you, Madam. Now, let’s start with your right hand, shall we?  It’s time to look as beautiful as the peacock. I will dip each of your fingers gently into the water bowl, just like this, in just the right spot. The peacock design will now transfer onto your nails.”

I have been working on one of those embroidery do-it-yourself kits, Benjamin. A beautiful peacock design. Not the ideal hobby, I know, for a sixty-five-year-old woman with failing eyesight. But I always fancied myself a creative person. I guess the so-called “practical”, “teacher types” like me always do. Plus, I chose it mainly for the design. It’s a lovely peacock dancing in the rain. And I know how much you love peacocks. I have already done one which has Robert’s favorite animal—tiger, remember? Robert said he can’t wait to see it. He will see it during Christmas, of course.

You will love this peacock, Benji! I can still picture you looking transfixed whenever you saw a peacock during our safari trips to the jungles, or even when you saw documentaries about peacocks. No wonder, you were crazy about Lord Krishna’s birthday, even though we are not Hindus. You got to dress up in peacock feathers like Lord Krishna, and dance in the school cultural programmes. You said none of it really mattered—religion or looks or all the different labels we attach to yourselves. What mattered was a beauty of spirit and freedom of expression. Do you still say funny things like that? I never quite knew what you meant by these things, and yet I always felt as if I should.

Guess what? I came across that poem you wrote in sixth grade about peacocks. I remember, in those days, you insisted that real poetry would always rhyme. It still sounds so wonderful—even all these years later. Just wrote down a few lines for you to enjoy:

WHAT DOES THE PEACOCK SAY?

I like to dress up in colors and shine,

because true beauty is mine.

I will get frail and wail,

if I am not decked up, head to tail.

Mrs. Smith fanned her fingers out like a peacock’s tail, rhapsodizing about the nail art. “I feel so exotic now. I certainly cannot open any Christmas cookie boxes with these nails! Cannot risk chipping off an inch of this design.  Thank you, Bin..diya.”

“You are most welcome. Glad you liked it! This is my favorite design as well.”

“By the way, been meaning to ask you – what does your name mean? It sounds so beautiful.”

Bindiya hated questions like that, even when asked with the best of intentions. The assumption that the meaning of a word—any word—or the essence of a person—any person—could be offered as clever, convenient capsules of information.  Hmm… where should I start? Well, “bindiya” is a dot that Indian women wear between their eyebrows – traditionally red, but worn in all colors and sizes now. Study the dot, and you can weave stories about the woman wearing it – in true Sherlock Holmes style. Red dot – probably married. Very big red dot – definitely married, possibly aunty types. Super big dot, red or black or even some other color– married or unmarried, but an activist of some type, protesting something or the other. No dot between eyebrows, but only slightly discolored skin that speaks of years of bindi-wearing in the past, as well as sad eyes that seem to predict years of loneliness in the future – Indian widow. Small, glittering, fashionable dot – cool, young Indian woman, portraying the proud fusion of cool Indian stuff and cool Western stuff (or) cool Indian attending somebody’s Big Fattest Indian wedding (or) cool American popstar, preferably surrounded by images of elephants or Indian street kids or both (or) Dot Dot Dot…

“Thank you, Madam. ‘Bindiya’ refers to the red dot that Indian women wear between their eyebrows. A symbol of Indian womanhood.”

“How adorable! Well, bye now. And Merry Christmas!”

When Samuel uncle came to our place for Christmas, remember how excited you were, Benji? Christmas in Chennai is not so fun, no? Not too many Christmas trees for us to see. And it’s so hot – you said you always felt ridiculous singing about Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer in a place with a winter temperature of thirty degrees. You said Rudolph might just as well be a dragon as a reindeer – a fantasy creature.

And Samuel uncle’s visit was special because he came from America – the land of snow and White Christmas and Christmas markets. I finally took some of those Christmas decorations out of the loft, by the way—the ones he bought for us from the Christmas markets in Germany while vacationing there? He always loved traveling—just like you, Benji.

Wish you could see my smile now! I just remembered Samuel uncle’s face when he woke up after falling asleep on our couch, and you had painted his face with my makeup. I gave you such a shouting then—yelled at you for always fiddling with my stuff. I am sorry, Benji. Now, I have no one to yell at. Perhaps what’s worse—I have no one not to yell at.”

Be careful what you wish for, Mom. You might get your chance to yell again.

Benji, I can almost picture you now, walking up the road, tall and strong and lean. And entering our house, and singing out, “Merry Christmas!” You will come and hug me: tight, tighter, tightest. My beautiful son. And we will sit around, chatting in front of the tree. Robert will crack his usual jokes, and your nose will start twitching with suppressed smiles, until you give in and laugh—nose still twitching. I miss that smile, Benji. It’s so unique. It’s better than beautiful. It’s you.

Black, gleaming hair bounced on two perfectly shaped buttocks. Serpentine creatures jumping on a bouncy castle. A sight both beautiful and ridiculous. That’s how she felt in her body, about her body, as she started walking away from Rita’s Nail Bar.

As she passed the Las Vegas-esque sign of the place, flashing consumerism, some long-forgotten history lesson from school bullied its way into her mind. In ancient Egypt, nail color indicated one’s status: black for noblemen, and green for the common man. What should the nail color be for the uncommon man? The man who chose to become a woman? He-man Blue and Cinderella Pink? Ugly-duckling mixed with shades of Swan? Rainbow Radiance laced with Grim Gray? 

Bindiya studied the long, perfectly-kept nails on her long, very strong looking fingers. Black hair was threatening to sprout between her many rings. I need to wax, Bindiya thought listlessly, as she entered her tacky one-bedroom apartment. I also need to pack, the flight to India (to Mom) leaves in six hours.  Panic… thoughts racing…

Hi, Mom. I’m Bindiya, your daughter.

Hi, Mom. I’m Bindiya, your daughter. Didn’t you always say you wanted a daughter?

Hi, Mom. I’m Bindiya, your daughter. I tried to tell you so many times that I want to be your daughter, not your son. Is it too late to tell you now?

Hi, Mom. I’m Bindiya, your daughter. And I do not get my monthly period. Won’t I be the envy of every woman?

Hi, Mom. I’m Bindiya, your daughter. I have heard a mother’s love is unconditional. Is yours?

Hi, Mom. I’m Bindiya. Benjamin died when he went to America and decided to become a woman.

Hi, Mom. I’m Bindiya, your daughter. You always told me it’s rude to read somebody else’s letters. I’ve read all your letters to Benjamin. And I’ve answered a few of them—pretending to be Benjamin. Tell me, have I been rude? Have I committed a crime? But why do I feel you are the rude one, you are the one who committed a crime—for never recognizing, or refusing to recognize, who I am?

Hi, Mom. I’m Benjamin, your son.

Hi, Mom. I’m Benjamin, your son. I have been so lonely all my life. I want to talk to you, and tell you all sorts of things… like how your heels broke mysteriously.  I broke them when catwalking in my bathroom.

Hi, Mom. I’m Benjamin, your son. Remember those stories of Indian mythology you used to tell me? That I loved so much? Where gods change forms? Is it okay if mortals change forms too?

Hi, Mom. I am your child. Is that not enough?

Hi, Mom. You always liked my wordplay. Want to hear some wordplay now? I came to America to get a manicure. Literally. To be cured of the disease of being a man. Man-i-cure.Get it? GET IT?

Bindiya caught a glimpse of herself in the small mirror on her secondhand dressing table. Shoulders shaking. Tears and mascara racing each other down her face. She looked and felt, somehow, fake. An over-the-top, mediocre, aging heroine who couldn’t stop acting and shamming her way through life. A sobering thought.

Bindiya removed her make up. Took off her pantyhose. Unhooked her dangling earrings. Dislodged her false lashes. And removed her wig. She hesitated slightly but before she could change her mind, shoved the wig into her suitcase.

It was Benjamin who walked to the closet and got dressed. He had made a promise to himself that he would tell his mother about Bindiya. And he had promised his mother that he would finally come home for Christmas after four long years. It was time to keep the promises.

So what if Benjamin was no longer a man? Benjamin was a man of his word.