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Fiction

Barbie

By Gabriella Kuruvilla
Translated from Italian by Jamie Richards
Milanese journalist Gabriella Kuruvilla touches on the dynamics of motherhood and assimilation.

I did it again today. I woke up, made breakfast, watched them eat and drink, bathed and dressed them, took them to school, returned home, got my sari, sandals, lipstick, kohl, makeup remover, rings, bangles, wrap, and Barbie. I put it all in my bag and went out.

I always choose a different café on the long route from Lambrate to Bovisa. I prefer to walk, despite the time it takes. I’m not in a hurry. Three forty-five comes slowly, it’s only ten.

I plant my heels on the ground, in the store windows eyeing my silhouette wrapped in my jeans and tank top. I look at myself askance, with feigned indifference. I wear my forty-eight years well, despite having had twins. They told me it was risky: you’re not the right age, you’re too old. I felt young, and I wanted to give him a child. One was enough, I just wanted one.

I got Ashima and Sandip, who soon will become Paola and Luigi. I filed an application at the court to change their names, so as not to complicate their lives. People won’t make fun of them, they won’t feel different or wrong. Just normal, assimilated. I’m the one who goes by Patmini, exotic as incense. Even though my name is Mina, explosive as a land mine.

Bar Accone, like a circus—how appropriate. It looks like the best place to get into costume. I order a cappuccino and a croissant. I don’t drink or eat in front of Ashima and Sandip. It’s as if I’m drinking their milk and eating their cookies as I watch them take in liquids and solids. And as if I were drinking and eating, it’s as if I am in their place. They’re beautiful and happy. They are a pair. I’m beautiful and sad. I’m alone, without them. When they’re not around, I let out my anger. So I can resume the role of the reliable, easygoing, available, and affectionate mom, as soon as they’re back with me. She mustn’t cause them any harm, mama Mina.

I pay and ask: “Where’s the bathroom?”

“In the back, on the left,” replies a girl so absorbed in herself that I feel like I can do anything I want.

I’ll have to come back to this place, make an exception. I always choose a different café on the long route from Lambrate to Bovisa. The exception proves the rule.

I lock myself in the bathroom. I remove my tank top, jeans, and heels. I put on my sari, sandals, and twist my hair into a braid. I use the lipstick to paint on a bindi. I line my eyes with kohl. I hang two giant rings on my ears and a smaller one on my nose. I put a dozen bangles on each wrist. At the slightest move I jingle like a crystal chandelier hit by a burst of air. I put the wrap around me and put the Barbie inside. Like a little baby. I wave to the barista, who looks up and says, “Have a nice day.” She looks at me but does not see.

I’ll have to come back to this place, make an exception. The exception proves the rule. We all need rules, and to be regulated.

I stop by the traffic light at the first intersection. And I do as it does: at red I stand there silent, at yellow I wait, at green I shake and yell: “Whore of a doll!”

And again: red, yellow, green: “Whore of a doll!”

Sometimes I shake and yell more, sometimes I shake and yell less. Sometimes I get bored, or worse, distracted. Sometimes I find myself yelling and shaking at red, and things like that that shouldn’t happen. We all need limits, and to be limited.

People walk by, stare at me, pretend not to notice, or shake their head slightly. Some laugh. Some push me. Some spit on me. I, at red, stand there silent. At yellow I wait. At green I shake and yell: “Whore of a doll!”

At two-fifteen I head toward home, I don’t want to get to school late. I know what it’s like to wait for someone and never see them come. Lateness is the antechamber of abandonment.

The first time he went to India, he was eighteen. He had been deemed a mature student. He threw a rucksack over his shoulder and sneakers on his feet. It was 1968. He wasn’t seeking social revolution but individual change. He wanted to get lost and find himself: a suggestive sentence, whatever it means. He set off with a guide and a map: if someone wants to get lost and find himself, he’d better bring along a guide and a map. Go off the beaten path, sure, but without going overboard. We all need rules, limits, and landmarks: I have the traffic light, he had the guide and map. Plus, he’d been deemed mature. Of age. Someone capable of voting left, screwing every girl in sight, and setting off by himself. He was for social sex and individual travel.

With his rucksack, sneakers, guide, and map, he’d lost and found himself in Bombay. Surrounded by traffic, dilapidation, noise, flies, smells, and beggars. Everything thrilled him. He lavished money and smiles, trying to absorb poverty and love: extracts of local spirituality. He took public transport, slept in cheap hotels, ate at working-class diners. Consulting his guide and map. With his rucksack over his shoulder and sneakers on his feet.

He went back to Milan in September, via hitchhiking-bus-train, enduring heat and hunger, giving up his intercontinental flight with air conditioning and international cuisine. He enrolled in architecture at the university: he went to class, attended protests, listened to professors, participated in debates, took exams, and organized sit-ins with the same enthusiasm and satisfaction. He was a model student and militant. Brilliant. Always up in front. And every year during vacation, summer and winter, he went to India. To be Indian, part-time. When he got back home, to his parents’ luxury apartment, he resumed his studies and his politics, each time feeling cleansed and refreshed, body and mind.

He became a famous designer, with a mystical air and solid plans. He was fifty years old, ten more than me, when I met him. He called me Kali, like the goddess of destruction, also the wife of Shiva.

“My name is Mina, not so exotic but just as explosive. I go by Patmini, not so explosive but just as exotic,” I explained to him.

He was fascinated with India: I represented its Italian branch, easily accessible. No intercontinental trips, air conditioning, or international cuisine. He just had to hop in a taxi, not a rickshaw, and plunge into Milan traffic: hardly less chaotic than Bombay’s. He only had to go down to Via Conte Rosso, and climb up four flights of dilapidation, noises, flies, smells, and beggars. And reach me: in my forty-square-meter courtyard apartment, with a loft. The bed above and kitchen below, and next to the only door which also served as a window was my loom, where I wove fabrics with the colors and patterns of India. I designed textiles for clothing and home decor, which were sold in the most exclusive textile boutique in the city, with the label Made in India. Designed in Italy isn’t chic enough, apparently.

We first met at a bar in the canal district, at aperitif hour. While his eyes were glued to my tank top, my jeans, and my heels, mine were glued to my cocktail, trying to drown in alcohol the chatter of the owner of the most exclusive textile boutique in the city.

“We’ll say your fabrics were produced by orphan girls from Madras,” she stated.

“‘Produced by orphan girls from Madras’ is more chic than ‘designed by an artisan from Milan,’” she explained.

I drank and I drowned. He saved me when I went up to the bar to ask for another gin and tonic.

“Can I get that for you?” he asked me.

I replied, “Sure,” lost in thought.

“Can I ask your name?”

I replied, “Sure,” lost in thought.

“So, what’s your name?”

I replied, “Patmini,” lost in thought.

“Like the incense?” he asked me.

“It’s more chic than Mina,” I replied.

I looked in his eyes, and my mind drowned in his body. He looked like a boy even though he was an adult. He smiled like an adolescent and observed me like an old man. The owner of the most exclusive textile boutique in the city stood up, walked over to us, and left: “I’m expecting the new collection by the end of the month,” she proclaimed.

“What collection?” the old adolescent asked.

“The one produced by orphan girls from Madras, made by an artisan from Milan,” I replied.

He told me about his love for India. I told him I was Indian but I wasn’t anymore. He didn’t understand me.

We kissed in his jeep and fucked in his loft. I had the adolescent senior, who managed to keep me on the edge of orgasm for over two hours, smiling at me with lightness and observing me with intensity. He had his Italian branch of India. He wanted to add more branches, thus Ashima and Sandip were born.

“Let’s call them Paola and Luigi,” I told him.

“Absolutely not. We’ll call them Ashima and Sandip,” he replied.

Ashima and Sandip are their names now, until the court processes my application and they become Paola and Luigi.

I transformed the forty-square-meter courtyard loft apartment into my workshop, where I created fabrics Made in India, produced by orphan girls from Madras, sold at mind-boggling prices in the most exclusive textile boutique in the city. And I moved into his big loft in Brera, where everything was visible: from the bricks in the wall down to the pieces of decor. The only nook where any privacy could be found was the bathroom. We threw drug-fueled parties and prepared dinners with organic ingredients. I snorted coke and consumed whole grains, wishing for a cigarette and a steak. But tobacco and meat weren’t chic.

I did everything he wanted, without asking myself if I wanted it too. I was always lost in thought, my mind lost in his body. Addicted to his old adolescent body that could keep me on the edge of orgasm for over two hours, smiling at me with lightness and observing me with intensity.

There was only one will, his. Following it was my way of loving him.

“I want a child,” he told me.

I got pregnant.

“There are two, a girl and a boy,” I whispered to him.

“A boy and a girl,” he retorted.

“How are we going to do this?” I asked him.

“Do what?” he asked me.

“Raise them?”

“We will,” he told me. “We will,” plural. He didn’t say: “You will,” singular.

I could follow on, then.

I imagined a nanny who was also a housekeeper: a woman completely at my disposal, 24/7. Always open like a supermarket, of whom you could ask anything: she’s for sale anyway, as long as you can pay. And we could pay for a nanny-housekeeper at my complete disposal, 24/7.

Whereas he told me: “Quit your job and be a mom,” completely at Ashima and Sandip’s disposal, 24/7. I was the nanny-housekeeper.

We propped a wicker double cradle at the foot of the coconut double bed. His body didn’t give mine pleasure, he didn’t smile at me and he didn’t observe me, and I wasn’t lost in thought anymore. And I didn’t know how and where to follow him.

Ashima and Sandip cried and pooped. We had to calm them and change them. The loft got messy and dirty. We had to tidy and clean it. But he didn’t comfort or change them, he didn’t tidy and he didn’t clean: he smoked ganja and thought up projects, closed up and protected in his quiet and spotless studio in Bovisa. I couldn’t follow him anymore, then. I had to take a different path.

And as I calmed and changed them, and as I tidied and cleaned, no longer following him, he was overtaken by a little American girl, white and blonde, barely twenty-four years old, a local branch of Barbie. And of her youth. Whore of a doll.

I calmed and changed them, tidied and cleaned. I went over to the big window and looked outside. I waited to see him coming back. He used to come at five, then he would come at six, then at seven, then at eight. And then he came at nine: “I ran late,” he apologized.

Ashima and Sandip were sleeping, he ate dinner with me, without smiling at me or observing me.

“I’m in love with someone else,” he said to me.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“An intern, you don’t know her.”

“How old is she?”

“Just twenty-four.”

“Is she Indian?”

He burst out laughing.

“Is she Indian?”

“She’s American, white and blonde.”

He wasn’t laughing anymore.

At ten I put on my sari, sandals, and twist my hair into a braid. I used the lipstick to paint on a bindi. I lined my eyes with kohl. I hung two giant rings on my ears and a smaller one on my nose. I put a dozen bangles on each wrist. At the slightest move I jingled like a crystal chandelier hit by a burst of air. I put the wrap around me and put the Barbie inside. Like a baby.

“You love me,” I told him. “She,” I pulled the Barbie out of the sash, pulling her up by the neck, “she could be our daughter.”

“I love her,” he told me, smiling at the Barbie with lightness and observing her with intensity.

I shook and I yelled: “Whore of a doll!”

He took a sip of wine, replaced the glass on the table, wiped his mouth with the napkin, stood up and left. I went over to the big window and looked outside.

I waited to see him coming. He wasn’t late. He had abandoned us.

I celebrated their first birthday alone, and I made them two little cakes: one with a pink candle and the name “Paola,” one with a blue candle and the name “Luigi.” I lit myself a cigarette and cooked myself a steak. The next day I came back with Ashima and Sandip to my forty-square-meter courtyard loft apartment. I carried up the loom and brought down the mattress, where all three of us sleep now.

Every month he, the old adolescent, deposits five thousand euros into my account. Which isn’t so I can afford to shake and yell: “Whore of a doll!” It’s so I can afford not to work and to move somewhere else, and hire a nanny-housekeeper at my complete disposal, 24/7. But I want to be a mom, live in this house, and work on my loom.

I want to shake and scream: “Whore of a doll!”

At two-fifteen I head toward home, I don’t want to get to the school late. I know what it’s like to wait for someone and not see them come. Lateness is the antechamber of abandonment.

I go into a café, another one. I order a gin and tonic, I drain it in one gulp. The bartender looks at me askance, with feigned indifference. I shouldn’t come to this place again.

I pay and ask: “Where’s the bathroom?”

“It’s out of order.”

Panic. I shake and yell: “Whore of a doll!”

The bartender comes out from behind the bar, comes up to me, and throws me out. I’m next to a traffic light once again.

At red, I’m motionless and silent. At yellow, I wait. At green, I shake and scream: “Whore of a doll!” But I’m lost in thought. I hear police sirens. The car screeches to a halt in front of me, a man and a woman get out and load me into the back. They look at me in the rearview mirror, askance, with feigned indifference.

They take me to the police station, dressed in my costume.

“ID, please.”

I set my ID card on the table. Surname: Lahiri. Name: Mina. Date of birth: 08/03/1960. Place of birth: Milan. Nationality: Italian. Place of residence: Milan. Address: Conte Rosso, 7. Marital status: single. Occupation: Artisan. Height: 1.72 m. Hair color: black. Eye color: green.

The man looks at me askance, with feigned indifference.

“You’re an Italian citizen.” It’s a statement, but has the tone of a question.

“Yes,” I reply.

“Can you tell me what time it is?” I ask.

“Three-twenty,” he replies.

Panic. I stand up. “I have to go.”

“Go ahead,” he says to me, standing up too, pointing me to the exit.

“Where’s the bathroom?” I ask.

“In the back, to the left,” he replies.

I go in, undo my braid, remove the bindi and kohl, slide off the rings, bangles, sari, and sandals, and put on my tank top, jeans, and heels. I put the wrap and the Barbie in my bag: “Bye, little one, till tomorrow.” I wave to the commissioner. “Ciao, Mina,” he says.

I rush, I’m late. I get to the school right before it closes. Ashima and Sandip are sitting on the ground with the teacher. Legs crossed and heads hung.

“Ashima . . . Sandip . . .” I gasp.

They run over, hug me, one on the right and the other on the left.

“Did you bring my Barbie?” Ashima asks me.

“Of course, love, here it is,” I reply, pulling it out of my bag.

“And my elephant?” Sandip asks me.

“No, honey, I didn’t have time to stop at home . . .”

He starts to cry, in a fit that could go on forever.

“My elephant! My elephant! My elephant!” he shouts between sobs.

“We’re going to get him right now, calm down, little one.”

“Why didn’t you bring my elephant?”

“Because I didn’t have time to stop at home . . .” I explain.

He grabs the Barbie from Ashima and hurls it far away.

“Whore of a doll!” I think.

 

From È la vita, dolcezza. © 2008 Gabriella Kuruvilla. By arrangement with the author and Morellini Editore. Translation © Jamie Richards. All rights reserved.

English Italian (Original)

I did it again today. I woke up, made breakfast, watched them eat and drink, bathed and dressed them, took them to school, returned home, got my sari, sandals, lipstick, kohl, makeup remover, rings, bangles, wrap, and Barbie. I put it all in my bag and went out.

I always choose a different café on the long route from Lambrate to Bovisa. I prefer to walk, despite the time it takes. I’m not in a hurry. Three forty-five comes slowly, it’s only ten.

I plant my heels on the ground, in the store windows eyeing my silhouette wrapped in my jeans and tank top. I look at myself askance, with feigned indifference. I wear my forty-eight years well, despite having had twins. They told me it was risky: you’re not the right age, you’re too old. I felt young, and I wanted to give him a child. One was enough, I just wanted one.

I got Ashima and Sandip, who soon will become Paola and Luigi. I filed an application at the court to change their names, so as not to complicate their lives. People won’t make fun of them, they won’t feel different or wrong. Just normal, assimilated. I’m the one who goes by Patmini, exotic as incense. Even though my name is Mina, explosive as a land mine.

Bar Accone, like a circus—how appropriate. It looks like the best place to get into costume. I order a cappuccino and a croissant. I don’t drink or eat in front of Ashima and Sandip. It’s as if I’m drinking their milk and eating their cookies as I watch them take in liquids and solids. And as if I were drinking and eating, it’s as if I am in their place. They’re beautiful and happy. They are a pair. I’m beautiful and sad. I’m alone, without them. When they’re not around, I let out my anger. So I can resume the role of the reliable, easygoing, available, and affectionate mom, as soon as they’re back with me. She mustn’t cause them any harm, mama Mina.

I pay and ask: “Where’s the bathroom?”

“In the back, on the left,” replies a girl so absorbed in herself that I feel like I can do anything I want.

I’ll have to come back to this place, make an exception. I always choose a different café on the long route from Lambrate to Bovisa. The exception proves the rule.

I lock myself in the bathroom. I remove my tank top, jeans, and heels. I put on my sari, sandals, and twist my hair into a braid. I use the lipstick to paint on a bindi. I line my eyes with kohl. I hang two giant rings on my ears and a smaller one on my nose. I put a dozen bangles on each wrist. At the slightest move I jingle like a crystal chandelier hit by a burst of air. I put the wrap around me and put the Barbie inside. Like a little baby. I wave to the barista, who looks up and says, “Have a nice day.” She looks at me but does not see.

I’ll have to come back to this place, make an exception. The exception proves the rule. We all need rules, and to be regulated.

I stop by the traffic light at the first intersection. And I do as it does: at red I stand there silent, at yellow I wait, at green I shake and yell: “Whore of a doll!”

And again: red, yellow, green: “Whore of a doll!”

Sometimes I shake and yell more, sometimes I shake and yell less. Sometimes I get bored, or worse, distracted. Sometimes I find myself yelling and shaking at red, and things like that that shouldn’t happen. We all need limits, and to be limited.

People walk by, stare at me, pretend not to notice, or shake their head slightly. Some laugh. Some push me. Some spit on me. I, at red, stand there silent. At yellow I wait. At green I shake and yell: “Whore of a doll!”

At two-fifteen I head toward home, I don’t want to get to school late. I know what it’s like to wait for someone and never see them come. Lateness is the antechamber of abandonment.

The first time he went to India, he was eighteen. He had been deemed a mature student. He threw a rucksack over his shoulder and sneakers on his feet. It was 1968. He wasn’t seeking social revolution but individual change. He wanted to get lost and find himself: a suggestive sentence, whatever it means. He set off with a guide and a map: if someone wants to get lost and find himself, he’d better bring along a guide and a map. Go off the beaten path, sure, but without going overboard. We all need rules, limits, and landmarks: I have the traffic light, he had the guide and map. Plus, he’d been deemed mature. Of age. Someone capable of voting left, screwing every girl in sight, and setting off by himself. He was for social sex and individual travel.

With his rucksack, sneakers, guide, and map, he’d lost and found himself in Bombay. Surrounded by traffic, dilapidation, noise, flies, smells, and beggars. Everything thrilled him. He lavished money and smiles, trying to absorb poverty and love: extracts of local spirituality. He took public transport, slept in cheap hotels, ate at working-class diners. Consulting his guide and map. With his rucksack over his shoulder and sneakers on his feet.

He went back to Milan in September, via hitchhiking-bus-train, enduring heat and hunger, giving up his intercontinental flight with air conditioning and international cuisine. He enrolled in architecture at the university: he went to class, attended protests, listened to professors, participated in debates, took exams, and organized sit-ins with the same enthusiasm and satisfaction. He was a model student and militant. Brilliant. Always up in front. And every year during vacation, summer and winter, he went to India. To be Indian, part-time. When he got back home, to his parents’ luxury apartment, he resumed his studies and his politics, each time feeling cleansed and refreshed, body and mind.

He became a famous designer, with a mystical air and solid plans. He was fifty years old, ten more than me, when I met him. He called me Kali, like the goddess of destruction, also the wife of Shiva.

“My name is Mina, not so exotic but just as explosive. I go by Patmini, not so explosive but just as exotic,” I explained to him.

He was fascinated with India: I represented its Italian branch, easily accessible. No intercontinental trips, air conditioning, or international cuisine. He just had to hop in a taxi, not a rickshaw, and plunge into Milan traffic: hardly less chaotic than Bombay’s. He only had to go down to Via Conte Rosso, and climb up four flights of dilapidation, noises, flies, smells, and beggars. And reach me: in my forty-square-meter courtyard apartment, with a loft. The bed above and kitchen below, and next to the only door which also served as a window was my loom, where I wove fabrics with the colors and patterns of India. I designed textiles for clothing and home decor, which were sold in the most exclusive textile boutique in the city, with the label Made in India. Designed in Italy isn’t chic enough, apparently.

We first met at a bar in the canal district, at aperitif hour. While his eyes were glued to my tank top, my jeans, and my heels, mine were glued to my cocktail, trying to drown in alcohol the chatter of the owner of the most exclusive textile boutique in the city.

“We’ll say your fabrics were produced by orphan girls from Madras,” she stated.

“‘Produced by orphan girls from Madras’ is more chic than ‘designed by an artisan from Milan,’” she explained.

I drank and I drowned. He saved me when I went up to the bar to ask for another gin and tonic.

“Can I get that for you?” he asked me.

I replied, “Sure,” lost in thought.

“Can I ask your name?”

I replied, “Sure,” lost in thought.

“So, what’s your name?”

I replied, “Patmini,” lost in thought.

“Like the incense?” he asked me.

“It’s more chic than Mina,” I replied.

I looked in his eyes, and my mind drowned in his body. He looked like a boy even though he was an adult. He smiled like an adolescent and observed me like an old man. The owner of the most exclusive textile boutique in the city stood up, walked over to us, and left: “I’m expecting the new collection by the end of the month,” she proclaimed.

“What collection?” the old adolescent asked.

“The one produced by orphan girls from Madras, made by an artisan from Milan,” I replied.

He told me about his love for India. I told him I was Indian but I wasn’t anymore. He didn’t understand me.

We kissed in his jeep and fucked in his loft. I had the adolescent senior, who managed to keep me on the edge of orgasm for over two hours, smiling at me with lightness and observing me with intensity. He had his Italian branch of India. He wanted to add more branches, thus Ashima and Sandip were born.

“Let’s call them Paola and Luigi,” I told him.

“Absolutely not. We’ll call them Ashima and Sandip,” he replied.

Ashima and Sandip are their names now, until the court processes my application and they become Paola and Luigi.

I transformed the forty-square-meter courtyard loft apartment into my workshop, where I created fabrics Made in India, produced by orphan girls from Madras, sold at mind-boggling prices in the most exclusive textile boutique in the city. And I moved into his big loft in Brera, where everything was visible: from the bricks in the wall down to the pieces of decor. The only nook where any privacy could be found was the bathroom. We threw drug-fueled parties and prepared dinners with organic ingredients. I snorted coke and consumed whole grains, wishing for a cigarette and a steak. But tobacco and meat weren’t chic.

I did everything he wanted, without asking myself if I wanted it too. I was always lost in thought, my mind lost in his body. Addicted to his old adolescent body that could keep me on the edge of orgasm for over two hours, smiling at me with lightness and observing me with intensity.

There was only one will, his. Following it was my way of loving him.

“I want a child,” he told me.

I got pregnant.

“There are two, a girl and a boy,” I whispered to him.

“A boy and a girl,” he retorted.

“How are we going to do this?” I asked him.

“Do what?” he asked me.

“Raise them?”

“We will,” he told me. “We will,” plural. He didn’t say: “You will,” singular.

I could follow on, then.

I imagined a nanny who was also a housekeeper: a woman completely at my disposal, 24/7. Always open like a supermarket, of whom you could ask anything: she’s for sale anyway, as long as you can pay. And we could pay for a nanny-housekeeper at my complete disposal, 24/7.

Whereas he told me: “Quit your job and be a mom,” completely at Ashima and Sandip’s disposal, 24/7. I was the nanny-housekeeper.

We propped a wicker double cradle at the foot of the coconut double bed. His body didn’t give mine pleasure, he didn’t smile at me and he didn’t observe me, and I wasn’t lost in thought anymore. And I didn’t know how and where to follow him.

Ashima and Sandip cried and pooped. We had to calm them and change them. The loft got messy and dirty. We had to tidy and clean it. But he didn’t comfort or change them, he didn’t tidy and he didn’t clean: he smoked ganja and thought up projects, closed up and protected in his quiet and spotless studio in Bovisa. I couldn’t follow him anymore, then. I had to take a different path.

And as I calmed and changed them, and as I tidied and cleaned, no longer following him, he was overtaken by a little American girl, white and blonde, barely twenty-four years old, a local branch of Barbie. And of her youth. Whore of a doll.

I calmed and changed them, tidied and cleaned. I went over to the big window and looked outside. I waited to see him coming back. He used to come at five, then he would come at six, then at seven, then at eight. And then he came at nine: “I ran late,” he apologized.

Ashima and Sandip were sleeping, he ate dinner with me, without smiling at me or observing me.

“I’m in love with someone else,” he said to me.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“An intern, you don’t know her.”

“How old is she?”

“Just twenty-four.”

“Is she Indian?”

He burst out laughing.

“Is she Indian?”

“She’s American, white and blonde.”

He wasn’t laughing anymore.

At ten I put on my sari, sandals, and twist my hair into a braid. I used the lipstick to paint on a bindi. I lined my eyes with kohl. I hung two giant rings on my ears and a smaller one on my nose. I put a dozen bangles on each wrist. At the slightest move I jingled like a crystal chandelier hit by a burst of air. I put the wrap around me and put the Barbie inside. Like a baby.

“You love me,” I told him. “She,” I pulled the Barbie out of the sash, pulling her up by the neck, “she could be our daughter.”

“I love her,” he told me, smiling at the Barbie with lightness and observing her with intensity.

I shook and I yelled: “Whore of a doll!”

He took a sip of wine, replaced the glass on the table, wiped his mouth with the napkin, stood up and left. I went over to the big window and looked outside.

I waited to see him coming. He wasn’t late. He had abandoned us.

I celebrated their first birthday alone, and I made them two little cakes: one with a pink candle and the name “Paola,” one with a blue candle and the name “Luigi.” I lit myself a cigarette and cooked myself a steak. The next day I came back with Ashima and Sandip to my forty-square-meter courtyard loft apartment. I carried up the loom and brought down the mattress, where all three of us sleep now.

Every month he, the old adolescent, deposits five thousand euros into my account. Which isn’t so I can afford to shake and yell: “Whore of a doll!” It’s so I can afford not to work and to move somewhere else, and hire a nanny-housekeeper at my complete disposal, 24/7. But I want to be a mom, live in this house, and work on my loom.

I want to shake and scream: “Whore of a doll!”

At two-fifteen I head toward home, I don’t want to get to the school late. I know what it’s like to wait for someone and not see them come. Lateness is the antechamber of abandonment.

I go into a café, another one. I order a gin and tonic, I drain it in one gulp. The bartender looks at me askance, with feigned indifference. I shouldn’t come to this place again.

I pay and ask: “Where’s the bathroom?”

“It’s out of order.”

Panic. I shake and yell: “Whore of a doll!”

The bartender comes out from behind the bar, comes up to me, and throws me out. I’m next to a traffic light once again.

At red, I’m motionless and silent. At yellow, I wait. At green, I shake and scream: “Whore of a doll!” But I’m lost in thought. I hear police sirens. The car screeches to a halt in front of me, a man and a woman get out and load me into the back. They look at me in the rearview mirror, askance, with feigned indifference.

They take me to the police station, dressed in my costume.

“ID, please.”

I set my ID card on the table. Surname: Lahiri. Name: Mina. Date of birth: 08/03/1960. Place of birth: Milan. Nationality: Italian. Place of residence: Milan. Address: Conte Rosso, 7. Marital status: single. Occupation: Artisan. Height: 1.72 m. Hair color: black. Eye color: green.

The man looks at me askance, with feigned indifference.

“You’re an Italian citizen.” It’s a statement, but has the tone of a question.

“Yes,” I reply.

“Can you tell me what time it is?” I ask.

“Three-twenty,” he replies.

Panic. I stand up. “I have to go.”

“Go ahead,” he says to me, standing up too, pointing me to the exit.

“Where’s the bathroom?” I ask.

“In the back, to the left,” he replies.

I go in, undo my braid, remove the bindi and kohl, slide off the rings, bangles, sari, and sandals, and put on my tank top, jeans, and heels. I put the wrap and the Barbie in my bag: “Bye, little one, till tomorrow.” I wave to the commissioner. “Ciao, Mina,” he says.

I rush, I’m late. I get to the school right before it closes. Ashima and Sandip are sitting on the ground with the teacher. Legs crossed and heads hung.

“Ashima . . . Sandip . . .” I gasp.

They run over, hug me, one on the right and the other on the left.

“Did you bring my Barbie?” Ashima asks me.

“Of course, love, here it is,” I reply, pulling it out of my bag.

“And my elephant?” Sandip asks me.

“No, honey, I didn’t have time to stop at home . . .”

He starts to cry, in a fit that could go on forever.

“My elephant! My elephant! My elephant!” he shouts between sobs.

“We’re going to get him right now, calm down, little one.”

“Why didn’t you bring my elephant?”

“Because I didn’t have time to stop at home . . .” I explain.

He grabs the Barbie from Ashima and hurls it far away.

“Whore of a doll!” I think.

 

From È la vita, dolcezza. © 2008 Gabriella Kuruvilla. By arrangement with the author and Morellini Editore. Translation © Jamie Richards. All rights reserved.

Barbie

L’ho fatto anche oggi: mi sono svegliata, ho preparato la colazione, li ho guardati bere e mangiare, li ho lavati e vestiti, li ho portati all’asilo, sono tornata a casa, ho preso il sari, i sandali, il rossetto, il kajal, lo struccante, gli anelli, i bracciali, la fascia e la Barbie. Li ho messi nella borsa. E sono uscita.

Scelgo sempre un bar diverso, nel lungo tragitto che mi porta da Lambrate alla Bovisa. Preferisco camminare, indipendentemente dal tempo. Non ho fretta: le quattro meno un quarto arrivano lentamente, sono solo le dieci.

Appoggio i tacchi sull’asfalto, controllo nelle vetrine il mio profilo fasciato dai jeans e dalla canottiera. Mi guardo con un occhio sbieco, di finta indifferenza. Li porto ancora bene i miei quarantotto anni, nonostante il parto gemellare. Mi avevano detto che era rischioso: non mi avevano detto né perché né quanto. Mi avevano detto solo: non hai l’età, sei troppo vecchia. Io mi sentivo giovane, e volevo dargli un figlio. Me ne bastava uno, ne voleva uno.

Sono nati Ashima e Sandip, che presto diventeranno Paola e Luigi. Ho chiesto al tribunale di cambiare i loro nomi, per non compromettere la loro vita. Gli altri non li prenderanno in giro, e loro non si sentiranno né diversi né sbagliati. Semplicemente uguali, integrati. Sono io quella che si fa chiamare Patmini, esotica come un incenso. Mentre mi chiamo Mina, dannosa come un esplosivo.

Bar Accone: neanche a farlo apposta. Mi sembra il luogo migliore dove entrare, per indossare i miei abiti di scena. Ordino un cappuccino e una brioche. Non bevo e non mangio mai davanti ad Ashima e Sandip. È come se bevessi il loro latte e mangiassi i loro biscotti, mentre li vedo assumere liquidi e solidi. E come se bevessi e mangiassi loro, è come se mi sostituissi a loro. Loro sono belli e felici. Loro sono in due. Io sono bella e triste. Io sono sola, senza di loro. Quando loro non ci sono, sfogo la mia rabbia. Per ritornare immediatamente nei panni, puliti e stirati, perfetti, della mamma solida, serena, disponibile e affettuosa, appena loro ci sono. Non deve recargli alcun danno, mamma Mina.

Pago e chiedo: «Dov’è il bagno?»

«In fondo a sinistra», mi risponde una ragazza talmente concentrata su se stessa da farmi sentire libera di essere qualsiasi cosa.

In questo posto devo tornarci, facendo un’eccezione: scelgo sempre un bar diverso, nel lungo tragitto che mi porta da Lambrate alla Bovisa. L’eccezione conferma la regola.

Entro in bagno. Mi sfilo la canottiera, i jeans e i tacchi. Indosso il sari, i sandali e mi lego i capelli in una treccia. Con il rossetto mi dipingo la tika. Con il kajal mi marco gli occhi. Mi appendo due enormi anelli alle orecchie e uno, più piccolo, al naso. Mi infilo una decina di bracciali ai polsi. Appena mi muovo tintinno come un lampadario a gocce percorso da folate di vento. Metto la fascia a tracolla e ci infilo dentro la Barbie. Come se fosse una neonata. Saluto la barista, che alza la testa e dice «Buongiorno»: mi guarda e non mi vede.

In questo posto devo tornarci, facendo un’eccezione. L’eccezione conferma la regola. Tutti abbiamo bisogno di regole, e di essere regolati.

Mi fermo al primo incrocio, di fianco al semaforo. E mi comporto esattamente come lui: rosso sto immobile e zitta, giallo attendo, verde mi agito e urlo: «Troia di una bambola!»

Poi di nuovo rosso, giallo, verde: «Troia di una bambola!»

A volte mi agito e urlo di più, a volte mi agito e urlo di meno. A volte mi annoio o, peggio, mi distraggo. A volte mi capita di urlare e di agitarmi quand’è rosso, e queste sono cose che non dovrebbero succedere. Tutti abbiamo bisogno di limiti, e di essere limitati.

La gente passa, mi osserva, fa a finta di niente oppure scuote leggermente la testa. Qualcuno ride. Qualcuno mi spinge. Qualcuno mi sputa addosso. Io, se è rosso, rimango immobile e zitta. Se è giallo attendo. Se è verde mi agito e urlo: «Troia di una bambola!»

Alle due e un quarto mi incammino verso casa, non voglio arrivare tardi all’asilo. So cosa vuol dire aspettare qualcuno e non vederlo arrivare. Il ritardo è l’anticamera dell’abbandono.

La prima volta che è andato in India aveva diciotto anni. Era uno studente dichiarato maturo. Si era messo uno zaino militare in spalla e delle scarpe da ginnastica ai piedi. Era il ’68. Non cercava la rivoluzione sociale ma il cambiamento individuale. Voleva perdersi per ritrovarsi: frase suggestiva, qualsiasi cosa voglia dire. Era partito con una guida e con una cartina: se uno vuole perdersi per ritrovarsi è meglio che porti con sé una guida e una cartina.

Smarrirsi sì, ma senza esagerare. Tutti abbiamo bisogno di regole, di limiti e di punti di riferimento: io ho il semaforo, lui aveva la guida e la cartina. D’altronde era uno studente dichiarato maturo. Un maggiorenne. Uno che poteva votare a sinistra, scopare con tutte e partire da solo. Era per il sesso sociale e per il viaggio individuale.

Con lo zaino militare, le scarpe da ginnastica, la guida e la cartina si era perso e ritrovato a Bombay. Circondato da traffico, fatiscenza, rumori, mosche, odori e mendicanti. Tutto lo incantava. Elargiva soldi e sorrisi, cercando di assorbire povertà e amore: estratti di spiritualità locale. Si spostava con i mezzi pubblici, dormiva in alberghi economici, mangiava in posti popolari. Controllando la guida e la cartina. Con il suo zaino militare in spalla e le sue scarpe da ginnastica ai piedi.

Era rientrato a Milano a settembre, in autostop-pullman-treno: soffrendo il caldo e la fame, rinunciando al suo volo intercontinentale con aria condizionata e cibo internazionale. Si era iscritto ad Architettura: frequentava i corsi, andava alle manifestazioni, ascoltava i professori, partecipava ai dibattiti, dava gli esami e organizzava le occupazioni con lo stesso entusiasmo e la stessa soddisfazione.

Era uno studente e un militante modello. Brillante. Sempre in prima linea. E ogni anno durante le vacanze, estive e invernali, andava in India. Per fare l’indiano, a tempo determinato: quando tornava a casa, nell’abitazione signorile dei genitori, riprendeva gli studi e la politica sentendosi ogni volta ripulito e rinnovato, nel corpo e nella mente.

Era diventato un famoso designer, dall’aurea mistica e dai progetti concreti. Aveva cinquant’anni, dieci più di me, quando l’ho conosciuto. Mi chiamava Kali, come la dea della distruzione, che è anche la moglie di Shiva.

«Mi chiamo Mina, esotica meno ma dannosa uguale. Mi faccio chiamare Patmini, dannosa meno ma esotica uguale», gli avevo spiegato.

Era affascinato dall’India: io rappresentavo la sua succursale italiana, facilmente accessibile. Niente viaggi intercontinentali, aria condizionata e cibo internazionale. Gli bastava prendere un taxi invece che un risciò, e immergersi nel traffico di Milano: poco meno caotico di quello di Bombay. Gli bastava scendere in via Conte Rosso, e salire a piedi quattro piani di fatiscenza, rumori, mosche, odori e mendicanti. E trovare me: in un appartamento di ringhiera di quaranta metri quadri, soppalcati. Sopra il letto e sotto la cucina, di fianco all’unica porta utilizzata anche come finestra c’era il mio telaio, su cui intrecciavo stoffe che dell’India avevano i colori e i decori. Creavo tessuti per l’abbigliamento e per la casa, venduti nella più esclusiva boutique tessile della città, con l’etichetta “Made in India”. Che “Fatte in Italia” non è glamour, pare.

Ci siamo incontrati in un bar sui navigli, all’ora dell’aperitivo. Mentre lui non staccava gli occhi dalla mia canottiera, dai miei jeans e dai miei tacchi e io non staccavo gli occhi dal mio cocktail, cercando di affogare nell’alcol i discorsi della proprietaria della più esclusiva boutique tessile della città.

«Diciamo che le tue stoffe sono state prodotte dalle bambine orfane di Madras», affermava.

«“Prodotte dalle bambine orfane di Madras” è più glamour di “Realizzate da un’artigiana di Milano”», spiegava.

Bevevo e affogavo. Mi ha salvata lui, quando mi sono avvicinata al bancone per chiedere un altro gin-tonic.

«Posso offrirglielo io?», mi ha chiesto.

Ho risposto «Sì» soprappensiero.

«Posso chiederle come si chiama?»

Ho risposto «Sì» soprappensiero.

«E, dunque, come si chiama?»

Ho risposto «Patmini» soprappensiero.

«Come un incenso?», mi ha chiesto.

«È più glamour di Mina», ho risposto.

L’ho guardato negli occhi, e il mio pensiero è affondato nel suo corpo.

Sembrava un ragazzo, mentre era un uomo. Sorrideva come un adolescente e mi osservava come un anziano. La proprietaria della più esclusiva boutique tessile della città si è alzata, ci ha raggiunti e se ne è andata: «Aspetto la nuova collezione entro fine mese», ha decretato.

«Quale collezione?», mi ha chiesto l’adolescente anziano.

«Quella prodotta dalle bambine orfane di Madras, realizzata da un’artigiana di Milano», gli ho risposto.

Mi ha parlato del suo amore per l’India. Gli ho detto che sono indiana ma che non lo sono più. Non mi ha capita.

Ci siamo baciati nella sua jeep e ci siamo scopati nel suo loft. Io ho avuto l’adolescente anziano, che riusciva a tenermi per più di due ore sul filo dell’orgasmo, sorridendomi con leggerezza e osservandomi con intensità. Lui ha avuto la succursale italiana dell’India. Voleva creare altre sedi, così sono nati Ashima e Sandip.

«Chiamiamoli Paola e Luigi», gli ho detto.

«Non se ne parla: li chiameremo Ashima e Sandip», mi ha risposto.

Ashima e Sandip si chiamano adesso, prima che il tribunale accolga la mia richiesta e diventino Paola e Luigi.

Ho trasformato l’appartamento di ringhiera di quaranta metri quadri soppalcati nel mio atelier, dove realizzavo stoffe Made in India, prodotte dalle bambine orfane di Madras, vendute a prezzi da capogiro nella più esclusiva boutique tessile della città. E mi sono trasferita nel suo open-space in Brera, dove tutto era a vista: dai mattoni delle pareti all’arredo della casa. L’unico angolo di privacy lo trovavi chiudendoti nel bagno. Facevamo feste a base di stupefacenti e preparavamo cene con ingredienti biologici. Tiravo cocaina e mangiavo seitan, desiderando una sigaretta e una bistecca. Ma il tabacco e la carne non erano glamour.

Facevo tutto quello che voleva lui, senza chiedermi se lo volevo anch’io. Ero sempre soprappensiero, con il pensiero affondato nel suo corpo. Dipendente dal suo corpo di adolescente anziano che riusciva a tenermi per più di due ore sul filo dell’orgasmo, sorridendomi con leggerezza e osservandomi con intensità.

Di volontà ce n’era una sola, la sua. Seguirlo era il mio modo di amarlo.

«Voglio un figlio», mi ha detto.

Sono rimasta incinta.

«Sono due, femmina e maschio», gli ho sussurrato.

«Maschio e femmina», ha ribattuto.

«Come faremo?», gli ho domandato.

«Faremo cosa?», mi ha chiesto.

«Ad allevarli?»

«Faremo», mi ha detto. Ha detto: «Faremo», plurale. Non ha detto: «Farai», singolare.

Potevo seguirlo ancora, dunque.

Mi immaginavo una tata che era anche una colf: una donna a mia completa disposizione, 24 ore su 24. Sempre aperta come un supermercato, a cui puoi chiedere qualsiasi cosa: tanto è in vendita, basta poter pagare. E noi la potevamo pagare, una tata-colf a mia completa disposizione, 24 ore su 24.

Invece mi ha detto: «Smetti di lavorare e fai la mamma», a completa disposizione di Ashima e Sandip, 24 ore su 24. La tata-colf ero io.

Abbiamo appoggiato una doppia culla in vimini ai piedi del futon matrimoniale in cocco. Il suo corpo non regalava piacere al mio, non mi sorrideva e non mi osservava, e io non ero più soprappensiero. E non sapevo come e dove seguirlo.

Ashima e Sandip piangevano e cagavano. Dovevamo calmarli e cambiarli. Il loft si incasinava e si sporcava. Dovevamo riordinarlo e pulirlo. Ma lui non li calmava e non li cambiava, non riordinava e non puliva: fumava ganja e ideava oggetti, chiuso e protetto nel suo silenzioso e immacolato studio, alla Bovisa. Non potevo più seguirlo, dunque. Dovevo percorrere una strada diversa.

E mentre li calmavo e li cambiavo, e mentre riordinavo e pulivo, senza seguirlo, è rimasto soggiogato da una ragazzina americana bianca e bionda, di neanche ventiquattro anni, la succursale di una Barbie. E della sua giovinezza. Troia di una bambola.

Li calmavo e li cambiavo, riordinavo e pulivo. Mi affacciavo all’immensa finestra, e guardavo fuori. Aspettavo di vederlo arrivare. Prima arrivava alle diciassette, poi arrivava alle diciotto, poi arrivava alle diciannove, poi arrivava alle venti. Poi è arrivato alle ventuno: «Sono in ritardo», si è scusato.

Ashima e Sandip dormivano, ha cenato con me senza sorridermi e senza osservarmi.

«Amo un’altra», mi ha detto.

«Chi è?», ho chiesto.

«Una stagista, non la conosci.»

«Quanti anni ha?»

«Neanche ventiquattro.»

«È indiana?»

È scoppiato a ridere.

«È indiana?»

«È americana, bianca e bionda.»

Non rideva più.

Alle ventidue ho indossato il sari, i sandali e mi sono legata i capelli in una treccia. Con il rossetto mi sono dipinta la tika. Con il kajal mi sono marcata gli occhi. Mi sono appesa due enormi anelli alle orecchie e uno, più piccolo, al naso. Mi sono infilata una decina di bracciali ai polsi. Appena mi muovevo tintinnavo come un lampadario a gocce percorso da folate di vento. Ho messo la fascia a tracolla e ci ho infilato dentro la Barbie. Come se fosse una neonata.

«Tu ami me», gli ho detto. «Lei», e ho tirato fuori la Barbie dalla fascia tirandola su per il collo, «lei potrebbe essere nostra figlia.»

«Amo lei», mi ha detto, sorridendo con leggerezza e osservando con intensità la Barbie.

Mi sono agitata e ho urlato: «Troia di una bambola!»

Ha bevuto un sorso di vino, ha riappoggiato il bicchiere sul tavolo, si è pulito la bocca con il tovagliolo, si è alzato e se ne è andato. Mi sono affacciata all’immensa finestra, e ho guardato fuori.

Aspettavo di vederlo arrivare. Non era in ritardo: ci aveva abbandonati.

Ho festeggiato il loro primo compleanno da sola, e ho preparato per loro due piccole torte: una con una candelina rosa e la scritta “Paola” e l’altra con una candelina azzurra e la scritta “Luigi”. Mi sono accesa una sigaretta e mi sono cotta una bistecca. Il giorno dopo sono tornata con Ashima e Sandip nel mio appartamento di ringhiera di quaranta metri quadri, soppalcati. Ho portato su il telaio e ho messo giù il materasso, dove adesso dormiamo tutti e tre.

Ogni mese sul mio conto lui, l’adolescente anziano, versa cinquemila euro. Che non mi permettono di agitarmi e di urlare: «Troia di una bambola!». Ma che mi permetterebbero di non lavorare e di trasferirmi altrove, oltre che di prendere una tata-colf a mia completa disposizione, 24 ore su 24. Ma voglio fare la mamma, vivere in questa casa e lavorare a telaio.

Voglio agitarmi e urlare: «Troia di una bambola!»

Alle due e un quarto mi incammino verso casa, non voglio arrivare tardi all’asilo. So cosa vuol dire aspettare qualcuno e non vederlo arrivare. Il ritardo è l’anticamera dell’abbandono.

Entro in un bar, un altro. Chiedo un gin-tonic, lo scolo tutto d’un fiato. Il barista mi guarda con un occhio sbieco, di finta indifferenza. In questo posto non devo più tornare.

Pago e chiedo: «Dov’è il bagno?»

«È fuori servizio.»

Ansia. Mi agito e urlo: «Troia di una bambola!»

Il barista esce dal bancone, mi si avvicina e mi butta fuori. Sono di nuovo di fianco a un semaforo.

È rosso, sto immobile e zitta. È giallo, attendo. È verde, mi agito e urlo: «Troia di una bambola!» Ma sono soprappensiero. Sento le sirene della polizia.

L’auto inchioda davanti a me, escono un uomo e una donna, mi caricano sulla macchina e mi fanno sedere dietro. Mi guardano dallo specchietto retrovisore, con un occhio sbieco, di finta indifferenza.

Mi portano in commissariato, vestita con i miei abiti di scena.

«Documenti, prego.»

Appoggio sul tavolo la mia carta d’identità. Cognome: Lahiri. Nome: Mina. Nata il: 03/08/1960. A: Milano. Cittadinanza: Italiana. Residenza: Milano. Via: Conte Rosso n. 7. Stato civile: Libera. Professione: Artigiana. Statura: 1,72. Capelli: Neri. Occhi: Verdi.

L’uomo mi guarda con un occhio sbieco, di finta indifferenza.

«Lei è cittadina italiana»: è un’affermazione, ma ha il tono della domanda.

«Sì», rispondo.

«Mi sa dire che ore sono?», chiedo.

«Le tre e venti», risponde.

Ansia. Mi alzo in piedi: «Devo andare».

«Prego», mi dice, alzandosi in piedi anche lui e indicandomi la porta d’uscita.

«Dov’è il bagno?», chiedo.

«In fondo a sinistra», risponde.

Entro, mi sciolgo la treccia, mi tolgo la tika e il kajal, mi sfilo gli anelli, i bracciali, il sari e i sandali e indosso la canottiera, i jeans e i tacchi. Metto in borsa la fascia e la Barbie: «Ciao, piccola, a domani.» Saluto il commissario.

«Ciao, Mina», mi dice.

Corro, sono in ritardo. Arrivo all’asilo poco prima che chiuda. Ashima e Sandip sono seduti per terra di fianco alla maestra. Gambe incrociate e testa bassa.

«Ashima… Sandip… », ansimo.

Mi corrono incontro, mi abbracciano, una a destra e l’altro a sinistra.

«Hai portato la mia Barbie?», mi chiede Ashima.

«Certo, amore, è qui», rispondo, e la tiro fuori dalla borsa.

«E il mio elefante?», mi chiede Sandip.

«No, tesoro, non ho fatto in tempo a passare da casa…»

Inizia a piangere, di un pianto che potrebbe non finire mai.

«Il mio elefante! Il mio elefante! Il mio elefante!», urla tra un singhiozzo e l’altro.

«Adesso andiamo a prenderlo, calmati, piccolo.»

«Perché non hai portato il mio elefante?»

«Perché non ho fatto in tempo a passare da casa…», mi giustifico.

Strappa la Barbie ad Ashima e la scaglia lontano.

“Troia di una bambola!”, penso.

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