Chrissy Kolaya - Charmed Particles

Dr. Cardiff seemed to Abhijat to be at peace with this. For Dr. Cardiff, it was the work, not the recognition, that seemed to bring him happiness, and at times, Abhijat found himself envious of such peace, though equally confused about how one might so easily set down the burden of one’s ambitions.

In this, Dr. Cardiff sometimes reminded Abhijat of his mother, who had always insisted that one could best find success by first finding peace and contentment.

At the conclusion of his presentation, the young speaker, as expected, took questions from the audience. They came rapid-fire. Some, Abhijat could tell right away, were attempts to trip up the young physicist. These were usually delivered by the speaker’s peers, who might use the opportunity to try to impress one of their senior colleagues. (Dr. Cardiff liked to joke that one could always spot such questions, for they inevitably began: “Let me preface my question by saying…”) Others were less a question and more a demonstration of the questioner’s familiarity with the work he referenced. When a good question came his way (these usually came from the older scientists, now eager to encourage their young colleagues), a smile floated across the face of the young scientist, and Abhijat watched how he paused in answering, as though trying to rein in a racing mind.

Days at home in the empty house, Sarala had begun practicing a flat, Midwestern accent, having studied her neighbors’ smooth Is , hard Ds , and clipped Ts . She watched herself in the mirror as she spoke, willing her mouth around the round, nasal As: Chic-ah-go.

Since her arrival in the country, Sarala had replaced her wardrobe of saris with jogging suits and seasonal and holiday-themed sweaters she ordered from QVC.

The wooden box of her mother’s recipes had been pushed farther and farther back into the cupboard, behind her collection of Tupperware, and had been replaced with new cookbooks recommended by Carol and the neighbor ladies Sarala now power-walked with each morning, doing laps around the mall before the stores opened— Betty Crocker, the Good Housekeeping All-American Cookbook, Microwave Cooking Made Easy .

“I thought you might enjoy reading this,” Carol had said that morning over coffee, presenting Sarala with her prized (and autographed, she pointed out, indicating the flourishing signature across the title page) copy of Mary Kay Ash’s biography.

Sarala had begun reading as soon as she got home. It pleased her to note the character traits they both shared: tenacity, commitment, enthusiasm, fortitude.

Alone in the house, Abhijat off at work, Meena off at Lily’s, Sarala kept right on reading through the long, quiet afternoon until it was time to begin preparing dinner, and then she propped the book up in a cookbook holder, reading as she stirred the pot simmering on the stove, a new recipe she was trying out called Yankee Noodle Dandy.

Outside, the sun had gone down. Meena would return soon from Lily’s house, Abhijat from the Lab. From the kitchen window, Sarala could see Carol across the street as she emerged from her house, two smart carrying cases in each hand. These she loaded into the trunk of her pink Cadillac and, checking her lipstick in the rearview mirror, backed out of the garage and down the driveway. Sarala wondered where Carol was heading, red brake lights glowing for a moment as she stopped, just barely, for the stop sign in front of the elementary school, then rolled through the intersection and off into the night.

Sarala, who so keenly noticed so many things about the world, had, it must be said, a bit of a blind spot when it came to perceiving Abhijat’s less-than-enthusiastic responses to the cuisine she presented him with each evening at dinner. She thought of the meals she prepared as a way to help Abhijat assimilate, to feel more at home in their adopted country. But Abhijat missed the food of his childhood.

Some nights, after growing hungry, picking at the American dinners Sarala placed before him, Abhijat took down the wooden box of Sarala’s mother’s recipes from the shelf over the oven, pulling it out from behind the collection of Tupperware.

On these nights, he carried it furtively into his study and read through the recipes, fragile pieces of paper in her mother’s pencil-light handwriting.

For when you feel the pain of distance .

And her recipe for puran poli.

For when the problems of the world knock at the door, begging entry to your home .

Her recipe for kheer.

As he read through the recipes, his mouth watering, eyes tearing at the mention of ground red pepper, cloves, cardamom, ginger paste, and raw mango, he remembered peeking into the kitchen of his childhood home, where the women sat, bent low over pots, peeling vegetables and grinding spices.

He had begun to cook for himself late at night, after he had finished wrestling with his latest paper. He grated ginger root into a bowl, Sarala upstairs watching television, Meena asleep or reading under her comforter by flashlight. At night, as they slept, the smell of his cooking creeping into their dreams, where Sarala found herself returning again and again to the kitchen of her girlhood.

BY THE END OF ELEMENTARY SCHOOL, IT HAD BECOME CLEAR THAT where Meena and Lily belonged was not with the rest of the children, mingling with the general population, but as part of the new, experimental, Gifted and Talented program, and thus, when they began junior high, they were pulled from what began to be referred to as “the regular classes” and placed in what the school board had elected to call the Free Learning Zone.

The Free Learning Zone was populated with the brightest students from the four elementary schools that fed into Nicolet Junior High. The classroom was long and narrow, filled with round tables rather than desks, quiet corners furnished with pillows, and cozy chairs in which students might curl up and read when struck by a particularly driving curiosity. Here, the students’ studies were self-directed. Long, low bookshelves lined the walls beneath a wide bank of windows. Colorful posters and artwork hung from the ceiling, suspended by fishing wire, giving the impression of the pictures floating in the air. There were easels where students might paint, computers grouped around a large round table, a problem-solving center, a debate corner, and, near the door, a desk for Ms Lessing, always piled high with precariously stacked books and papers, pens and pencils rolling off onto the brightly colored carpet. Ms Lessing had wild, curly red hair held back each day with a series of colorful scarves that sometimes matched the rest of her outfit, but more usually did not.

Among the privileges of the Free Learning Zone was that students could leave the classroom and visit the school library whenever they liked, and Meena and Lily took advantage of this opportunity frequently, becoming intimately familiar with the library’s collection of books, newspapers, periodicals, and reference materials.