“I’m ok.” She doesn’t look up from her kneading.
“I’m worried about you.”
“I’m ok.” She kneads furiously.
Dang, she’s strong.
I stand there still as a mannequin watching her wallop the dough. I wonder how long it took her to become such a master bakhri maker.
“Need some help?”
“No.”
I rest my elbows on the counter and cup my face in my hands. My eyes follow her hands as they divide the dough into small balls, then flatten each dough ball into individual discs. With a velan, she rolls each disc into a circular flat, like a tortilla. Perfect six-and-a-half inch diameter circles. Each exactly the same size and thickness. Without using a mold. Last time I tried to make bakhri each one turned out to be a different shape, thickness, and size. Kind of like the Hawaiian islands.
I linger and psych myself up to ask her about the receipts.
Come on, Rani, you can do this. You got this.
I’m sweating. I have to pull at my shirt to keep it from sticking. Moist pits and all, I picture myself as Rocky Balboa. Donning my gloves. Hopping about in my gold and maroon colored robe to stay warmed up. Then I step into the ring.
“Hey Mom, what about these receipts?”
Silence.
After five more minutes of nada, I devise a different strategy.
Try playing piano. Maybe that’ll relax her and she’ll open up.
I walk to the living room and play Für Elise. It’s my mom’s favorite, I think, because I’ve noticed she usually gets a half-smile when I play it. My fingers press the keys and I peek at her. I’m hoping the beauty of the piece will draw her out of her shell.
Nope.
She doesn’t seem to hear it, still completely absorbed in making the bakhri. So I stop playing halfway through. I drop my hands into my lap and stare out the sliding glass doors at the channel. It’s calm, like I wish I was. I get up and head to the entryway for my backpack. I wrap my fingers around one of its straps and lug it to my room.
I’m about to shut the door to my room when I hear my mom’s voice. Groaning. I drop my backpack and slink into the hallway. All the sweat gets sucked back in and I’m dry as a bone. My eyes become binoculars and my ears a highly sensitive wire tap. I match my breathing to my heart beat and maintain complete stealth. By now I’m lying on the hallway carpet. I commando crawl to the beginning of the hallway and peer around the wall at my mom.
She’s shaking her head and grumbling. She’s done this before—complain out loud to herself when she thinks no one’s listening. But generally she cries while she gripes. Today’s different. More anger and no tears. I didn’t think it was possible, but the V-shaped crease on her forehead is deeper than usual. I mentally record her solo tirade, translating it from Gujarati to English.
“Salo Pradip. He’s never taken me on vacation anywhere. Maybe I’m the stupid one because I don’t ask for anything. I just do all his work. My girlfriends on the mainland get fancy clothes and houses. They go on trips. I know they speak up. I’ve seen it.”
I’m stunned. I’m holding my breath.
She continues her rant. “Their husbands treat them like wives and their kids like kids. Not their wives like servants and their kids like princesses.”
Oh snap!
“And now he’s got a new princess. Wendy. That kutri. She gets to have it all. His attention, no work, vacations. And what about poor Rani? And she thinks he’s such a good dad.”
She thinks about me! Maybe she doesn’t hate me!
My eyes dart around on a crazy search for nothing in particular. All I can hear is my heart beating and pushing the blood through my arteries. I let out a long, slow breath. The corners of my lips venture towards my eyes, which send tiny wet emissaries to greet them.
I creep my way through the bodies and plop down in the chair Pono saved for me. He gives me an inviting chin-up. His “it’s so on” smile kindles my activist flame. And ignites my Pono fire.
He goes back to scribbling on his notepad while I consider how much I need a cold shower. I look around the large hall of the Kaunakakai Community Recreational Center. Locals are spilling out of the open entryways on either side. I can tell the meeting’s gonna be intense. My heart is throbbing at lightspeed. I’m not quite sure if it’s because the gorgeous brown skin of Pono’s arm is touching mine or if it’s the meeting. I order my brain to focus on the meeting.
Fortunately my brain obeys. But then I realize this is my first activist meeting without my dad. I scan the room to make sure he’s not here. No sign of him. Today it’s just me. Skittishness tries to oust my courage.
You can do this without him. You know your stuff.
Courage triumphs and I’m ready to fight for the environment. As are most of the locals here. Public Enemy’s Fight the Power runs through my mind. And so does my own spontaneous rhyme.
Everyone wants a piece of it—
Moloka’i’s water. Admit it
all ya’ll plotters wantin’ a judicial writ
to give you free reign to buss out yo’ tool kit
and construct for profit.
But we won’t submit.
We ain’t soft.
So you best back off
cuz you bout to be iced out—Jack Frost.
I envision going up to the standing mic at the center of the room and spittin’ my rhyme as my testimony.
The lights dim. I swag walk to the standing mic.
A spotlight comes on. A DJ drops my beat. I spit…
Pono elbows me back into reality. “Hey, Rani. You gonna give a testimony?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Cool. Me too.”
“Yours is the one I’m looking forward to hearing,” I say, smiling.
He smiles back. It almost makes him look shy.
Did he just blush?
But before I can read into his face anymore, the EPA Chair calls the meeting to order.
After today’s hearing, the EPA will decide if the Moloka’i aquifer is truly its principal
