Free The Hindi-Bindi Club by Monica Pradhan

firepower.
             If you can’t find curry leaves, omit. This dish is still darn good without them!

Rani McGuiness Tomashot: The Land of Opportunity
    He who does not climb will not fall either.
    INDIAN PROVERB
    I want to die. The alarm clock’s going off, and I already hit the snooze button twice. I grope to silence it, haul myself upright, plant my feet on the hardwood floor.
Aag-doom! Baag-doom!
I remember my mother singing to me when I was little, a Bengali wake-up nursery rhyme.

    Aag-doom! Baag-doom! Horses away!
    Gongs, drums, cymbals play!
    Crash! Boom! The noisy band
    Marches off to Orange Land.
    On parrot’s wing, a golden ray
    Uncle Sun’s wedding day.
    Let’s go to market, me and you
    For
paan
and
betel
nut to chew.
    A
betel
worm slips out of sight
    Mother, daughter have a fight.
    Saffron flowers bloom anew
    Fresh, sweet pumpkin stew
    Little one, up with you!

    I groan in protest and crash over like a felled tree—timber!—my head at the foot of the bed. My husband Bryan burrows his head under his pillow. He can’t bear to watch my struggles to wake up. Too pathetic, too heart-wrenching, he says. He’d rather let me sleep in peace. But that isn’t an option today. I have places to go, things to do, people…ugh…people to schmooze.
    With a whimper or three, I drag my lead-weighted carcass out of bed and stumble to the bathroom. A little before seven, dressed in my running gear, I shuffle down the hall to stretch and notice an envelope someone slid under the door. At the contents, my heart stirs awake. Ooohing and aaahing, I flip through the latest photos of Anjali—nicknamed Anju—the three-year-old girl the couple across the hall is adopting from an orphanage in Kolkata, my mother’s birthplace. They call it an orphanage, though it’s mostly girls, not orphaned but abandoned and rescued from the streets…or worse.
    “She’s precious,” I say to the proud parent-to-be warming up in the hallway between our condos. My running buddy George has already stretched and jogs in place waiting for me. Though I’ve told him before, I can’t say it enough. “You’re doing an amazing thing. Saving a life. You’re good people, George. And Anju’s one lucky girl to have you.”
    George just grins and says as always, “Thanks, but we’re the lucky ones.” I wait while he drops the envelope on the mahogany table in his foyer. Closing the door behind him, he asks, “Are you excited or nervous about tonight?”
    “Yes,” I say and raise an index finger to my lips then tap my watch. Neither of us a morning person, we have a No-Talking-Until-We-Cross-the-Golden-Gate-Bridge rule. My head’s already pounding from the mental exertion of our minor exchange, and George’s can’t be far behind.
    He nods, and without another word, we’re off.
    We run down Laguna Street, across Lombard and Bay, then west along the marina, past the early-morning wind-surfers, and to the foot of the world’s most beautiful bridge. At our early hour, we often find the Golden Gate shrouded in an eerie mist, as if an otherworldly phantom bridge, but this morning, the Artist has painted a clear panorama.
    We yield at the ramp for cyclists descending from the west side, then trek up the east side. To our left, the vast Pacific ripples and splashes with crashing whitecaps. We keep an eye out for whales; one time last month we spotted a tail. To our right stretches the city skyline and the lone Coit Tower that juts from the top of Telegraph Hill like an enthusiastic thumbs-up on the peninsula.
    Beneath my feet, the springy suspension bridge quivers like a trampoline in strong winds. The bouncing used to scare me so much I had to turn back before the first pillar. It took a while before I could cross to the other side, thanks in large part to George’s coaching and patience.
    We run the length of the bridge, past the ever-present scaffolding (they’re constantly painting the bridge orange), and pause long enough for me