Lovetorn (7 page)

“What have I done, girls?” he asked, looking at both of us. “What was I thinking bringing you all so far away from home? And how did I think that this would be okay, that suddenly she would be herself again?”

“It’s okay, Papa, you’re busy with your new job,” Sangita said. “Please don’t feel bad. It’s not your fault.”

“If not mine, then whose?” he asked. “It was my idea to come here. Your mother had nothing to do with it. I have taken you all away from everything you know. She feels it the most. Her family, her connections—I have ripped her away from all that she knows.”

He closed his eyes and shook his head, his face filled with sadness. It hurt me to see him this way. But it had hurt me as much to find my mother sitting alone and despairing in the local Indian grocery store, as if it was her only comfort in this new world.

Before Sangita and I went to bed that night, we gently opened the door to our parents’ room to check on our mother. She was lying on her side, a bedside lamp on, her eyes open. But as soon as she saw us, she pretended to fall asleep.

The next morning our mother came downstairs. I moved over on the couch where I was sitting, indicating to her to join us. My mother stared vacantly at the television screen but did not sit down. Then she went into the kitchen, made tea, and took a cup upstairs. I ran after her. She didn’t turn around. She went to her room and shut the door in my face.

I was stunned at my mother’s coldness and couldn’t even summon the initiative to go and get dressed. Instead, I went into the room with the shrine. I gazed at all the statues, at their beatific smiles. These deities were supposed to grant us our hearts’ desires. They were supposed to make us stronger, happier. That’s what I had been taught by my grandparents. That if we did good and prayed hard and showed appreciation for everything, our lives would unfold in a blessed way. Now, standing in front of the small marble figurines I had grown up with, the same ones I always bowed down to and chanted religious verses in front of, I wasn’t feeling the way I was supposed to. I wasn’t feeling grateful, or peaceful, or content. I wanted my mother to be herself again. This time, I didn’t bow my head or say a prayer. There seemed to be no point.

That evening my parents argued in their bedroom.

“You need to see a doctor,” my father said.

“Nonsense,” my mother replied.

“Your behavior is not normal. We have been here more than a month. It’s time to snap out of it.” He paused. “I hate what you have become.”

Silence.

I sat on my bed, clutching my diary to my chest, rocking back and forth, grateful that Sangita was at Amy’s and didn’t have to hear this. I hated the unhappiness that seemed to have fallen over my family, the discord between my parents. The contented couple with whom I had grown up, with the kind of unruffled marriage that was the model of what I would one day have with Vikram, had disappeared. I didn’t even recognize the couple in the bedroom next door.

A few days later, my father said it was time to invite Mr. Jeremy over for dinner.

“He wants to meet the family,” my father said. “I will tell your mother. She will have to make an effort, for one night at least.”

We went shopping the night before the dinner, at one of the airport hangar–sized supermarkets that were all over this city. I was mesmerized by the offerings: bags of chips that were the length of my torso, containers of muffins and croissants that would feed a dozen hungry children in one sitting. Such a place would have been a dream for my family in Bangalore, given how many mouths had to be fed on a daily basis.

My father loaded up on sodas, juices, chips, and dip.

“Papa, that’s a lot,” I said, motioning to the rapidly filling shopping cart. “It’s only Mr. Jeremy, right?”

“Yes,
beta.
But I want to offer him a choice of beverages and snacks. Also, it will not harm us to have these things in our house, for whenever people stop by,” he said a little hopefully.

On our way home we stopped at Delhi Delites and Supplies, where Mr. Singh inquired after our mother and showed us the fresh desserts we had come in for.

“What do you recommend? It is for a dinner party tomorrow,” my father announced proudly.

The man slid open the case and pulled out several pieces of the diamond-shaped
kaju barfi—
the Indian dessert made with cashews—their smooth, cream- colored surfaces covered in delicate silver foil and sprinkled with chopped pistachios.

“Freshly made today, still good tomorrow,” the man said, laughing heartily. “How many you want? Ten? Twenty?”

“A dozen will be fine,” my father replied.

The next day I expected to find my mother in the kitchen, steeping and simmering and chopping. But she was not there. I went back upstairs and found her lying on her bed, still in her nightgown, re-reading an old Bollywood magazine.

“Ma, we are going downstairs to get everything ready for the arrival of Mr. Jeremy this evening,” I said softly. “I thought we could prepare everything together?”

“You go,” she said. “I’ll come down soon.”

My sister and I fetched pots and pans from the cupboards and laid out the jar of
ghee
and the small plastic containers of grated ginger, minced garlic, sliced onions, and chopped cilantro that were always at the ready in our refrigerator.

Sangita and I sat at the tall stools next to the kitchen counter and looked at each other. We both knew how to cook—all the girls of our household had been taught from an early age, literally at the feet of our grandmother, in preparation for the lives we would lead one day as wives and mothers. Even though we had servants, we were never allowed to assume that we would be waited on hand and foot, like the men of the house were. We were still children after all, and girls at that. In the hierarchy of the household, we ranked the lowest.

But still, we had never prepared a full meal from scratch on our own. We didn’t know what to do next. We bided our time. Soon it was almost noon, and there was still no sign of our mother.

I looked over at Sangita. I could tell that she was thinking the same thing as me. Our mother wasn’t coming downstairs. This was going to be the first time that she wasn’t going to cook for a guest. There must be something really wrong with her.

“Heat some oil,” I said to my sister.

Six hours later we were done. My mother would have been able to cook seven dishes in half the time. But Sangita and I were new at this. At least we hadn’t burned anything. By six thirty the kitchen was clean, and Sangita and I were in our best frocks. When the doorbell rang, we stood anxiously behind our father as he opened the door.

“Hello, Jeremy! Welcome! Welcome!” he said. “Please, come in. These are my girls, Shalini and Sangita.”

Mr. Jeremy stepped in. He was shorter than I had imagined. He was wearing a smart checked shirt tucked into navy pants and in one hand was carrying a slender paper bag with a floral design. He shook my father’s hand before turning to Sangita and me.

“Hey, great to meet you,” he said. He extended his hand to my sister and then to me. I was immediately struck by his accent—so perfectly American with all those rolling
r
’s, to me so incongruous coming from an Indian.

“Please come in and have a seat,” I said.

He moved into the living room, took a seat on the couch, and leaned into a cushion.

“Mr. Jeremy, what may I bring you to drink?” I asked. “We have Fanta, Coke, Sprite, apple juice, orange juice, club soda, of course water . . .” I rattled off, recalling the large bottles that we had stuffed into the refrigerator yesterday.

“Just call me Jeremy,” he said. I nodded, knowing I wouldn’t. “I’d love a beer.”

My father looked over at us aghast. In all of his purchases yesterday, it had not occurred to him to buy beer.

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have any,” I said.

“It’s no problem,” my father shouted, jumping up. “I’ll run down to 7-Eleven. It’s just on the corner. Please, tell me which brand I should buy?”

“Relax,” my father’s boss said. “I can do without. A Coke would be fine. Anyway, I brought this,” he said, handing me the bag in his hand. I looked inside; it contained a bottle of wine. “Maybe we can enjoy it together later, over dinner?”

“Actually, Jeremy, in my family we don’t drink,” my father said. Jeremy looked surprised. There was no reason he should have known that; this was the first time my father and his new boss were socializing. But it was true: my grandparents had a strict no-meat and no-alcohol rule, although I often wondered how my male cousins coped when they went with their friends to some of Bangalore’s famous pubs.

“Please, let me open the bottle for you,” my father offered, although I knew he didn’t have a clue how to do so.

“No, thank you, it’s fine,” Jeremy replied. “Maybe you can regift it,” he added, smiling.

My father had put some music on the CD player to help liven up the otherwise quiet living room. On the table in front of Mr. Jeremy were the traditional Indian appetizers that Sangita and I had prepared. The
khandvi
, almost like pasta rolls but made of chickpea flour and yogurt, were floppier than they should have been; but Mr. Jeremy beamed happily when he tried one, saying he hadn’t had any since visiting his grandparents in India a year earlier.

“I’m looking forward to meeting your wife,” he said to my father, wiping some tamarind chutney off his fingers.

“Yes, she’s just getting ready,” my father said. “You know how women are!” He laughed weakly.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Mr. Jeremy said. “My ex-girlfriend used to take so long to get dressed I’d be tempted to leave without her. In fact, once I think I did!”

“So you are no longer with her?” my father asked. I was sitting on my hands, leaning forward, quite fascinated by this man.

“No, we split up about six months ago. It was too much work. It’s true, you never really know anyone until you live with them; and after a few months of living with her, I realized I should get out before things got any worse.”

Sangita and I turned and stared at each other. We had never before heard of an Indian man living with a woman who wasn’t his wife.

“And she was American, this girl?” my father asked matter-of-factly.

“No, a
desi
just like me. My parents would have been thrilled if I’d gone through with it, gotten married and the whole thing; but I just couldn’t do it.”

I was even more shocked—an
Indian
woman living with an Indian man! What did her parents think? Did they even know? I had so many questions but bit my bottom lip instead of asking them. My parents had always taught me not to be too nosy about other people’s affairs.

“Can I use the restroom?” Mr. Jeremy asked, standing up.

My father took the opportunity to run upstairs to see after our mother, Sangita and I tailing close behind.

“Asha, please, what are you doing?” my father beseeched. My mother was sitting on a small chair in front of the dressing table, gazing at herself in the mirror. She was still in her nightgown. “Please, you need to come down now. Our guest has been here almost one hour. It is very rude of you. He is my boss, Asha. You must at least make an appearance.”

Our mother looked at the three of us and sighed deeply, as if we were a source of huge irritation. Then she stood up, started unbuttoning her nightgown, and shut the door. My father went downstairs, while Sangita and I waited outside, like sentries to her sanity.

When she opened the door again, she looked like the mother we had always known. A trail of bright red
sindoor
was placed down the part in her hair. A smidgen of
kohl
lined her eyes, rouge on her cheeks. Next to her
mangalsutra
was a long gold chain with an enameled pendant with a picture of Lord Shiva. Her hair was combed straight. She was wearing a light yellow eyelet lace
salwar kameez
with matching bangles on her wrist and the same colored
bindi
in the middle of her forehead. I had forgotten how nice looking my mother was, how delicate her features, how large her eyes, which seemed to have been so cloudy recently. But there was still something frail about her.

My sister and I stood on either side of her as if to prop her up and to keep her from turning around and going back into the bedroom.

Downstairs, Mr. Jeremy stood as we walked in, his hand extended in greeting. My mother wanly took it.

“Asha, this is my boss, Jeremy,” my father said, visibly relieved. “He’s been very much enjoying the
dhokla
and
khandvi
the girls have prepared for him. But perhaps it is time to move to the dinner table?”

My mother didn’t even sit down, instead going straight from the living room to the kitchen, Sangita and I following her. She opened the covered pots on the stove and lifted the aluminum foil we had placed over some of the serving dishes to keep their contents warm. She turned to Sangita and me, a look of surprise on her face.

“You girls did all this?” she asked. We both nodded. She looked sad again, almost sorrowful.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come downstairs to help you,” she said.

At the dining table, Mr. Jeremy sat back in his chair, his mouth open, his eyes wide.

“What a spread!” he exclaimed. “You made all this at home, and for one guest?”

“It is not the number of guests, but how much we honor them,” my father said in response.

Mr. Jeremy cast his eyes over the offerings: a carrot-and-coriander soup that steamed in its glass tureen, a creamy white yogurt
raita
reddened with fresh beetroot, a big platter of tamarind rice, and spinach folded into fried bread. We had fried large green chilies and served them soaked in gravy and Indian cottage cheese and peas simmered in vegetables and spices. We had hoped that all our efforts would make him feel welcome. It might have been because of him that our lives had been uprooted, but I remembered the pride in my father’s eyes the day he had come home in Bangalore and told us he had been offered this job. Just for making my father happy, I wanted to thank Mr. Jeremy.