by Sonya Lalli
Kanika pouted—that way she did often, the way she knew worked on everyone. “Can Daddy come, too?”
Every time, it ripped. Just a little bit more.
“Daddy will walk us to the car.”
chapter two
One year ago
Have you given more thought to renovating kitchen?”
“Um.” Anu wiped her hands on a tea towel and turned around to face her mother. “Not really.”
“Why not?” Lakshmi stirred the dal that was simmering on the back burner, setting her other hand on her hip. “Is it money? We can lend.”
“No . . .” She trailed off as her mother-in-law appeared in the doorway. Priya’s face was flushed from the November cold, and she handed Anu the bag of groceries she’d left in her car. As Anu turned to set it on the counter, she accidentally bumped Lakshmi’s arm, sending a spatula flying from her hand.
“Sorry!”
“See?” Lakshmi smiled as she picked up the spatula and tossed it into the sink. “Priya-ji, don’t you think this room is too small?”
“Hah, why have there been no renovations?”
“Anu, you need to take down this wall.” Lakshmi rapped on the far kitchen wall with her knuckle. To Priya, she said, “It will open up the whole space, nah?”
Anu nodded, grabbing a bunch of coriander from the bag. “Good idea.” She had already explained to both of them that the wall Lakshmi was hell-bent on knocking down was load-bearing, and the kitchen was too crowded only when all three of them were in there, but she didn’t bother repeating herself.
Instead, she washed the coriander and pinched off brown leaves, zoning out of the conversation as Priya and Lakshmi discussed what color Anu should paint the kitchen, then in what crockery to serve the aloo gobi.
If Anu had cooked herself, she would have been done an hour ago. Rather than chop it all by hand, she would have used the food processor to chop all the chilis, garlic, onions, and ginger required in the four-course Punjabi feast Lakshmi had envisioned for the evening. She wouldn’t have soaked the rice and lentils in cold water for thirty minutes, but only five, because it really didn’t make a difference, no matter how much they insisted it did. There would be a dozen fewer dishes to wash and fewer surfaces to scrub, and she would have managed to squeeze in a forty-five-minute yoga session in the rec room downstairs before dinnertime.
But Priya and Lakshmi liked to stretch chores out in leisure, taking breaks from chopping, frying, and stirring to set their hands on their waists and gossip about the latest drama at their temple, exclaim at the state of Anu’s Tupperware cupboard, rearrange the jars of cumin or cinnamon in Anu’s spice rack.
“That is very brown, nah?” she heard Lakshmi say.
“Sure is, Mom.” Anu nodded, continuing to pick at the coriander. “I’m working on it.”
Lakshmi switched to Punjabi and said something to Priya about hardwood flooring, and Anu fought the urge to scream.
Anu’s Tupperware cupboard.
Anu’s spice rack.
Was this really her destiny, to be stuck here between the two of them, practically invisible?
She pressed the back of her hand hard against her mouth, and after a minute, the feeling passed. She should have been grateful. She was lucky to have a wonderful family, a mother and a mother-in-law who had become as close as sisters.
This was everything she could have ever wanted.
“I hear her!” Priya exclaimed, just as Anu noticed Kanika’s laughter ringing through the front hallway. “They are back!”
Anu dried the coriander in a paper towel as Priya and Lakshmi rushed to the front hall. Her dad, Kunal, and Neil had taken Kanika to skate at the rink a few blocks away, the one where Anu had spent countless afternoons that month teaching their daughter how to skate.
“Since when did Kanika become the next Tessa Virtue?” she heard Neil say.
No one had the answer, and from the other room, Anu didn’t volunteer it.
“Nanaji skated, too!” Kanika told the others. “He fell on his butt.”
“Uh-ho!” Lakshmi’s voice. “Kunal, do you need an ice pack for your butt?”
“Oh, yes, please,” he replied. “Maybe my sweet wife can give me a massage, too?”
Everyone in the hallway laughed. Anu did not.
She heard the pattering of footsteps as the family moved into the sitting room, and the conversation switched to the upcoming play at Kanika’s day care.
Was it possible to be jealous of a four-year-old? Anu pondered the question as she chopped the coriander, eavesdropped on her family as they obsessed over the lion costume Kanika was planning to wear—the one Anu was in the middle of sewing.
Anu couldn’t remember if she’d told her family that she was the one to write the play, after the day care coordinator told her she had “just too much on her plate.” So Anu had read a few Wikipedia articles on playwriting and bashed out a child-friendly script about safari animals and inclusivity one Saturday night after Kanika had gone to bed, and she had been directing the thing ever since. For the past month, she’d shuffled and reshuffled her schedule at the medical clinic where she worked as a nurse to make sure she could be there for every rehearsal. She’d e-mailed the newsletter to all the parents explaining which costume each child would be required to wear. Several times, she’d bailed on lunches or after-work drinks with her best friends, Jenny and Monica, to finish the set backdrop or props or pick out paper stock for the programs.
She didn’t mind. It was important work, being a mother. She wasn’t allowed to mind.
The subjis, curries, and rice were cooked, heated through. After ladling them into crockery and putting it all to warm in the oven, she started on the dishes. Scrubbed each pot, plate, and pan as slowly as possible, as the others chatted away in the sitting room.
“I am thinking about going back to university,” she heard Lakshmi say through the wall. “I have always thought I would. Perhaps, it is the time. I have started an application.”
Anu resisted the urge to roll her eyes. How many times had she heard her mother say that? She’d believe it when she saw it.
“My lovely lady, a student—me a professor,” Kunal said softly, as Kanika banged at the piano in the background. “It would be a Bollywood love affair, no?”
“I would watch that,” Priya said in earnest. “It really should be movie.”
“Uh-ho. Kunal, you think I would be so sleazy as to have affair with my professor?” Lakshmi asked. “Nah, if I am to have an affair, it would be with fireman. I have always liked fireman.”
“Like Chuck Norris?” Priya asked. “He was so handsome.”
“Chuck Norris was the Texas Ranger, nah?”
“Would you like me to leave the room while you pick your suitor?” Kunal harumphed for effect. It reverberated through the whole house just as Lakshmi squealed in delight.
“Look at him Priya-ji, so jealous!”
Anu was startled by a noise behind her. She glanced back, moving her neck only in the slightest, and with her peripheral vision caught sight of Neil chugging orange juice from the carton, one hand leaning against the open refrigerator door.
She squeezed her eyes shut as the tears started to form, unable to remember the last time he had greeted her when arriving home—with a kiss, a smile, even a hello. The last time he had held her because he wanted to and not just because Kanika had jumped into their bed and there wasn’t enough room for the three of them.
She heard the refrigerator door close, a cupboard door open.
Would he come to her? Would he slink toward her and set his hands on her hips? Whisper something into her ear—something silly, maybe romantic? Or maybe he’d simply walk over without saying anything at all, pluck the tea towel from her right shoulder, and wipe down the dishes drying on the rack.
That would be enough. Right no
w, wouldn’t that be enough?
She heard the rustling of a chip bag and then the cupboard door close.
Where had he gone? Where was it? The olive branch. A sign that their marriage was more than their daughter. A home. A union of nice Indian families.
That she was more than just his lackluster Indian wife.
She held her breath, her heart pounding in her chest as she waited for him. And she kept waiting until she heard Neil’s voice in the other room.
There was a glass bowl in her hands caked in turmeric, salt, and flour. It fell to the floor, and nobody else heard it shatter.
chapter three
SARA: Hi, Anusha, this is Ms. Finch from school—but call me Sara. Hope it’s OK that I’ve texted instead of e-mailing! Anyway, thanks for signing up to build the set for the Christmas (I mean holiday!) concert. I’ve ordered the supplies, but it looks like you’re the only kindergarten parent that’s signed up to help. . . . Is that OK? I will try and rally more volunteers but no guarantees.
ANUSHA: Hi, Sara—texting is easier for me, too. I only work part-time, so no worries. I’ve got time to build the set.
