A Group of One

by Rachna Gilmore

  CHAPTER 9

  By Tuesday, three days before the arrival of Your Grandmother, we’re all totally frazzled.

  I drag my heels coming home from school, but when I open the front door, I’m surprised by the unexpected silence. No clattering or banging, no shrill voices. Mom must be off somewhere with Nina and Maya, thank goodness.

  But as I head into the kitchen, there’s Mom—sitting at the table, like it’s the temple of doom.

  “Hi, pet,” she says listlessly.

  “Hi,” I say curtly. “Where are Nina and Maya?”

  “At the park.” She smiles weakly. “Boy, I’m pooped.”

  Tough. Am I supposed to feel sorry for her?

  “And what’s that about?” Mom inquires acidly. “The eye rolling, the look of disdain.”

  I can’t stop myself. “Well, who asked you to do all this cleaning?”

  Mom’s eyes glitter. “Thank you, Tara. Aren’t you just charming? Thank you so much for all your support and sympathy.”

  It’s like a dam bursts. “You’re the one who wants to impress Dad’s mom—we don’t give a damn. And if you weren’t so horribly disorganized, the house would never get like this in the first place—you make everyone crazy with your mess, and now you’re driving us demented with your cleaning.”

  Mom sits upright, eyes blazing. Oh jeez. I wait for the thunderbolt.

  Unexpectedly, the fire fades and she slumps back in her chair. She looks … just like Gabby when Mom lights into her about standing up to Gampy. I shift uncomfortably.

  Mom says stiffly, “I’m sorry if this housecleaning is disturbing, but I want the house to be presentable for Your Grandmother. I’m perfectly aware that I’m not the world’s best housekeeper, and I’m sorry if it bothers you.” Her mouth is oddly vulnerable.

  I sit down. “Sorry, Mom.” Tentatively, I stroke the back of her hand.

  She turns it up and grips mine, flashing a grin that’s a shadow of her usual cheerful one.

  It suddenly hits me. Dad’s mother will actually be here in three days, and she’s Mom’s mother-in-law—my mother has a history I know practically nothing about.

  It’s starting to get dark out, but we still haven’t turned on the lights.

  I ask softly, “Mom, what … what actually happened when you got married? Why are you … I mean, how did she treat you?”

  Mom sighs. “Oh, it wasn’t any one thing that was so terrible. It was more … silences, this air of disapproval. It was pretty constant.” Mom’s talking wearily, almost to herself. “It was … it was as though I was unworthy of belonging to this great family that had done so much for the freedom struggle. I felt so … unwelcome. An outsider. She’d talk in Hindi to Raj at every opportunity, even though she knew I didn’t understand it well.”

  I stiffen.

  “She was always contemptuous of me.” Despite the gloomy light I see Mom’s jaw clench. “Because I didn’t wear saris or salwar khameez all the time, or bindi. You know…” Mom touches her forehead to indicate the dot worn there. “And because I didn’t like to eat with my hands—she deliberately wouldn’t put out any cutlery. She was so cold, because I didn’t know the ins and outs. Or care about them.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, most of it was so silly. To me, anyway. Things I never thought mattered. If I called her Mummy and forgot the ji to show respect. The way she corrected me—she never shouted; it would’ve been a relief if she had. It was her coldness, it was icy. Raj was so … so caught in the middle, trying to keep things smooth. But of course he’s a man, he didn’t notice a lot of it.” She’s back there, caught in the past.

  I don’t move.

  “Until her comments about Mom and Dad. She came right out with it. Raj was furious.”

  My neck prickles. “Gabby and Gampy? What about them?”

  Mom draws in a long breath. “Well, after that … that episode about us not living there, she finally gave vent to her true feelings. Scorn. What else could she expect from the daughter of people who’d sat pretty through the freedom struggle?”

  “What?” My voice is squeaky. “What did she mean by that?”

  Mom says tightly, “Oh, they weren’t active enough for her majesty, not revolutionaries like she’d been. Also, they lived a western lifestyle. And Dad had worked for the Indian Civil Service, under the British.” She glances quickly at me, says defensively, “Many Indians did. They were needed to keep the government going after the British left, but just because they weren’t directly involved with the protests—”

  “That’s so freaking stupid!” There’s a sharp taste in my mouth. I mean, Gabby and Gampy bug me at times, but I love them. “Shoving her values down everyone’s throat. It’s like … it’s like Tolly.”

  “Tolly? Your teacher?” Mom gets up and switches on the lights. “What about him?”

  Uh-oh. I’m about to make up some excuse, but Mom’s eyes are returning to the present. And I want to pummel her back to the way she normally is—it’s maddening, but at least it’s familiar.

  So I tell her.

  It’s actually a relief to see Mom in one of her dignified snits. She sits straight, eyes flashing with righteous indignation.

  “Clearly, your teacher is laboring under the misapprehension that if you’re not white you must necessarily, therefore, be of a different culture. Partly, it’s an attempt to exotify differences, but it’s offensive nevertheless, because it thrusts an identity upon you that may or may not be accurate.…”

  When she’s finally done, she leans forward eagerly and says, “Tara, I’d be happy to have a gentle little word with him…”

  “No, Mom, no. I can handle it.”

  I manage to get rid of her by offering to take care of dinner while she lies down. But it’s easier than usual to talk her out of fixing Tolly—which kind of freaks me out.

  When Nina and Maya get home, I settle Maya in the family room with her coloring book and pull Nina into the kitchen. I tell her everything as I thaw the spaghetti sauce.

  Nina’s eyes go round. “Jeez. Dad’s mother sounds like a total bitch.”

  I nod grimly. “Grade A, five star. I mean, if Mom’s this frantic now, what’s she going to be like when his mother actually gets here?”

  Nina gapes at me.

  “Look, it’s up to you and me. This is our territory. There’s no way we’re letting her rule the roost.”

  “Yeah,” says Nina. “We’ll show her who’s boss.” She rubs her hands gleefully.

  But it’s almost a game to her; I don’t think she gets it. And Mom and Dad are so in denial.

  It looks like I’m the only one who truly understands what’s going to happen when that woman finally gets here.

  All hell is going to break loose.

  CHAPTER 10

  It’s D-day, at last. The house is squeaky clean and super-tidy—almost like a funeral parlor, with the flowers Mom’s stuck everywhere. We’re sitting around the kitchen table eating pizza. No one had the energy to cook.

  Dad insists that we all go to the airport after dinner to meet his mother. I can think of a dozen other places I’d rather be, like, say, at the dentist’s getting fillings, but I know it’s safer not to argue.

  We eat silently, frozen in the glossy magazine picture of the ideal home. Except no one’s smiling.

  Then Nina breaks the silence. “Hey, Dad, what’re we supposed to call her? Your mother?”

  For once I’m glad of Nina’s blurts.

  Dad shifts in his chair, his face stiff. Is he at all aware of what we feel about his mother—how much we hate her?

  “I guess … er, well, I think, Naniji.”

  “Yes.” Mom smiles determinedly. “‘Naniji’ sounds just right.”

  “Nah-ni-ji! Nah-ni-ji!” Maya drums her spoon on her plate.

  “And, girls…” Dad’s face is strained. “Please try extra hard to be polite. Remember that in India you’re supposed to respect your elders. Her ideas of what’s, I mean, your grandm
other, er, Naniji, will expect…”

  Fury jolts through me.

  Quick as a whip, I lean forward, but Mom interjects, “I’m sure the girls will be perfectly polite. Won’t you, girls? You treat everyone with respect, don’t you?” She’s italicizing desperately.

  “Nah-ni-ji! Nah-ni-ji!” chants Maya.

  I snap on my fakest smile. “Don’t worry, Dad. We’ll be excruciatingly polite.”

  “Yeah, agonizingly,” says Nina, with a glint in her eye.

  “Now, girls,” starts Dad.

  He looks so hounded, I have to say, “Oh, Dad, don’t look so … so constipated.”

  The laughter shatters the artificial gloss.

  Dad sighs. “Okay, okay, just be your normal selves.”

  “Raj, my love,” says Mom, eyes twinkling. “Don’t you think that’s going rather too far?”

  “Hey, whaddya mean?” Nina switches to Mom’s posh British accent, “I hev splen-did manners. Syu-perb.”

  Mom wags her finger at us. “Just remember, no BFT.”

  Nina grins at me and lets out a big burp.

  “Nina!” says Mom.

  “But that’s not bodily-function talk.”

  “Okay, let me spell it out. No BFT and no BFN. That’s bodily-function noises. Got it?”

  “But what about a fart?” I ask, my face shiningly innocent. “Everyone has to fart sometimes; it’s natural. You mean we can’t fart in front of Naniji?”

  “Yeah, what d’you expect us to do, Mom?” asks Nina. “Explode?”

  Mom’s face sinks into her hands.

  I say, “It’s okay, Mom; we’ll make sure we say excuse me properly.…”

  “Pahdon me for pahssing gas,” says Nina in her poshest voice. “Hey, what’s Hindi for fart, Dad?”

  “You don’t really expect me to tell you, do you?”

  “Okay,” I say. “How’s Nahniji, pahdon me for brrreaking wind.”

  We’re all laughing too hard—with almost a touch of hysteria.

  Then Dad looks at the clock and says we’d better clear up. And the blanket of gloom descends again.

  After Mom runs upstairs three times, once to change her clothes, twice to change her shoes, we finally get into the van and head to the airport.

  Of course we’re way too early. Well, there might have been a traffic jam, Dad mumbles as we hang around the Customs doors.

  Everyone’s on edge except Maya. She’s having a great time climbing up and down a chair. Mom keeps twitching Maya’s dress straight, smoothing Nina’s shirt or my collar, and talking too fast—about the weather, how unreliable the airlines are, how Customs can be so slow, and how tiring the journey from India is. Such a long way to come.

  Dad paces up and down, faster and faster. Nina slumps into a chair, moans, This is so borrring, and then sulks when Dad snaps at her.

  I lean against a pillar, my arms tightly crossed. Why are we all being dragged into this charade for someone who never wanted to see us before? What kind of person practically cuts off her son just because he marries someone she disapproves of?

  Well, I’ve had enough. She’s not my mother-in-law, and I don’t care squat for her antiquated ideas. We can make her life pretty miserable, Nina and I—we’ll have her catching the first plane back. You’d better watch it, lady; the line’s drawn.

  Mom and Dad are now craning to look as people start coming through the Customs doors. Every time the doors open, my heart thumps.

  Then Dad cries, “There she is!”

  Mom smooths her hair, pulls Maya off the chair, and straightens her dress.

  “Mom, you’re holding too tight,” wails Maya.

  “Sorry, sweetie,” says Mom breathlessly.

  My heart pounds steadily. All right, Grandmother from Hell, I’m waiting.

  I now make out to whom Mom and Dad are waving. I take a long, hard look.

  Small, slightly plump. She’s wearing a wheat-colored salwar khameez, the Indian tunic and baggy pants. It’s stylishly cut, looks tailor-made. Dark hair with a fair bit of gray, pulled back low into a tidy, elegant bun. Two small bags and a camel-colored coat in the cart. When Gabby and Gampy come they bring tons of luggage—bursting with presents for us. She pushes her cart with decision, no crippled crab-walk—she looks healthy and strong, younger than seventy. Her face is severe, but I don’t see the fierce revolutionary Mom talked about.

  Then she notices Dad and Mom, and she breaks into a smile. It’s like Maya’s—slow to start, but transforming. She moves quickly towards Dad and hugs him hard.

  He folds her in his arms, says in a funny voice, “Mummyji.”

  I won’t hug her, I won’t.

  She pulls away from Dad and looks up at him. No. Her lips can’t be trembling. She turns to Mom. Yes, her mouth is all puckered.

  “Rohini,” she says. A tear rolls down her cheek as she hugs Mom.

  Mom is crying, too. It’s a long hug.

  What? What the hell is going on?

  Dad’s mother pulls away. She wipes her face and steadies her lips. She is short. I knew that from the picture, but I’m still surprised at how Mom towers above her. She holds on to Mom’s hand, grips it desperately. It’s almost as though her eyes are saying please.

  Then Naniji hugs Maya. She hugs Nina.

  She turns to me. I’m ready for battle but there is none.

  I can’t help it. I let her hug me, and slackly put my arms around her. She’s so much smaller than I am.

  She is shaking.

  CHAPTER 11

  It’s totally bizarre—all these weeks of living in hell and now, suddenly, it’s sweetness and light.

  The drive home from the airport is like something out of Little Women. Mom actually offers Naniji the front seat but she says, No, no, Rohini, your place is with Raj. I think I see Mom’s face twitch.

  I get into the back seat fast. I’m not sitting with Naniji. She sits in front of me, small and serene, with Nina and Maya beside her. Mom talks animatedly all the way home, eagerly pointing out sights that can’t be seen because it’s too dark. Naniji responds, all appreciative. No thick Indian accent, just a trace. She speaks English perfectly, an old-fashioned kind. I can’t catch Nina’s eye.

  Dad keeps asking questions about the trip and about his brother in India. Naniji answers and talks about old neighbors, stopping scrupulously to explain to Mom who’s who.

  Then we reach the house. It’s lit up like Christmas.

  And it’s showtime.

  As Mom and Dad give the tour, I watch Naniji, trying to catch traces of the person who heaped scorn all over Mom and Gabby and Gampy. No tears now. She’s small, but there’s something about her face, some sort of presence—did she really cry at the airport?

  She’s a determinedly appreciative audience—everything is wonderful or beautiful. She doesn’t exude like Mom, but she says it with finality, like a stamp of official, irrefutable approval.

  She’s impressed with the house. My, what a beautiful big house. It’s wonderful to see you doing so well, Raj. A pause. And Rohini, of course.

  Her room is wonderful and beautiful. It really does look great. From the wallpaper—white with small blue and yellow flowers, hung more or less straight by the crack-flashing Ronnie and Twinkie—to the bright-yellow duvet cover, the flowers on the pine dresser, the blue lamp, and the white wicker rocker, plump with yellow silk cushions, everything is shining, earnest, and polite.

  The only thing you don’t see is the mayhem we went through.

  Mercifully, Naniji refuses all offers of food and goes straight to bed. I hear the hiss of relief that escapes Mom. She looks exhausted—only her smile lingers in a Cheshire-cattish way. I rub her back gently as we go upstairs.

  Saturday morning, I head slowly for the kitchen. Yesterday was way weird, but at least there wasn’t a lot of it. Now there’s a whole day ahead. The whole visit—no return date—looming.

  Naniji is sitting at the kitchen table. Mom’s got it laid with everything straight, instead
of the usual slap-me-down. And Mom’s actually making fresh-squeezed orange juice. She bought the juicer years ago and used it only once, because it was too much work. Why is she doing this? She still looks tired.

  I give her a quick hug and say deliberately, “Fresh-squeezed, wow! What’s the occasion?”

  Mom flushes slightly.

  “Good morning, Tara,” says Naniji. She’s wearing another salwar khameez, gray with burgundy, quiet, discreet. Her eyes are clear and rested; her smile is well modulated, just like her voice. There isn’t a trace of yesterday’s weakness at the airport—she looks strong and self-assured, and a bit stern. I bet she doesn’t cry often.

  “Mummyji, can I get you some more juice?” asks Mom.

  “No, thank you, Rohini, that was just right.” She turns to me. “I feel terribly spoiled. I slept so soundly. Everything is most comfortable. That duvet, is that what you call it? I’ve never slept under one before—so warm and soft. And your mummyji won’t let me do anything. I’m not used to being waited on like this.”

  Mom says, “It’s nothing, Mummyji. It’s my pleasure.”

  They both smile—gracious smiles with the lips closed.

  Oh, give me a break!

  Dad comes into the kitchen and kisses Mom and Naniji.

  As I reach for the cornflakes, Mom says, “Tara, love, I’m making pancakes. I want your naniji to try some real Canadian maple syrup.”

  “It sounds wonderful,” says Naniji. Beam, beam.

  Yeah, well, she doesn’t fool me with all that smiley stuff. She may not have freaked out yet because we don’t have pictures of blue Indian gods with multiple arms, but there’s something about her eyes—they’re controlling. Hard.

  Maya comes into the kitchen dragging her blanket.

  Naniji’s smile is genuine this time. “Maya, come and sit with your nani.” She holds out one arm.

  Ha! Reality check. Maya never takes to people quickly.

  Maya looks at Naniji gravely, measuring her. Then she breaks into her sunrise smile and climbs up on Naniji’s lap. Naniji gives her a tidy, contained kiss, and Maya sits there like a queen, looking perfectly at home. Jeez! If I didn’t love that kid so much, I’d shake her.