If Today Be Sweet

by Thrity Umrigar

  IF TODAY BE SWEET

  THRITY UMRIGAR

  This one belongs

  to

  Eust and Homai

  Ah, fill the Cup:—what boots it to repeat

  How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:

  Unborn Tomorrow and dead Yesterday,

  Why fret about them if Today be Sweet!

  —OMAR KHAYYÁM

  Contents

  EPIGRAPH

  PROLOGUE

  Already, I am not here. It is happening. Already she…

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tehmina “Tammy” Sethna sat on a lawn chair next to…

  CHAPTER TWO

  Eva Metzembaum honked four times before Tehmina eased out of…

  CHAPTER THREE

  Women.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Hi, hon,” Sorab said, bending down to kiss his wife…

  CHAPTER FIVE

  This boy is as slippery as an open bottle of…

  CHAPTER SIX

  Snow.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  She was awakened from a deep slumber by the ringing…

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Hey, hey, Cookie. Yo, wait up for me.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  For God?s sake, man, you’re turning into a fucking woman,…

  CHAPTER TEN

  Homi and Perin Jasawala lived out in the country, although…

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The growling in the bathroom began again and Sorab tensed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Christmas Eve, Tehmina sighed, and she had still not dropped…

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  You did, what?” Tehmina cried in disbelief.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Christmas morn. How little those words had meant to him…

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Tehmina decided to wear her blue sari with the embroidered…

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Still in bed and glancing at the alarm clock, Tehmina…

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Oi, deekra, I hope it’s okay but I’ve invited a…

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  OTHER BOOKS BY THRITY UMRIGAR

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  PROLOGUE

  Already, I am not here. It is happening. Already she cannot sense my presence in the room, cannot feel the final kiss that I place on her forehead. This is how it should be. And I am not sad, I am not diminished by this. Rather, I am proud. I have done my part. After all, it was my push, my prodding, that finally got her off the fence. All the months of fussing and fretting, of torment and worry, are now behind her. I can see it in her face, the relief of resolution. It is in her walk, in her posture, in the angle of her head. Once again, she is the woman I loved, the woman whom I married. She has always looked deceptively fragile and God knows she is sensitive as a sparrow, but inside, inside, she is tough as nails. That’s what I’ve always been in love with—that strength, that inner compass that has steered her through so many storms. After all, she took care of my cranky old mother until the day she died, didn’t she? And if she could have survived dealing with mamma, why, she could survive anything. That’s what I kept telling myself during the first awful months. That my wife was a survivor. That she would find her way in the world without me.

  Still, I cannot tell a lie: It is good being here. I miss them all—my dearest wife, my son, my daughter-in-law, and my precious little grandson. Even all the others gathered here to usher in the new year. If I could figure out how to do it, I’d have one of them pour me a good, stiff Scotch. And pop one of my wife’s kebabs into my mouth. But this is not my place. I do not belong here anymore. The new year is not mine to celebrate, to bring in. And just when the loneliness seems unbearable, I look at my son’s face. At his eyes. They are searching the room. Even while he’s putting a lamb kebab into his mouth, even while he’s sipping his wine, whispering in his wife’s ear, slapping his best friend on his back, while he’s doing all these things, he is searching the room. He is looking for me. He is missing me. I have to turn away from the grief I see on that beloved face. I long to run my fingers across that face one more time. What is it about these humans—and here I ask myself, am I still human?—that injects this string of sadness during the happiest of occasions? And so, despite my best intentions, I find myself interfering one more time. Slowly, gently, I turn my son’s chin until his eyes come to rest upon his son. My grandson. Seven years old and as beautiful as the world itself. I see the fog of incomprehension and grief lift from my son’s eyes. They become clear and focused again as they rest on what he has created. And he sees what I see—he sees some outline of my visage in his son’s face. Even though I am—was—an ugly, wrinkled son of a bitch, he sees something of me in my grandson’s unblemished, unlined face. I see it, too. Not only that, I see my father’s face—the pointed nose, the alert eyes—in the boy’s face. Isn’t that something? My old man from Udwada, dead for twenty years, playing peekaboo from behind the face of a sandy-haired, light-skinned boy in America. And then I have to wonder—how dead can I really be, as long as my son and grandson exist? I wish I had thought of saying that to my wife earlier today. It would have cheered her up, given her something to hold on to.

  But this is just vanity. The nonsensical thoughts of a self-indulgent dead man. The fact is my beloved doesn’t need me to point any such profundities to her anymore. She is the architect of her own life. An hour from now, she will approach my—our—her—son and tell him her decision. He will be surprised, shocked even, but he will accept it. And soon, he will be proud of her, proud of her independence, of her determination, of her sheer instinct for survival. He will learn, as I did, to see past her tiny, 115-pound body and notice instead the iron will, the strong moral compass, the roaring heart of a giant.

  I am—I was—Rustom Sethna and I was married to a woman who was a fool. A woman who so adored me, who so relied on my strength that she forgot to measure her own worth, who never knew she carried the world, my world, in the palm of her hand.

  But this is not my story. I am done here. This is now her tale. It is she who will carry it forward, take it into the new year.

  I have done my part to help shape her story. And for that, I am proud. But it was she who crafted the final chapter and there was no ghostwriter—pardon the pun, I am, after all, a Parsi gentleman and bad puns are mother’s milk to us—to help her with that.

  Yes, there was a time when my beloved sat dithering, unable to make up her mind, and yes, I grew impatient and gave her the bloody push that made her get off the damn fence. But the free fall, the blind drop, the beautiful flight into her new future, why, that was all her own.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tehmina “Tammy” Sethna sat on a lawn chair next to her daughter-in-law, Susan, and basked in the warmth of the hot sun that she had brought with her all the way from Bombay.

  It was a week before Christmas and Ohio was enjoying a virtual heat wave. The two women sat in a companionable silence on their front lawn, Tehmina wearing a navy blue sweater over her batik-print shalwar-khameez. Her gray hair was held down with two bobby pins, so that the slight, lazy breeze that ran its fingers through the grass on the front lawn could not do much to ruffle it. There was not a lick of snow anywhere.

  “Seventy degrees,” Susan said, for the fifth time. “December in Cleveland and it’s seventy degrees. This is unfrig—unbelievable.”

  Tehmina beamed. “I told you,” she said.

  Susan pushed her sunglasses down her nose and peered at her mother-in-law. “Well, you’ve made a believer out of me,” she said lightly. “Importing all this sunshine from India. Heck, Mom, if this trend continues, there’s no way we’ll let you go back to India. The mayo
r of Rosemont Heights will pass a proclamation or something, forbidding you from ever leaving.”

  Something inside Tehmina melted and turned to honey at Susan’s words. She looked at the younger woman at her left. The sunshine had massaged and lifted Susan’s mouth, which usually curved downward, into a smile. Susan’s hands—Tehmina still remembered the first time she’d seen those hands and marveled at how large and masculine and raw American women’s hands were—Susan’s hands were resting limply by her side, unclenched, relaxed. The harried look that she wore most of the time, that made Tehmina jumpy and nervous around Susan, that look was replaced by contentment and happiness.

  Tehmina remembered how Susan had been during her past visits to the United States—relaxed, fun-filled, happy. Something was different this time around, something was missing, and Tehmina knew exactly what—who—was missing. Her dearly departed Rustom was not with her this time. Rustom with his big laugh and boundless confidence; Rustom who could step foot anywhere—in a new restaurant, a new apartment, even a new country—and make himself and the people around him feel at home right away. Rustom who could make his white, blond daughter-in-law giggle and blush as if she was a schoolgirl again. Rustom, who could make his serious, earnest son, Sorab, burst with pride over his old man.

  Tehmina pulled on her lower lip with her thumb and index finger. Unlike me, she thought. My presence only burdens Susan and Sorab now. Not like the old days. So many times Rustom and she had visited the children in America and always it had been a good time.

  The light shifted in the trees across the street and it reminded Tehmina of something. An incident from last year. “You know what we’re doing?” Rustom had bellowed at all of them from the pool at the hotel in San Diego. “We’re making memories, for the future. Something happy for you kids to think of, when we oldies are no longer around.”

  Sorab had immediately thrown one arm around his father’s neck. The two men were standing knee-deep in the water, while Tehmina and Susan lay poolside in lounge chairs. Little Cavas, whom everybody called Cookie, had been napping next to Susan. Tehmina looked at the blue water and at her husband and son. Water glistened off their brown faces and chests. She noticed idly that Rustom’s belly was firmer than his son’s. Too many years of this pork-beef diet for Sorab, she thought. I need to remind him again about his cholesterol.

  “What’re you talking about, when you’re no longer around?” Sorab said, tightening his grip and bringing down Rustom’s head so that it rested on his son’s shoulder. “The way you’re going, Dad, you’ll outlive all of us.”

  Rustom shook his way out of his son’s grip. “When it’s your time, it’s your time.” He grinned. “‘The moving finger writes, and having writ moves on,’” he added, swimming away from Sorab.

  Sorab groaned. “You and your Omar Khayyám,” he said. He turned to Susan. “I swear, my dad has an Omar Khayyám poem for every occasion.”

  Tehmina now shifted in her chair to look at Susan. “Remember our trip to California last year?” she said. “Remember what my husband said in the pool? About the moving finger writes and then moves on? Do you think he had a—a feeling or a sense—about his death?”

  Susan stared straight ahead. Even behind her dark glasses, Tehmina could feel her daughter-in-law stiffen. The suddenly cold silence buzzed around them. When Susan spoke, her voice was tight as a ponytail. “Mom, you remember what Sorab told you? About how you’re not to keep thinking about the past? What’s the point of thinking about—the sad stuff—if it just brings you down?”

  Tehmina started to reply. She wanted to say: When you have known Sorab and loved him for as long as I’d known my husband, then you will know what it’s like to miss someone so badly it’s like your own organs betray you. Your heart, your skin, your brain, all turn into traitors. All the things you thought belonged to you, you realize you shared with the other person. How to explain to you, Susan, what the death of a husband feels like? Such a shock it is, like experiencing your first Ohio winter, with that bitter wind slapping you on your numb face.”

  She also wanted to say: That’s what’s wrong with you Americans, deekra, you all think too much of laughter and play, as if life was a Walt Disney movie. Something a child would make up. Whereas in India, life is a Bollywood melodrama—full of loss and sadness. And so everyone rejects Bollywood for Disney. Even my Sorab was seduced by your Disney life—all this pursuit of happiness and pursuit of money and pursuit of this and that. But this year, I’ve learned a new lesson. Maybe the Indian way is better after all. See how much money you spend on therapists and grief counselors and all? Even my own son keeps telling me to take that capsule—what is it called?—Prosaic or something. That’s because your periods of mourning don’t last as long as they need to. Why talk to a therapist who you have to pay to listen to you, when you can talk to a grandparent or an aunt or uncle? Sort of like visiting a prostitute, isn’t it, having to pay someone to listen to you?

  Into the brittle silence, Susan laughed, a sound so tight it snapped like a rubber band. “Come on, Mom. Cheer up. It’s too beautiful a day to waste moping around.”

  Tehmina felt her face twist with anger. To cover it up, she forced her mouth into a yawn. “You’re right. But all this sunshine is making me sleepy. I think I’ll go inside for a few minutes.”

  “Mom.” Susan’s red hand touched Tehmina’s. “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. Sorry. I know Pappa’s death is hard on you. It’s just that…well, it’s been hard on Sorab, too. And seeing you down makes him feel so sad that, well, it upsets me.”

  Tehmina took Susan’s hand in hers and held it to her cheek. “I know, my darling. I know. And I promise to try harder. It’s just that my Rustom was such a pillar of strength that I feel as if something inside me has collapsed this past year.”

  The two women stared at each other, both blinking back their tears. The afternoon sky suddenly felt cold and wintry and Tehmina gave a shiver. Noticing this, Susan pushed herself off the lawn chair. “You’re cold,” she said. “Listen, why don’t you go inside for a bit? I’ll wait for Cookie when he gets off the school bus. And then we can all have some mint tea and snacks. After all, it’s not every day that I can be home on my son’s last day of school.”

  Tehmina’s face lit up at the thought of her grandson being home soon. She eased her body out of the green-and-white lawn chair. “Good thing we got all the shopping done this morning,” she said. “The little one will be glad to find you at home, instead of just his old grandma.” The two of them had spent the morning at the mall. Susan had taken the day off just to do some Christmas shopping.

  “It feels great to be home in the middle of the week. Seems like any more there’s never time to do all the things that…”

  The slamming of a car door and the squeal of brakes from next door ate up the rest of Susan’s words. Tara Jones backed her car out of the adjacent driveway and pulled onto the street. Her window was rolled down, and from where they were standing, the two women could see the red blotches on Tara’s skin and the brown hair, uncombed as always.

  Susan shuddered. “That woman,” she muttered as Tara stepped on the gas and peeled away without so much as a wave. “I can’t wait for Antonio to sell his house in the spring so that she has to get out. God knows she’s only been here for a few months and already it feels like we’ve been putting up with her loud music and her yelling at the kids for years.”

  “The music I can tolerate,” Tehmina replied, thinking of the music blaring from loudspeakers on the streets of Bombay during every Hindu festival. “What I can’t stand is how mean she is to her children. Such sweet boys, they are. I wish Antonio would do something about that.”

  Susan gave a snort. “Antonio. Let’s not talk about Antonio. Ever since he and Marita moved to the country, he acts as if he has nothing to do with this house. As if it’s not still in his name. As if this Tara is some stranger who broke into his house, instead of Marita’s half sister. He acts as if he has no control over the
situation.”

  Tehmina had been home the day Antonio, an amiable, gregarious man in his seventies, had stopped by to see Sorab. For years, Antonio had owned a popular Italian neighborhood restaurant where the Sethnas had been regulars because it was one of the few family-owned restaurants in Rosemont Heights, a town that was dominated by chains like Applebee’s and Cracker Barrel. In fact, it was during a meal there that Sorab had casually mentioned that he was looking for a new house and Antonio had recommended that they look at the house next door to his in Evergreen Estates.

  When Tehmina had brought tea and cookies on a tray into the living room, the two men were sitting across from each other, their knees almost touching. Sorab had the pained look he got on his face anytime he had to broach a difficult subject.

  “So how’s the new house, Tony?” Sorab started.

  “Terrific, terrific,” Antonio said, leaning back in his chair. “Got five acres of land around the house, see deer every morning. The missus loves it.” He accepted the cup of tea from Tehmina with a smile. “You folks must come out and visit us soon,” he said. “Especially while Tammy is still in town. Be good for young Cookie also, to run around the place. Get rid of some of that energy, huh?”

  “We’d love to,” Tehmina said graciously, handing Antonio his cup of tea.

  Sorab cleared his throat. “Um, so when will you put the house up for sale, Tony?” he asked. “Not good to let a house sit empty over the winter.”

  “Exactly. That being the whole reason I agreed to let Marita’s half sister move in there for a few months, long enough for her to get back on her feet, I hope. After she got evicted from her last place, she and those kids got no place to go. Not good, a young woman and two small children, alone in the world. Seems there was a boyfriend but don’t ask—” Antonio rolled his eyes. “With the young people, who can tell? What do they say? Easy come, easy go.”