by Sonali Dev
Ashna rolled a napkin with far more force than necessary. “Wow, I never thought I’d hear the ‘you’re thirty and not married off’ thing from you.”
Shobi made a horrified sound. “Oh please. I would never be quite so regressive. I just meant that I never saw you as the swooning sort.”
Ashna had a good mind to let her think she was, indeed, the swooning sort. “I didn’t swoon. The camera just makes it look that way. I was caught by surprise.”
“Right. Surprise at how stunning a man can be, by all reports.” Her mother chuckled, as though she had finally found her absconding sense of humor. So what if it had taken her daughter’s public humiliation for her to find it.
Ashna lined the perfectly folded rolls neatly on the counter, ready for tomorrow’s fifty tables, because at least the video seemed to be bringing in customers. “It had more to do with the fact that the man did not look like someone who could help me win. It’s about winning. Isn’t that what you’ve always taught me?”
Her mother made a scoffing sound, so much more within the Shobi lexicon than her previous good-natured chuckle. “Well, see, it’s always about the damn restaurant. But you’re right; that video clip is going to make sure that you don’t get voted off. So it might help you win after all.”
“I can win because of my cooking. It is possible, you know.” It was actually not possible at all. How impossible it was reared its monstrous head inside Ashna.
Shobi’s response was to twist this in the most infuriating way possible. “I’m not saying you can’t. All I’m saying is that you should take a moment to explore why you’re doing this.” A pause that harkened the coming of another swift and brutal kick to the gut. “Why do you repeatedly let the restaurant be a punitive place for you?”
Sometimes Ashna just hated Shobi. But she hated herself more for answering the phone.
Awkward silence stretched between them. Not that they could have a conversation without those. Ashna shoved the perfectly folded rolls out of alignment, then adjusted them.
Finally, Shobi cleared her throat. “Why do we always end up here, Ashna?”
Ashna laughed.
Shobi cleared her throat, another ominous sign for what was coming. “Why don’t we try something different. What are you doing with the restaurant when you shoot? Do you trust the people you’ve hired?”
A double punch this time. Baba’s employees had robbed him clean after his death and it had been Ashna’s fault for leaving them to do it.
“I was going to ask if you maybe needed help with it? You won’t come to India, and it’s been so long since we’ve seen each other . . .”
Ashna started pacing. Had Shobi just asked her if she needed help?
Once when Ashna had been ill and hadn’t been able to get out of bed or eat without her aunt forcing spoonfuls into her mouth, her mother had apologized over the phone about being in the middle of a project it would be unthinkably irresponsible for her to abandon. Thousands of women and children were counting on her. She was raising money so underprivileged women could have toilets inside their homes instead of having to walk outside their villages every time they needed to use the restroom. Wasn’t that more important? Couldn’t Ashna understand how Shobi couldn’t leave that, no matter how badly she wanted to be there?
Who could argue that those things weren’t more important than a daughter who had inconvenient timing when it came to falling ill?
Even after Baba died, Shobi had flown down for a few days and then simply gone back to India for some project or other.
The last person Ashna had wanted to face then was Shobi anyway, given that after spending all those years blaming Shobi for destroying Baba, Ashna had been the person to finally push him over the edge.
“What about the foundation? And the Padma Shri? There’s got to be so many events around that.”
“I’ve built a strong enough team that they’re taking care of everything.” Another swipe that wasn’t lost on Ashna. “I won’t be able to get away for too long, I’d have to be here before the awards ceremony in two months, but I do want to help. How long do you shoot?”
“Not sure yet,” Ashna said.
Whatever this was—this thing where her mother seemed to have added “bond with daughter” to her monthly goals—Ashna did not have the time for it.
“Mina Kaki is helping me. We’ve got it all worked out, so don’t worry about it.” That should work because Shobi was usually happy to hand her mothering responsibilities off to her sister-in-law.
It worked. Thank God. After a few frustrated sounds, Shobi let Ashna go.
Ashna packed up and made her way home. It was late, but Mina Kaki was a night owl, so Ashna called her.
All she had to say was “Hello,” and her aunt knew what she was going to say.
“Don’t worry about the restaurant. It will be well loved. I have it all under control. Nisha’s going to help me.”
“But Nisha’s swamped with the campaign.”
“Actually, not being able to travel is giving her cabin fever, so this will be good. She’ll help when she can and I will be fully focused on this.” As always, the soothing timbre of her aunt’s voice calmed Ashna.
By the time she let herself into the house, her breathing was even. “Has Yash found anyone to help?”
“He’s considering a few people. I think he wants someone with strategy experience but no political history. Fresh blood, he keeps saying. In this climate we need someone who can manage crisis—media attacks and blowups.” Her aunt chattered on as Ashna dressed for bed.
“Anyway, hanging out at Curried Dreams will be fun. It will also give me an opportunity to have lunch with Shree.” Ashna’s uncle worked right down the street at Stanford. “I haven’t done lunch dates with him in a while. And here I am always going on about how you can’t let your marriage sag like old breasts. This is going to be fabulous!”
“I love you, Mina Kaki.” Ashna was smiling when she crawled into bed.
That. That was how you did motherhood.
Chapter Eleven
Shobi stepped aside to avoid the passing camel on Juhu Beach on her morning walk. She couldn’t let her contemplation of how one got motherhood right cause her to get trampled by an animal. Although at this point, death by camel seemed like her best chance at getting Ashi’s attention.
The sun was barely peeking out from over the ocean’s edge, but the sky was already pink and orange, heralding its arrival. Shobi loved her morning walks. Getting here before five A.M. was the only way to avoid the crowds. Good thing sleeping past five A.M. wasn’t for a mind like hers.
Not that Shobi had a problem with crowds. Being able to withdraw into yourself amid the hordes was something that became coded into your DNA early when you took birth on this soil. It was the essence of being Indian. Even living in a palace didn’t afford you solitude. Not that physical isolation had anything to do with peace.
After her conversation with Ashi there was no peace to be had, even though there were only a few stray walkers on the beach.
A mother-daughter pair waved at Shobi as they walked by, both in running shorts and T-shirts. A pang of envy mixed with yearning tugged at her as she waved back and took in their easy camaraderie.
They did the usual perusal of Shobi’s cotton sari as they passed. She didn’t feel judged. Choosing to live in saris was a decision she had made a long time ago. She had fought the blameless six yards of fabric so hard during her initial years in Sripore, and then wearing them had felt like claiming herself during her time in America with Bram. Why did women do this, use clothing as a tool in their battle against society?
Because you took whatever tools you were given, that’s why.
America. Where she had used her clothing to embrace her identity but lost her child.
Mina Kaki is helping me. No matter how many times Shobi heard those words, they sliced through her heart. As though a knife had dropped from Ashi’s hands onto her chest.
Of
course Shobi had watched the video. Flora hadn’t stopped talking about it since she’d seen it. Shobi had watched it a few times. All right, more than a few times. An embarrassing number of times. She had watched it on a loop for hours.
It had been far too long since she’d seen her baby. Missing Ashi was part of her life, a chronic pain she had learned to breathe through and manage. But seeing her like that, exposed to the world exactly the way she was, vulnerable, guileless, beautiful—it had shaken years of suppressed pain loose inside Shobi.
Turning to the ocean, she took in the orange arc of the sun as it emerged over waves fallen gray in its shadow. A moment that remained magnificent no matter how many times you witnessed it. A moment that was never the same unless it reflected off a human retina and not a lens, no matter how skilled the photographer. Much like life.
The moment when Ashi had let the knife go at the sight of Frederico Silva played in Shobi’s mind again. This was what the world had come to, recording everything in the constant search of an unscripted moment. A mass hysterical hunger for serendipity.
Now her child was a victim of it. The idea of Ashi in Bram’s restaurant had always made Shobi want to burn the damn place down. Ashi had avoided cooking at all costs growing up. The way Bram had shoved their daughter into that role, doing something she hated, made rage burn through Shobi. She picked up her pace, breaking into a jog.
Could there be a greater irony than the fact that Ashi had landed a football player as a partner? As a child, the thing Ashi had loved as much as she had hated cooking was football. When she’d moved to America she had lost her sport just the way she had lost her home. Or maybe she had willfully cast it off as a symbol of rebellion against Shobi. It had been Shobi’s dream that Ashi follow her footsteps to the cricket pitch, but Ashi had gravitated toward football. So Shobi had adjusted her dream to her daughter leading India into the international scene in that sport. Then Bram had ruined everything, as always.
Maybe Ashi still followed the sport. Was that why she had agreed to do the show? Because of Frederico Silva?
Something about her baby’s face as she dropped the knife had reminded Shobi of herself at sixteen. The first time she’d seen Omar home from college she had fallen off her horse and dislocated her shoulder. She’d known Omar her entire life. His father had managed her family estate since before Shobi was born. His family had lived in the staff quarters on the premises of her home, but that day had been a first meeting, if there had ever been one.
The strength of her agitation disoriented Shobi. It wasn’t like her to not know what she was feeling; complete clarity was her gift. It was what had gotten her where she was today. Squatting down in her sari, she dug her hand into the wet sand and scooped some up. She shaped it into a ball, but it wouldn’t hold for more than an instant, no matter how hard she tried.
A wave rolled to a stop inches from her sneaker-clad toes, then ebbed away. Why was this discomfort something she couldn’t move past? She was used to Ashna’s stubbornness when it came to blocking her out. But there was something about Ashna’s being on the show that Shobi just couldn’t wrap her head around. Or her heart.
She tossed the handful of wet sand at the ocean. The force of her swing dislodged a lock of hair from her bun. How did one soothe the discomfort of being a mother who didn’t know her daughter at all? She knew who Ashi’s friends were, what she liked to eat, things she had gleaned from conversations, found out from Mina. But had Ashi ever fallen in love? Had she ever had her heart broken?
Shobi herself didn’t remember ever not being in love, with Omar, with her sport, with her work. How had she given birth to someone who at thirty was so uninterested in love, or in anything for that matter? So insular and controlled about everything.
Because you weren’t around to teach her passion, the waves whispered to her. She threw another handful of sand at them.
Until Shobi watched her drop that knife she had wondered if Ashi preferred women. Would she have been able to come out to the Rajes if she did? Yes, she would. Ashi would be able to tell Mina and Shree anything. It was the reason Shobi had been able to leave her daughter in their care, to let her go for so long. She’d known she was in good hands.
Oh, who was she trying to fool. She had let Ashi go because she hadn’t known how to be a mother, she hadn’t known how to compromise with something she was forced into. Because losing herself entirely to motherhood was the price Bram—and the world—had demanded of her.
How she hated that man. Thinking about him still stung like oil burns across her skin. To think he had been her friend once. Then he’d betrayed her. So large had her anger at him been that she’d let go of something precious. Something she wanted back.
Why should Mina be the one who got to help Ashi? To be her mother? When Shobi wanted it so badly.
It’s because you’re here and not there with her, the waves whispered.
Shobi dusted the sand off her hands. Their last conversation had made it obvious that Ashi didn’t want her. There had been sheer panic in her voice at the thought of having to see Shobi. “You don’t know anything, so just shut up,” she said to the waves.
They went back to their rhythmic churning.
Sitting down on the beach, Shobi removed her sneakers and socks and neatly folded and tucked them together. Her toes were their usual coppery red. Having her toenails painted was a habit she had picked up from her own mother, who’d insisted that it was a sign of gentility. Even in her cricket-playing days Shobi had kept her feet pedicured, the deeply embedded need to please her mother lingering on past all the work she had done to become the person she was under the conditioning.
“You must be so proud of what you’ve achieved,” a journalist had said to her last week.
She was.
Wasn’t she?
Shobi had no experience with questioning herself. If she had stopped for doubts, life would have stomped her into the earth.
She rested her chin on her knees and watched the waves.
“Tell me what I’m missing?” she asked them as they rolled and rolled without pause. They never got a break to question their actions. They had to keep going to sustain the life they contained.
That wasn’t true. Even the ocean receded into low tide so the beaches might breathe.
Ashi had a way of breathing that told Shobi she was upset. It was her withdrawing-into-herself breathing, which she had used to lock Shobi out her whole life. The first time Shobi had noticed it was when she’d returned from the World Cup tournament when Ashi was eight.
“Mamma missed you,” Shobi had said, and Ashi’s eyes had gone flat. She’d breathed in slowly and deliberately but had not responded.
Your daughter told you she’s never learned to be happy.
Her child, who hadn’t told her anything important in a very long time, had told her a truth that people spoke only when they were desperate to be heard. Or when they had given up.
Don’t you see she’s asking you for help? the ocean said.
“I offered to help her, and she panicked.”
Maybe she just doesn’t know how to ask.
The last time Ashi had asked for something, Shobi hadn’t been able to give it to her. Another situation her daughter’s father had put them in. A last devastating act.
“I want my daughter back.”
Then go and get her.
I don’t know where to start, Shobi wanted to say. There were just so many lies, so much Ashi didn’t know. Shobi had always kept things from her, afraid of not knowing which straw of truth would break her. Or maybe she’d kept things to herself because she hadn’t known how to share them with someone who had always borne the greatest brunt of her decisions.
It was time to fix this mess once and for all. It was time to stop tiptoeing around all the lies. Ashi deserved to be happy. Maybe it wasn’t too late for her to learn how. Maybe there was still time for Shobi to show her that it was possible. No matter how hard the world tried to take happiness a
way from you, it was possible to fight back.
Who knew this better than Shobi? Because, good Lord, how hard they had tried.
Chapter Twelve
Shoban had spent the entire day sitting on the cliffs of the Sripore palace, staring at the ocean and daydreaming about Omar. Usually it was her favorite pastime. But since he had left for Oxford, even daydreaming about him hurt. It didn’t help that it was her eighteenth birthday and not a soul here was aware of the fact, or cared.
For the hundredth time that day, Shoban opened Omar’s birthday letter.
On your eighteenth birthday, eighteen reasons why you own my heart . . .
Pressing the letter to her own heart, she stood. If she didn’t find some way to distract herself, she was going to explode.
She ran all the way to the stables looking for Bram, but he seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth.
“Where’s Prince Bram?” she asked the liveried chauffeur standing by Bram’s family’s Bentley.
The man straightened, saluted her, and informed her that he had no idea.
Bram never told anyone where he was going. It was the most infuriating thing about him, these princely airs of his. He also only ate foods cooked a certain way, with annoyingly fancy colonial names like “braised this” and “sautéed that.” Needlessly complicating something as natural as food with snobbery was an abomination, if you asked Shoban.
His older brothers were nothing like that. But Bram was always trying to play at being this person who was too important to be answerable to anyone.
“I like it when you worry about me,” he had said to her yesterday.
