Under The Mango Trees

Chapter Thirty Four : In Between Two Indian Families

I loomed behind my mother like a duckling, watching over her shoulder as she hurriedly dropped balls of chickpeas batter in the sizzling oil. The oil splattered and she stepped back, causing me to stagger back and hit the cabinet behind me. Her head alarmingly whipped towards me and beads of sweat gathered between the wrinkles of her furrowed eyebrows. With her free hand, she began shoving me away like I was a piece of heavy luggage that needed to be put into place. "Why are you standing here? Go away, it's so hot! Go and change before they come. You look like an orphan in those clothes."

"It wouldn't be terrible to buy me pyjamas instead of giving me Pavitra's old clothes," I said in a low voice so she couldn't hear, knowing that if she heard, I would be legit shipped off to an orphanage.

"Did you hear what she said, Aai?" emerged Pavitra in her pyjamas with a derisive, twisted smile that I wanted to erase from that aggravating face.

"What?" My mother's eyes landed on her eldest daughter whose fate would be decided today. The smirk on my sister's face wavered slightly at the look of pure wrath on my mother's face. "What? You didn't have a bath yet! What are you doing? What if they come now and see you like this?"

"Then divorce is final." I had to scurry to my room after I blurted that out since my mother's tolerance for dark jokes was less than a politician's tolerance for criticism. On my way, I managed to pick up a carrot which was flaccid like a penis and I bit it, watching the vehicles glide down the street. I was in a fairly good mood today since I didn't get many intrusive thoughts about Lila after writing that letter. I was comforted by the belief that one day we would meet and then I could worry all about her. For now, I had to focus on whatever was left of my life.

I was mentally battling the little devilish thought about deluding myself from being free from Lila's thoughts, so when the bell rang, I rushed to open it without another thought about who were the visitors. The sombre faces of my sister's husband's family peered at me, the me who was caught off-guard, the me was wearing my sister's old t-shirt and floral shorts (the material and pattern of cotton underwear). With the carrot in between my lips like a cigarette, I unlatched the door and let them in with an apologetic smile. I was sorry for their eyes.

Suddenly, I felt the tenacious grip of a mother who had to suffer the humiliation of her daughter and she pushed me behind her, welcoming them with a forced light-heartedness.

"Come in, come in. Please have a seat here. I'm almost done with preparing dinner. Just give me two minutes---"

"Oh, you didn't have to make anything for us," came the usual refusal from Pavitra's mother-in-law, a woman in her late fifties with a kind face and a soft voice. Her husband resembled her in features and speech and both of them had marshmallow hair, white and puffed out. Pavitra's husband and his brother, Dev, sat next to each other, hands on their thighs. While Dev looked up at my mother with mild interest, his brother stared resolutely at the tiled floor. From his hard expression, I knew that it would take a long while to undo his decision for a divorce.

"Go in," I heard the sharp command of my mother, so close to my ear, it seemed obvious to anyone that I was getting scolded. I returned to my room as indifferently as I could with the half-chewed carrot in my hand, feeling the wedgie of my cotton shorts all the way back. I prayed that nobody noticed me or that I appeared better than I imagined. Once in, I adjusted my shorts and heard Pavitra snicker.

"I wouldn't wear that even if I was a beggar." She had the audacity to comment when she hadn't changed into the churidar that my mother had carefully laid on the bed to avoid it from wrinkling. I was about to fire back that the t-shirt was hers, but my mother had entered and the tension in the air thickened to dark clouds on the verge of thundering. At the sight of her, Pavitra got up with deliberate insouciance and wordlessly carried the churidar to the bathroom. She made it a point to convey that whatever efforts she was putting in now, was all a goodwill to my parents. My mother glanced at the one left in the room, me, and let out an exasperated breath.