First of all, she was not a blonde. Instead, her hair was a rich brown, falling in loose waves around a plump face, matching the brown eyes that looked everywhere, curious, fascinated. For another thing, she was short. Swati had seen photos of her, it was true, but she supposed she had always overlaid them with the image she had in her mind, of a sleek and serpentine seductress, pawing at their unsuspecting child. Instead, she looked commonplace, slightly ethnic, even, her skin vaguely olive, her features more normal than Swati could have anticipated.
But what she did next was truly astounding. Rachel saw her and Vinod, both standing stock-still like puppets waiting for the puppeteer to activate them, and she smiled widely and held out her hand to shake Swati’s. She looked her in the eyes, clear, direct, with no hint of shyness or discomfort, and said: “It’s so very wonderful to meet you. You must be Swati.”
Swati would never have addressed her in-laws in this way; she would have died with shame first. And yet, beyond the shock, Swati was aware that it felt pleasant to have her new daughter-in-law say her name, and greet her first, before Vinod, before anyone. To talk to her like they were business associates or in a meeting, to shake her hand. It felt almost professional.
“It’s wonderful to meet you, too,” Swati said. To her surprise, it really was.
There was something that fascinated her about Rachel, or rather, about the way she was with Dhruv. Perhaps, actually, the thing that was more fascinating was Dhruv, because he was her child, and yet he was something different with his wife. Watching the couple, she saw there was such an openness between them, such affection in every gesture. Rachel touched Dhruv all the time, and he allowed it, smiling. Rachel told Dhruv that she didn’t like something and he listened. They seemed to like each other, really like each other, to enjoy each other in a way that made Swati uncomfortable. It was so achingly unfamiliar to Swati, and it made her uneasy, until she realized why. It was because she, Swati, had never been that comfortable with anyone in her life. Not with Vinod, not with her parents, her siblings, her son, and certainly never with herself. It was like walking around in uncomfortable shoes all your life, and never knowing that shoes could be comfortable, and then finding out you could have been walking comfortably the whole time.
Before meeting Rachel, and seeing the way Dhruv was with her, Swati had not thought much about whether she was content with her life, probably because her life was one that she should be content with. Because she had the things that made someone content, because her life was the way it was supposed to be. But as she saw Dhruv with Rachel, the way that they made each other happy, she wondered, for the first time, perhaps, whether that was not true. She had seen that kind of happiness in television shows and movies, that American cheer, and she had thought that was just for Westerners. But if Dhruv could find it, if he could be so close with someone, so happy from that closeness, then surely it was not a Western trait at all. She began, unconsciously, to explore the contours of her life and examine them for happiness, or the lack thereof.
Vinod, meanwhile, continued on his plodding way, his life the same as it had been before, and Swati could not understand him. This man whom she had lived with for so long, whom she had had inside of her body, whom she had mixed with and borne a child for, whom she had nursed in illness and celebrated with in wealth, he did not see what she saw in their child. Worse, he found Dhruv’s happiness unseemly. He found Rachel’s affection embarrassing, indecorous. He had, it was true, been relieved that she wasn’t worse than they had thought, but otherwise, he felt as suspicious of her as he had before. Seeing their son so happy didn’t dim his own idea of his life in comparison; instead, he refused to trust it.
Swati found herself feeling further and further away from him every day, until one morning she woke up and sat with Vinod at the breakfast table. She watched him drink his second cup of coffee, which he wasn’t supposed to have because of his heart, and realized that she didn’t care whether he drank it or not, whether he died soon or in a year or in a decade, it was all the same to her. And it shouldn’t have been. If she were really happy in her life, happy with Vinod, content, wouldn’t it matter to her if he died because of his heart, because of the caffeine she had watched him drink cup after cup of and never said a word? Could she live with herself, knowing she had let him die, knowing that even after so many years, after the child they’d had and the life they’d built, she cared no more for him than she had on her wedding night when he was a stranger?
So, not really believing that she was actually doing it, she packed her bags and left.
And now she was here, with the foreign daughter-in-law she had never thought she would like, who looked at her like she was a stranger and asked her to explain herself. Well, she certainly didn’t have to do a thing like that to someone decades younger than her.
“Once you throw that away, I’d like some more water, please,” Swati said.
“The kitchen is just through there. You can see it,” Rachel said.
Swati stared at her. This was not an appropriate way for a daughter-in-law to talk to her mother-in-law. “I’m very tired from my journey,” Swati said, inflecting her voice with a bit of steel. Rachel looked at her oddly but walked into the kitchen and disposed of the dustbin of glass, then poured Swati a new serving of water.
“You can get yourself some, too,” Swati said generously.
Rachel looked up at her, eyes narrowed. “Thank you so much,” she said, smiling sweetly, acid in her tone. “But I would prefer something stronger.”
Swati watched, her eyes wide, as Rachel poured herself a measure of something pale yellow out of a green bottle from the refrigerator.
The girl crossed back to the living room and handed Swati her water, sipping her own drink.
“What is that?” Swati asked, her tone reproving.
“Wine.”
“I never would have had a drink in front of my mother-in-law,” Swati said, almost to herself.
“Well. I suppose I’m not much like you,” Rachel said, smiling again.
“No. I suppose not. What a strange thing for women to do together,” Swati said, taking a gulp of her water.
“My mother and I drink together all the time,” Rachel said, her tone neutral but her eyes hard.
“That’s all right over there. But here . . .” Swati trailed off, looking away. “It’s not something good women do.”
“I must be quite bad, then,” Rachel said, sarcasm dripping over her tone.
“No, not at all. It is different over there.”
“But I’m not over there. I’m over here,” Rachel said, her voice almost taunting, daring Swati to say more, to tell her she was a bad person because of the wine in her glass.
“Yes! So maybe you shouldn’t. In front of others, that is, it is not respectful. For me it is okay, I understand that you are not from here, but other people might not,” Swati said, happy to be able to explain this to Rachel. It wasn’t that she was bad, per se, it was just that there was a time and a place and it was important that Rachel know such things. Swati felt a surge of happiness. It was truly essential that she be here, living with her son and his new wife. She would be able to guide Rachel, to help her understand India. It was right that she had left Vinod and come. It was destiny.