“Me? Harsh with her? And this is coming from you?”
“I’m only ask—”
“You took pride in being harsh with me when I was younger! You said that kids in my generation were too sensitive. And now, you get to be all soft with your granddaughter? How convenient! How things change! No wonder Simran talks to you more than she talks to me. You are completely different with her than you ever were with me.”
Nandini sits in the recliner. She takes deep, heavy breaths. There was no point in going through this with her mother. It wouldn’t get them anywhere. It never did. She would never admit (not out loud, at least) that a part of her takes pride in Mami’s tenderness with Simran and Ronak. It was as if a new part of her came to life when she became a grandmother.
“Never mind all of this,” Nandini says with a sigh. “How is the pipe repair?”
“It’s fine. Just fine.”
“At least something’s fine.” Nandini forces herself to get out of the recliner. She’s so tired that if she lets herself sit for too long, she’ll fall asleep. She walks toward the foyer. There’s an antique silver mirror by the front door, a gift from Ranjit’s sister, Charu. Nandini studies her reflection. Mami’s stubborn, strong DNA ensured that both Nandini and Simran inherited her slim, straight nose; her large, almond-shaped eyes; and her delicate chin. Nandini’s face is covered with products she only started using in America: Bobbi Brown blush and Elizabeth Arden lipstick. She still uses Pond’s talcum powder under her arms. It’s one of the few ways she’s managed to hold on to home. To Mami.
“Everything is fine, Nandini,” Mami says in the same cheerful tone she uses with customer service representatives over the phone. Mami has that ability, to make people feel better just by talking to them and make them want to confide in her. Simran once overheard a Bloomingdale’s employee tell Mami about his wife’s affair and then offer her a free makeover.
“Really? Fine? You can seriously say that?”
To her surprise, Mami laughs. Laughs. As if Nandini is a little girl saying her first word.
Something is going on with her mother. She’s been more detached lately. More relaxed. One year ago, her pipes bursting would have meant daily phone calls, maybe even a request for a visit to Baroda. But now, she doesn’t even seem to be rattled by the fact that the skeleton of her bungalow, the one Nandini grew up in, is slowly breaking.
Should she be concerned about early dementia? Maybe she needs to get Mami’s thyroid checked. Nandini sees the changes that come with aging through her clinic patients every day. But it is entirely different when it is happening to Mami. She wonders if things would have been different if Papa was still alive.
“Nandini, it’s going to be okay,” Mami says, her voice softening. “It always is. It was with you, right?”
Nandini feels something inside of her crumple. “It was very not okay before it was.”
“I know, beta.”
Mami sighs, then clears her throat. “And speaking of . . . have you thought of telling Simran about . . .”
“About what? That?”
“Yes. That.” Again with the laugh.
“What are you even saying? You think I should tell Simran about that? Now? Or ever?”
“Maybe it would help. Dr. Phil had an entire episode on the importance of not keeping secrets.”
“Well, if Dr. Phil says it, then it must be true.” Nandini covers her eyes and shakes her head. Why did she ever get her mother access to every television channel in the world?
“I happen to agree with him,” Mami says with defiance, as if Nandini insulted a relative. “If you talk to Simran, she might understand you better.”
“Understand me better? That would ruin her. Ruin everything! I can’t believe you would even think to bring that up as a possibility.”
Nandini treated her past the way she treated the Atlantic Ocean. She visited often, even dipped her feet in at times, but always refused to be submerged.
She couldn’t tell Simran about what happened all those years ago in India. Somehow, there are more things she’s kept from her daughter than she ever wanted. Simran doesn’t know about Nandini’s postpartum depression after Ronak’s birth. That entire time was a blur of fluids: Ronak’s urine, his tears, her tears. She remembers the endless mornings she spent carrying his stroller down the uneven brick steps and clutching him close to her. There were so many times she wondered if after everything she had been through and worked for, this was all it amounted to. Exhaustion, loneliness, and a gnawing sense of inadequacy.
In India, after a woman gave birth, she usually had a tribe of women in her family waiting to help her. In America, everything had to be managed alone. When Nandini told her family in India about her crying spells, fleeting thoughts of jumping off a balcony, and the weight on her chest, they told her to “stay quiet and get over it because it’s all in your head.” Mami was the only one who covertly offered to give her money for a therapist.
But omitting that part of her life from her daughter was nothing compared to what Mami was referring to. How could her mother possibly think Simran could handle that?
“Okay,” Mami says now, her voice still gentle. “Forget I said anything.”
“It’s my job to protect Simran,” Nandini says. “And make sure she doesn’t make mistakes that cost her everything.”
There’s silence on the other end, but she knows what Mami’s thinking. Make sure she doesn’t make mistakes like you did.
“Maybe this is what I should have expected from settling in America. This culture promotes kids to think for themselves, act on emotion. I just . . . don’t want her to get hurt.”
As she keeps talking, she hears her biggest fear crystallize. She came to America to escape what had happened in India, but what if, despite everything she’s done, she somehow screws things up for her daughter?
“She won’t get hurt,” Mami says. “She’ll be fine.”
“Okay . . . she won’t.” Nandini repeats her mother’s words again and again, hoping that with enough time, she’ll believe them.
Two
Simran
It only takes five days for Simran to see Neil again. Five. Days. He ended his nice-to-meet-you e-mail with an invitation to his favorite dessert place. She still can’t understand how this is actually happening to her, how in a matter of one week, her world is larger.
She pictures her mother’s face during the party, insisting that she think of the guests. That’s what she’s done her entire life: think of the guests. Even after she left for college, if there was a family party, she always took the PATH train home to help. Evenings before a family party were spent frying pooris, a crispy fried Indian bread, and taking out the folding chairs from the basement. Evenings of a family party were spent making sure the men were dining while the women prepared gulab jamun, sweet donuts, for dessert.