Amulya Malladi - The Mango Season

Why was it that we had divided our affections like this? It was a subconscious thing because when I looked inside myself I could feel that Nanna loved me more than Ma did. Sometimes I actually felt that Ma disliked me because I was so different from her and because I was so close to Nanna.

When I was a little girl, and Nate had yet to be born, I used to imagine that Ma was actually my stepmother. Nanna was my real father but my real mother had died and no one was telling me the truth. Ma’s curtness and her lack of overt affection or physical affection of any sort always bothered me, left me empty. Whenever I told her that I loved her she would shoo it away, saying that love had to be shown in actions and not in words. Maybe she was right. I couldn’t show what I didn’t truly feel. I was ambivalent about my feelings for my mother; there was love, I was sure, it was just sometimes submerged under dislike.

“I’m really sorry,” I said sincerely. “I thought Adarsh would be discreet since he told me about his Chinese girlfriend. I really didn’t think he’d put out an ad in the newspaper.”

Ma seemed to be surprised by my apology but she recovered from that fast. “So if he tells something you have to counter it? Don’t you have any shame?”

“What has shame got to do with this?” Politeness be damned. The woman was as usual getting on my nerves.

“And why would you tell Murthy Auntie about this? Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“She asked about Adarsh and I told her the truth,” I said, now regretting my rash decision of telling Murthy Auntie about Nick. I had done it because I was angry with the family, irritated with Murthy Auntie’s interrogation. It was juvenile and I was now embarrassed.

“But I’m sorry I told her,” I said, my eyes downcast. “It was a stupid thing to do.”

“She told everyone,” Ma said, and then added sarcastically, “No need for Adarsh to put it in the papers, you did a fine job yourself. Why don’t you yell it off the rooftops?”

“Radha,” Nanna intervened. “She made a mistake and she is sorry.”

“Sorry?” Ma looked at my father in bewilderment. “Sorry does not make this right, Ashwin. She is insulting us and”-she turned to look at me-“get out of here and I don’t ever want to see your face again. If you marry this American, that is it, you are never welcome in my house anymore.”

My mouth dried up because she was imparting the small knives with great precision and they were striking me the way she wanted them to. I may not love her as much as I loved my father but she was my mother. How can a mother turn away from her daughter?

“Radha.” Nanna put his hand on Ma’s shoulder just as her chest heaved. She jerked the pallu of her sari that was falling off of her shoulder and tucked the edge at her waist.

“What, Ashwin, I had such great dreams… such hopes, all shattered.” Ma started to weep, the words pouring out of her through hiccups and tears. Nanna put his arms around her and rocked her gently.

“Everything will be okay,” he murmured into her hair, and smiled sadly at me.

The lump in my throat burst and I set the glasses of lassi down on the bedside table. Nanna held out an arm for me and I ran into it. We all held each other through the torment of acceptance.

Ma was the first to push us both away. She wiped her face with her pallu and looked at me with eyes that glistened with the aftermath of tears and rage. “Are you really marrying this American boy?”

I held on to my father as I turned to face her. “Yes.”

Ma nodded. “When?”

“This fall. Maybe October.”

Ma nodded again and walked out of the bedroom.

I leaned into Nanna some more and whispered an apology. I didn’t know what I was sorry about anymore, just that I wanted it to end, I wanted things to go back to normal.

By the time a tired Thatha came home, dinner was ready. We all sat down quietly to eat. Anand and Jayant, who were in a heated discussion about the riots that were raging in Gujarat, also fell silent when they reached the dinner table. There was an ominous flavor to the air around us.

Everyone was waiting for me to reveal my defection yet again and to tell Thatha about my meeting with Adarsh, my improper conversation, and my impending marriage to a man they would all refer to as the firangi.

Sowmya was serving leftovers from lunch but no one, not even Anand who always had a problem with leftover food, complained.

“Lata’s ultrasound and amnio test is tomorrow,” Jayant said, I think to stop everyone from thinking about my American fiancé.

Thatha looked up at Lata and smiled. “It will be a boy,” he said confidently.

Lata, the first to finish dinner, washed her hand in the plate with the remaining water in her glass and rose, plate in hand. “No,” she said looking at me, her eyes triumphant. “There will be no ultrasound and no amnio test.”

Jayant stood up, pushing his chair away sharply, its four legs squeaking against the floor’s polished stone, a look of total panic on his face. “What do you mean you won’t do it? Sixteen weeks, they can tell the sex in sixteen weeks these days.”

Lata moved and the curd rice mixed with water sloshed on her plate. “I don’t want to know the sex of this baby.”

“But you said that if it is a girl you would…” Jayant stopped himself from revealing too much but it was already too late, everyone was privy to what they had decided would be the fate of a baby girl.

“I want to have this child and I want it to be a surprise like it was when Shalini and Apoorva were born,” Lata said and left for the back yard to put the plate in the tub for the maid to clean the next day.

While she was gone, Thatha demanded an explanation from Jayant. “What is going on, Jayant? If it is a girl… You know we want a boy.”

Jayant threw his hands up in exasperation. “I don’t know what to do. I… will try and talk to her.”

“Why?” Sowmya asked and surprised everyone with her voice. “If she doesn’t want to know, we should not force her. We are not that kind of a family.”

Everyone in the room became very still. Ammamma, who had been fanning herself with the day’s Deccan Chronicle with one hand while eating with the other, stopped in midair and looked at her husband, seeking out a reaction.

Sowmya had put it out there, told everyone, especially Thatha, that if he complained or insisted too much about knowing the gender of the baby he would be slotted away with all those other despicable middle-class men who participated in female infanticide. She had managed to corner the great old man himself with a few words.

“Okay,” Thatha said, looking at Sowmya as if he had never seen her before. “Whatever Lata wants.”

Lata, who was waiting by the back yard to hear the outcome of her announcement, smiled. “We will leave for the night,” she said, coming into the kitchen. “We want to go to my parents’ house so that we can drop Apoorva and Shalini off at school tomorrow morning.”

Jayant washed his hands in the plate but unlike his wife did not bother to put his plate away.

“Thatha,” I started, and fell silent when he raised his hand.

“I will not accept it, Priya. If you marry this man, then you are not my family,” Thatha said.

I had expected it all along but I had not been prepared for the pain that followed his announcement. My heart felt heavy and I clenched my teeth in an effort not to cry. I didn’t want to give the old man the satisfaction. He had hurt me just as deeply as I imagine I had hurt him. Were we even now?

“Then that is your choice, I have no problems with who Priya marries,” Nanna said clearly and rose from the table with his plate. Jayant and Lata who were about to leave stood still by the doorway between the dining area and the hall to see the drama through to its end.