The Hindi-Bindi Club by Monica Pradhan Page B

back. She returned—just once—at the request of my aunt, Anandita-
mashi,
when my grandfather was on his deathbed.
    Over the years, my mother had regularly written letters home, which my grandfather refused to read or hear, but Anandita-
mashi
saved them and read each blue aerogramme to him as he lay dying. When he heard my mother’s words, he cried. And when he learned from Anandita-
mashi
it was my mother and her American husband who’d secretly subsidized their upper-middle-class lifestyle all along—not his deadbeat nephew as everyone had led him to believe—my grandfather finally asked to see her.
    When she arrived at his bedside, he told her he had endured social disapproval to allow her—young, unmarried, and alone—to pursue her dream of higher studies in America.
His
father had overruled him and granted my mother permission. In return, she proved all of his fears correct. She shamed him by marrying my father, and no amount of black money—dirty money—could ever erase my grandfather’s suffering. In Indian culture, a child’s duty to a parent superceded all else, and she dishonored him and tarnished the family name. For that, he would never forgive her. The last words he spoke to her quoted an Indian proverb: “I gave her a staff for her support, and she used it to break my head.” He died the next day.
    My father said it was lucky timing, because he might have killed the old man.
    I didn’t learn any of this until much later in life. It still haunts my mother and enrages my father.
    We never went back again, though my mother still writes—and sends money—to her family. (My parents provide complete financial support for Anandita-
mashi,
whom no one would marry because of her “defect” of epilepsy.)
    Both of my parents came from large families, and sometimes, when I was lonely, when no kids could play with me, I would ask for a brother or sister. My Indian friends Kiran and Preity both had brothers, and I wanted one, too. My father would grab me and tickle me and say, “Why, when God gave us a perfect little girl?” Whenever he said this, my mother’s eyes would soften, and I could see her love for him written all over her face.
    The truth is I was a difficult pregnancy and delivery. My mother suffered two miscarriages before me, and after me, she couldn’t have more children. In India, this would have been the Kiss of Death. Social ostracizing. As my mother explained it, the only fate worse than not producing sons was being barren. But none of that mattered to my dad. To him, our family was perfect.
Rani
means “queen.”
    Most of the time, I was plenty happy not to have to share. My parents or my stuff.
    My mother stayed home with me until I went to kindergarten, then she worked part-time, so she was always home when I got out of school. This was great until I was a teenager and started to develop my own strong identity. No longer docile, I often disagreed with my overprotective mother. To her, disagreement and debate were often interpreted as disrespect and back talk “answering back,” which frustrated both of us to no end and sometimes escalated into shouting matches.
    One awful day in my hormonal, angst-ridden trauma-drama, I screamed, “In
this
country, we have freedom of speech! I have the right to express my opinion even if it’s contrary to yours! Why can’t you be like other mothers? I hate you! I hate my life! I wish I’d never been born!” I stormed to my room and slammed the door. Then I locked it, because I knew, right away, I was in Big Shit Trouble. With my mother
and
with my father, once she told him. Even in ambiguous disputes—which clearly this wasn’t—they always sided together against me.
    Half an hour later, when The Knock sounded, I was shaking. Whatever punishment was headed my way, it was sure to be bad.
    “Rani, open the door,” my mother said.
    I didn’t answer.
    After a minute, the door opened, and my mother stood there, a bobby pin in her hand.