by Leah Franqui
Swati had heard Rachel talking to her parents, and she imagined that they might be close, but she hadn’t thought much beyond that. They were in another country; it might as well have been another world.
“My mother likes to wear comfortable things that still look formal. She runs her business, you know, so she likes to look put together but not stiff. And she’s always cold, so something warm, layers. Sweaters, wool skirts, pants, that sort of stuff. She likes shades of peach and sea blue and gray, and she likes things that sort of cover her up; she doesn’t want to reveal too much. Mostly solids, a few prints. She wears the same stuff all the time, she hates shopping.”
“So do I,” Swati said, almost unconsciously, then gasped, covering her mouth. Really, though, had she ever actually liked it? Or did she just think it was something she was supposed to enjoy?
“Do you? I always thought you liked it,” Rachel said.
“No. I—actually, I don’t. I never have. It is just that I have done so much of it.”
“I actually, um, I do this with my mom a lot. Go shopping together, pick stuff out for her. She says I’m great at it. I always get her to try on something different, and it usually works, she buys it. All her favorite things are the things we’ve bought together.” Rachel sounded sad.
“You must miss your mother, being here,” Swati said. She had missed Dhruv when he was gone, every day. She had missed her own mother every day when she moved into Vinod’s home. Swati listened for a long time, but there was no response. She opened the dressing room door, just a crack, but it was a daring thing, looking the way she did, and her skin grew goose bumps.
“Do you?” Swati said softly, catching Rachel’s eyes in the crack of the door.
“Yes. I do. Every day.” Rachel’s voice was like lead. Swati wished she could reach out and hug her, although she had never before done a thing like that with Rachel. But here she was, stuck, in her underwear, paralyzed by her horror at her own body, reaching out for her daughter-in-law’s longing through a crack in a flimsy door. She shut the door again.
“Come on, just try something. The stuff here is really nice and it’s pretty Indian, so it won’t be so different. Not like all that stuff you hated in Zara,” Rachel promised briskly, clearing her throat.
Before they had come to this store, Rachel had handed Swati a few pieces of clothing in another of the mall’s shops, a chain Swati had seen in other malls but never ventured into because the music was too loud and the clothing all seemed too flashy, too tight, too Western. Swati hadn’t even bothered to try them on, choosing to flee the shop in terror instead. What would people think of her, walking around in things like that?
“Just try that dress on. It’s long, and so pretty. That fabric will look so nice on you. I promise,” Rachel pleaded. Swati fished around in the pile and found the dress, a silky thing in a deep red color, and looked at it. It would cover a great deal of her, at least. That was respectable, wasn’t it?
She slid the dress over her head, sure that it would cling to her body, making her self-conscious. But instead, it cascaded down her form, a comfortable sensation, a pleasure, even. She looked up at herself and barely recognized the person in the mirror. The rich color of the dress made her look . . . well, not beautiful, that word was reserved for women in the blush of their youth, but certainly stately. Regal. And so unlike her usual self. Modern in some way. Like a woman who had worked. Like a woman whom people listened to. Graceful, and somehow still respectable. The neckline showed off her collarbones but didn’t dip into her bosom, which would have been humiliating. It glanced off her hips and made her look sleek. Svelte. Certain.
“It can’t be that bad!” Rachel said. “Come let me see.”
Swati opened the dressing room door wordlessly. Rachel’s eyes widened as she saw her, and for a moment Swati thought that she had been deluded, that the dress looked terrible, and she wanted to cry.
“Oh, Swati,” Rachel said, and for once Swati didn’t even mind a bit that her daughter-in-law was calling her by her name, because there was awe in the word. “You look beautiful.”
And the funny thing was, after everything Swati had just thought about herself, all the ways she had been surprised and pained by her body in the dressing room mirror, Rachel said it with such conviction, Swati believed, just for a second, that it was true. Beautiful. When was the last time she had felt that? Been that? Known that about herself? Had she ever, really?
Rachel turned to the shopgirl.
“We’ll take it.”
“Wait,” said Swati. Rachel turned to her, protests ready on her lips. “I’ll wear it out,” Swati said. “A bag for my original outfit, please.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to just burn that or—”
Swati placed her hand over Rachel’s smiling mouth and grinned.
Eighteen
As she walked, carrying Swati’s shopping bags, through the freezing mall, whose many shiny surfaces converted the space into a disco ball turned inside out, Rachel studied her mother-in-law out of the corner of her eye. She seemed happy, even confident, looking around like a little girl. It was rather adorable, really, a thought that surprised Rachel. But it seemed that after weeks of resenting her mother-in-law, Rachel found herself doing something absolutely unexpected. She was starting to really like the woman.
Perhaps it was the papaya paratha. It had been rather excellent, a little packet of savory shredded tart green papaya surrounded by buttery dough. It also marked the first time that Swati had done something for Rachel that Rachel actually wanted her to do. Not just making it, although Rachel always appreciated good food, but showing her how to make it herself. It was funny, Swati had done so many things that she had claimed were in service of Rachel. But Rachel had not wanted any of them, and as such had seen them as assaults, judgments, dictatorial acts telling her what she ought to want. The paratha, the lesson on how to cook it, was something Rachel had asked for. Perhaps other people liked the unexpected. For Rachel, one of the most profound joys of life was getting what she had asked for, because it was not simply the thing that she wanted but the feeling of being heard.
Rachel had grown up with parents who talked about everything. Living in the Meyer house was like living in the United Nations. It was a place of constant conversation, constant negotiation, compromise, and argument. Rachel’s parents could argue about anything, really. They were articulate and well-educated people of strong opinions and they had wanted their children to be the same way. In many ways, they were, but as the youngest, Rachel struggled to get a word in, to make an argument someone hadn’t made already, to be original in the way her family wanted her to be. They all talked about everything, all the time.
When Rachel first met Dhruv, she had rather loved the way he didn’t want to talk about things, the way he didn’t need to talk through things the way she did. When he decided on something, that was it. She admired that, thought it was a sign of certainty, of confidence. Sometimes, when she was telling Dhruv about something and he gently but frankly told her that he wasn’t really interested in what she was saying, she felt like she had been slapped in the face, but she also admired him, the way he could just say things like that. She had thought that was because of her, not because of him, because she wasn’t telling him the right things, because her family and friends had spoiled her, listening to her so much.
She wanted him to call her and tell her about his day, his big plan, his feelings about his father, but he didn’t; they played phone tag, or he was off within moments. She didn’t want to push, she didn’t know how to push, and it just reminded her time and again of how they didn’t really know each other all that well. And so the silence between them stretched out across the country. There was too much to tell him, and she didn’t know what he might actually want to hear. She couldn’t laugh with him about Richard or talk to him about the movies she wanted to see or the books she was reading or how much she missed cooking in her old kitchen like she would miss her righ
t hand if it was gone, because she was afraid, terrified, that if she opened her mouth to say any of this, a torrent of complaints, criticisms, kvetching would come out of her like vomit. Once she started, how would she stop?
Rachel had become so careful to tell her parents, especially her mother, only the good. She posted photos of pretty things and made her relationship look full and rich, when it was currently starving. She had worked so hard for her friends to believe the best of Dhruv, of Mumbai, to represent her life as the adventure she had hoped it would be. She had no one else to really talk to. The only person she was really talking to, really saying anything to, was Swati.
And that morning, Swati had heard her. So yes, it was the paratha, she supposed. Sometimes, though, a paratha is something more.
When Swati had asked through the cracked door of the dressing room if she missed her mother, a simple question, an obvious question, Rachel had felt like crying. Of course she missed her mother. Didn’t everyone? Wasn’t that what being an adult was, really? Missing your mother?
“Do you want to stop for something to eat?” Rachel asked Swati. “Or do you want to keep going?”
Rachel had never shopped so much before, and she was in need of a fortifying cup of coffee and a space free of pulsing dance music and alert and annoying young salespeople. You couldn’t look at anything in Mumbai without someone’s trying to help you, regardless of whether you needed help. Swati seemed to hardly notice, but for Rachel it felt like she was living inside a game of whack-a-mole, with eager young men and women popping up all around her, and her cheeks hurt from smiling politely while her neck ached from constantly shaking her head no.
“I think I have as much as I can possibly buy,” Swati said, gesturing to the bags, all of which Rachel carried.
“Well, you certainly have more than I can carry,” Rachel said, deadpan.
“Oh, is it heavy?”
“Yes.”
Swati looked away.
“You know, usually that kind of question is followed by an offer to take something,” Rachel said.
“That must be an American custom,” Swati said pertly. She almost looked like she was joking.
“Look who’s a comedian now!” Rachel said, smiling. She was enjoying herself, despite the bags. It was actually enjoyable, joking with Swati. It wasn’t the ease she had with her own mother, but it was something else, something new, something a little adversarial, a little kind. She thought she might actually like it.
“Auntie?” A deep voice came from behind them, and Swati swung around, startled, smacking Rachel violently in the stomach with her purse.
“Oh Jesus—” Rachel gasped.
“Arjun!” Swati whispered in horror. “How did you—”
“I was just picking up some things. I had no idea you would be here.” Arjun turned to Rachel and asked, “Are you all right, miss?” He was in his late thirties, a few years older than Dhruv, perhaps. He had the overly polished look Rachel had come to associate with young men of the Indian upper middle class. It was clean and presentable, if boring: a branded polo tucked into slacks or expensive jeans, a large watch whose name the owner hoped would impress, immaculately groomed hair that shone slightly with product, and far too much cologne. They were all the hallmarks of men who wanted to be thought of as good, who were complacent in their minds and actions, who looked at women directly, smiled easily, bought drinks for everyone, and whom Rachel didn’t like very much.
“I’m fine. I’m Rachel, by the way, do you know my mother-in-law?” Rachel asked politely. It was very clear that they did know each other, in fact, and that Swati rather wished they didn’t.
“Oh, hello, of course, I had heard Dhruv married a—an American. Welcome to India.” The man smiled in a charming way. Rachel would have bet her life savings he had been about to say white woman. “I’m Arjun Goyal.”
“Bunny’s son,” Swati murmured to Rachel faintly.
“Oh, I see. Hello, nice to meet you,” Rachel said automatically. Of course, it wasn’t very nice at all, not after the way Bunny had treated Swati, but she wasn’t going to start a fight in this mall, no matter how much that might remind her of New York, of home. Once, in a Gap near Herald Square, she had watched two women come to blows over a pair of leggings. She wasn’t prepared to duplicate that now.
“A pleasure. I’m sorry you weren’t available for coffee this afternoon, Auntie,” Arjun said, his eyes glinting in a way Rachel didn’t like. She looked at Swati, who had revived herself a bit, the color returning to her face.
“Are you?” Swati asked, raising her brows.
“I must say, you’re looking very smart. Very . . . different. I’ve never seen you looking so nice.” His eyes were wide now as he looked Swati up and down as if she were land he planned to buy. Here was the kind of man who saw every woman as an option, and Rachel was both offended and rather pleased that Swati was no exception. She thought her sartorial assistance might have played some role in that, although truth to tell, her mother-in-law was still an attractive woman.
“Thank you,” Swati said stiffly.
“I was so hoping to see you today, and look, here we are,” Arjun said. Was that a hint of menace in his tone, warring with the light glaze of lust? Rachel had to be imagining it.
“I would have thought you were too busy to want to see an old lady like me. I’m sure you have a lot of tennis to play.”
Rachel had no idea what Swati was talking about, but Arjun almost looked impressed at the way Swati had batted back at him.
“You hardly look old in this. You really do look— If they could see you in Kolkata, it would be quite a scene. As for tennis, I’ve given up the sport,” Arjun said, looking oddly contrite.
“Oh, I’m sure you will find something to fill your time. As I remember, you always liked to keep busy,” Swati said. If Rachel didn’t know her mother-in-law better, she would have said the woman was being downright arch.
“How can I if no one will meet me for coffee?” Arjun wondered out loud, looking little-boy lost. “Although I must admit, I think you chose well by shopping. You are looking so much younger—than before,” Arjun said, stumbling.
“It’s not as though she’s so old,” Rachel said flatly as Swati blushed. Swati was sixty, having married and had Dhruv shockingly young, to Rachel’s mind.
“Of course,” Arjun said, bobbing his head, trying to ingratiate himself after his faux pas. “Let’s meet up before I leave,” he said, his attention back on Swati.
“I don’t know if I will have the time,” Swati said. “You must not make me such a priority. You have so many people in your life I’m sure you need to meet.”
“Oh, but you are my priority. My mother would have my head if I didn’t make time for you.”
“Not at all,” Swati said, her tone steely, her eyes glinting. Rachel was again aware that there was a conversation happening that she knew nothing about. “I’m sure your mother would understand. She’s quite busy herself. We haven’t spoken in a long time.”
“She gets like that. But I’m sure soon—”
“We’ll see,” Swati said. Arjun may have given up tennis, but it seemed like Swati had just started. “I’m sure you don’t have much time in Mumbai, at any rate.”
“A few days, at least. My plans have changed, and it is always good to spend time here. So much more exciting than Kolkata.”
“Surely your family at home must be waiting for you. Missing you. I would think,” Swati said pointedly.
“They will have to wait,” Arjun said, shrugging. “So, when can we meet?” He wasn’t going to let it go, it was clear. Rachel looked at Swati, waiting for the next volley. It was exciting; if only she knew what it was all about. Swati, meanwhile, had drawn back, her eyes darting like those of a rabbit trying to escape a python.
“We are very busy in the next few days,” Swati said.
“Still. We should. We must. Tomorrow? It would be nice for you to see someone from home, I’m sure.”
>
“This is my home now. I’m getting a divorce, and staying with my son, and Rachel,” Swati said, and Rachel cringed, of course, but less than usual. She might not have liked that Swati lived with her, but she would have walked on coals rather than let Arjun know that. There was something predatory about him that disturbed her, and she suddenly had the desperate need to leave, to escape, to get Swati home. “And I am busy tomorrow.”
“Just like that?” Arjun asked, looking surprised. He glanced around them, clearly wondering if anyone had heard, if anyone was listening.
“Yes,” Swati said.
“How about Sunday?” Arjun said, determined. There was so much under the surface here that Rachel didn’t understand, but then again, wasn’t there always?
“Perhaps.”
“Just by you, that Starbucks, it’s nice, I went today. Two p.m.? I’ll be waiting.”
“If I can,” Swati said, clearly flustered by his insistence.
“It was lovely to meet you,” Rachel said, a clear dismissal, trying to end this.
“My best to your wife. I hear she’s poorly. I hope it’s nothing serious,” Swati said, and Arjun flinched. Whatever was happening between them, Swati had scored a point, and Rachel was happy for her.
“Of course. I’m sure she will improve soon. My best to your husband,” Arjun responded, but Swati didn’t falter.
“He’s not my husband anymore. And I’m sure you will see him before I do. I doubt he wants to see me at all,” Swati said.
Arjun looked impressed. He smiled at Swati, a real smile, not his previous fake grins, and for a moment he was very handsome. “Then he’s a fool. Anyone would want to see you looking like this.”
Swati’s eyes widened at Arjun’s words, and something passed between them, some spark. It was like watching tinder ignite, and Rachel almost felt that she shouldn’t be there; it was an intimacy that it was wrong for her to witness. As they walked away, she looked at Swati, whose face was red but glowing.
“Bunny sent him to take me home. As if I would listen to that arrogant fool,” Swati said softly. But her cheeks were still pink. Rachel wondered . . . but it couldn’t be, could it? Swati had been so brilliant in his presence, so lit from the inside, even if it was from anger. Could it also be something else?