Burnt Sugar

by Avni Doshi

  ‘They wanted to come and see the baby,’ Dilip says, reading my expression.

  Nani’s voice calls our attention. She has Ma on her arm and is walking her into the room. Nani smiles widely at Ma, who looks around at the gathering. The sight is dissonant. Who is the elderly mother and who is the middle-aged daughter?

  Tears sting my eyes and, like a sneeze, I have to turn away to hold them back. How have we reached this place?

  Through trays of Mazorin biscuits.

  Purvi runs forward to embrace my mother. Ma lifts her hands and runs them down Purvi’s back, stopping at the protrusion above the waist of her jeans.

  Purvi’s husband leans towards Dilip. ‘The reason that a child wants to touch their ass and balls all day is because of parasites, did you know that? Parasites are what really control the brain.’

  Dilip bounces the baby and looks at me, before turning towards my mother.

  ‘How are you feeling today, Mom?’ he asks her. ‘Did you do your journal?’

  Ma smiles vaguely and allows herself to be seated in a chair next to the new wife and her son. She nods at them before reaching into the box of sweets.

  The arrival of Purvi and her husband, and maybe even my mother, has somehow broken the ice. A bisexual, a power-monger and a demented lady walk into a bar. We are eleven people in the room, but the reflections make us almost seventy – some of the group are hidden behind furniture, like my father’s son, who is only another head on his mother’s body. My little Anikka shouldn’t count at all, she is nothing more than a bundle of white cotton in her father’s arms. But I count her. My eyes follow her as she’s passed around the room. There are too many bodies. The space feels compressed. I turn to look at the windows. They’re open but the air feels warm. I’m having trouble breathing. My forehead feels heavy. The levels of carbon dioxide must be rising. My father laughs and coughs at something my mother-in-law tells him. He is breathing greedily, sucking up the air. I wish he had washed his hands before touching Anikka. Purvi’s nostrils are flared as she bends forward to greet Nani. I watch her pull the remaining oxygen into those great big cavities.

  Dilip pours more whisky for the men, and asks the women if they would like some wine. They are coy at first, shrinking from the question, looking to the others in the room.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Nani says, breaking the silence. The others smile and nod at her.

  ‘I don’t mind giving Aunty company,’ my mother-in-law says. A number of long-stemmed wine glasses are brought from the kitchen. Dilip begins to screw the top off a bottle of red when my grandmother complains she only likes white. Offering to open one of each, he receives shy smiles from his mother and the new wife.

  Everyone has a drink in their hand except my mother and me. Even the son takes a sip from my father’s glass. I have barely said a word to my father since he has arrived. He holds his glass of Scotch close to my child and is emphatic about what Purvi’s husband is sharing.

  ‘The next time you are in China, let me know,’ my father says, scratching the top of his head. ‘My good friend Kaushal is settled there with his family.’

  ‘Your good friend Kaushal is a creep,’ I say.

  The room goes silent so quickly that I feel a funnelling in my ears. The new wife’s hand trembles as she taps her son’s back.

  My father looks at me and blinks. The curve of his mouth straightens into a line. His lips disappear. ‘What is that?’ he says.

  I sit back against the sofa. I don’t know what else to say. I didn’t have anything planned.

  The silence carries on a little longer. I begin to count the seconds. By the time I get to seven, my mother-in-law calls out to Ila to bring more coconut chutney into the room.

  We all turn to look at her and everyone begins speaking at the same time. Only Dilip remains still and quiet. He is frowning as he moves Anikka into his other arm. My mother is also silent. She looks at me. I see the sugary glaze on her eyeballs.

  How can they all sit here, eating and drinking, when I just made this announcement? I jump to my feet, feel an ache in my knees and move back towards the window.

  Maybe they think I am unstable, like my mother. That I can’t be trusted.

  Why did I say it? What was I expecting? Some relief? Who in this room could give that to me? I look through the window, down at the ground, and wonder at the distance. I had considered throwing Anikka down there. The thought is repulsive to me now. Perhaps I should have done it to myself.

  I turn back and see the reflections of my guests. I notice their profiles. It’s something I haven’t studied before. Nani has a small hook in her nose that Ma and I do not. My father and Purvi’s husband have remarkably similar faces from this angle.

  Ma’s eyes move around the room from time to time but quickly return to the floor. I wonder if she can take in all that she is seeing in front of her. The conversations must be moving too fast. Does she get the tone that people are speaking in? Can she catch all the words?

  I wonder if she recognizes my father. She hasn’t said a word to him. Does she know that woolly woman is his wife, and that the boy is their three-ply son? I want to tell her, but there is no point.

  I stand beside my mother’s chair and put my hand on her shoulder. She starts a little, but doesn’t look back at me. Maybe she doesn’t really feel it because she doesn’t know where she is. Or perhaps she knows it’s me, knows just from the weight of my hand.

  ‘Antara,’ Ma says.

  ‘Yes, Ma,’ I reply.

  ‘Antara.’

  ‘Yes, I’m here.’ I bend down beside her chair.

  ‘Antara.’ She puts her hand up and points at Dilip. ‘I want Antara.’

  Dilip smiles at her. ‘Mom, this is Anikka. Antara is next to you.’

  ‘Antara.’ She stands up and moves across the room. Purvi’s husband and my father stand back. Ma claps and smiles. She looks up at Dilip for a moment, before returning her gaze to the baby.

  Purvi looks at me and touches her chest. So sweet, she mouths to me.

  ‘Give me Antara,’ Ma says. Dilip gives her the baby and hovers close by. Ma brings the bundle to her face and kisses her. She looks at my father and smiles. ‘Antara,’ she repeats. ‘This is my baby.’

  Father smiles and nods at her. ‘Yes, very good,’ he says. ‘You have a beautiful baby.’

  My mother-in-law comes out of the kitchen. In her hand is a bottle. She tests the liquid on the sensitive part of her wrist. ‘Should I feed Antara now?’ she asks. She turns to wink at me.

  Mother-in-law reaches out to take Anikka from Ma, and Ma screams, clutching the baby to her chest. ‘No, it’s my baby. Antara is my baby.’

  My mother-in-law puts her hands up, still holding the bottle. Nani rushes to one side of Ma and kisses her forehead. Ma allows herself to be consoled. She leans against Dilip.

  ‘Antara is our baby,’ Ma says. She looks up at Dilip and smiles. ‘My husband and my baby.’

  The new wife puts her hand to her mouth. She is standing behind her husband, holding her son’s hand. Fascination and disgust mingle in her eyes.

  Anikka begins to struggle. She cries a little bit and Ma rocks her.

  ‘Okay, Tara,’ my mother-in-law says. ‘Why don’t you feed Antara?’

  Ma takes the bottle and places it against Anikka’s lips. The baby starts sucking and immediately calms down. Ma rests against Dilip and smiles at Nani by her side. I try to imagine where she is in her mind, where she imagines this place is. Is this a figment of her imagination? Or is it a happy memory from the past she wants to relive?

  She rubs her face into Dilip’s shoulder. He smiles, not seeming to mind. ‘Do you love Antara?’ she asks.

  Dilip laughs. ‘Yes. I love Antara.’

  Ma smiles and looks down at the baby. ‘And me?’ she asks. ‘Do you love me?’

  Dilip nods again. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes, I love you.’ My mother-in-law giggles. ‘We all love you.’

  They are crowding around her, s
miling at Ma and Anikka, on one side of the room. I see my mother swaying against Dilip.

  ‘Okay,’ I interrupt. ‘Okay, Ma. I’m Antara, and that is Anikka –’

  Purvi stops me with her hand. ‘Enough now. She doesn’t remember, poor thing.’ She rushes over to my mother. ‘Tara, should we all sing a song to Antara?’

  Purvi starts clapping and singing the words of a song. I smile, before realizing I don’t know the words. The tune seems familiar but I cannot place where I have heard it before. They continue on to a second verse, and I realize the language isn’t one I recognize. It isn’t Marathi, that’s for sure. Maybe Gujarati. But how would Nani know it so well? A Bengali tune? Something by Tagore? Everyone is singing along. Ma remembers the words. My eyes stop on Dilip and I sink to the floor. He is singing and clapping.

  My husband, who can barely speak Hindi, is singing the lullaby.

  The verses continue, they seem endless. Songs, when they are unfamiliar, seem unnecessarily lengthy. It finishes abruptly and everyone claps. They look at Ma and Anikka. Their backs are to me, and I can barely find my daughter between them any more.

  I come to my feet and see Ma is holding Dilip in an embrace. Anikka is in her other arm. Purvi and the new wife have joined hands.

  Once again I feel invisible, until I notice Ma looking at me.

  Her eyes are wide and she is not blinking.

  The room is warm, and I reach for my neckline. Ma has not taken her arms away from my husband or my child. She watches me, continues to watch me. Her eyes are clear and sharp.

  We both watch each other. Ma is quiet. I am quiet.

  Everyone laughs and smiles. They still hum the tune of the song I do not know, still playing along with the charade. They let her do what she wants because she is sick.

  Unless she is not sick at all.

  Is she trying to write a story without me? Is she trying to erase me? Even as I think this, I feel myself evaporating.

  The doctor never found anything. No plaque, no formations.

  They begin the song again, still gathered around my mother and Dilip. Anikka looks like nothing more than wrapped laundry in her arms. The song is maddening, the language is strange. They repeat it twice and begin a third round. No one turns to look at me, to even acknowledge I am there. Are they avoiding eye contact with me so as not to upset my mother? They don’t want to break the spell.

  Everyone cheers for Tara and little baby Antara. They repeat the song once more. How many times must a performance be repeated before it becomes reality? If a falsehood is enacted enough, does it begin to sound factual? Is a pathway created for lies to become true in the brain?

  I stand up and shout at them to stop.

  No one can hear me, their voices together are too loud. I am drowned out. Or is my voice sticking to the insides of my throat? I feel the interior of my larynx when I speak, as rough as Velcro.

  No one is looking at me any more, not even Ma, and the air in the room has been replaced with something noxious. This must be what drowning feels like. I cough and begin to retch. No one notices.

  I don’t want to die. Not here. Not with this song filling the air. I can’t breathe and I have to get out. I must get out.

  On the other side of the door, I am gasping. Bent forward, I let my head hang by my knees. The sciatica that comes and goes since Anikka was born climbs up my leg. I cover my mouth with my hand to muffle a low scream and the voice that comes out is someone else’s. I touch my face. The sudden urge to look at my reflection, to make sure it’s still there, is overwhelming.

  I push the call button for the lift furiously. The tension leaves my body as the doors slide open. The inside of this moving cage feels like home in a way I never noticed before and I see myself in every surface – the walls, the ceiling, the floor. The lift goes down gently. I notice the front of my T-shirt is wet, and think of my breast pump and my child, contemplating how much of Anikka’s sustenance is being wasted. My little baby. My little Kali. The only person in the world.

  I take a single cigarette from the paanwala beyond the building gate. He stares at the patches around my breasts but says nothing. I mumble that I will pay him later and he nods.

  The pavement looks like ancient ruins, and I realize I am shoeless only when I step on wet ground. The urine of beast or man, I’m sure. A girl in shorts is giggling into her mobile phone. Her feet move slowly, in rhythm with her words, and she stops in response to what she hears, some delightful secret to make her chuckle. She runs her hand against the concrete wall, spreading her fingers out, making contact with the rough surface fearlessly. I think I recognize her from the building, but she’s older than I remember, at least fourteen, almost a woman, loitering without direction, untroubled in her own skin. She smiles when she sees me watching her, opening her mouth wide, and I look away, look down at my clothes and turn belatedly to hide my mess. I walk down the street, barefoot and quickly, unsure of where I am going yet, but I continue to think of her, of what it takes to preserve that smile.

  I wonder if they have noticed I am gone yet. The new wife and mother-in-law must be relieved that the worst inconvenience of their lives has vanished. Maybe they will take the opportunity to flee while they can, my mother-in-law with Dilip and Annika, and the new wife with her husband and son. If I turn back now, will they be gone by the time I return? I imagine them laughing and dancing ecstatically around the room, calling to their secret gods, undressing and bathing in the wine, all together, in some orgiastic ritual they have been waiting to perform once I am gone. Fear and longing mingle in me. I feel a slicing pain in the sole of my foot, but I don’t stop walking.

  The street is raucous. I look around and I don’t know where I am. Has the city transformed so much since my internment? Was this the plan all along, to come together and watch me dissolve into nothing? Maybe this is the point of a pregnancy, of motherhood itself. A child to undo the woman who bears it, to pull her safely apart.

  What came before now? I can’t recollect the shape of my life. But I see the future of it. There are hill stations I want to visit, places I want to sleep – treetops, woodsheds, charpoys in forgotten farmlands. There are men I want to fuck. I know there were other uses for my body once, when my stomach was unmarked, my nipples uncracked. And there is the endless stack of Reza Pine’s face alight, finishing the work my mother started, and a blank sheet of paper where I will immortalize myself instead of him.

  My legs seem to move of their own accord, taking me further and further away. I collide with other bodies without seeing them. Someone calls to me and I move faster, stumbling a little and running across the street. Panting, I hear the call again. Tara.

  My own mother. The more deranged she becomes, the greater her clarity of purpose, like a picture with minimum aperture – the background dims as the singularity of the focus intensifies. Dilip didn’t stop her, and why would he? If he can love me, he can love her. We are interchangeable, after all.

  I will never be free of her. She’s in my marrow and I’ll never be immune. What would Purvi’s husband say about a parasite so advanced that it makes a host of its own offspring? There is something resourceful in consuming what clings to you.

  From above, my feet look fine but beneath I know they are battered. The pavement is wet again, inexplicably. I look around and the man who sold me the cigarette is watching me. Beyond him, the girl in shorts leans against the compound wall, looking intently at the screen of her phone.

  I am outside my building.

  I never left this place.

  The bright day blinds me as I enter the darkened hallway. My legs are heavy. I push the button for the lift and go inside. In the mirror, I see the milk on my clothes has dried and yellowed.

  Ma is there in my face. I nod and she nods back.

  Standing at the door of the flat, I can still hear their voices inside. I ring the bell twice and lean against the wall, waiting to be let back in.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Everyone who
supported earlier drafts of this book at Tibor Jones and the University of East Anglia, especially Neel Mukherjee, Martin Pick and Andrew Cowan. Madelyn Kent, because sometimes it’s obvious, and sometimes it’s elusive. Kanishka Gupta, for going beyond the call of duty. Rahul Soni, for the wonderful work he did on the Indian edition. Udayan Mitra and everyone at HarperCollins India.

  Hermione Thompson, who surpasses her reputation for brilliance and kindness. Simon Prosser and the entire team at Hamish Hamilton for believing in this story. Chloe Davies for the tremendous work she did to promote the novel.

  Tracy Carns, Maya Bradford, Kim Lew, Mamie VanLangen, Jessica Wiener, Andrew Gibeley and everyone at Overlook.

  Maria Cardona Serra, for her tireless support every step of the way. Anna Soler-Pont and the whole team at Pontas.

  My friends and family for their encouragement. Neha Samtani, Sharlene Teo, Kate Gwynne and Manali Doshi in particular.

  Nani, for her grace.

  Bodhi and Lila, for changing everything.

  My husband, for knowing my voice on any page.

  My parents, for all that I am.