If Today Be Sweet by Thrity Umrigar

raw, jagged edges of her own heart. It had been so long since she had raised Sorab that she had forgotten how to act before a young child. And Cookie was so muchmore mercurial, so much more outspoken and emotional than Sorab had ever been. Her son had been a good, proper Indian boy, whereas her grandson was so—what was the word?—so American. Yes, that was the best word to describe Cavas. She never felt as excruciatingly, painfully Indian as she did when she was around Cavas. Rustom, on the other hand, had simply taken his grandson on his own terms. How effortlessly Rustom had adapted to life in America—mowing the lawn with Cavas trailing along, planting a vegetable garden alongside Susan, going grocery shopping with Tehmina and casually filling the cart with products from the overflowing shelves as if he’d done that his whole life. Why, Rustom even drove in America—a source of great pride to his son. Drove on the right side of the road despite the fact that he’d driven on the “wrong” side (as Susan would say) all his years in India. And to Tehmina’s utter amazement, Rustom never so much as veered into the wrong lane.
    She felt Cavas’s eyes on her and realized with a start that the boy was waiting for her to finish her sentence. “I love you so much that you are part of my own liver,” immediately realizing from Cavas’s disgusted expression that translating the sentiment from Gujarati to English was a mistake.
    â€œEwww,” the boy squealed. “That’s gross, Granna.”
    She bent and nuzzled him with her chin. “I love you so much that I can give you a million, billion kisses and still give you a few more.”
    â€œThat’s nothing,” Cavas said promptly. “Dad gives me a zillion, trillion kisses every night.” A cagey look came upon his face. “You know what you can do for me to show your love?”
    â€œWhat?” Tehmina asked, knowing she was walking into a trap. She felt helpless in her love for this little boy with his red lips and long, dark eyelashes.
    â€œYou can lie down with me until I fall asleep.” He smiled his most guileless smile. “And,” he added, cupping his mouth to her ear, “if you do that, I’ll even let you call me Cavas.”
    How well she knew that seductive look. It seemed like a week ago when Sorab had smiled the same smile—the time she smelled a whiff of cigarette smoke on him when he came home from school, and knew immediately that he had been smoking, the time he had begged her to let him attend an overnight picnic with his college friends, admitting upon her prodding that there would be girls present, the time Rustom had driven by Flora Fountain and had almost run off the road when he’d spotted his only son taking part in a student protest against Bombay University. Rustom had come home and paced the balcony until he had spotted his son’s slender figure enter the apartment building at seven that evening. “How was your day, sonny?” he had asked casually, though Tehmina had heard the dangerous edge in his voice. “How was college?”
    â€œOh, fine,” Sorab said with a yawn. “Just the usual stuff. But I’m tired today.”
    â€œNever knew accounting and marketing could be so exhausting,” Rustom replied, and this time, there was no mistaking his tone.
    Sorab looked up sharply. “I—well, you know how hard—”
    â€œWhat I do know is that I cannot drive through Fountain without seeing my only child acting like a common mawali on the streets of Bombay,” Rustom said quietly, ignoring the pacifying look Tehmina threw his way. “What I also know is that my son lies to his parents.”
    Instead of getting flustered or defensive, Sorab threw his father a shy smile. “That’s exactly why I didn’t say anything, Daddy. I knew you wouldn’t approve.”
    Despite his anger,