Inheritance by Indira Ganesan Page B

mother with irony, sometimes with genuine humor. His parents divorcedwhen he was ten, and he’d lived with her in the “upper Eighties” in New York City, in an apartment that was primarily decorated in pink and white, with lots of plush couches and lots of plastic. She had already looked at an apartment for him in SoHo when he was attending high school, speculating incessantly about paint chips and fabric swatches. But Richard wanted to make documentaries and skipped college for Amsterdam. In a way, Richard’s mother had groomed him for departure and travel to India all his life. I was five years old when he landed in Bombay in 1975.
    She made commercial life seem awful but unwittingly made the life of an artist appear even worse. “I think she wanted me to paint so I could give her something to hang on her wall,” he said, promising me he was joking.
    I liked listening to Richard talk about his mother. It made him even more real in my life, giving him history, and for me, providing comedy. His upbringing sounded romantic to me, living in New York City, and then leaving. I made him recite the subway stops he’d use, and I’d chant with him—Lincoln Center, Columbus Circle, Times Square, Penn Station, Sheridan Square—because to me they sounded so magical. Tell me about the time you were in Washington Square and thought the “No Littering” sign was a long-lost friend, I’d say, or tell me about the time you skipped school and roamed about in Chelsea because that was the one place your mother’s friends wouldn’t be.
    I also instinctively liked his mother. Here was someone who cared deeply for her child and went to great lengths to provide for him. Interference, said Richard, but it seemed to me love. My mother wouldn’t care what career I embarked upon after college, or where I lived. All she seemed to do was mock me, watch me like a curiosity, if she could be bothered to see me at all. She was like the bird which abandoned her young in other birds’ nests.
    I knew something was up when I arrived at Richard’s flat. A servant woman was doing his dishes, mopping up the floor, and he was picking up his discarded shirts from around the room. I liked the messiness of his life and was surprised at the busy cleaning.
    “I don’t believe it, but she’s actually visiting,” he said, staring at an unidentifiable stain on one of his T-shirts. “What do you think this is?” he asked.
    “Who’s coming?”
    “Harriet.”
    “Your mother?”
    “On holiday. With the Ladies Who Travel.” Richard’s mother belonged to a group of women who met monthly to travel to nearby places together. They liked to visit. Now the group was taking a “tour of the Orient,” and his mother was to stay in India for a week, in Madras and Pondicherry. She then planned to spend an afternoon on Pi with Richard.
    Richard hadn’t seen his mother in five years. The last time they’d met was in London, when she’d sent hima ticket. “I was tripping, but not on purpose,” he said. “It was pretty scary. I kept on thinking the salad was infinite.”
    He was nervous about my meeting her, but I looked forward to it.
    She was arriving on Wednesday. I was impatient with my morning, trying on different outfits and trying to wear my hair up. Finally, I changed to what I had first put on and went over to Richard’s flat. So it was with a sense of excitement that I met Richard’s mother when she arrived on Pi.
    Harriet was dressed in a purple and pink caftan, with earrings that looked like grape clusters and lots of bangles. Her hair was blond and worn up under a broadbrimmed hat. She was large and seemed a giant next to skinny Richard. I thought she was beautiful.
    “This is my friend Sonil,” he said.
    She pressed her cheek to mine and kissed the air. I thought this only happened in the movies.
    Then she announced that she might stay.
    “Mom?”
    “Baby, I understand why you want to live here. Life in America is worrisome. All that