wanting to make it to the end? Among all of G'ma's tough-woman stories, not one ended with the heroine committing suicide or even attempting it. Did G'ma now look at her and see a coward? Devi wondered with dread as she tugged again at the sleeves of her shirt.
“Of all the people I know, you were the last person I thought would commit suicide,” Vasu said, speaking about the “incident” for the first time.
Vasu stopped walking, put her hands on Devi's arms, and shook her lightly. “You were supposed to come through winning. What happened?”
Right there, she looked like Saroj, Devi thought. Maybe this was where Mama got it, that nagging bad temper.
Vasu dropped her hands and sighed. “You cannot hide forever. Just because you won't talk about it, doesn't mean it didn't happen.”
Devi nodded then. She knew, the memory of the “incident” would be with her forever, but for now it could stay some other place. She wasn't ready to think about it.
“I wouldn't have been able to handle it, Devi, if I had to stand over a dead grandchild,” Vasu told her bluntly. “I simply wouldn't.”
Devi put a hand on Vasu's cheek and smiled. She wanted to tell her that they couldn't choose what they would and wouldn't face in life.
“Life is precious,” Vasu said, “and your life is golden. I want you to think about living, about going on, about moving on. I want you to tell me why you wanted to die and then I want you to tell me how you are not going to let this despair take over you again.”
Devi shook her head and dragged her hands over her face. Her bandages peeked out from under her sleeves.
Why couldn't they just leave her alone to lick her wounds?
Not wanting to continue the conversation, Devi gave Vasu a tight nod and left the park to go back to her parents’ house.
There were so many questions! Everyone had questions, a thousandquestions. Everywhere Devi looked she felt that there were questions. Why? Why? Why? She didn't know why all she knew was that her life didn't resemble the life she envisioned, not even remotely. She was twenty-seven years old, she was relying financially on her father, she'd moved back in with her parents, and now it looked like she had inherited the suicide gene from her crazy grandfather.
Devi sat down on one of Saroj's cushioned metal chairs in the patio. She didn't want to go in and deal with everyone, especially Saroj. G'ma, she could handle, G'ma, she had no trouble with, but Saroj, ah, that was a different story.
Even now, the memory, part real, part surmised, of her mother seeing her in the bloody bathtub gave her the shivers. It was supposed to be the perfect plan, but it was foiled. Now what?
How long was she going to take to recover? Did she want to recover? What did it mean to recover? Was she supposed to be happy that she was alive? Or was she supposed to try again?
She saw her mother's face peek out of the window once and then again.
“Devi, I am going to make your favorite tomato
pappu
and fried potato
sabzi,”
Saroj said, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
She hadn't planned to, but Devi found herself walking into the kitchen yet again and rummaging through the fridge to find something else, something she hadn't eaten before. Damn her mother, always cooking the same old food. First she saves her life, and then she cooks boring food. Unexplained anger bubbled through Devi as she let her hands fly over spices and vegetables while Saroj watched, in wide-eyed horror, as her fridge and spice cabinet went from neat and tidy to something completely the opposite.
It really started with that dinner, though the chutney would be considered the first original recipe. Soon enough Saroj found herself completely kicked out of her kitchen as Devi cooked outrageous meals every day. When she was angry, the food was spicy, when she seemed happy, there was dessert, and when she looked bored, the food tasted bland.
DEVI'S RECIPE
THE ANTI-SAROJ CHUTNEY
Day i after coming home from
“Of all the people I know, you were the last person I thought would commit suicide,” Vasu said, speaking about the “incident” for the first time.
Vasu stopped walking, put her hands on Devi's arms, and shook her lightly. “You were supposed to come through winning. What happened?”
Right there, she looked like Saroj, Devi thought. Maybe this was where Mama got it, that nagging bad temper.
Vasu dropped her hands and sighed. “You cannot hide forever. Just because you won't talk about it, doesn't mean it didn't happen.”
Devi nodded then. She knew, the memory of the “incident” would be with her forever, but for now it could stay some other place. She wasn't ready to think about it.
“I wouldn't have been able to handle it, Devi, if I had to stand over a dead grandchild,” Vasu told her bluntly. “I simply wouldn't.”
Devi put a hand on Vasu's cheek and smiled. She wanted to tell her that they couldn't choose what they would and wouldn't face in life.
“Life is precious,” Vasu said, “and your life is golden. I want you to think about living, about going on, about moving on. I want you to tell me why you wanted to die and then I want you to tell me how you are not going to let this despair take over you again.”
Devi shook her head and dragged her hands over her face. Her bandages peeked out from under her sleeves.
Why couldn't they just leave her alone to lick her wounds?
Not wanting to continue the conversation, Devi gave Vasu a tight nod and left the park to go back to her parents’ house.
There were so many questions! Everyone had questions, a thousandquestions. Everywhere Devi looked she felt that there were questions. Why? Why? Why? She didn't know why all she knew was that her life didn't resemble the life she envisioned, not even remotely. She was twenty-seven years old, she was relying financially on her father, she'd moved back in with her parents, and now it looked like she had inherited the suicide gene from her crazy grandfather.
Devi sat down on one of Saroj's cushioned metal chairs in the patio. She didn't want to go in and deal with everyone, especially Saroj. G'ma, she could handle, G'ma, she had no trouble with, but Saroj, ah, that was a different story.
Even now, the memory, part real, part surmised, of her mother seeing her in the bloody bathtub gave her the shivers. It was supposed to be the perfect plan, but it was foiled. Now what?
How long was she going to take to recover? Did she want to recover? What did it mean to recover? Was she supposed to be happy that she was alive? Or was she supposed to try again?
She saw her mother's face peek out of the window once and then again.
“Devi, I am going to make your favorite tomato
pappu
and fried potato
sabzi,”
Saroj said, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
She hadn't planned to, but Devi found herself walking into the kitchen yet again and rummaging through the fridge to find something else, something she hadn't eaten before. Damn her mother, always cooking the same old food. First she saves her life, and then she cooks boring food. Unexplained anger bubbled through Devi as she let her hands fly over spices and vegetables while Saroj watched, in wide-eyed horror, as her fridge and spice cabinet went from neat and tidy to something completely the opposite.
It really started with that dinner, though the chutney would be considered the first original recipe. Soon enough Saroj found herself completely kicked out of her kitchen as Devi cooked outrageous meals every day. When she was angry, the food was spicy, when she seemed happy, there was dessert, and when she looked bored, the food tasted bland.
DEVI'S RECIPE
THE ANTI-SAROJ CHUTNEY
Day i after coming home from
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