We arrived at Vishnu’s mother’s apartment while she was making us afternoon tea. I had craved fresh chai the whole plane ride, the bland Lipton tea bags lacking the masala and ginger of a good brew. Vishnu’s mother had kind eyes like her son. She put her hand on my stomach and said, “I had a dream about this,” and then she came and hugged us both. I melted into her arms. I had been fluctuating between emotions with the baby growing inside of me in a new world, and I wanted to be held so badly.
Her apartment felt like Mausi’s home, the way she kept photos up and small accents around the place, like the carved Ganesha statue at the entrance and embroidered pillows on her couch. Vishnu helped me bring my things into the guest room.
“I’ll see you tomorrow right after work,” he whispered and placed his hand on the curve of my back, kissing me gently. When we went back out, I went into the kitchen to help, but his mother had already set the plates of warm paratha and steaming cups of chai as she waited for us.
“Come, beti.” When I realized she was speaking to me, not Vishnu, I softened at her motherly tone and sat beside her.
I was exhausted at nightfall. Vishnu was too. He left after dinner, and I barely had the energy to brush my teeth.
Even so, I heard his mother moaning from what sounded like pain. I lay in my bed, unsure of what to do until she stopped and I fell asleep.
Eleven days later, I knew his mother’s secret. Vishnu’s mother was dying. I recognized the sounds that preceded my own mother’s collapse on the day that changed our lives.
I could hear not only her moans at night but her gagging in the bathroom in the morning. She excused herself often enough for me to know it was not just a troubled bladder. Her eyes drifted like she was not getting enough sleep.
She was sick, and Vishnu did not know. Vishnu, who was overexcited about the baby, didn’t seem to notice anything different about his mother when he came over.
The jet lag had worn off, and Vishnu returned to school and to work at the hospital. He came for dinner each evening, after which we would take a walk. By then, I was into my second trimester, and the walks felt good. Our court marriage was scheduled for the end of the month, and Vishnu had started to prep his graduate-housing apartment. His roommate had agreed to move in with another friend.
Two weeks after moving in with her, when his mother and I were alone after Vishnu left one evening, I asked her, “Auntie, are you all right?”
“Beti, call me Mummy. I am not all right, but I will be soon.” I could not call her Mummy, but maybe I would be able to in time . . . if we had it. I could not hear the word mummy without a stab to my heart. I wondered when that would subside, and if Asya felt it too.
She went into her bedroom and gently closed the door.
We fell into a silent routine of grating ginger for chai and afternoon naps as we nursed our bodies, me for new life and her for the end of life. I knew what Vishnu meant when he said his mother was the strongest woman he knew.
I touched my belly and wondered if there was some sort of switch when women gave birth. The switch that said,
You are now shakti; the divinity has been granted.
You are no longer worthless and meant to be used and abused.
You will not be sold anymore, and as a mother, if you give birth to a girl, you will have to do everything in your power to protect her from enduring the injustices of the curse girls are given in this world, so . . . you better be strong.
I made note to talk to Priya about it when we had our virtual counsel session.
Exactly one month after we arrived, Vishnu’s mother spoke her truth. He came for dinner after finishing his hospital rounds early. His mother spoke slowly as we picked at the basmati rice and curried kidney beans on our plates.
“When you were in India, I had a test done. I had started to forget things—first where my keys were, but then it was things like my computer password and even our zip code.”
“Mom, that happens in old age. I know—”
She put her hand up, and he looked down in retreat.
“They found a tumor on my brain. The chemo is over, and yet they say it would be better to operate. But because of the location, they cannot operate on it. We will wait and see. I hope I will see your lovely baby born . . .”
Vishnu started bawling uncontrollably, but I didn’t shed any tears. I don’t know if it was because I already knew, had already seen his mother sick, had already lost my own mother, or because I had lost my sister perhaps for good. I felt a tightness, a ball in my chest, but I also knew that this was what the world was, this suffering.
I hugged Vishnu, then his mother. When they embraced each other, I silently stepped out and went to the window in the family room. There was a photo of Vishnu smiling in a graduation cap and gown, holding a paper in his hand, his eyes gleaming. It was the only photo besides an idol of Ganesha on the whole shelf. His mother was Vishnu’s world; he was her world. Vishnu was the type of person who saved people. Where was the karma in his mother dying in this terrible way? Where was the Ganesha who protects the families, the Ganesha his mother prayed to every day? Where is the person who will save this kind, generous woman? A woman who named her son after a god who was meant to preserve and protect the universe?
I let the tears fall silently and wondered what kind of world I was bringing our baby into. Why had this child chosen me? I didn’t belong here. I wanted to go back to India. But even there, where did I belong? Without my sister, I felt lost. It was my choice to leave her, and now here I was. I was free but trapped in my guilt.
Vishnu and his mother came and found me there, the three of us embracing for the first and last time like that.