Photo by Harsh Gupta on Unsplash
by Sudha Balagopal
Three days after she returns from her holiday-wedding-honeymoon, Ma invites us for Diwali, like it’s just another year of celebration, when Pa’s been gone less than two years, and in that time-frame, Ma, a middle-aged woman with graying hair, a married daughter, two grandchildren, got on a dating website, met this man called Pete―for all I know he’s a crook―and married him while on vacation in Florida.
My children squeal when she calls so I accept the invitation although my husband’s out of town and I cannot stomach meeting Pete on my own, but the kids leap, enticed by the prospect of Diwali at Nani’s, when they’ll wear her gifts from India―I suspect the clothes come via Amazon—eat almond-encrusted barfis or raisin-embedded laddoos from silver platters, exclaim over oil lamps she sets on her porch, and for the finale, render the night luminous with sparklers.
I arrive dressed in tangerine sari, fortified with necklace-bangles-earrings, the children in salwar kameezes, remind myself this is my parents’ home, Pete’s the outsider, no reason to hug him when Ma introduces us, so in lieu of congratulations, I offer Ma help, although dinner’s simmering, the table set.
Pete gather-embraces my kids and I want to shout he’s not their grandfather, I want to tell him to stop waving, drawing attention to the wedding ring on his finger, I want to pull him away from my children, I want to wrest his collar as he whispers in her ear, making decorous Ma simper-giggle.
When Ma asks Pete to carry the tray of oil-filled clay diyas to place around the rangoli outside the front door, I spot Pa’s chain around his neck, and I reach to yank it, but grab the tray instead, light the wicks, arrange the diyas, ignore his, “Beautiful!” comment, stomp in for dinner, where everything tastes like mud because he occupies Pa’s vacant spot, and I must listen to Ma extol Pete’s virtues: he volunteered with the Peace Corps, built village schools in India.
After, Ma gets us together on the porch where he ignites sparklers from a diya’s flame, accompanies the children into the yard while I angry-fume, at Pa for dying, at Ma for marrying Pete, at my children for transferring affection, until I breathe-squint-breathe-squint into the darkness, convince myself they’re with Pa, drawing bright circles, ovals and triangles in the cool night air.
Sudha Balagopal is an Indian-American writer whose work appears in Smokelong, swamp pink and Vast Chasm among other journals. Most recently, her novella in flash, Nose Ornaments was published by Ad Hoc Fiction, UK.
