Chapter 19: Gauri

The third year was: the year of the mothers.

Not the: living mothers — the dead ones. The mothers who were: absent and present. The mothers who had: shaped everything — the marriage, the company, the: child — without being: here. Kamini Malhotra, who had painted a room: yellow and invented a word. My Maa, who had: loved tuberoses and glitter and the: ritual of birthday wishes blown into: the wind.

It started with: the photograph. Not a leaked: photograph — a found one. Bimla aunty, cleaning the: Jor Bagh house (which we still: maintained, because Papa lived: there, and because the house was: Maa's house, and houses that had been: loved did not get: sold), Bimla aunty found: a photograph. In the kitchen. Behind the: refrigerator. Where it had fallen — or been: placed, or been: hidden, because with mothers you never: knew — where it had been for: years.

The photograph showed: two women. At a party. In: what appeared to be the mid-1990s. The women were: laughing. The kind of laughter that was: shared, that was: private, the laughter of two people who: understood each other. One woman was: my mother. The sari. The: smile. The: glitter — she had glitter on her: hands, because Maa always had: glitter somewhere.

The other woman was: Kamini Malhotra.

"They: knew each other," I said. Sitting on the: bed. In the Vasant Vihar house. Kamini — our Kamini, the: baby Kamini, now two years old and demanding: attention with the specific authority of a toddler who had: inherited both parents' insistence — our Kamini was: playing on the floor with blocks that Papa ji had: bought and that were: excessive in quantity and variety.

"They: knew each other?" Abeer took the: photograph. The Calculator: processed. The data: new. "My mother and: your mother."

"At a: party. Together. Laughing."

"When?"

"The photograph looks: nineties. Early nineties. Before — before: either of them—"

Before: either of them died. The sentence: unfinished. Because finishing it meant: saying it, and saying it in a room with a: child named for one of them and a: compact that belonged to the other was: too much for a: sentence.

I called: Papa. "The photograph behind the: refrigerator. You: knew."

"I: knew."

"How long?"

"Since: your mother died. I found it in: her things. I put it: there."

"Behind: the refrigerator?"

"Behind the: refrigerator. Where it would: be safe. And where: nobody would look."

"Papa. You: hid a photograph of our mothers: together?"

"I: preserved it. For: the right time."

"What: time?"

"This: time. The time when you would: find it. When: it would matter."

"It mattered: then too."

"It mattered: differently then. Then, it was: grief. Two dead women who had been: friends. Now, it's: continuation. Two dead women whose children: married. Whose grandchild is named: for one and carries glitter: for the other."

The: silence. On the phone. Between a: daughter and a father who had: hidden a photograph for twenty years and who was: explaining the hiding with the: specific logic of a man who understood: timing.

"The: arrangement," I said. "You and Papa ji. The marriage. Did you: plan it — because they were: friends?"

"I planned it because: Surender and I are compatible businessmen. The friendship between: the wives was: coincidence."

"You don't: believe in coincidence."

"I believe in: timing. The mothers were: friends. The fathers are: partners. The children: married. The grandchild: bridges. Call it: coincidence. Call it: arrangement. Call it: whatever you want. It: is what it is."

*

I showed: the photograph to Papa ji. Surender Papa ji. In his: study. The study where he kept: his wife's things — the saree she wore on: their wedding day, the: journal she kept during Abeer's: childhood, the: ring box (now: empty, the ring on: my finger).

Papa ji looked at: the photograph. The: looking lasted: a long time. The looking of a man who was seeing: his dead wife laughing. Alive. In colour. With: another woman who was also: dead, who was also: someone's mother, who was also: missed.

"Kamini," he said. The: name. For: his wife. Not for: the toddler. The: original Kamini. The: woman.

"They were: friends."

"I: didn't know."

"You didn't know your wife and: my mother were: friends?"

"Kamini had: many friends. She went to: many parties. She: laughed — she laughed: constantly. She was the: opposite of me. I calculated; she: laughed. I: planned; she: lived."

"She's: laughing in this photograph."

"She's: always laughing in photographs. That was: her gift. The gift of: being present. Of: being fully in the moment. I never had: that gift. Abeer doesn't have: that gift. But: Kamini — your Kamini, the: baby — she: laughs."

"Like: her grandmother."

"Like: both her grandmothers."

Papa ji placed: the photograph. On: the mantle. In: the study. Next to: the saree and the journal and the: empty ring box. The photograph joined: the archive. The archive of a woman who had: been loved and who had: left too soon and whose name: continued.

"The: arrangement," Papa ji said. "Was: the best thing I ever: did. Not because of the: company. Not because of the: merger. Because of: this." He gestured. At: the house. At: the study. At the: photograph and the toddler's laughter coming from: downstairs. "Because it brought: her back. Not Kamini — not: my Kamini. But the: laughter. The house was: silent. And now it: laughs."