Chapter 10: Aai-Baba Ka Aagman (Mum and Dad Pay a Visit)

Ananya's parents arrived on a Friday morning in November, unannounced, in the manner of Indian parents for whom the concept of "calling ahead" was a Western affectation — the affectation being: why would you call your own daughter before visiting? The daughter's home was an extension of the parents' home, the extension being permanent, irrevocable, the irrevocability being the Indian parental contract: we gave you life, we get unlimited visiting rights, the visiting-rights having no expiry date and no terms and conditions except the unspoken one, which was: we will judge the state of your kitchen and the judgement will be communicated through sighs.

Aai and Baba. Sunanda and Mohan Joshi. Retired. Living in Satara — the Satara that was two hours from Pune by car (three in the monsoon, four if you counted the chai stops that Baba insisted on, the insisting being the old man's assertion of control over a journey that Aai otherwise managed with the logistical precision of a military operation). They had been married fifty-three years. Fifty-three years in which Aai had cooked and cleaned and managed and Baba had taught mathematics at the local college and come home and eaten and read the paper and this arrangement had been, by their account, perfect — the perfect being the word that Ananya's generation could not use without quotation marks but that her parents' generation used without irony because the irony required examination and the examination was the thing that their generation had collectively decided was unnecessary: the marriage works, the marriage has always worked, why examine a working thing?

They arrived at 8:30 AM. Ananya was on the balcony with chai and Godaan — she had reached the section where Hori's daughter Rupa was married off and the marrying-off was the transaction that Premchand described with the particular fury of a writer who understood that Indian marriages were, beneath the ceremony, economic events, the economic being the truth that the ceremony's music and colour and ritual were designed to disguise.

The doorbell rang. The doorbell that was the standard Indian apartment doorbell — the electronic two-tone that every flat in every building in every city played and that the two-tone was the sound of arrival, the arrival being either welcome or unwelcome depending on the time and the arrivers and the state of the kitchen.

Ananya opened the door. Aai and Baba. Aai in a cotton saree (the Satara cotton, the Paithani-border cotton that was Aai's uniform — the uniform of the retired Maharashtrian woman: cotton for daily, silk for occasions, the occasions being weddings and Ganesh Chaturthi and the particular hierarchy of fabric that Maharashtrian women maintained with the rigour of a dress code). Baba in his standard outfit: checked shirt tucked into pleated trousers, the trousers being the particular Indian father's trouser — high-waisted, belted, the belt being leather and the leather being the same belt for twenty years because Baba believed that belts, like marriages, should last forever and the lasting was the value.

"Aai? Baba? Tumhi ithay?" Ananya — the Marathi coming automatically. The Marathi that she spoke with her parents and the Hindi-English that she spoke with everyone else and the automatic-switching being the Indian multilingual's involuntary response: the language changed when the audience changed, the changing being as natural as breathing, the breathing being: you breathed differently with your parents because your parents were the original air.

Mum? Dad? You're here?

"Surprise!" Baba said. The surprise being delivered with the enthusiasm of a man who believed that surprising your adult daughter was a charming gesture and not an invasion, the believing being the particular optimism of Indian fathers who had not updated their understanding of their daughters since the daughters were twelve.

Aai walked past Ananya into the flat. The walking-past being the Indian mother's entrance — not waiting for invitation, the invitation being assumed, the assumption being correct because what daughter would not invite her mother and what mother would wait for the invitation? Aai's eyes performed the scan. The scan that every Indian mother performed upon entering her daughter's home: the kitchen (clean? — mostly), the living room (tidy? — adequate), the bedroom (door closed — suspicious but tolerable), the balcony (chai cup and book — acceptable). The scan took four seconds. The scan's results were communicated through the particular exhalation that Indian mothers used — the exhalation that said: not terrible, could be better, I'll discuss it later.

"Kitchen mein kahi chai aahe?" Aai asked. Is there chai in the kitchen?

"Haan, Aai. Banvte." Yes, Mum. I'll make it.

The chai-making. The ritual that Indian visits demanded — the ritual that was the offering, the offering that said: you are welcome, the welcome being communicated through ginger and elaichi and the particular sound of the pressure cooker's whistle that was, in the Indian domestic lexicon, the sound of hospitality. Ananya made chai. Three cups. The three cups that she had not made since — since before the divorce. Two years of single-cup chai, the single-cup being the loneliness measured in crockery, the crockery being the evidence: one cup = alone, three cups = family, the family being temporary (the parents would leave, the cup count would return to one, the returning being the particular mathematics of the visited-divorced-woman: the cups increased and decreased with the presence and absence of others and the presence was always temporary).

Baba settled into the living room. The settling being: occupying the sofa's centre position, spreading the newspaper (Loksatta — the Marathi daily that Baba had read for forty years and that he carried with him because he did not trust Pune's newspaper vendors to stock it and the not-trusting was the small-town man's relationship with the big city: the big city could not be relied upon for the basics), removing his shoes (the chappals placed neatly beside the sofa, the neatness being Baba's contribution to domestic order — the shoes were always neat, everything else was Aai's responsibility).

They sat. The three of them. Chai in hand. The silence that preceded the conversation — the silence that Indian families used as a warm-up, the warm-up being: sip chai, look around, gather the observations that would form the basis of the conversation, the conversation being the interrogation disguised as interest.

Aai began. "Ananya, tu barichi disat nahis." Ananya, you don't look well.

"Mi theek aahe, Aai." I'm fine, Mum.

"Theek nahis. Vazan ghatle aahe. Kiti khat aahes?" You're not fine. You've lost weight. How much are you eating?

The weight-question. The Indian mother's diagnostic tool — the weight being the metric by which Indian mothers assessed their children's wellbeing, the metric being more trusted than any medical test because the metric was visual and the visual was the mother's jurisdiction and the jurisdiction was absolute. If the mother said you'd lost weight, you had lost weight, regardless of what the scale said, because the mother's eyes were the final authority and the authority did not accept appeals.

"Aai, mi naukri gamaavli." The sentence came out. Unplanned. The unplanned-coming being the body's decision: the body had decided that the secret was too heavy and the parents' presence had reduced the strength needed to carry it and the reduction had caused the dropping and the dropping was: truth.

Mum, I lost my job.

Silence. Three seconds. Baba lowered the Loksatta. The lowering that was Baba's equivalent of a gasp — Baba who did not gasp, Baba who processed bad news with the mathematical precision of a man who had spent forty years teaching algebra: receive the variable, assess the equation, solve. The newspaper-lowering was the receiving.

"Kevha?" Baba asked. When?

"Donch mahine zhale." Two months ago.

"DONCH MAHINE?" Aai's voice — the volume that Indian mothers deployed when the information exceeded the acceptable threshold, the threshold being: you may keep secrets for days, perhaps a week, but two months was a betrayal of the maternal information-rights and the betrayal required volume. "Donch mahine zhale ani tu amhala sangitla nahi? Kay chaal aahe, Ananya?"

TWO MONTHS? Two months and you didn't tell us? What's going on, Ananya?

"Aai, shant basa." Baba — the peacemaker-voice, the voice that had mediated between Aai's intensity and the world's imperfections for fifty-three years. Mum, sit quietly. "Tila bolu de." Let her speak.

Ananya spoke. She told them about the restructuring. About Mahesh's chai-and-bad-news office meeting. About the severance package (adequate but not generous — the not-generous being the company's calculation: twenty-two years at a number that said "we value you" while the number's actual message was "we can afford to lose you"). About the job club. About Nikhil's kitchen. About Kiara. About Payal. About the register and the church and the Thursday routine that had replaced the Monday-through-Friday routine and that the replacement was — the replacement was better.

She did not tell them about Sahil. The not-telling being: too early. Too new. Too fragile for the parental scrutiny that would follow the telling, the scrutiny being the particular Indian parental examination of potential romantic interests that involved: caste, community, income, family background, horoscope compatibility, and the question "uska khandaan kaisa hai?" — what's his family like? — which was not a question but a thesis defence and the defence was evaluated by a committee of two (Aai and Baba) whose standards were non-negotiable.

Aai cried. The crying being the Indian mother's response to her child's pain — the response that was not performance but overflow, the overflow of the particular maternal reservoir that held all the worries that the mother had accumulated since the child's birth and that the accumulation was never depleted because new worries replaced old worries and the replacement was infinite and the infinite was: motherhood.

"Aamhi ithay aahe," Aai said, through the tears. The tears that Ananya had not produced for two years and that Aai produced in thirty seconds on Ananya's behalf, the on-behalf being: the mother cries the tears the daughter cannot. "Tu ekti nahi aahes."

We're here. You're not alone.

Baba said nothing. Baba reached across the sofa and placed his hand on Ananya's knee — the hand that was the hand of a seventy-six-year-old retired mathematics teacher and that the hand communicated what the voice could not: I am here, the here being the permanent here, the here that was not conditional on employment or marriage or success, the here that was the parental here and the parental here was the only unconditional here that existed.

The hand was warm. The warm-hand on the knee being the moment — the moment that cracked the surface. Ananya cried. Not the onion-tears from Nikhil's kitchen. The real tears. The tears that two years of not-crying had stored and that the storing had compressed and that the compressing had made dense and that the density meant: when the tears finally came, they came with everything. The redundancy. The divorce. The children. The paneer bhurji on her birthday. The 3 AM insomnia. The balcony sunsets that she couldn't enjoy. The everything coming out through the eyes because the eyes were the only exit.

Baba's hand stayed on her knee. Aai moved closer. The three of them on the sofa — the sofa that had been the family sofa and that had been the divorce sofa and that was now, for twenty minutes on a November Friday, the family sofa again.

The chai got cold. Nobody reheated it. The cold chai being the sacrifice — the sacrifice that Indian families made when the moment was more important than the beverage and the moment being: the parents were here and the here was the thing and the thing was enough.