another story.

[Ardhanariswar]

this is the first two chapters of my novel. i started writing it about two years ago. its kinda long. well here goes, i hope every think explains itself.


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1.

Lunch With Amma



“Today, I got to the mall, and guess who I see, you guess?” Asked my mother. Well, it wasn’t much of a question to me because the next second she answered it, “I see Eliza! She was wearing a lovely blue periwinkle dress that made her so beautiful and oh, still married her husband after so long, so unbelievable. He is still alive! After so long.” She laughed with her hand covering her white teeth having a good time. I frowned. My mother had always done this to me, she compared me to everyone she knew, and made it seem as if it were my fault I would not want to get married. Well, I did not want to, but I don’t think it was a fault. She can be so sneaky when she wanted to, but I was not about to let that get in the way of a nice lunch in a downtown Indian restaurant in Boston.

“Amma, are you suggesting something?”

“Suggesting what?” she asked innocently.

“Oh never mind.”

“No really, what?”

“Forget it, do you know where Leah is?” I asked. Leah was my twin.

We are both twin sisters, but I was the eldest by a minute and a half. But all throughout my childhood she seemed dominant in everything, the games we played, who would get the front passenger seat in Amma’s car, so on and so forth. I was religious; she was obsessed with materialistic things such as make up and accessories. You might say that I was a black sheep of the family. My mother and I were never really close. In fact my mother was never close with anyone. Except for her pet animals. Well anyways, everyone took me for granted and ignored me. I had no true friends until I was in high school. It was true. Even though Leah and I look exactly alike, she was more beautiful with her rose blushed cheeks, black lined eyes and short curly hair (which looked so unreal), and I looked dull with straight hair.

Amma said I inherited the hair from her father. She did have shiny straight hair too, but it is always braided so its fine elegance could not be appreciated. And now that she was fifty, she had many white hairs among the black mass.

Amma was five feet tall, very short. She had a dark complexion which she prizes as much as her gold jewelry. That was unusual since many women wished to be fair.

I decided to spend some quality time with my mother and take some time off of work. My work was not much. I owned an Indian restaurant in the middle of Boston.

So now I am having a casual lunch with my mother in a desperate attempt to strengthen mother-daughter bonds. I chose this restaurant to speculate on how it treats their customers and criticize it, though I saw amma already started.

“Chee karma! Look at the napkins Rachel, you can see what the previous customer had for dinner!” Amma exclaimed. I hoped she was exaggerating.

She spoke in rapid Tamil, and I replied back in English. This is the way we all grew up, my Indian friends and the rest of our generation. Amma tried to teach Leah and I the Tamil language, but we could never grasp different concepts beyond English grammar. I even had trouble with English grammar itself. But now I can only understand Tamil. I barely try to read or even speak it. So this is the way it has always been. English and Tamil mixed together into a new tongue: Tamlish, as Leah and I call it.

“Where is she?!” Amma impatiently looks at her watch. Fifteen past two. It was the small Rolex I gave her for birthday last year.

“Huh?” I abruptly awoke from my daydream.

“Where is she?” Amma repeated.

Just then Leah came bursting into the restaurant room with at least three shopping bags clinging to her arms. “I’m here! Sorry I’m late.” Clad in the latest designer clothes, she bustled to our table and sat down.

“That’s alright.” I said grumpily, glad we can finally order some food.

“I just came late from some shopping. Its difficult to find clothes my size.” She placed her bags on an empty chair and sat on the other side of the table opposite of Amma and me. I raised one eyebrow. It was more like she was picky rather than finding clothes that fit, after all she was a twig and she could fit into anything.

“You know, I bought this great blouse and its such a wonderful texture! And I also bought this great cutlery set for Anjali’s wedding present.” She took out a rectangular package to show us all. The wedding! I absolutely forgot. It was only next week and I didn’t buy anything yet. Anjali was the daughter of one of the old four family friends. We were so close, because whenever her parents went out, my sister and I had the job of babysitting her when she was a child, and when I was a teen. I remember when I was a child; there were a lot Indian families in Boston.

The Indian population blossomed in New Jersey though. And during the 1980s maybe Indian people, about my age, maybe a little older emigrated from India to the U.S. Back then, we had a lot of get-togethers, parties, and potlucks. We celebrated Pongal, Navaratri, and Depawali, just us four families. Being Christian did not stop us from celebrating thier festivals and we always had a good time. And now the Indian population has grown so high! I remember my sister would always hate these get-togethers. The family friends would pretend they were family relatives that were really close and stuffed us with Indian sweets till our cheeks were full and we were bursting with Indian goodies.

Anyways, Anjali was a messy baby, she always giggled at everything, made everyone so happy! And we became the best of buddies. So one would think I would have never forgotten this wonderful day for her. But I did, and the reason is that I’ve been so stressed lately, with owning a restaurant and everything.

Amma sighed. “Only a week until the engagement! But of course I think we should go early so we can help their family get ready.”

I made a mental note to buy a present for them. And then I remembered another thing. “Oh, Amma, can I borrow one of your saris?”

“Yes, but after I picked out the one I want first.” She laughed.

Leah grimaced. She hated wearing saris. She considered it very old fashioned and extremely uncomfortable. And who can possibly attain such high quality, latest fashion sari from the right designer?

“Do I have to?” Leah asked Amma. Haha. Now look at her, after all those times she commented on my ugly sense of American fashion. She subscribed to stupid, superficial magazines such as Vogue that only made ordinary consumers wish they had sexy bodies and big bucks.

“Oh look, the waiter!” Amma announced. It was the same Indian boy who always took our orders for the past few years.

Amma ordered a paper dosai with mint chutney. Leah ordered a masala dosai with sambar. I ordered two samosas with tamrind chutney. And it’s the same old usual food we always ordered. After our father passed away seven years ago, mother grew lazy of cooking day after day because she wasn’t obligated to make salty dishes for him. So she often came to either Leah’s house for dinner (greasy Chinese take-out) or my restaurant. And sometimes we ate at a range of restaurants every week. And that’s been our family tradition, Saturday noon lunches together with the old family.

“So Rachel, what you getting for Anjali?” Amma asked.

“I don’t know, I was thinking of a cutlery set before,” I glared at Leah and slowly said, “But I bet a whole load of people will get kitchen things. So I was thinking of a nice silver tray which has a Congratulations engraved upon it probably.”

“A tray?” Leah gives a disapproving look. “And that’s not a kitchen thing?”

“Well, it’s certainly much better than a cutlery set.” I retort.

“Well at least my gift is useful.”

“Girls! Quiet! Others are looking at us.” Says Amma quickly. I look around the restaurant. We were the only ones there except for an American couple that was cautiously poking a dish of chicken tikka. Leah shut her trap because she was so keen on taking care of her image.

Before Amma and I could finish our meal, Leah cleaned a small portion of her plate and excuses herself saying that she had an urgent errand or two. It is more like excusing herself from paying the bill this time. It was not polite to split the bill, only to offer.

“Amma, let me pay.”

“No, no, I will.” She argued. It is just like her, always her way.

“Amma!”

“No, no. You are my daughter.” She grabs the bill before I can get it. ****.

“Aiyo Amma!” she stretches, “Rachel, you are so old wrinkles here and there.”

 

[Ardhanariswar]

Funny she should say that, after all Amma and I are exactly twenty years apart. “Ma! I’m only thirty.” I said.

“…I was meaning to ask.” Amma said warily.

“What?” I asked.

“Why are you not getting married?” she asked.

“Amma…” I smiled. This was her umpteenth time asking that. The only way I could avoid that horrid subject is to be evasive.

“No, really, I want to know. No men good enough in the city? Or just bad luck? I can arrange…tell me the story!” she pestered.

A story? The truth was, I did not know why I chose not to. So I could not respond. I don’t know why. “I just don’t know.” But I know that answer wouldn’t satisfy Amma’s curiosity and care for me.

“You are hiding something.” Amma said sternly.

“I am not!” I argued, starting to get sick of the conversation already.

“Aye, don’t hide things from your own mother, I know you…for all of my life practically!” she said in a calm and knowing way.

“I’m not hiding anything. What is there to hide anyway? Its not like I have a boyfriend.” I glanced at Amma for her reaction.

“What? Not falling in love? Pah. Even Leah fell in love. How can you not?”

My mother was smart. She could sense anything in everything. Maybe she knew this all along. My first and only romance had gone wrong in college. But I shoved the memory away.

When I was a child mom forced Leah and I to learn how to cook fine Indian for our husbands. Leah could not cook to save her life, so I did everything for her and became a double expert. It’s curious how the curves of life’s path lead me. Instead of bringing me a fine Indian husband who enjoyed South Indian delicacy, I got admission into the Culinary Institute of America and later became the owner of my own Restaurant, Thali.

“What is the use of getting married?” I asked.

“Tons of things!”

“Such as?”

“Cooking!” She relied with a sheepish grin. We got up and left the restaurant and walked down the streets in Boston.

I sighed. Game over. I began to get irritated. “What is so great about getting married? Was your marriage fun and exciting? What about your life? Don’t you want to make something of it? That’s what I want to do? And I fear that getting married will shackle me down. Don’t you agree Ma? Haven’t you ever wanted to do something extraordinary?” I realized that I might have gone too far. I began to apologize but she stops me.

“…I got to tell you something. But don’t tell anyone, not even Leah.” Secrets? Amma was never open to me. She was herself most of the time. She was fun without a care in the world. But sure, there were drama moments in the family, such as when Leah accepted the proposal from her Indian boyfriend. She wouldn’t talk to Leah for a month.

When I was a child, I never confided in her, with all my secrets. They weren’t big ones anyways. Amma did not have any secrets, at least as far as I knew. We were separate yet close, being twenty years apart and sharing a lovely mother and daughter bond. Sharing good times we did, but other than that, we did not know each other they way we wished to.

“Alright, alright, what is it?” I asked. We find my car in the parking garage and climb in.

She sighed and started to fiddle around with the strap of her purse. I suspected she had ADD. I heard many stories of old people getting memory loss like Alzheimer’s and I was afraid that my mother would fall victim to these old age diseases.

“My story.” She closed her fist upon her breast and shook her head as if she had a migraine. What a drama queen. She spoke in broken sentences in Tamil so I was concentrating very hard to figure out what she meant. Some of these words I had never heard of in Tamil. Such as burden and soul. But I thought I heard it in a Christian Church mass in Tamil. But who listened?

I figured out the meaning by pondering what she had just said, but I was still confused. What the hell was Amma ranting about? “Amma? Now you are hiding something. Tell me.”

She looked at me and sighed once again. “I…want to tell you this. The nagging feeling I get in my chest is unbearable.”

I was about to say okay Amma but she cut me off.

“Therefore I shall just tell you. Tell you my past. I’ll tell you who your real mother was. My childhood. The ghosts. Ah yes…my playmates.”

I was freaking out and I’m driving down a busy lane too. What is she talking about? Ghosts? It all sounded bizarre, almost like a scene from the movie, The Sixth Sense. Did my mother see ghosts? Nah, she must have been using that word in a more emotional, metaphorical way, I thought. “Amma, twenty years to tell me what?”

“If I tell, you promise you will listen and not tell anyone?” A small tear rolled down her cheek. I wished to know what was causing her this immense sadness.

“Sure Ma, why wouldn’t I listen?” I gently asked.

“Because it may seem boring.”

Amma was far from boring.


2.

Story Time



Amma and I went back to her apartment. She went straight to the kitchen and filled a kettle with water, puts tea bags in, and set it on the gas lit stove. Her apartment was a spacious three room just like mine. It was very cheap and good quality in my mother’s words. She sold the big old Victorian house that Leah, my brothers, and I grew up in and moved into this apartment after my father died. She said she didn’t want to be so alone in such a big house. So she got a nice apartment near Boston china town, which was convenient so she can get her vegetables and rice there.

“Would you like some ginger tea?” Amma asked. She made the best ginger tea, at least in my mind.

“Okay.” As if she was reflecting on something. I thought of ways to get Amma to talk, but I suddenly thought that maybe she might be insane.

Amma turned on the room light and we sit down on her tiny dining table that has a red floral covering on it. The light outside dimmed and it was about to rain. She poured tea in small teacups and slid one to me. Then she took out from her lap something that I didn’t see when she sat down. It was a scrapbook with twine binding through three punched holes that kept it together.

“In here contains my past. It has taken me 7 years after your father’s death for me to compile this together.” She said solemnly.

I held my breath. It was like a secret I never knew existed, yet anxious to know. Amma was very sentimental, and the slightest things could get her emotional to the point of hysteria. Her moods were like the weather. One moment she could be all sunshine, glowing and having fun, the next she would be in a silent rage, glaring and fuming. And on rare occasions such as this, she was a big gray could, shedding tears like no tomorrow.

“What is it? What’s the big secret, Amma?” I asked, ruining the silence of this corny mother-daughter moment.

She looked up at me and says as if she had practiced saying this many times. “Rachel this scrapbook contains all my secrets that have turned into lies. Those papers contain the core of my identity. The truth about me, your past.”

 

[Ardhanariswar]

Can Someone Please Read This And Give Me Feedback?!

 

[Lightkeeper]

I think it's very well written. It held my interest.

 

[Ardhanariswar]

YES, YES. finally someone read it. thank you soo much,.